by Amelia Nolan
“Fine – fourteen percent. And what did you mean about the thousand copies? That smells rotten as well.”
The two men shouted back and forth for another ten minutes, until it was settled that in addition to the option of living at Pemberly’s estate in London, Marian would get an advance of fifteen pounds against ten percent royalties, payable after the first five hundred copies of her novel sold. The amount would increase for future works if those were published.
Pemberly already had a pre-printed contract ready to sign. He merely scratched out the old terms and wrote in new ones, and attached a handwritten page addressing the possibility of future negotiations.
“And the advance?” Evan asked as Marian signed the papers.
“I must say, Blake, I far prefer you as a drinking companion than an adversarial negotiator,” Pemberly snarled as he counted out fifteen pounds from an ornamental box on his desk.
“And you are a far more genial drunk than you are a publisher, Pemberly.”
Pemberly turned to Marian and placed the fifteen coins in her hand. “If you had brought a feral wolf to be your chief representative, I do not think you could have done better. Do the terms suit you?”
Marian’s eyes looked almost as big as saucers, and her smile was twice as large. “They are… wonderful. Extraordinary.”
“Well, at least your client is happy!” Pemberly spat as he glared at Evan. He turned back to Marian. “I say, your coin to pay his fee must be extraordinary.”
“Pemberly,” Evan warned.
“Fine! Fine, fine, fine!” Pemberly said, throwing up his hands. Then he yelled, “WILLIAMS! Is lunch ready yet?”
The butler immediately stepped into the room. “Yes, m’lord.”
“Good. I am going to get roaring drunk now,” Pemberly declared. “You two are not exactly welcome to join me, but I shan’t turn you away.”
“You’re too kind,” Evan said drily.
“And far, far too generous,” Pemberly said as he took Marian’s hand and led her out to the stone terrace.
29
Lunch proceeded far more amicably.
At first, anyway.
As promised, Pemberly imbibed heavily – and the more he drank, the more optimistic he was about the future of Marian’s career. He quoted at length from her manuscript, which delighted her. Before, she had thought he was largely a narcissistic twit with mercenary intentions – but now he seemed genuinely enthusiastic about her writing.
In addition to being a narcissistic twit with mercenary intentions.
“We shall have to use a pseudonym,” he said at one point.
“Why?” she asked, shocked.
“You did write your novel, didn’t you? You do know what you put in it, correct?”
“What are you talking about?” Evan asked.
“They’re going to give us a hell of a time. The censors, the self-appointed guardians of decency, the sanctimonious church-folk,” Pemberly laughed. “And the fact that you’re a woman? Oh my my my my my. You’ll be tarred and feathered as the Whore of Babylon if you use your actual name.”
Evan looked over at Marian. There was something in his expression she didn’t like.
“I was thinking of ‘La Française.’ We’ll make you a Frenchwoman. The average Englishman thinks the French are all degenerates anyway, so the nom de plume alone will help sell the book.”
“What about ‘La Parisienne?’ I always wanted to live in Paris.”
“Well, here’s your chance. Fictionally, at least.”
“You don’t think it could be banned, do you?” Evan asked in alarm.
“I’m counting on it, dear boy! But don’t worry – banned books usually outsell their counterparts two to one. And you can charge a premium for them. More royalties for you,” he said to Marian.
Evan looked uncomfortable.
“Oh, please,” Pemberly sneered. “You forget, Blake, I’ve known you for twelve years. You’ve done far worse than anything in the book. Well, equally as bad, anyway. Eh… let’s say almost as bad. But put it in print, and suddenly you’re more prudish than an eighty-year-old spinster.”
“It’s a matter of propriety,” Evan said, “and public appearances.”
“Hence the pen name, you dolt,” Pemberly snapped. He turned to Marian. “Really, you should have him read your work. He could use a bit of loosening up.”
She looked over at Evan and smiled. “When the subject is not in print, he’s just fine.”
Evan blushed.
Pemberly was so deep in his cups – and so far along his rant – that he did not hear her comment, or undoubtedly he would have jumped on it with unsurpassed glee.
“Go talk to your brother!” he continued drunkenly. “Now there’s a man who doesn’t give a fig for propriety or public appearances!”
Evan had forgotten entirely about Andrew. “Where is he, by the way?”
“Carousing, most likely.”
“It’s two in the afternoon!”
“He’s industrious, that one. Likes to get an early start on the day’s work.”
Evan closed his eyes as though he had a headache. “I knew he would run wild, but this –”
“Oh please, you’ll have him back on the farm soon enough. Let him enjoy himself while he’s here.”
“Where is he staying?”
“‘Where is he staying’? Why, here, of course!”
Evan frowned. “Why did he not come to lunch with us?”
Pemberly shrugged. “You appear to have done something to severely antagonize the boy.”
“We patched things up! I already talked with him about it!”
“Talked with him, or talked to him?”
“With him,” Evan said angrily.
“Well, at least you didn’t negotiate with him,” Pemberly jeered. “I know firsthand how delightfully that can go.”
“Pemberly – ” Evan began, until Marian put her hand on his.
She looked at him with imploring eyes. “Let’s just wait for Andrew.”
“But – ”
“It’s been such a wonderful day… let’s not spoil it. Please?”
Evan grimaced. “Fine.”
“The music of your voice, m’dear, has charmed the savage breast!” Pemberly sighed mockingly. “I think it even more likely that later tonight, your breasts will charm the savage.”
“Pemberly!” Evan snarled.
“I was only paraphrasing from her book, Blake,” Pemberly proclaimed with faux innocence.
Evan looked at Marian in shock. “Is that true?”
She smiled uncomfortably in return.
“You should read her novel, Blake,” Pemberly said as he poured himself more wine. “Reading is quite educational.”
30
Lunch turned into an afternoon of laughter and wine, which gradually gave way to a sumptuous dinner. When Andrew did not appear, Evan finally begged off. “We need to be going.”
“You should stay for supper!” Pemberly protested. “Surely he’ll be along by then.”
“Give my brother my regards,” Evan said grimly. “If he’s conscious when next you see him, that is.”
Pemberly sighed and turned to Marian. “I’ll read your next manuscript tonight, my dear. Actually, no, I’m far too drunk. Tomorrow morning. No, that’s no good, either…”
“We’ll discuss it before we leave London,” Evan said.
“‘We’? What’s this ‘we’ business?” Pemberly asked as he walked them through the front hall. “She’s staying here, isn’t she? To write her next magnum opus?”
Evan paused the slightest bit. “We’ll discuss that, too.”
“Tomorrow? Will you come back tomorrow again for lunch? I so seldom get to see you, old man!” Pemberly said, betraying an uncharacteristic sentimentality.
Evan and Marian exchanged a look. She nodded.
“Tomorrow,” Evan agreed.
“Make it two o’clock, though,” Pemberly burped. “…on second thought
, make it three.”
The evening air was warm, the sky was violet and blue, and the first stars were out. Out in the street, a group of young men were laughing and shouting – quite disagreeably, for such a well-appointed neighborhood.
“Wait – don’t you need a carriage? Here, I’ll get my man to take you,” Pemberly offered.
“Actually, that would be lovely,” Marian smiled.
Pemberly gave them an affected – and unsteady – little bow, then disappeared back into the house shouting, “WILLIAMS!”
“He’s quite a character, isn’t he?” Marian said as she leaned her head against Evan’s arm.
“That’s not even the beginning of an accurate description,” he snorted.
“I think I’ll make him an actual character in my next – ”
“Ho, what’s this?” a new voice interrupted.
The group of rowdy young men stumbled drunkenly up the street, about six in all. Their clothes were expensive and bordered on the foppish, though their finery was in a state of disarray.
At the head of the group was Andrew, his face flushed with wine.
Evan recognized several of the others behind him – the sons of viscounts and barons, none older than twenty. Evan had plucked Andrew from their drunken midst when he had retrieved him from Oxford.
“Andrew,” Evan said guardedly.
“By all the saints in Heaven, ‘tis my brother and his – how exactly would you characterize your relationship with Marian here, dear Brother?” Andrew jeered.
“She is a lady, and you will – ”
“A lady! And just to think, last week she was our servant at Blakewood!” Andrew guffawed to his group of well-dressed thugs, who laughed appreciatively. “Now there is upward mobility for you!”
Marian’s face grew pale.
“Is she a lady, or your ladylove? Perhaps my future sister-in-law? Hullo, Sister! Will she wash the dishes at the wedding after the ceremony?”
Though it was an entirely unconscious action, Andrew dropped Marian’s arm from his own.
“Andrew, you disgrace the family name with this wretched display – ”
“I disgrace the family name?! I am not the firstborn and the heir apparent tupping the help!”
The sons of the nobility responded with laughter and shouts.
“A very fine servant girl you have there, Blake!”
“I would have her polish my silver, as well!”
“Good help is hard to find!”
Evan clenched his fists, but made no move to raise them.
Andrew saw it, though.
“What, brawling in the streets, Brother? Speaking of disgrace and wretched displays! What would Father say? What would your future bride here think?”
Evan gritted his teeth. “Miss Willows and I are… are not…”
“Have you come to London to elope? Or was it simply to – oh, you must hear this!” Andrew cackled to his henchmen. “She will be a published author soon – of bawdy tales, or so Pemberly tells me! The sort of stuff we used to pass around at boarding school for a more thorough education!”
“For frigging, you mean!” another man laughed, which sent the group into gales of laughter.
“My sister-in-law, the naughty storyteller!” Andrew howled. “Lady Frigalot!”
“You are one to speak,” Evan snarled, “with your drunkenness and your gambling and your whoring – ”
“At least all of mine is done out in the open, Brother,” Andrew said venomously, “rather than behind a hypocritical veil of virtue. And I don’t intend to marry any of my dalliances.”
“What’s this?” Pemberly suddenly shouted from his doorway.
“Pemberly!” Andrew cried out. “Hullo! We who are about to drink salute you!”
The little man stalked down his front steps. “You rotten scoundrels – what the hell are you doing?”
Andrew laughed. “We were coming by to retrieve you for the evening’s entertainment, but it seems we have stumbled upon a bedroom farce already in progress!”
Pemberly strode over and slapped Andrew with the back of his hand.
The entire group gasped. Andrew staggered backwards – more from shock than from the actual blow itself – and was caught by his group, who chattered angrily.
“You insult my guests?!” Pemberly thundered. “In front of my very home?!”
“He’s my brother,” Andrew protested, touching his cheek.
“And she is my writer and guest! And by insulting her, you insult me! Get out of here, you drunken fools!”
Andrew looked at him in shock. “You can’t seriously – ”
“OUT!”
Andrew turned away angrily. “I’ll not forget this, Pemberly!”
“Good! Maybe next time you’ll behave more like a man and less like a cur!”
The foppish young men walked down the street, jeering and catcalling – but at least they moved on.
Pemberly turned back to Marian and took her hand. In his eyes was real concern. “Are you all right?”
She was white as a ghost. Her eyes moved from Evan to Pemberly, and she nodded. “Yes… thank you…”
“I was taking care of that,” Evan said, his voice resentful.
“Really? I kept waiting for you to,” Pemberly snapped.
Evan’s anger switched from Andrew to Pemberly. “I didn’t want to make a scene out here on the street.”
Pemberly looked at him scornfully. “Perhaps you should have.”
Evan wanted to hit the fool for his impertinence, almost as much as he had wanted to strike Andrew – but then he looked at Marian’s face, and his shame overwhelmed all else.
31
The silence during the carriage ride was deafening.
At least, the outer silence was. In Marian’s mind, a dozen voices spoke – some plaintive, some malicious:
A lady! And just to think, last week she was our servant at Blakewood!
He is a wealthy gentleman who could marry any lady within a hundred miles. You are the daughter of a poor London clerk, and a servant girl to boot. Do you really think that you will become Lady Blake someday, a future baroness?
I am concerned about my daughter’s future.
I am not the firstborn and the heir apparent tupping the help!
Have you come to London to elope?
I don’t intend to marry any of my dalliances.
I suppose the better question is, do you really think he would marry you?
You will take care of my daughter, won’t you?
Miss Willows and I are… are not…
As soon as they got home, Marian began pacing back and forth in the drawing room off the hall. The moonlight coming in through the windows was the only illumination.
Evan watched her for a moment. He hesitated, as though unsure what to do.
“Are you coming to bed?” he finally asked.
She stopped pacing and looked at him. “What am I to you?”
“What are you talking about?”
Her voice bordered on tears. “It is a simple question. What am I to you? Am I your mistress? Am I your plaything? Am I your whore?”
Evan winced at the word. He walked over to her and held her arms. “Stop.”
“What am I to you? Answer me!”
“You are the woman I love.”
He moved to kiss her, but she turned her face aside.
“I am good enough to bed, but not to wed?”
Evan sighed. “My brother was drunk. He meant to hurt me, not you. He was being cruel, vicious – ”
“And truthful.”
She stared into his eyes as she said it.
Evan averted his gaze. “Can we please talk about this in the morning?”
“No, we cannot,” she whispered.
Evan dropped his hands from her arms and walked away angrily, facing the wall.
“Well?” she asked, pleading with him.
He did not speak for a very long time. When he finally did, his voice was
strained, and he would not look at her.
“You know I cannot marry you.”
The words broke her heart into pieces.
The tears began to fall down her cheeks. She could not stop them, but she wiped them away as well as she could and choked down her sobs, trying not to make a sound.
When she had finally regained a portion of control over herself, she asked, “What is our future, then? Together, I mean?”
He turned around. She could see that his face was tortured from a great inner pain. That gave her some consolation, at least.
“I love you.”
“Will you marry another woman, though?”
He stood there, not saying anything.
“Will I be just a pleasant memory to you? A summer romance gone by? Or do you plan to keep me as your mistress, so I can watch some other woman bear your children and raise your family instead of me?”
“Stop,” he whispered.
“Why can’t you marry me?” she cried, the tears starting again.
He frowned, as though she had asked why children must grow into adults, or why the night must be so dark.
“I… we come from… very different standings within society…”
“Would I be so very different if I were a countess or a baroness?”
Again he frowned. “Of course you would. Your entire history would have been different, your upbringing, your – ”
“I would not love you less if you were a servant, or a carpenter, or a clerk.”
He stepped forward and took her hands. “And I do not love you any less, either.”
“You just cannot marry me,” she said bitterly.
He did not have a reply for that.
“Why not?” she asked, imploring him with her voice and eyes.
Again, he took a very long time to answer.
“For one, my father would disown me.”
“Money means nothing to me. I want you no matter your circumstances, rich or penniless – ”
“You would ask me to give up everything? So that we and our children could starve in some hovel together?”
“We will not starve! – Pemberly is going to publish my work – ”
“We cannot base a future together on fifteen pounds,” Evan said angrily.
“I will earn more!”
