Love Between the Pages: 8 Romances for Booklovers

by Bird, Peggy

  Rosemary sat in silence. While she was happy for Halwyn and Grace, she had never been more alone than at that very moment. All the focus was on the happy couple and the new birth about to take place. Rosemary’s plight, and her future, was forgotten in the chaos. The real reason for the dinner, at least in her mind, was to find a solution to her problem. But it had been overshadowed by the untimely insistence of Halwyn and Grace’s child to be born tonight.

  Tears smarted at her eyes, and she blinked them away as she continued to sit at the now-vacant table. Cook’s great food was going cold and congealing, napkins were thrown on top of the plates, the padded chair where Grace had been sitting showed a water mark, and there was a puddle on the floor. Rosemary put her head in her hands. Now what was she to do? She might be able to ignore one request for an interview with the new publisher—plead illness or some such—but Halwyn would not now be coerced into helping her. Even if she could get around his initial objections to her duplicity, he was only hours away from being a first-time father. He would be absolutely over the moon about his child, as he should be. But where did that leave her?

  Rosemary ran her fingers lightly over the linen tablecloth, arranging the bread crumbs into a neat little pile as she pondered what steps to take next. Her wine glass had been untouched during the meal, so she raised it to her lips and took a healthy sip. She rolled the liquid around in her mouth before she swallowed, basking in the fine fruitiness of the drink.

  Her father had offered his assistance, but with Halwyn now about to take a few days off from the bank to celebrate with his wife and new baby, Rosemary didn’t want to burden her father with her problems. The scent of wax assaulted her nostrils as the candles in the center of the table flickered and died.

  The same could be said about her career. She drained the rest of the wine before she stood. Some serious thinking needed to be done. She could not let this new publisher get the best of her and Harry Hawk.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What are you doing, Screaming Eagle?” Harry tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

  “Her father is running the railroad through Sioux land.”

  “And by kidnapping his daughter, you think he’ll sit down and smoke a peace pipe with you?”

  The Indian tossed back his long, straight, black hair and tightened his hold on the woman. Harry’s grip on his gun tightened as well when her whimper reached his ears.

  Rosemary rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. She whimpered, much as her heroine had done in the passage she’d just written. She was to meet with her new publisher in a matter of hours, and she still had no solution other than to confess there was no Mr. Elliott. She was aware of the Brahmin Bostonians, and their ways. They traced their roots back to the original founding fathers of the country, and considered themselves “enlightened” in the arts. She huffed. Even in their “enlightened” states, she highly doubted they’d welcome a female author into their midst. Whatever was she to do?

  Her gaze lifted from the words on her sheet of paper. Bosh! She shook her head to clear it of the nonsense that threatened her every movement. She was no whimpering damsel in distress! If anything, the tables were turned the exact opposite. It was her job to save Harry Hawk. To make certain all his stories could be told for years to come. That he could continue to sling his gun in the wild country known as Texas. Or anywhere else in the West. Wherever she wanted to place her stories. There were other publishers in town, and she didn’t need to impress this Mr. Cooper fellow. She should unmask herself and make no excuses for her pen name.

  And if the world were a just place, that would be fine. Women would be accepted as authors in the same manner as men. But this was 1859, she reminded herself. Yes, there was Jane Austen, and more recently Harriet Beecher Stowe and a handful of others, but a woman finding success as a dime novel writer? With topics such as the wild American west, mountain lions, guns, Indians? She hardly thought so, even if she took up the habit of chewing tobacco and dressed as a man. Still, Harry was depending on her.

  She hung up her pinafore and left the garret since no more writing would be accomplished today. And until she was assured her contract would be renewed, there wasn’t much sense in continuing with her story. She left Harry and Penelope, the name she’d decided on for the daughter of the railroad boss, behind and descended one flight to the floor of the house where the bedrooms were located.

  In her room, she opened her armoire and hastily pawed through the available dresses, searching for something appropriate to wear to the interview with her new publisher. Her fingers stopped when she touched the soft flannel of her favorite gray skirt. It had been worn so much, the skirt was a bit shabby, but Rosemary couldn’t let go of it. An idea popped into her head. What if she dressed as a working-class woman? One who didn’t have the money to buy new clothing just because what she had was showing signs of wear? She could claim to be Mr. Elliott’s secretary! She could tell the new owner it was her job to transcribe Mr. Elliott’s hen scratches into readable stories, which was why she had such vast knowledge about each story. She also could be responsible for taking care of his correspondence, that kind of thing. Her brainstorm might just work! Why hadn’t she thought of this solution before? Rely on herself rather than on the men in her family? Dear F.P. could be a recluse, preferring his garret to any type of social involvement, and she could be his public mouthpiece, speak on his behalf. She could pull it off, keeping the author’s true identity locked in the garret for all time! She bounced from one foot to the other as her idea took shape.

  The more she pondered posing as a secretary, the more appealing it became. It was a perfect solution. Much better than confessing who she really was at her first meeting with the new publisher. Much better than dressing as she normally would for a day out on the town. A highbred young lady wouldn’t be involved in manual labor, even if it were secretarial. Yes, the ruse might work. She quickly pulled the gray skirt from the armoire, paired it with a fairly plain white blouse, added a dark gray sash around the waist, and picked a simple straw hat from the shelf. If she pulled her hair into a chignon, and dressed in the ensemble she put together, she would indeed resemble a secretary going about her business. And gloves. She needed them to cover up her perpetually ink-stained fingers. It might fit into her plans to have her ink-stained fingers visible to the new publisher, but for the sake of the general public, it was not necessary to draw attention to them. She’d just make certain to remove the gloves at her meeting. Her excitement grew as she assembled her outfit on the counterpane of her bed. Ladies of business dressed themselves. She’d leave her lady’s maid in the basement, where she was working on the laundry, and avoid the pointed questions she’d surely have. Rosemary grinned at the clothing on the bed and clapped her hands together. Definitely a lady of business.

  And her business today involved duping old Mr. Cooper. She would become Phoebe Wyatt, a niece of the reclusive Mr. Elliott who hadn’t left his garret in years. She had always loved the name Phoebe. Her fertile imagination spun out a background for herself. Orphaned, taken in by the Elliott family, the least she could do to pay back their kindness was to work with the uncle no one ever laid eyes on. Especially since she loved books and reading. Yes, her manufactured story could work. She was one of her new publisher’s best authors, even if he didn’t yet know it, so if she couldn’t weave an elaborate tale, no one could. She’d be able to pull the wool over the doddering Mr. Cooper’s eyes. Or, in this case, flannel. She had been dreading their meeting since she’d received the letter. Now, she could hardly wait for it.

  • • •

  Rosemary stopped when she got to the main floor of the house, surprised to see her mother in the drawing room. Drat! She had thought she could escape the house undetected.

  “Where are you headed, Rosemary, dressed in such an outfit?”

  Rosemary took a seat opposite her mother, and wrung her gloved hands together. “My meeting with Mr. Cooper is this afternoon, and after
the dinner the other night when little Georgie decided to make his appearance, I realized I was on my own. So I’ve decided my best course of action is to impersonate Mr. Elliott’s secretary. But only until I can determine the true nature of Mr. Cooper. If he’s an enlightened sort, I’ll reveal myself to him soon enough. But right now, I can’t take the risk.” She heaved a great sigh after she pleaded with her mother for understanding.

  Her mother pursed her lips together before she answered. “I think it’s a brilliant plan, my dear.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, you know how much our family loves to have its little secrets and to have fun with society. So, yes, I’d say it’s a good, solid plan. If Mr. Cooper turns out to be a truly enlightened nineteenth-century gentleman, such as your father, you can reveal yourself to him at an appropriate time. If not, you can continue to pose as Mr. Elliott’s secretary. It would explain how you have all the details about the characters, the contracts with the publisher, obligations still owed, and all the rest. I figured, sooner or later, you’d come up with a perfect solution.”

  “All right, then. Thank you, Mother, for being behind me in my little secret. I guess I should quit stalling and get over to the office. It’ll be the first time I’ve actually set foot inside it.”

  “But you know where it is, right? Should someone go with you?”

  “Yes, I know where it is. Actually, it’s not too far from here. A good walk. And no, I don’t want anyone to come with me. In order to pull off the deception of a perfect working-class secretary, I must show up by myself, don’t you think? I’ve been by the place before, anyway. I wanted to see where my books were being printed. But now I get to go inside. I’m excited. And a little bit nervous.”

  “And who knows? Maybe Mr. Cooper will turn out to be a handsome single man.”

  Rosemary ran her hands down her soft flannel skirt. “Mother, please. One thing at a time. I’ll find a husband when the time is right. For now, I need to salvage my career. The only man in my life right now is Harry Hawk. And he’s depending on me.”

  “Harry Hawk can’t keep you warm at night, though, Rosemary. Or provide me with another grandchild.”

  Rosemary’s cheeks grew warm with her mother’s words. She was not totally unaware of what was involved with making babies, but was stunned her mother would even mention it.

  “Mother, please.” She wrung her hands again, wrinkling the glove fabric. She had to stop the course of the conversation before she ruined the cotton. What would Mr. Cooper say if she showed up with wrinkled gloves?

  Her mother had her blasted, enigmatic smile on her face. Rosemary had seen it many times before, and it meant her mother was making plans. And Rosemary feared those plans right now included getting Rosemary to the altar before summer was over. Her writing career was of little consequence in the larger picture of her mother getting another daughter married off.

  “I must go.” Rosemary stood before her mother could say anything more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Henry couldn’t take his eyes off his newest author interviewee as she let herself into his office and floated across the room. She had on a simple gray skirt with a sash around an impossibly tiny waist, and a few tendrils of her dark hair clung about her cheeks, even though it was captured in an appropriate chignon.

  “Hello, Mr. Cooper,” she spoke in a soft voice as she extended a gloved hand to him. “I’m Phoebe Wyatt, Mr. Elliott’s niece.”

  A jolt of awareness raced up Henry’s arm at the innocent touch of her protected hand shaking his. Who was this lovely woman? He had been expecting a gruff, snuff-swilling, gravelly-voiced old man, and the vision in front of him was almost angelic. Even with a desk between them, he caught a hint of her fragrance. It was not the subtle toilet water most women of the day favored. No, indeed. Miss Wyatt wore a strong perfume—patchouli, if he wasn’t mistaken. It seemed to be at odds with her gentle appearance.

  As she took a seat in front of his desk, he sat again in his chair, but not before he realized her eyes were the same gray color as her skirt. And her skin was radiant—glowing, in fact—with healthy color. Not the pasty-faced image he’d seen on the other authors he’d interviewed in the past day and a half. This woman was different. Enchanting. Exuding confidence, even if she was dainty.

  He brought himself back to the present. What was wrong with him? He was here to do a job, his father’s last and final test for him before he was totally disowned. Henry had failed at all the other tests his father had thrown his way over the years, constantly having to do penance for the misfortune of resembling his mother. And never quite measuring up to his father’s exacting standards.

  Henry shuffled the papers in front of him and snuck another glance at the woman. She had removed her gloves and had her hands folded in her lap, but she was chewing on her lip and her eyes were downcast. Well, if she wasn’t going to begin the conversation, he should. He cleared his throat.

  “I believe my missive to Mr. Elliott specifically stated I was to meet with each author, not each author’s niece.”

  Her gaze flitted upwards, and he could see her straighten in her chair and her eyes blaze in anger. Her lips formed a tight line. “I am not merely Mr. Elliott’s niece, but also his secretary. I take my uncle’s scribbles and translate them so they are readable. I am intimately familiar with his novels and all the associated contracts. My uncle is a recluse and hasn’t seen or talked to anyone other than family for a number of years.”

  “I see. Certainly, you present an unusual set of circumstances.” Henry steepled his fingers together, elbows on his desk as he peered over them. “Well, all right then, Miss Wyatt. For the time being, I will discuss matters with you. But, before I can sign any new contract with the reclusive Mr. Elliott, I’ll have to meet with him. Even if it means I come to his home. Are we understood?”

  He caught her nearly inaudible gulp before she pinned him with her stare. If anything, she seemed angrier, not the least bit taken aback by his demands. “Of course, Mr. Cooper. But for now, let’s discuss if Mr. Elliott even has a future with your company, or if he would be better served to take his works somewhere else. To someone who will let him stay a recluse so he can continue to churn out great stories.”

  Feisty little thing, Henry thought. “Touché, Miss Wyatt.” He ran a hand over his chin in an attempt to hide his smile.

  “You speak French? I thought I detected a trace of a French accent in your speech, sir.”

  “I have lived in New Orleans for the past ten years. One can’t help but pick up some French there.”

  “Really? Do tell me about the city. I’d love to see it. From what I’ve read, it’s full of beauty, mystery, and music.”

  “And good food, don’t forget.”

  Phoebe Wyatt’s lovely gray eyes danced as she warmed to her subject, and all signs of nervousness left her. But they were straying away from discussing contracts. And her uncle. Perhaps her line of questioning was intentional and the reason for her lack of nerves. Not simply the desire to find out more about New Orleans. He probably could have brought up the topic of the many rats to be found on the New York streets and garnered the same kind of response from her. Interesting.

  “Let’s return to your uncle’s, and by consequence your own, future with my company. I’d prefer Mr. Elliott to stay with us, and I’ll tell you why. My father runs a most successful publishing house in Boston and handles the release of major hardcover books there. Mr. Page’s few authors whose work matches my father’s specialty, I plan to send to him and keep the New York operation devoted strictly to dime novels. I think the format works in terms of reaching the most readers, and we’re serving a whole new market that has only just discovered reading for pleasure. Besides, the printing press downstairs is set up to handle mass production of the dime novels.”

  Miss Wyatt’s shoulders heaved as she took a deep breath. Strange reaction. It was as if she had come to their meeting expecting the worst news. Surely, Mr. Page had inf
ormed her that her uncle was one of the most popular writers in his stable of authors? Maybe not. She dampened her lips with her tongue, and Henry’s eyes followed the movement. He was glad he was sitting behind a desk since certain body parts were now also beginning to notice the charming woman in front of him. Especially when she ran her tongue over her full lips. He gauged his body’s reaction for another moment, and stifled a groan before he again directed his attention to her.

  “Do you think your uncle would accept an offer to continue with my company?”

  Miss Wyatt drummed her now-naked fingers on his desk lightly. Fingers stained with purple ink, he noticed. Her uncle must work her tirelessly. She raised her eyes to him again.

  “Of course I’ll have to discuss the matter with him, but I think he’ll be flattered you wish to retain him. Do you have a particular number of novels per year you’d care to see?”

  Henry shifted in his chair and took a calming breath. He didn’t want Mr. Elliott taking his novels anywhere else. If he botched this, his father would hold him up to ridicule yet again. “Since the dime novel format is basically a short, lively story, and it’s important to keep the reader’s attention, I’d love to see one a month at the very least. I also have some ideas for expansion, and I’d love to include your uncle in them. It’s going to be more work than ever. If your uncle is up to it.”

  “Oh, he’s more than up to the challenge. He has five published Harry Hawk stories already, and is working on the final one in the series even as we speak. But the series could be extended, if it suits your needs.”

  “All right, then. I’ll honor the terms of the contract he’s now under with Mr. Page with regard to royalties for the ones currently completed and for the last one. You speak to your uncle and let me know if my offer is acceptable. I’ll expect to hear back from you within a week. Then, of course, I’ll need to meet with him to seal the deal and to sign the contract.”