by Abigail Agar
“I am completely astonished, George,” he said.
“Well, Miss Blackwell’s novel is excellent,” George replied, an attitude in his tone that was not lost on Doyle.
“Yes, it is,” he stated stoically.
“Do you not think she deserves to receive credit for her genius?” George asked.
Doyle straightened his spine and gave a single nod.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I do. And because of that, I have decided to honour our original agreement. I shall give Miss Blackwell the credit which is due her. I know that it is going to raise some questions and that it may decrease a bit of the posterity that I was hoping it would bring to the shop, but I also believe that now that these men have read the first page, they will understand that she truly has a great deal of skill,” he said.
“You think?” George asked. There was something about his words that made Doyle certain he was supposed to read between them.
“Indeed. What Miss Blackwell and I have come to create together is a masterpiece. It is her work with my assistance. I have lent my hand enough to the project that I am comfortable having my name on the cover as well, but I agree that she should be named,” he said.
“Well, I suppose that will just have to be good enough for her,” George replied.
“Is there something you wish to say to me?” Doyle asked, growing frustrated by his employee.
“I have said it already. Simply that I think she deserves credit.”.
“And I have told you that she is going to get it. I know that I was in error when I planned to take the full credit, but you do not know how things are in publishing and how difficult it would have been to sell her book with only her name,” Doyle said.
“I have some idea. I do work for a bookseller, remember,” George replied.
Doyle narrowed his eyes, irritated by this arrogance. He had no time or energy for it.
“George, I believe you ought to take the rest of the day off.”
“What? You are sending me home purely because I believe in giving credit where it is due?” George asked.
“Not in the least. I have told you that I am in agreement on that and I am making things right. I am sending you home because your attitude today is such that I would not like for my customers to see my employee behaving in this way.”
George stood to his full height, eyeing Doyle with anger for a moment before he pushed his chair back and stormed out of the shop.
Doyle sighed. That had not gone how he had planned. Certainly, he would have to explain to George at another time why he was angered by his behaviour and how that was no way to treat the man who employs him.
For now, however, Doyle decided to sit with his list of names. He would run the shop for the rest of the day and, while he did, he would take time to write to every single person who had already purchased a ticket, thanking them for their patronage. Then, he would go through the list of those who said they would try to come.
To them, he wrote a note to entice their attendance.
Dear________,
I am thrilled to see that you are hoping to attend our event for the debut of the exquisite novel, Eliza, due for release on August 12th.
There shall be a very grand surprise at the event, the release of never-before known information which is going to shock the literary community. For those who hear it first, this will be a wondrous event. There shall also be signings of the book and an opportunity for questions about the writing of it.
However, this event is being limited to only fifty attendees as we have so little space in the shop. This means we have only a few tickets remaining. If you are, indeed, eager to attend, I urge you to purchase your tickets quickly. I have included the second page of the manuscript for your viewing only, so that you may have the chance to read a little bit more before you decide whether you shall come.
Thank you,
Doyle Brooks
He smiled with each letter that he wrote, eager to see how many of these men would purchase tickets and how quickly. He hoped that, soon enough, he would simply have to open up the evening for an additional ten tickets at a higher price for those who were truly eager to come but had not purchased early enough.
Now that he had made the evening more exclusive, Doyle was certain that he was going to see a great profit from it. That meant that Miss Blackwell would also see an income, which they had not yet even discussed. It was strange how she cared nothing for the money from her work, only that it be seen with her name on it.
He was going to be sure that she made an income as well and when the evening came for the release of the book, she would be there, the great shock for all to see. She would be the surprise of the literary community and she would have the opportunity to sign books.
Doyle had never planned for any of this, but now it was the thing which most excited him. Of course, Miss Blackwell knew only that she was going to have her name somewhere on the cover, and she believed that the launch of the book was the thirteenth of August. He would surprise her by asking her to come on the twelfth of August to help him prepare for it.
She would have every bit as grand a surprise as those men who were coming to hear Doyle read from the book and make their purchases.
He smiled to think of it, to imagine her there when they all learned the truth. And he smiled when he pictured the faces of those men as they read the cover of the book, seeing the title of Eliza and reading the names of the author they knew and the one they did not.
The name of a woman.
It was going to rock England to her core to know that he, a bookseller, had been writing with a privileged young woman who came from a wealthy background and that the story was not a simpering tale of love, but of depth and humanity. They would be shocked.
He did, however, worry about the scandal. Not simply his theft and not simply the book being written by a woman. He was worried about the questions which would arise surrounding his friendship with Miss Blackwell. Even if nothing came of his affection for her, what would her mother and father say?
There would be no joy on that end. Instead, her father might call Doyle’s honour into question, save for the fear that his own daughter could be implicated. But these were all things which they would have to risk if they were going to continue as planned.
When he closed up the shop, Doyle took the letters to the post to be sent off to the various men who had purchased tickets and those who had yet to.
Doyle found a letter awaiting him, which he read once he arrived at home. It was a response from his sister. In his previous letter, he had written his confession to her, that he was not the original author of the book. He had been frightened by what she might say.
My Dear Doyle,
I was glad to receive your letter and I was even happier about your honesty. James had written to me, saying that he was concerned for you as he feared that a lie may be your undoing. As you mentioned that you wish to correct this and tell the truth about your working with this young woman as opposed to the work being entirely your own, I am quite proud of you.
I am also eager to read this novel, no matter whom it was written by. I know your skill with a pen and wish that you had already written novels of your own. Perhaps this is just the push you need to begin writing. Or, perhaps, you may continue to write along with Miss Blackwell as she seems to inspire you.
All right, I must confess. My darling James did tell me that you may have an interest in this young woman. That, too, gives me cause for excitement. Doyle, my dear brother, you must proceed with this. You deserve happiness like no other and I am delighted by the thought that you should have such happiness with this very young lady.
If she inspires you as much as James believes she does, then I expect that the two of you are going to have a great journey with one another. You both have the passions of a writer and that can make for a truly beautiful and romantic marriage.
Mother and father had the imaginations of readers and it was a stunning union, as I am
sure you recall. Their marriage was consistently met with joy and happiness and creativity. You have that mind as well and, if I am correct, I expect that this young lady does too.
Now, you must hurry up and woo her before I return from Brighton. I should hate to miss out on meeting her because of any more foolish schemes which you may concoct.
Your Sister,
Clarissa.
Doyle couldn’t help but laugh when he read the letter. His sister knew him so well and she was right. He had to act quickly.
He had to tell Miss Blackwell what he really felt about her. If not before, he would do so as soon as the book was published.
Chapter 17
“I shall see you tomorrow,” Pippa said, hugging Fiona goodbye as she departed from Fiona’s home.
She started to walk home and was going along the quiet road as a coach passed her by. This was her favourite part of the walk, getting to pass by the wide, open fields on each side of her. It was a calm, peaceful area. She never had to worry about being bothered.
Yet, just as that thought passed through her mind, she heard someone call her name.
Pippa turned, swiftly. Who else was out here walking? And how was it someone who knew her?
“Miss Blackwell,” he called again. George Sinclair.
“Mr. Sinclair?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss Blackwell. How good to see you. I was looking for you,” he said, smiling at her. In his hands she saw a large bouquet of flowers, red roses with baby’s breath. She couldn’t imagine why he would be carrying them and silently warned him not to do what she feared he was about to do.
“You were looking for me?”
“Indeed, I was. You see, I have something very important to discuss with you.”
“Is it about the book? About what we are going to do at the shop?” she asked, hoping he would accept that this was the only thing she cared to speak of with him.
“Well, I suppose I should say a few things about the book. I read it, you know. I read it and I was so deeply impressed by your magnificent skill and how well you write.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. I am grateful for your kind words. You know, Mr. Brooks also gave a great deal of attention to the work. Although I was very reluctant at first, I am glad that I listened to him. Some of his changes were actually the right thing to do,” she said.
The more Pippa had thought about it, the happier she was with the changes that he had insisted upon, particularly in terms of the romance. He was right. Pippa didn’t want Maureen to marry a wealthy nobleman, but she had played it safe, knowing that female readers wanted such stories because of how happy they were.
But this was not the sort of book they were writing. Instead, it made sense to allow Maureen to marry an average gentleman with money, but no great fortune and no title.
“Mr. Brooks may have done some things to assist you in the writing of your book, but you are the mind behind it all, Miss Blackwell. I am astonished by you and your talent. For that reason, I want to give you these flowers. As a testament to your beauty and your skill.”
Pippa froze, not knowing what to say. George was giving her this grand bouquet?
“Will you not take it?” he asked, trying again to hand it to her.
As if she had no control over her arms but was doing exactly as she had been told, Pippa reached out and accepted the flowers.
“Are you displeased?”
“N-no. Simply surprised,” she said, smiling cautiously. She feared that if she appeared overeager, he may think she was interested in him and was accepting these flowers out of a desire for romance. She also did not wish to be rude. It was a difficult balance.
“Forgive me, Miss Blackwell. It appears that I have stunned you. I thought that, perhaps, you understood by now that my affection for you runs deep.”
Her lips parted in readiness to refuse him, but that appeared to be all he wished to say to her about it.
“I also wanted to tell you that you look stunning today as always, but I fear that you must hear that from any and every man who passes you by. So, because it is not an overly original compliment, I believe I must stick to your skill of writing,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair, but you did already compliment my appearance,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“That was for all days. You are beautiful, after all. Now, I wished to clarify for today. But you do look rather shocked by my words, therefore I must temper myself to say only that I hope you can understand that I am eager to see you succeed as an author. I have a great deal of respect for women who are so brave as to write when the world around us tells them they should not.”
“Yes, it is very frustrating to constantly be told such a thing. But I am grateful that you see promise in my work,” she said.
“More than promise. You are precisely what this world needs. A brave, bold woman who is willing to stake her position in society.”
“Well, there are so many women who have gone before me already, Mr. Sinclair. Do not think me unaware that some of the names of both the fiction and the nonfiction are simply pen names of ladies who are just as bold as I am,” she pointed out.
“True though that may be, you are the one whose name shall appear without a false identity,” he said, although he faltered when he did.
“Only because it shall be under the shadow of a man’s name. But I do not mind so much. It is going to be just fine.”
“Yes, well…maybe.”
“Maybe?” she questioned.
“I mean, maybe so long as he ensures that your name is seen as it ought to be,” George told her.
Pippa was not sure what he meant by that or why it caused her to feel a strange sense of doubt about Mr. Brooks, but George was already moving on before she had a chance to ask him.
“Anyway, I thank you for your time, Miss Blackwell. And I thank you for your exquisite story which is such an inspiring read. Even for a man such as myself, who cannot possibly hope to comprehend such depth as what you have written, I do hope that you can see how you have affected me,” he said.
“Oh, I believe I have seen just that,” she replied.
“Well, if that is all,” he said, looking somewhat disappointed that she had not been more responsive, “I ought to leave you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. I appreciate the flowers. Have a nice day,” she said, wondering what Mr. Brooks would say if he had known that George was not minding the shop so that he could come and see her.
But Pippa rushed away from him as quickly as she was able, desperate to get home and to free herself of all the expectations which were being thrust upon her.
By the time she reached home, she was out of breath from hurrying. Her mother was there, waiting for her with a look of sternness, followed by a sudden confusion when she saw the flowers.
“Oh? Who are those from? Pippa? Do you have an admirer? Is it someone who has not spoken with your father?” her mother demanded to know.
“Fear not, Mother. He is not a gentleman I have any interest in. And you would not approve of him. He has no title, no wealth, and he is a simple employee of a shop. I care nothing for him, although not for those reasons,” she said with a sigh, setting the flowers on a table in the front hall.
“Goodness, what was he thinking? What sort of man comes along and gives flowers to a young lady without speaking to her father first?” her mother wanted to know.
