Virginia's Vocation

by Zina Abbott

  Virginia step through the door. Mr. Dangerfield closed it behind her. Once inside the office, she stopped and stared at the rotund man dressed in a rumpled suit. He stood on the opposite side of a large desk from where she had planted her feet. The smoke from the man’s cigar threatened to send her into a coughing fit. Unsure how to proceed, she met his gaze that glared at her.

  “Miss Atwell, is it? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Porter, the editor and publisher of the Heartland Monthly. I have an appointment with a Mr. V. A. Wellington. My secretary informs me that you have come with a message from this gentleman. I am curious to know what is so important in Mr. Wellington’s life that he would send you with a message instead of appearing in person himself.”

  Virginia offered a wavering smile as she looked around for a chair. She wondered if the publisher intended to invite her to sit. When he said nothing more, she concluded that he was not inclined to exhibit an excess of good manners. Still on her feet, she stepped toward him to explain. “Mr. Porter, I received your letter to Mr. V. Baker. As you know, Mr. Baker uses V. A. Wellington as a pseudonym since he prefers to keep his identity confidential.”

  Mr. Porter nodded his head and waved his hand. “Yes, yes. I gathered as much. He is not the only author I deal with that uses a pen name in order to avoid any repercussions because of his writings. Now, will you please tell me why you are here, and what this is all about?”

  “Sir, might I impose upon you to put out your cigar?”

  The man eyed Virginia with disgruntlement as he snuffed out his cigar. “This is why I prefer to deal with men directly. I’m still waiting to learn why he sent someone else—a woman, no less.”

  Virginia cleared her throat. “Mr. Porter, V. Baker is also a pseudonym. I am the one who has been submitting these articles to you all these years. I write as V. A. Wellington. I have done as you requested and have come to meet with you regarding this special assignment that you believe I am the most qualified person to handle.”

  Virginia steeled herself not to shrink from beneath Mr. Porter's scrutiny. She watched him first stare at her in disbelief and then plop into his chair as he scoured his face with his hand. By this point, she realized the man tended to express himself in an overly-dramatic manner.

  The publisher leaned towards her. “I don't believe you. Who set you up to do this? One of my competitors?”

  Wide-eyed, Virginia shook her head. “I'm sorry, Mr. Porter. I'm afraid I speak the truth. I write as V. A. Wellington. The ‘V’ and the ‘A’ are the initials of my commonly-known name, Virginia Atwell. Wellington is my mother's maiden name.”

  “You mean, you have been deceiving me all these years?”

  “No, sir. I have a valid claim to the name I gave you. They are all family names belonging to me, even though custom and the law do not recognize me retaining my mother's surname before she married. I never told you I was a man, and you never asked. You assumed I was a man, as I'm sure most of your readers do.”

  The man placed his hands on the ledge of his desk and jutted his chin forward in a threatening manner. He arose to his feet. “You should have told me you were a woman.”

  “Why should I have done that, Mr. Porter? You should publish articles on the merits of the subject matter and how well the writer expresses him or herself, not on the sex of the author. You would not have published my work if you knew that I was a woman, am I correct?” Virginia stopped and shook her head. “I am not dimwitted, Mr. Porter. I am well aware that if a woman wishes to publish anything other than poetry or romance novels, meaning articles of a political nature or addressing social injustices, she must assume the name and persona of a male.”

  “Of course, I would have not published your articles if I had known. If word were to ever get around that I regularly published articles of this nature written by a woman, it will be disastrous for both me and my publication.” Mr. Porter paused and closed his eyes. He tipped his head back as he shook it. He growled his complaint in a loud voice. “This ruins everything I had planned.”

  “I don't understand why what I have told you would make a difference. What do you have planned? If it concerns a worthwhile article for your publication, why does it matter whether I am a man or a woman?”

  Mr. Porter hurried around his desk until he stood not three feet from Virginia. He leaned toward her. His tone of voice was one an adult would use to explain a difficult concept to a child. “Because it does. I would lose all credibility with my readers if they knew I accepted articles written by women.” Mr. Porter jerked his head towards the door as it opened. He barked out his next words. “Who are you, and why are you barging into my office?”

  Virginia twisted to look behind her. Avery stood in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob. A look of distress on his face, Mr. Dangerfield pushed his way past Avery and stepped into the room.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Porter. He was waiting in the outside office and ran into the room before I could stop him.”

  Avery stepped farther into the room. “I heard shouting in here. Out of concern for Miss Atwell’s safety, I came in to make sure nothing has happened to her.”

  Mr. Porter rolled his eyes. “Nothing has happened to Miss Atwell. Considering what I have just learned, it is me everyone should be worried about.” Mr. Porter waved his hand at both Avery and his secretary. “Out, out with both of you.”

  Avery shook his head. “No sir, I will not leave, not until Miss Atwell is ready to go, also.”

  Virginia looked between the two men. “Avery, please wait for me outside. I have no intention of leaving until I know what special assignment Mr. Porter has for me.”

  His eyebrows raised, Avery stared at Virginia. “Special assignment for you? Why would he have an assignment for you?”

  “The issue is moot, Miss Atwell, so you both might as well leave. When I came up with the idea, it was under the assumption that V. A. Wellington is a man. Now that you have revealed he is not, I must find someone else or forget the article. Miss Atwell, how many people know that you are actually Mr. Wellington?”

  Avery turned and stared at Virginia. “You are V. A. Wellington?”

  With a sigh, Virginia glanced in Avery's direction before she turned back to face Mr. Porter. “Sir, to answer your question, until recently, only one of my brothers knew. I kept it from him for three years. But, once he found out, he insisted, for my own safety, I share my secret with no one. My landlady, Mrs. Chilton, managed to figure it out. You now know, Mr. Porter, and...it appears, thanks to you, Mr. Wilson also knows.”

  Virginia glanced at Avery. For a man well-schooled at keeping his face void of expression, he failed to keep the surprise and dismay from showing on his face.

  Mr. Porter tapped his forehead with the fingers of one hand. “Wilson. Wilson. Why does that name seem so familiar?”

  Avery stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Sir, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Avery Wilson. I have submitted three articles to you for consideration to be published in the Heartland Monthly. Unfortunately, you rejected all three.”

  Mr. Porter narrowed his eyes and he directed his attention toward Avery. “Oh, yes. That is why the name seems so familiar.” The man shook his head. “Mr. Wilson, if you have come here with the intent of trying to persuade me in person to accept your work, you have made the journey in vain. Although some of the content of your articles were... adequate...your writing style is totally unsuitable for my magazine. I want nothing to do with your work, sir.”

  Virginia turned a sympathetic gaze towards Avery. Because of Mrs. Chilton, she knew he submitted articles to magazine and journal publishers, including this one. It was not until now that she had any indication why his articles were rejected.

  Mr. Porter raked his hands through his hair as he turned away and walked behind his desk once more. He spun on his feet until he once again faced Virginia and Avery. “This has turned out to be a disaster of monumental proportions. Here I had intended to send Mr. Wellington on
an investigative journey to the Kaw Indians. I have it on good authority the government is intent on forcing another treaty on them that would take more land away from them. I wanted someone who was somewhat familiar with the Kaw—who even had an idea that there was such a tribe, and who knew where they are located—go talk to some of their chiefs and find out what they have to say about it. I wanted my journal to be able to publish their side of the story in October. That’s about the same time the big wig from Washington, D.C. plans to show up on the reservation and shove the government’s new plan down the Indians’ throats.” Mr. Porter stared directly into Virginia's face. “After your articles about the Kaw tribe, I figured you were the perfect person to write that story. However, I have no intention of sending a woman to an Indian reservation.”

  Virginia inhaled and held out her hands in supplication. “Mr. Porter, I wish you to reconsider. I am familiar with the general area. The Kaw Reservation is not too far from Boonville where I used to live. I also have my source in Bonner Springs who deals with the tribe. He can provide me with valuable information. Please allow me to complete that assignment.”

  “Alone? A woman? It is not done, Miss Atwell. I will not be responsible for you.”

  Virginia gritted her teeth. Her battle to be able to move freely and be regarded with the same respect and acceptance as a man she had fought her entire life still raged. She refused to surrender. “You don’t have to be responsible for me. I will be fine. My brother who knows of my writing persona lives to the west of the reservation. Perhaps I could ask him to accompany me while I interview members of the tribe and get their viewpoint.”

  What does your brother do for a living, Miss Atwell?

  “He's a farmer. He just built a new farm east of Salina. The Kaw cross the river next to his property on their way to hunt bison on the plains.”

  Using his whole arm, Mr. Porter flipped his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. I read your article. And he can just walk away from his farm during harvest season to traipse around the countryside with you? You expect me to believe that?”

  Lips quivering, Virginia hesitated as she thought about his question. She knew Jefferson would be even more resistant than Mr. Porter to her visiting an Indian reservation. “Well. sir, I could always ask.”

  Virginia sensed Avery step close to her until his chest almost touched her shoulder. He leaned over and spoke softly into her ear. “Virginia... Miss Atwell... Please think this over. It is one thing for me to escort you here to an American city for an appointment. Are you sure you are willing to risk your safety to travel among a tribe of Indians? Besides....” Avery turned to face Mr. Porter and addressed his question to both her and the publisher. “Are you even sure the Indian agent will let someone writing for your journal on the reservation to speak to their chiefs?” He turned back to address Virginia, as he sought to reason with her. “Perhaps, if you were a man, you could get away with it. I doubt they will talk to a woman.”

  Virginia closed her eyes and ground out her words. “I am so tired of being told what I can and cannot do as a woman! Mr. Wilson, you do not run my life.”

  Mr. Porter walked around his desk once more and stood in front of Avery. He jabbed a finger within a foot of Avery's face. “Tell me, honestly, Mr. Wilson. Why are you here? Did you travel all the way from Ohio to St. Louis with Miss Atwell without knowing that she was coming here to see me? That this was merely a coincidence? Or, did you know she intended to meet with me, and you came with the intent of seeking for yourself the assignment I had in mind for V. A. Wellington?”

  Avery cleared his throat. “No, sir. I came as Miss Atwell’s escort. I was unaware she intended to visit with you. I will admit, however, when I agreed to escort her to St. Louis, I hoped to avail myself of the opportunity to stop by your office and speak to you in person. It was my hope that you would tell me in more detail what there was about my articles that you found lacking so I could rectify the matter.”

  Mr. Porter threw his hands in the air and spun to face the back wall of his office. Jamming his hands on his waist, with a sardonic laugh, he turned back to Avery. “That's an easy enough request to grant. You, sir, are an intellectual snob. Your structure is too stiffly formal and peppered with outrageously long and obscure words as to render your articles unintelligible to the average American. Your writing style is as dry as a ten-day old slice of bread. No one can understand what you are trying to say, even if they could stay interested long enough to keep a dictionary in their hand in order to try to figure out the meaning of the words you use to say what you are trying to communicate. That may be acceptable for academia, but not for the Heartland Monthly.”

  Virginia glanced at Avery who, upon hearing the criticism, stood as tall and stiff as Mr. Porter tore his writing content and style to shreds. Her heart ached on behalf of a man who had grown very dear to her. She could tell, although he struggled to accept the judgment gracefully, Mr. Porter's words pained him.

  Before she could speak in his defense, Mr. Porter’s next words, directed at her, left her no time to think of comforting words to offer Avery.

  Mr. Porter eyed her suspiciously. “Mr. Wilson claims he is only here as your escort. What is he to you?”

  Virginia barely kept herself from informing Mr. Porter that Avery Wilson's relationship to her was none of his business. However, since she hoped to persuade him to relent and allow her to fulfill the assignment he originally had in mind before he discovered she was a woman, she curbed her tongue. “Mr. Wilson is an instructor at Oberlin College. He also lives in the same boardinghouse where I have taken a room. I attended two of his classes last semester. As a courtesy, he agreed to escort me here since my landlady was not in a position to do so herself.”

  His arms akimbo, Mr. Porter grunted. “And since when is it permissible for a single woman to travel with a single man, Miss Atwell?

  Anger flared up within Virginia at the necessity of explaining her movements because she was a woman. Who did Mr. Porter think he was—her father? She forced herself to remain calm. “At our landlady’s suggestion, we have presented ourselves as an engaged couple. We felt it would allow me to travel more safely without raising embarrassing questions.”

  Mr. Porter continued to address her, but turned this focus to Avery. “What kind of instructor is he at this college?”

  Avery spoke up. “I teach grammar, literature classes, and written composition.”

  Displaying a piercing glare, the publisher jerked his gaze back to Virginia. He lifted his hand shoulder height. With each phrase he spoke, he jabbed his pointer finger towards her for emphasis. “Do not. Allow him. To influence. Your writing style. If you do. He will ruin you.” He made a broad swiping motion with his hand. “I will never be able to publish anything you write again.”

  “Sir, I resent your accusation. I would never ruin Miss Atwell.”

  Mr. Porter rolled his eyes. “You are as dense as a block of wood, Mr. Wilson. I am not claiming that you would ruin her that way. I meant as a writer. Now get out of my office before I throw you out.”

  His face red with embarrassment, Avery, his back stiff, spun on the ball of his foot and walked towards the exit. Virginia watched him open the door, leave the room, and close the door behind him. She waited several seconds before she turned to face Mr. Porter once more. To counter his loud and blustering style of speech, she moderated her tone of voice. “Sir, you said if I were to conform my writing style to be like Mr. Wilson’s that it would ruin me and you would never publish another article of mine again. Does that mean you will still consider my work for publication?”

  Mr. Porter sighed in resignation. “I shouldn't do this. It could mean professional suicide if it were ever discovered I accepted articles from a woman geared to the male reading audience of the Heartland Monthly. Yet, Mr. V. A. Wellington is one of the more popular contributors to my magazine. I am willing to risk publishing your work as long as no more than a handful of people know of your connection to that name. Are you
confident those who know, including Mr. Wilson, will keep your secret?”

  “Mr. Wilson is a man of honor, Mr. Porter. I'm sure the few who are aware of the connection can be trusted to keep my confidence. Please allow me to accept the assignment of traveling to the Kaw Reservation to interview the people there regarding this upcoming treaty.

  “Absolutely not, Miss Atwell. I will not send a woman by herself among the Indians.”

  “Sir, I can protect myself. I know how to use a gun. Before I travel there, I will purchase a small pocket pistol.” Virginia patted the leather pouch that rested against her right hip. I’ll keep it in my possibles bag along with my notebook and pencils.”

  “You know how to use a gun?”

  “Yes, sir. I grew up in Missouri.”

  Behind Virginia, the door open and then closed.

  Mr. Porter scowled in the direction of the door. “You, again? Like a bad penny, you keep turning up.”

  Virginia turned to look behind her. Avery once more stood inside the room.

  Determination on his face, Avery walked across the room until he once more stood at Virginia’s side. “Yes, Mr. Porter. However poorly you regard me, I believe I am the only penny Miss Atwell has at her disposal at this time. Please allow Miss Atwell to accept the assignment you had in mind for Mr. Wellington. I will escort her. To preserve her reputation, we will continue to portray ourselves as an engaged couple. I will make no effort to take over her assignment. I will not influence her writing style in any manner.”

  “Can you do that, Mr. Wilson? You have admitted to being a college instructor, someone most would consider superior to her in ability. Will you be able to refrain from influencing her writing style?”

  His jaw clenched and his hands fisted, Avery leaned towards the publisher, fire in his gaze. He raised his shaking fist, his finger pointed to the ceiling. “Mr. Porter, criticize my writing all you want, but do not assail my integrity. I will admit to envy regarding Miss Atwell’s work, although I did not know before today, she was the one who wrote as V. A. Wellington. I have been jealous of her success.” With each sentence, he thrust his fist with the raised finger forward as the volume of his voice escaladed. “She deserves the opportunity to investigate and write this article for your publication, and I assure you…”