Doug broke our tranquility by plopping down three troughs of his famous fish and chips.
“Three orders,” he said. “For the man with a delicate palette.” I wasn’t sure what I was watching here. Again, one moment, Doug looked like he was going to crush Edward. The next, I thought they may start a brotherly wrestling match. Doug took a seat next to me and put both elbows squarely on the table, folding his hands in front of his mouth.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What did I just tell you about calling me sir?” Doug growled.
“What is this stuff?” Edward asked, picking up the small dish of Doug’s secret sauce. I smiled, remembering my first taste of it. It seemed like a long time ago, but it hadn’t even been a month. Doug eyed him warily.
“It’s his secret sauce,” I offered. Edward smiled slyly back at Doug.
“Now that’s more like it.” Edward took a large piece of fish, dipped it into a generous portion of the sauce, and popped it in his mouth. While he chewed, Doug continued staring him down, bull against matador.
“Heavens, man,” Edward said. “That’s a bit of alright.”
Doug pounded a triumphant fist down on the table. “Best in the city! You can’t find better!”
“You devil rascal, man! I wish I could disagree with you.”
After that, it was all smiles, pats on the back, and sharing stories about scars. I was delighted. If I was looking for an experience to see the human side of Edward, I realized now, Doug was the perfect vessel to arrive at my goal. They showed each other battle wounds from bar fights or chasing down criminals. They bonded over cricket matches and swapped recipes they picked up from unsavory characters. I listened on, enthralled, happy to see that Edward wasn’t all manners and protocol. In fact, he even lost track of the time and jumped at his pocket watch when he saw the hour.
“Doug, you fiend! You’ve kept me well past the hour. The Sergeant will have my hat.”
“He’d better not. You’ve been accompanying this young lady; she simply required your attention.”
“Is that true, Luella?” Edward asked. Truthfully, I would have loved his attention for the rest of the week. I drunk his stories in deeply and lost myself, admiring how his jawline looked in the tavern light. Something about sitting well after food with great company was enough to imitate the effects of alcohol. Remembering it was daytime was like a shocking revelation.
“I plan on telling Cooper that I fainted on the roadside,” I said.
“Well, then my tardiness seems justified,” he replied, jovially. Doug bellowed his hearty, raspy laugh.
“You’ve got a lively one here,” Doug said. “I’d hold on to her.”
To this, I didn’t quite know what to say. My heart caught a little, and I had nothing with which to respond. Edward didn’t seem to have a response either. He just smiled at me, sweetly. Did I dare to believe that he meant to agree? Did he want to hold on to me, whatever that meant?
“I’ll let you two go, though. I have my own work to do,” Doug said, standing, and grabbing our troughs. “You take care of yourself, Lieutenant.”
“Likewise, Doug. Expect to see me again soon.”
Edward went to grab our coats from the coat rack near the door, giving Doug ample opportunity to jab me. “So, this is that love quandary Becca went on about?”
I quickly shushed him and sent him chuckling back to the kitchen. Edward returned, helped me into my coat, and offered his arm. I took it happily and tried my best to disguise the foolish, giddy grin spreading across my face. This was a life I could get used to. Lunching with Edward, working with Bram, socializing with Rebecca and Doug. They were so new, yet they roused me from a sleep I didn’t know I was in. How many of these people, my people, had I missed out on through the years?
The only thing that could distract me from a blissful state like this was the magazine on the table near the entrance.
“Would you fetch that publication for me, Edward?” I asked, pausing.
He obliged, and I flipped the pages, calmly at first, then with increasing intensity.
“Is anything the matter, Luella?” Edward asked. I shook my head absentmindedly, but I knew this magazine. I still don’t know why I picked it up. There was no good to be had of it. Who knows what happiness I could have enjoyed if I had continued pretending it didn’t exist?
Instead, I found myself reading against my will, settling on a page that I knew all too well. My hand shook.
It was Brutus’ review of Travis Blakely’s most recent publications.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fit of Fury
I ARRIVED AT Langley’s just around closing time. It felt like months since I had last seen its red-painted wooden doorway. It was an apt color for my mood. The familiar sign swung gently in the breeze on the rod sticking out from the brick building. I had made the trek over at a furious pace, fuming the whole route, mulling over what I might say to Byron. There was an unnatural energy born inside of me, but this time, I didn’t fight it. I let it sweep over me, and it felt good. I felt angry, on the war path, looking for someone to blame. My fingers twitched.
Brutus’ review had rattled me. For a brief moment, I wished the past few weeks had never happened, that I could go back to writing articles on drapes and table manners, comfortably untouched by critique, success, and adventure. Was it wrong to wish for a world without magic?
I set my jaw and shook off the feeling. Byron was comfortable, but even if I could turn back time, I knew I couldn’t live without more than domestic comfort. Besides, was not his true character revealed at Bunbury’s Restaurant the other night? He struck Jacob across the face like a common brigand.
I banged on the big, red door. I had barged right in hundreds of times before, but things were different now. In any rate, I wanted to pound on something; why not the door?
“Let yourself in! We’re not closed,” Byron’s muffled voice cried from inside.
“You might be if Brutus goes on any more like this!” I shouted back. The distinct sound of hurried movement announced my old fiancé even before the door swung open. He stood there, gaping at me, looking even older than I remembered him.
“Luella? You’re here.”
“How do you think I could stay away after a review like that? Are you going to let me in, or will I shrivel out here in the cold?”
“You don’t need an invitation.” He stepped aside, revealing the office with which I was too well familiar. It all lay in front of me almost exactly the way I’d left it. The only difference was a bit more clutter, and the place felt colder. I noticed no other reporters there. All the better, we could speak more openly.
“When were you going to tell me?” I asked, making my way briskly past him to my old chair at the back table. I didn’t sit down.
“I haven’t even seen you for weeks! Where have you been? Did you get my letters?”
“Let’s not get into this now, Byron.”
“Not get into this now?”
“Just all this.” I shook my hands at him. They looked like claws with my clenched fingers in the air. I hadn’t come to talk about his feelings. I wanted to know if Byron knew about the review in advance, how many times he’d met with Brutus since I last saw him, and if he was even complicit in the betrayal.
“Who’s that woman you’ve been sending with your stories?” he asked. He leaned against the wall, seemingly unable to support his full weight. He must have known that our prospects for marriage were bleak. His whole body communicated it in every slouching bit of skin. Yet, I saw bright hope in his eyes, as if there was something inside ready to fight for this conversation if needs be.
“She’s a friend. What business is it of yours?”
“Has she brought you my letters?” He fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch, like a nervous schoolboy.
“Yes, she brought me the letters.”
“And?”
“Mysteriously absent in your letters was any mention about Brutus’ revie
w of my latest stories!”
“You’re upset about that? How was I supposed to know what he was going to write?”
“When hasn’t he shown up at that door to gloat and terrorize his victims? Did he not come here?” I advanced on him dangerously, and he retreated a step before catching himself.
“He did, but I could hardly think about him. I’ve been worried to death over you and your sister.” He walked past me toward the desk in the back of the room. How this conversation was unlike our usual breakfast back and forth.
“What possible interest could you have in my sister?” I hissed.
“I have a deep interest in her welfare.”
“Enough of an interest to embarrass her in front of her only prospect of marriage and an entire restaurant?” He was dragging me into the conversation I didn’t want to have. I had promised myself the entire way here I wouldn’t let this happen.
“I was just asking the lad what his intentions were! If they were truly so close to marriage, could such a trifle really disrupt his affection?”
I stood, fuming, partly because I knew he was right, partly because I imagined this last quip was directed at me. Fine. If he wanted to argue about personal business, so be it. “And this is the fatherly summation you’ve made of my sister’s courtier?”
“Not a father but certainly a dear relative. She will be family to me, too, after all.”
“Not if she has things her way.” I caught myself breathing heavily.
“Surely you don’t mean that,” he said, looking up at me like a wounded animal. His facial features looked so heavy. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, feeling the anger pool and swell. I was a writer, a voice within me seemed to say. Use your words to hurt him. He deserves it.
“You hit him, Byron! You struck him across the face. You were brutish and violent!” I swallowed. This wasn’t me. My father had not taught me to use words to inflict harm. This was my temper. It was more than my temper. I felt like I was walking through a dark doorway somewhere in my mind.
I paused and took a deep breath. The anger did not dissipate, but I felt like I could resist it a little better at least.
“We can deal with this later. Right now, we have the weekly to think about. Brutus is calling me, your author, rubbish. He’s recommending our work for the bin.”
“My author?” he said, his eyes fixed on an invisible design he traced with his fingers on the table.
“Yes, your author,” I said, bristling, after a minute of his silence. He was not making it easy for me to stay calm, not with these feelings raging inside of me. “And by the way, don’t think I haven’t noticed the figures on the paychecks coming back to me. You know as well as I do the financial boon my latest stories have brought, but it appears you’ve seen it fit to keep this success from me.”
“Keep it from you? I’ve been paying your rent with it!”
I reeled, losing grasp of my self-control like a slippery rope. How dare he?
“You have control of my finances now, do you?” I fumed.
“You could have told me Mr. Stringham was going to put you out.”
“It was none of your concern.”
“How can my wife’s welfare not be my concern?”
I slapped him squarely across the face.
“I’m not your wife yet,” I seethed. “And I’d appreciate it if you were to keep our business relationship, my finances, and our domestic arrangement separated.”
Through the doorway, dark and deep. I looked at my hand. This was not me. I had just done to him the very thing I condemned him for doing to Jacob. More than the slap, my words stung him. I knew they would. I had said them anyway.
“So, you’re just here for business, then?” He cleared his throat.
“Business,” I replied through a strained throat.
“Then, as your editor,” Byron stood, “I’m afraid I have to inform you it’s only your work Brutus is criticizing.”
“What?” I felt my angry strength draining from my legs.
“As far as I’ve understood, Brutus didn’t even mention Langley’s Miscellany by name. He seemed only to take issue with author Travis Blakely.”
I hadn’t noticed that. I had been too distracted by seeing my own name smeared the way it was—or at least my pen name.
“Surely, the others must have drawn some criticism. Brutus always has issues with Mr. Storm’s articles as well.”
“None of them,” he responded coolly.
“But readers will connect the dots. They’ll match the writer to the publication. Don’t think for a second his critique won’t affect you. The stories have sold so well. You can’t imagine your reputation will escape my rebuke.”
“Don’t you find it curious, though?” he asked. He had never spoken to me like this. He looked cold, devoid of feeling. He’d been constructive before, yes. Gently suggested, yes, but he’d never come out in a blatant attack this way.
“Brutus has never liked my work,” I said. I turned away from him. I felt tears pooling behind my eyes.
“He’s always had a lot to say about it,” he said. “Reading his latest critique suggested only one thing to me: Brutus, as ever, is trying to convince me to drop you.”
Drop me? As a writer? As a lover?
“But why?”
“My dear Mr. Blakely, it doesn’t matter why. This is the life of a writer. Readers read, critics critique. Just a few weeks ago, you complained that Brutus called your work forgettable. Now that you’ve got his attention in full-page, black and white, you’re complaining he doesn’t like it.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued.
“Let’s look at his critique and see if it’s worth its weight, shall we?” He picked up a copy of the very magazine that started my spiraling anger. “Travis Blakely’s recent string of stories, though sensational, provide very little substance to the commonwealth. While the unlearned laugh, to quote Shakespeare, the odd reporting of bizarre events probe into the believability of his sources and beg the question, am I reading a children’s story or a professional publication? While he may continue to pilfer our pocketbooks with catchy titles that tingle our curiosity, at the end of the day, his writings will become nothing more than ‘do you recall that one time.’ This critic will spend his leisure reading time on things of more meat and encourages anyone else wishing to look respectable to do the same.”
The tears were flowing now, silently and hot, down my cheeks. The words stung so much more now, hearing them from a man who loved me, than having read them printed in a stranger’s voice.
“Do you agree with him?” I managed to say. I choked on the words.
“As an editor?” he asked. How badly I wanted to tell him no and retreat back into his sheltering embrace, publishing even my rubbish, insisting that I was worth the effort. At the same time, I looked on him with a fever dream, ready to rip him apart, daring him to give me any reason to storm out. I nodded. He sighed heavily.
“How can I dislike your recent efforts, considering what they’ve done for the accounts? We’ve never sold so many copies or been read more widely. But, when it comes to the substance of your stories, I cannot disagree with Brutus. I thought your old stories, though boring, were more sincere.”
My old, boring stories. My new, shallow fluff. It was all too much. I sank back into the chair, a mess of a woman. I felt the weight of my unmarried years settle heavily on my shoulders, all those years I had gambled away, convinced that I could be different, convinced that I could make something of my father’s sacrifice for my education. I had made it my business not to compromise my personality for another person. And where had it all led? Had I truly landed with nothing to show for my stubborn attitude but years of mediocrity and failure?
“Which brings us to Brutus’ inevitable question. Should I drop you, Mr. Blakely?”
Who was this man? He was built of stone and not the fine chiseled marble that made up Edward. Byron looked at me like coarse, raw granite, cas
ting a long, dark shadow over my outlook. Why should I give warmth when he gave none?
“What are you asking really, Byron? Are you punishing me for my absence?”
“You wanted to talk business. I’m simply acquiescing. “
Hot blood surged up my neck. “Do you have any idea what it’s like for a woman like my sister? She wasn’t raised as I was. My father sacrificed so much to instill virtues in me other than beauty. Anna was never so inclined. Without Jacob, what will become of her? You know all of this. Are you using this against me?”
“Whatever I did, I did it out of concern for whom I consider a sister as well. Weigh my perspective, Luella. You vanish for weeks, and in your place comes a strange woman to drop off your stories. I’ve been sick with worry, wondering where you are and with whom.”
I found a grim smile on my face. If he only knew with whom I’d been keeping company, he’d be mortified. He’d cancel the engagement right here and now if he could see Bram’s tent. A temptation to tell him bubbled to my lips. I could break him. Then the only boring story he’d have would be the same broken-hearted tale of a younger woman running off with a younger man.
“Was it worry that inspired you to speak such ugly, unguarded words just now?” I asked.
“You aren’t yourself,” Byron said. “Brutus’ reviews have always bothered you but never like this. One might think your success at the print stands would provide you a shield against him. Why has he set you off so sharply?”
Curse Byron for knowing me well enough to see what I feared. I was not myself. Brutus’ critique was nothing but words, yet seeing them had swept me into a frenetic fury. But, the fury was there, and I felt it burning, coming back stronger. Vicious words rattled in my head, begging for leave to fly like darts at their target. My fingers twitched. I thought about the pen. I wanted to use it to rectify whatever had done me wrong.
“I’m embarrassed to ask it, but my own conclusions lead me nowhere else,” he continued. “Should I drop you? Or, rather, what is the state of our engagement? I—well—are you only interested in my magazine?”
The Crimson Inkwell Page 14
