A Distinct Flair for Words

by Linda Banche

  “Or they might think I am trying to steal from them.”

  Frank choked on his tea. “Gammon. People know you. They will think no such thing.”

  Mr. Russell pounded a sputtering Frank on the back. “Good point. You can also say she is a member of the Pemberley Society, and everyone in the group knows. The Society’s ranks will probably swell as a result. If anyone really insists, reveal that you are the author. But since you will ask in the circles you frequent, I doubt you will have a problem.”

  “Yes, that might work.” She tapped a finger on her teacup. “And I will continue to write to publishers.”

  Mr. Russell grinned. “You must always do that. But there is another selling point with subscription: you can stipulate that the publisher list the subscribers’ names at the front of the book.”

  She set her biscuit in her saucer. “That might be enticement enough for some. How much should I ask?”

  Frank coughed once more as he set his empty cup on the table. “When I ask for a church donation, I always request a set amount. I found out the hard way that if I leave the decision to the parishioners, they fob me off with a few pence.”

  Mr. Russell took a biscuit. “Excellent idea. Pride and Prejudice sold for eighteen shillings. I suggest, for a first novel, fourteen shillings.”

  Felicity set her cup beside Frank’s. “Is that not a little high? Mayhap more people would subscribe if the price were lower.”

  Mr. Russell shook his head as he swallowed a bite of his biscuit. “You need to cover the costs. If the price is too low, you will never make a profit. Also, some people equate low price with shoddy work, and your book is very good, indeed. I suggest you ask for the fourteen shillings. If a subscriber contributes that, he will receive a copy of the published novel in addition to having his name in the book. Less than that, he will have his name in the book only. Remember, some people always complain about the price, however low. So, we must set a fair price and then stick to it.”

  Frank took another biscuit. “I agree. Again, with the parishioners, I always ask for an amount on the high side. The contributions are then larger.” He bit into the flaky confection. “My compliments to your cook.”

  “Whatever would I do without you two?” She smoothed down a fold of her skirt. “Now, let me see. Literary societies are a good place to start looking for subscribers. And you, Mr. Russell and Mr. Wynne, must come with me.”

  Mr. Russell dropped his half-eaten biscuit into his lap. “I? But why?”

  “Because literary societies are composed almost entirely of ladies. With two handsome gentlemen with me, I am sure we will meet with more success.”

  Mr. Russell paled. “But—”

  “Especially since I will say you were the model for my Mr. Bingley. You are the image of the man.” She tapped her finger on her chin. “But not with the spectacles. Please remove them.”

  Mr. Russell’s eyebrows bunched together, but he did as she asked.

  “I knew it!” She clapped. “When I first saw you, I remarked to myself on your resemblance to my mental picture of Mr. Bingley. Most women think of him as blond, and, of course, very handsome. You are, you know.”

  His cheeks flared a brilliant red.

  She had never seen a grown man blush, but how delightful he was. Some lady would be very lucky to catch him. Perhaps Selina? Or had she already?

  He swallowed. “While I thank you for your kind words, I do not see how my looks affect our venture.”

  “Why, you will tout my book.”

  He shook his head. “How? I am not convivial, like Bingley is.”

  “Perhaps not, but your presence alone will help.” She raised her hands high while gazing upward, as if receiving a revelation from above. “Both you and Mr. Wynne will charm the ladies into subscribing. You, Mr. Russell, as the fair Mr. Bingley, which most ladies expect. Believe me, many ladies will find a quiet Mr. Bingley most attractive.”

  His blush deepened.

  “And for those who prefer a darker version, they have only to gaze upon Mr. Wynne.” She laced her fingers before her. “What woman, of whatever age, can resist the attentions of two handsome gentlemen? Why, I shall drop a hint here and there that you both were the inspiration for my Mr. Bingley. Your physical resemblance to the gentleman, and Mr. Wynne’s sunny nature.”

  “But—“

  She held up a restraining hand. “No more ‘buts’, sir. You will do splendidly.”

  This time, Mr. Russell didn’t utter a word. His mouth just hung open.

  Frank barked out a laugh. “Welcome to one of Miss White’s schemes. You realize you have no say in the matter. You will do as told.” He pulled a sorrowful face. “I always do.”

  Felicity tapped her foot. “Fustian. Pay him no mind, Mr. Russell. With all three of us working together, I am sure we will succeed.” I certainly hope so.

  Mr. Russell’s color subsided to the grey tone of ashes. “Perhaps.”

  Felicity smiled. Now for the coup de grace. “We will start with the Pemberley Society. Tomorrow night’s meeting is at Miss Barrett’s house. If you are free?”

  “It is?” Mr. Russell blushed again. “The idea is not so alarming now. I would like to give it a go.” He rescued his biscuit and took another bite. “I think.”

  “I am free, too.” Frank patted Mr. Russell’s shoulder. “Good man. I knew you would try, and a little incentive always helps.” He grinned. “In any event, you can always run away screaming later.”

  Chapter 17

  Frank strode into the morning room at White’s. The usual rustling of news sheets, the biting odor of tobacco smoke and the sharp tang of alcohol greeted him. Quite comforting, the familiarity. He hadn’t been here for at least a fortnight, not since before his last trip for Mr. Tyler. Far too much time away.

  And far too much time away from Felicity. The clergyman had kept him exceedingly busy of late. Too often, Frank had to squeeze out his visits to her between errands for the vicar. No time to linger in her company, and he definitely wanted to linger.

  “Ah, here is another friend we have not seen in an age.” Trant and two tall men, one light, the other dark, raised their glasses in unison.

  “Good to see you.” Frank nodded to Trant before turning his attention to the dark-haired man. “And you, too, Fellowes.”

  Fellowes inclined his head. “Well met, Wynne. Although I must again thank Trant for inviting me. Since I am not a member, he paid my shot.”

  “With all your promotions at the bank, you will soon earn enough to buy your own membership.” Frank inspected the light-haired man. “Still wearing Cossack trousers, Coffey? Will you never tire of those pleated monstrosities?”

  “Monstrosities?” Coffey smoothed a hand down one fashionably clad leg. “I will have you know they are very comfortable. In any event, Ellen likes them, and her opinion trumps yours any day.”

  Frank cracked a smile. “Your Miss Palmer is ‘Ellen’ now? Then I suppose all fares well with you?”

  “Just so.” Coffey’s sandy hair glinted in the candlelight as he set his empty tumbler down on a nearby table. “I have been busy, as have we all.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose even you are busy, Trant, although I do not know with what.”

  Trant stiffened like a hedgehog raising its spines. He advanced toward Coffey. “Why, you—”

  Fellowes set his glass beside Coffey’s. “Now, now, lads, play nicely.” He crossed his arms. “You cannot know how much I missed your constant brangling.”

  Coffey grinned. “Me, too. You are such fun to vex, Trant. You take offense at everything.”

  “I take offense at you, Coffey, because you are offensive.” Trant downed the last of his brandy.

  Coffey’s grin widened. “Thank you.”

  Trant leaned toward Coffey. “That was not a compliment.”

  Coffey leaned to meet Trant. “I thought it was.”

  Fellowes stepped between them. “Enough for the nonce.” With a palm on each man’s chest, he s
hoved hard enough for them to stagger apart. Trant’s empty glass tumbled to the floor. “While your squabbling is often amusing, there is such a thing as too much. And we have reached the point of too much.”

  Trant’s hedgehog-like pose flattened, although his shoulders remained taut. “As you say, Fellowes.”

  A blank-faced waiter picked up the fallen goblet and whisked it away.

  “Be that as it may, now that we are all here, I have an announcement.” Fellowes gripped his lapels and beamed at each of his friends in turn. “I am the happiest of men. Miss Clara Haley has accepted my proposal of marriage.”

  “Good show!” Coffey clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Congratulations!” Frank shook Fellowes’s hand.

  Trant said nothing, but his lips puckered as if he had bitten into the sourest of lemons.

  Frank kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow!” Trant glared at Frank. “Congratulations, Fellowes.”

  Coffey grinned at Frank behind Trant’s back. Then he waggled his eyebrows at Fellowes. “When is the happy wedding day? Tomorrow?”

  Fellowes laughed. “I wish.” His smile turned downward. “Spring more like, after the ship I invested in returns. If this venture is as successful as I expect, I can offer Clara the life she deserves. And if its voyage is not so profitable, at least I will have more blunt to support her.”

  Frank shook his head. “She will not care.”

  Fellowes settled an arm on the fireplace mantel. “I know. But I want to give her everything.”

  Trant, ever the damper in any conversation, looked down his nose. “Her father is a viscount. Surely she has a sizeable dowry.”

  Fellowes fisted his hands. “A man should provide for his family, not the other way around.”

  “How common.” Trant raised his quizzing glass to his eye, a living example of those insufferable ancestors whose painted likenesses littered aristocratic families’ portrait galleries.

  Fellowes’s eyes blazed, as if he were two seconds away from stuffing the quizzing glass down Trant’s throat. Or up another portion of his anatomy.

  Frank fought the urge to shake his toplofty friend. “Trant, for one night, please stop the derogatory comments.” One of these days, he would plant him a facer. Or one of the others would.

  For a few moments, the four men eyed each other, the atmosphere thickening as if a storm threatened.

  Then the edges of Fellowes’s mouth ticked up. “And how fare you with your steam engines, Coffey?”

  They all guffawed, the mirth clearing the air like a cool shower after a heat wave.

  Coffey, still a little rigid, adjusted his cuffs. “Steam engine. Just one, and small, but powerful. I convinced my father to let us test Mr. Palmer’s masterpiece in the estate grist mill. The harvest is upon us, but the river is too low after this ghastly hot summer to spin the mill wheel. If the engine successfully powers the wheel, Father will invest in the project. And then…”

  Fellowes raised an eyebrow. “And then…”

  “Then I will ask Ellen to marry me.”

  Trant’s forehead creased. “Why wait? While her dowry is perhaps small, you have a generous portion from your father. More than enough to support her, if you must agree with Fellowes’s outlandish beliefs. Surely even a cit father would not object.”

  Coffey leaned against a table. “You do not understand cits. I must prove to all the Palmers that I am useful. No empty-headed ton fribbles allowed, not even one with deep pockets and a handsome face.”

  Fellowes poked Coffey in the side. “You have the empty head and the deep pockets, but who has the handsome face?”

  Coffey replied with a playful jab toward Fellowes’s ribs, which Fellowes neatly sidestepped.

  Trant released a world-weary sigh. “I disagree. Money is sufficient for anything.”

  Coffey threw up his hands. “Trant, you are such a cynic. Does nothing at all please you?”

  “Ignore him. I understand completely.” Fellowes turned his back on Trant, a gesture guaranteed to annoy the devil out of their difficult friend.

  True to form, Trant’s face reddened, his nostrils widened and he sucked in a breath. The picture lacked only the steam hissing out of his ears as if he were Coffey’s engine.

  Frank choked on a laugh.

  Coffey smirked at Trant over Fellowes’s shoulder.

  As if their annoying friend weren’t about to explode into little pieces, Fellowes, a fiendish grin belying his deceptively amiable exterior, focused on Coffey. “Do you have the engine running now? Can I bring Clara over to see it? You know how astute she is at business. If she approves, she might convince her father to add to the investment. She could certainly convince me to kick in a few pounds.”

  “Me, too.” Frank beckoned to a waiter clearing away empty glasses and ordered a brandy.

  Coffey slid his hands into his trousers pockets. “By all means, both of you, come over to the Palmers’. Tomorrow will be best, since you do not have to work on Saturday, Fellowes. But make it in the morning, before we pack everything away. On Monday, the steam engine, I, and the entire Palmer clan descend on the Coffey estate.” He cast a sharp grin at Trant. “You can come, too, if you like.”

  Trant held himself rigid for a moment before exhaling. His steam having cooled, he visibly deflated, but his black expression remained. “Why all of you?”

  “Everyone in the family contributes. Ellen’s father, her brother and I work on the engine. Ellen and her mother supply the calculations that drive the design, in case we need to make adjustments. And we probably will.”

  “And when you wed your lady, you will join the family business? Another happily married friend, albeit one involved in trade.”

  Fellowes tapped Trant on the shoulder. “I work, too.”

  “I know, I know. Why do I associate with any of you?” Trant, his color returned to normal, snorted. “And what brings you here, Wynne?”

  “Dinner with my friends. And to ask a favor.”

  Coffey clutched at his heart. “I knew your appearance was too good to be true. Of course, you want something.”

  “Not much. I need some advice, and I would also like your help.”

  Fellowes lowered himself into a wing chair before the hearth, and jerked his thumb toward the facing chair. “We are always ready to assist. What do you need?”

  “I know an author who wants to publish her book by subscription.” Frank explained what subscription involved. “Do you know anyone who has done this?”

  The other three shook their heads.

  Frank accepted his glass of brandy from the returning waiter. “I thought not. I would also like your help in spreading the word.”

  Trant lowered himself onto the sofa set perpendicular to the chairs. “Would you like us to subscribe, too?” His words splashed acid.

  Frank winced. Reliable Trant, contrary as always. “I would be most happy if you would, but you do not need to.”

  Coffey punched Trant in the upper arm hard enough to make him flinch. Then he flipped up his coattails and sat beside him. “You said ‘she’. I daresay the author is a lady?”

  “Yes, Miss Felicity White. We knew each other when we were children. Hadn’t seen each other in ten years, until we ran into each other at Hookham’s. And I do mean ‘ran into each other’.”

  “Now that must be a story.” Fellowes settled against the chair back and steepled his fingers. “Tell us all.”

  Frank regaled his friends with the tale of his and Felicity’s meeting, with a few embellishments. By the time he finished, everyone, including Trant, who still rubbed his arm, smiled.

  Fellowes bent forward and set his elbows on his knees. “Pride and Prejudice and the library have worked their magic once more. Although they took a while in your case.” He rested his chin in one hand. “What qualities do Coffey and I possess that you lack?”

  “Gullibility? Stupidity? Belief in magic?” Frank’s oft-recurring thought of Felicity as his lady warmed him
like a down quilt in the midst of winter. But was it true? He wasn’t yet sure. He arched an eyebrow at Coffey. “Or in lightning striking the same place twice?”

  Coffey winced. “I hoped you had forgotten that inane comment.”

  “And miss a chance to tease you? Never. What are friends for?”

  “Be that as it may, lightning has now struck a third time.” Coffey lifted his hand as if making a toast. “I would lift my glass, if I had one, to your luck and your further success.”

  Trant shook his head. “Here we go again, on and on, as if that library and that book were special. Just coincidence.”

  “Come now, Trant, whatever the cause, be happy for us.” Coffey settled one foot over his other knee. “Or are you still mortified over the grease I might have under my nails?” He raised his hands, their backs to his friends, and wiggled his fingers. “Look, no grease.”

  Trant’s head swiveled like a cannon primed to blast a metal ball straight at Frank. “Did you have to tell him that?”

  “I?” Frank pointed a finger at his chest. “Mayhap I mentioned your comment in passing. I am nothing if not a true friend.”

  “I will pay you back.” Trant’s baring of teeth was a death-head’s grimace. “Although, I wish you all the best of luck. If I must.”

  “Now, that is a left handed compliment if ever I heard one.” Fellows wagged a finger at Trant. “But I will accept it. We know how difficult you are to please.”

  “Hear, hear.” Frank and Coffey clapped.

  Trant glowered, but said nothing more.

  Fellowes sank deeper into the chair. “Enough play. Wynne, tell us about your lady’s book.”

  “Felicity rewrote Pride and Prejudice from Mr. Bingley’s point of view…”

  As he reached the end of the story, Fellowes’s and Coffey’s unruly guffaws and exclamations had dwindled to exhausted sputters. All though his talk, more than one gentleman, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, had glanced their way.

  Coffey rolled against the arm of the sofa. “Please pick me up if I fall onto the floor. I have never heard anything so funny.”

  Fellowes, holding his sides, choked. “Only if you pick up me when I fall down, too.”