by Linda Banche
“I have?” Russell’s words came out as a rough groan. He bit into the new biscuit, although he already had a half-eaten one in his tea saucer.
Felicity’s internal candle flared higher. “Of course you have. Your knowledge of publishing is invaluable.”
Russell swallowed, and then absently dropped the rest of the biscuit into his cup. Tea splashed over the rim and he blinked. “I agree with Wynne. The undertaking will be huge. We must not jump in too quickly.”
She turned a limpid gaze on Russell. “I am sure you can deal with anything that may arise, with Mr. Wynne’s help of course.”
Frank grimaced as the gulf at their feet expanded. “You place great confidence in me. Perhaps, too much. Thus far, I have not convinced a publisher to accept your book.”
She waved an airy hand. “Nonsense. You secured us a fine contribution at White’s. Surely printers will be easier to win over since we will pay them.”
He certainly hoped so. Publishers were a tougher lot than parishioners. Or mayhap his influencing skills weren’t that good. While his and his friends’ blackmailing of Trant was all well and good, he couldn’t do that with strangers. “You also place a great burden on Russell. He already has one job.” He set his hands on his knees. “Before we go any farther, we must think on everything publishing a book involves. So far, we have only discussed funding. Russell, can you help us?”
Russell cleared his throat. “When you pay the publisher, he does everything for you. He knows which printers to use and can negotiate a favorable price because he sends them a great deal of business. He can find paper of the quality he wants, and since he buys in bulk, he can usually secure a bargain.”
With a frown at the biscuit disintegrating in his tea, he set the cup aside. “Paper is the most expensive part of a book, mainly because the paper is made from rags. There is some talk of making cheaper paper from wood pulp, but that day has not yet arrived. Then there is the tax on paper, the costs of editing, printing and binding, and the expenses will rise more if you hire an illustrator. The publisher also pays for advertising, and convinces the book shops to stock your book.”
Felicity leaned forward. “Do we have enough money to pay for all that?”
“I am afraid not.” Russell sagged. Poor man. He hated bearing bad tidings. “I daresay a publisher would turn you away if you offered him eighty pounds.”
She laced her fingers together and tapped her forefingers against each other. “Would anything be cheaper if we went directly to the printers, editors and whoever else is involved?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. You might be able to strike a deal. Print up a small batch to start, and then go from there.”
“Do we have enough for that?”
He shook his head.
Felicity heaved a long sigh. “Oh, dear. I suppose we shall have to seek more subscribers. I must find more literary groups for both you and Mr. Wynne to visit. As the two Mr. Bingleys, you make a formidable team. We secured more subscriptions that I expected at the Pemberley Society.”
Russell picked up the biscuit from his saucer. “They are a captive audience. Rather like preaching to the choir.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Russell. You convinced Selina’s Aunt Drusilla, of all people, to subscribe. I thought she never woke up. But, for you, she not only awakened, but contributed five whole pounds!” She rested her chin on her fingers. “But searching for more subscribers will take so long.”
Russell looked over the top of his spectacles. “Have you written more letters to publishers?”
“Yes, a dozen more. And I have received eleven more rejections. Is that avenue closed to us?”
“Perhaps.” He drew out the word.
“I wish there were another way.” She wrung her hands, her lips a frown. Most uncharacteristic of her. If Frank hadn’t already believed she desperately wanted to publish her book, he was certain now.
The figurative abyss at their feet gaped. Would such large obstacles turn her off the endeavor? Going it alone was probably too ambitious. He favored her goal, but with such overwhelming odds, mayhap giving up was the best option, much as he disliked the thought.
One last idea might sway her. “You have forgotten another matter. We all know the rules. Ladies do not engage in trade.”
Her eyes flashed. “Nonsense. No one will know of my involvement. The “A Lady” listed as the author of my book could be anyone.”
Frank cocked his head. “And how about me? Gentlemen do not work.” Russell, forgive me for the slur.
She shook her head. “Again, fustian. All men must deal with business. Why, our own Mr. Russell works and he is a gentleman.”
Russell’s narrowed gaze drilled into Frank. “Many people disapprove of my working.”
“They are all wrong!” The light that had fled her face a moment ago returned twofold and flared high. “Shall we proceed, then?”
Frank shrugged. Russell gulped. They both nodded.
Felicity’s mouth curved into her “I have won!” smile and she sat back to drink her tea.
Frank gave an inward groan. There was no convincing her that her scheme might not work. At least, not now.
They drank up their tea, Felicity dominating the conversation with her enthusiastic plans.
Finally, Russell stood. “I must away.”
“As must I.” Frank rose. “Russell, I would speak with you. Please wait for me.”
Russell, his face hard as granite, gave a curt nod and then left.
Felicity’s fingertips brushed Frank’s arm, a whisper of touch that nevertheless scorched his skin. “Must you go? I have not seen you much these past weeks.”
“Word of my prowess in securing contributions has become known, and Mr. Tyler sends me to help other churches.” Too many times. How he wanted to stay.
“Oh.” She wilted. “I wish you success.”
His bones heavy as iron, Frank left with Russell. They walked in silence until they reached Curzon Street. Frank coughed. “I apologize for my insult to your status as a gentleman. My comment was a poor attempt to dissuade Miss White from her course.”
Russell’s tense shoulders relaxed into a weary slump. “Think nothing on it. I admit, I was angry, even when I realized what you were doing.”
“You have every right to your anger, and I thank you for your generosity. I am the last person to turn up his nose at a man who works. If my father has his way, soon I will be a clergyman.”
Russell stopped and looked him up and down. “You do not look like a clergyman to me.” He cracked a smile.
Frank’s mouth curved up in return. “I do not think so, either.”
With that they shook hands and continued on their way.
“Russell, tell me, truly, what think you of Miss White’s idea?”
His companion’s lips formed a thin line. “The publishing business is very difficult. Publishers accept very few books and most authors earn a pittance.”
“So, you do not expect her plan to succeed?”
“No, I do not.” Yet a small smile radiated warmth from his glumness. “But I like that she wants to try. Most people would not. In any case, I must make extremely plain the difficulties. This undertaking will not be free or even cheap.”
“I never thought so. But you must explain to me first, and then I will talk to her. Sometimes she is not very practical.” A sudden freezing wind blasted down the street and Frank shivered. A harbinger of their bleak chances of success?
Russell pulled his greatcoat collar higher, but his smile negated any hovering ill omen. “But if we were all practical, there would never be anything new in the world.”
Chapter 20
“Miss White is not the lady for you.” Norris, planted squarely in the center of Felicity’s drawing room, crossed his arms over his chest and smirked.
Frank’s hands curled into fists. He was not a violent man, but he would like nothing better than to punch Norris.
Despite an insistent rain determined to transfo
rm London into a city-sized puddle, Frank’s day couldn’t have started brighter. Brimming with good news about their publishing venture, he had floated in a blissful bubble all the way over.
Then he walked in here. His joyous bubble had burst as if trod under an elephant’s foot. He and Norris greeted each other with tight-lipped smiles and then withdrew to opposite sides of the room like pugilists squaring off for a bout.
Until Norris marched over and made his insulting declaration.
Frank clenched his hands harder. “Who are you to decide?”
“I have Miss White’s best interests at heart.” Norris’s grin was a baring of teeth.
“And I do not?” The insolence! “You cannot know that. In any event, the decision is hers.”
“Of course. But we all know what ladies want.” Norris’s smile that was not a smile widened, as if he would devour Frank whole and not bother to spit out the bones.
Frank stiffened to prevent himself from wiping that self-satisfied leer off the presumptuous man’s face.
Norris examined his fingernails as if Frank were unworthy of a direct look. “Ladies are always on the search for husbands, the richer the better.” He raised his head. “I believe you are marked for the church?” Although he framed the words as a question, his eyes’ cutting gleam proclaimed he damned well knew the answer.
Frank stiffened more. “What of it?”
“Men of religion are notoriously poor. Why, even in that ridiculous book she loves so much—what is it called, Pride and—”
“Prejudice”.
“Yes. The heroine turned down the clergyman in favor of the wealthy man.” He released a world-weary sigh. “I daresay all ladies are the same. The only thing they care for is the plumpness of a man’s purse.”
As much as Frank disagreed, the tiniest of dark thoughts sparked into being. “The heroine did not love the clergyman.”
Norris snorted. “Gammon. If he had been rich, she would have loved him.”
Felicity isn’t like that! “She also turned down the rich man at first.” Is she?
Norris’s smirk returned. “Clever girl. Had him crawling back for what she had at first refused.”
“You have the book wrong.” Frank’s throat closed up. So far, Norris had demolished all his arguments. He swallowed. “She rejected the rich man because he was arrogant and uncaring, or so she thought. She received bad information from his enemy, who presented himself as wronged by the wealthy man.”
Norris’s grin stretched. “I think not.” He patted Frank on the shoulder. “You are young and inexperienced in the ways of women. Take my advice. Miss White is happy to call you friend, especially since you help her with that absurd book of hers, but she will never see you in a different light.”
Frank’s throat constricted. In one respect, Norris, as much as he despised him, was right. Frank didn’t know much about women. Women had always figured in his life, but mostly as relatives and acquaintances. Now that he was an adult, he had found some ladies attractive. But he hadn’t been seriously involved with one, or had his heart touched. Like all gentlemen, he was wary of the marriage mart and protected himself, but a lady wouldn’t use him. After all, he was no green-as-grass stripling. He could detect women’s wiles.
Or could he?
The minute smudge at the back of his mind darkened to coal black and expanded. Had Felicity deliberately used him to further her publishing scheme?
Feminine chattering drifted in from the passage. The music of Felicity’s voice wafted to his ears.
His shoulders tensed. He couldn’t see her right now. He had to think.
Her mother, with Aunt Philadelphia on her arm, entered first, and beamed at Norris as she offered him her hand. “Mr. Norris, we are delighted to see you. Are we not, Felicity?”
Although Felicity hung back, her smile for Norris was as warm as any she had bestowed on Frank. “Welcome.”
Frank’s nails dug into his palms. Was her smile for Norris genuine? Had she feigned her dislike for him all along? And her liking—nay, more than liking—for me?
She pivoted toward Frank. Her smile blazed. “And Mr. Wynne. I am most happy you came.”
***
Frank is here!
Felicity’s stomach unknotted. Her insides had twisted the moment the butler informed them Mr. Norris waited in the drawing room. With his every visit, the dreaded marriage proposal drew nearer, and she couldn’t accept, as much as her mother urged her to.
Would you prefer to marry Frank?
Her breath fractured. Lately, her only thoughts about marriage had revolved around not wanting to wed Mr. Norris. While she expected, in a nebulous sort of way, to marry someday, she had never focused on a particular man. But Frank?
His radiant smile enveloped her, a flash of warm sunshine in the cold winter’s day of Mr. Norris’s company. Her spirits soared whenever he was near. Always had, even when they were children. Could he be the man for her?
An icy wind blew over her heart. Although his lips curved up, his eyes were as dead as a garden in a snowstorm. Something was amiss. Dreadfully amiss.
He bowed, all that was correct. Rigidly correct. “Well met, ladies. Glad to see you.”
Whenever he addressed her formally in company, his words held a lilt, a secret signal that the convention was for others only. But now his words were brittle. What had happened? Was he angry at her? Mr. Norris’s smile was as smug as if he had scored a point in a much-fought-out game. Had he and Frank quarreled before she, Mama and Aunt Philadelphia arrived?
Her mother settled her aunt into her favorite seat by the window before sinking into her own chair before the tea table. Then she motioned for the men to sit. “Felicity, call for tea.”
Felicity engaged the bell-pull and then dallied beside it, casting a glance between Mr. Norris and Frank.
Mr. Norris sat on the settee, and Frank in a padded chair a little apart from the tea table. He usually chose the settee so he could sit next to her. Had he picked his seat apurpose to distance himself from her mother and Mr. Norris?
Or from her? A rock sank into the pit of her stomach.
Even worse, she couldn’t take the chair next to him without also isolating herself, and her mother would certainly notice.
Forcing a happy smile, she lowered herself beside Mr. Norris. She had no desire to be anywhere near him, but Mama would call her away if she sat by Frank. “How fortunate we are to have two gentlemen to entertain today.”
“Yes, indeed.” Her mother’s words encompassed both men, but her smile rested squarely on Mr. Norris. Her aspect cooled when she regarded Frank.
Mr. Norris launched into a detailed account of the glories of his estate, as he had on every visit for the past week.
After so many repetitions, Felicity could almost recite the monologue word for word. She grasped the seat cushion firmly to prevent herself from jumping up and running for the ends of the earth. Instead, she tapped her foot and fidgeted.
When Mr. Norris paused to inhale, Mama, her smile fixed, cast her a sideways glance.
Felicity stilled. Mayhap her mother wasn’t as enraptured with Mr. Norris as she appeared. Gracious, if Mama felt the necessity to put on an act with him, what would Felicity’s life entail if she married him? Decades of pretending interest? She didn’t think she could do it.
A particularly strong gust of wind blasted rain against the windowpane. She raised an eyebrow at Frank. “Is the weather not lovely?” The question was a private joke. Most of the time, they would launch into childhood reminiscences on the glories of wearing soaked clothes or on their love of jumping into puddles.
He frowned. “I fear the day is not a pleasant one. Frightfully wet.”
Another bad sign. Frank always responded to her jests with a grin. Whatever his difficulties, and, of course, he had them, although most people incorrectly assumed otherwise, he masked them with good cheer. That he didn’t now set her internal alarm bells into a frenzy.
A clatter fr
om the passage announced the arrival of the refreshments, a welcome interruption. Felicity jumped up. “I do like tea. So nice and warm on a dreary day.”
Frank gave a barely perceptible nod, his visage bleaker than the weeping rainclouds.
Mama poured the tea and Felicity served Mr. Norris, who had resumed his discourse on his estate. At least his words filled the silence. She offered him the plate of biscuits. He shook his head, not missing a word of his oft-repeated soliloquy.
Her mother continued to sit enthralled. How could she pretend so? Practice?
With Mr. Norris occupied for the moment, Felicity offered tea to Frank, which he declined. He hadn’t smiled again after she entered the room.
Her nerves jangled too much to allow her to sit. She had to find out what was wrong. Gripping the biscuit plate like a battering ram with which to force out Frank’s secrets, she marched to his side. “Would you like a biscuit? Your favorite, lemon.” Surely he would take his usual two. His love for lemon sweets was another standing joke between them.
Without even looking at the confections, he shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Are you sure?” She tipped her head toward his as she again proffered the plate. “Is something amiss?”
No one could call that bare lifting of lips a smile. “Not at all.”
“Oh, surely you want a biscuit.” She pushed the plate under his nose. “I had Cook bake them especially for you.” After a quick glance at her mother and Mr. Norris, still engaged in one-sided conversation, she bent to him once more. “Please, tell me what is wrong.”
Lips pursed, he took a biscuit. “Why, nothing. I am all right and tight, thank you.”
Her mother’s voice rang out behind her. “I would like a biscuit, too, dear.”
Felicity bled inside as Frank unenthusiastically munched on his favorite treat, but she had to return to the others.
