Love on a Dime

by Cara Lynn James

  Lilly’s eyes widened. “You’d do that without consulting her first?” Seemingly flustered, she moved her checker piece with little consideration.

  He raised his hands in frustration. “If I can’t find her, I can’t explain the importance of her cooperation, now can I?”

  He slapped his checker down and jumped her black ones again and again and again. Lilly winced.

  “All my money will now be tied up in my publications, especially Jones and Jarman. I need Fannie Cole to embrace her fans. Fannie is our only hope of competing with Atwater Publishers. Otherwise, I need to move on to developing our western line.”

  “You’re putting a lot of pressure on her.” Lilly’s chair scraped against the floor as she pushed it back and rose. “You’ve always been a shrewd man. Perhaps you can think up another solution— one that doesn’t involve Miss Cole.”

  “Where are you going? Please, sit down. Don’t run off.”

  “I know your publishing house is important to you, but I’d rather spend my time discussing something besides books and authors.”

  Jack wasn’t sure why, but Lilly seemed jittery. And since when had she distained a discussion about books?

  She started for the door leading to the bedroom compartments.

  He’d take one more stab at obtaining her assistance. “Lilly,” he said softly, reaching for her arm. As soon as she turned, he dropped his hand. “Please—do you know Fannie Cole?”

  If Fannie were her friend, Lilly wouldn’t want to disclose her name. But he also knew that the unfortunate matter with Talk of the Town wouldn’t vanish all on its own. Fannie needed an advocate and who better than her publisher?

  Lilly grabbed the top of the chair with unsteady hands. “I don’t know why you’d think I would know Miss Cole. Now you must excuse—”

  “I was counting on you to help me find her. You know so many in the New York and Newport set. I thought you might at least have an idea about who she might be.”

  “As you’ve said yourself, Fannie Cole ’s identity is a mystery. Let it stay that way.”

  Jack studied her flushed face. Lilly knew Fannie Cole. She had to know her, by her reaction. “Lilly, I must locate her. And soon. It’s not just for my sake. She may need advice about handling Colonel MacIntyre and Talk of the Town.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack, but I can’t help you.” Starting toward the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “One more thought. You might consider curtailing your ambition somewhat. Do you really need to be the biggest and the best publishing house in New York?”

  He touched his cheek, feeling like he ’d just been slapped.

  More than anything he wanted to explain, but he refused to pour out his heart to a woman who apparently had no comprehension of his struggle against poverty and the nagging fear of its return—a battle he had fought, partially on her account. Without ambition, a poor man would never rise in this world to a position of substance and respect. Without ambition, he would’ve never returned with the idea of winning her heart again.

  Of course many others were far more deprived than he had ever been. At least he had a loving family who walked with the Lord, a gift from his beloved pa and his mama. But was it wrong to seek a better life? He’d worked hard to acquire Jones and Jarman and now he’d work even harder to make it prosper.

  Jack watched Lilly retreat into the hallway, head held high, shoulders stiff. He ’d have to find a way to change her mind.

  He sat down heavily and stared out the window. Elna Price strung together cliché after cliché, but nobody seemed to care. Her readers reveled in her penchant for scarlet dresses with plunging necklines and outrageous remarks that made her fans blush and laugh all at the same time. She gave romantic dime novels a bad reputation. Fannie ’s dialogue was crisp, her narrative filled with imagery. She evoked emotion, not melodrama. Yet she wouldn’t reach the heights of Elna’s popularity without acknowledging her public.

  As Jack gathered the checkers, he wondered if he really had a chance of either winning Lilly’s heart or finding out who Fannie Cole really was. Harlan was about to propose marriage and Lilly appeared poised to accept. Jack felt like an intruder, an unpleasant reminder of the past for Lilly. Was it fair to her to tarry? To hope? To pine?

  LILLY RETURNED TO the bedroom Mrs. Carstairs had set aside for her, thankful for the solitude. Jack’s presence threw her thoughts into turmoil. She picked up her Bible and turned to Psalms, but she couldn’t focus her mind on the words. Glancing at the rain streaming down the window, she blew out a sigh. A knock on the door startled her.

  A quiet voice said, “It’s Miranda. May I come in?”

  “Please do.”

  The train swayed, pushing Miranda off balance. She staggered into the compartment and dropped onto the double bed covered with a mauve satin spread, laughing at her graceless entrance.

  “My, you look upset,” she said, her laugh fading. “Tell me what’s troubling you.” Miranda unlaced her walking shoes, kicked them off, and curled her legs beneath her forest green skirt. She unbuttoned the fitted jacket of her travelling suit. “It wasn’t Jackson Grail, was it?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  Miranda looked askance. “He saved you from a ruffian not two hours ago. One of Colonel MacIntyre ’s horrid spies, I believe. You were so grateful for Jack’s intervention. What happened to change your attitude toward him?”

  Lilly groaned as she buried her head in her hands. “He’s pushing me to help him find Fannie Cole so he can convince her to promote her dime novels.”

  “Oh my. You can’t very well do that.”

  Lilly nodded. “You’re most definitely right. I’d like to help his business succeed, but without exposing myself to ruin, I can’t do a thing.”

  “I have to say that his work ethic is quite admirable. Most of the men we know would have taken that Klondike fortune and made themselves professional men of leisure. And he is assisting us at the Settlement House . . .”

  Lilly shot her a look. “I’m well aware of that. But so am I, as Fannie Cole! And if he forces me to embrace my public, then it will destroy my private life. How do I possibly choose that? Can you imagine my mother’s reaction? My father’s?” She laid back on the bed with a sigh.

  “You’re falling for him again,” Miranda said, eyes wide.

  “Of course not,” she retorted. “What we had was purely in the past.” Lilly glanced at her and then threw up her hands. “I just told him he ought to curb his ambition, set his goals upon lesser heights. Does that sound like a woman in love?”

  “It sounds like a woman striving to keep a man at bay. Jack’s always been determined to succeed in business. You know that, Lilly, better than anyone.”

  “I know that he ’s always put his goals for stature above his heart. That’s what I know.” Lilly sighed again, heavily. “I can’t see what’s best here. Should I confess to my true identity and then plead for his understanding? That’s the easiest solution, but I don’t know if I can trust him to keep my secret. He might very well place his best interests above my own.”

  “He seems . . . changed. Grown, somehow. Can’t you give him another chance?”

  Lilly eyed her. “As my publisher or as a beau?”

  Miranda’s eyes widened, considering. “God forgive me, Harlan . . .” she whispered to the ceiling, as if her cousin could hear her. “Maybe . . . both?”

  Lilly held her breath a moment and then shook her head. “I don’t think I should chance it. On either front.”

  The memory of Jack proposing and then leaving her evoked unending sorrow, as deep as a grave. How could she know if he ’d cheat her of happiness once more?

  “If I were you, I’d pray long and hard.” She took Lilly’s hand in hers. “God will show you the way. Wait upon Him.”

  “Yes and I draw comfort from knowing I’m doing the Lord’s will with my writing. Somehow I’ll avoid detection, even if I have to deal with Jones and Jarman entirely by mail. I can’t risk meeting Jack
in his office. When I return to New York in September, I’ll rent a post office box.”

  Time would tell whether or not that would work well. Yet it was the only plan she could conjure up as her world began to slowly squeeze in on her.

  LILLY AVOIDED JACK for the rest of the journey by remaining in her room. On the carriage ride from the depot to Summerhill, Miranda generously kept up a constant chatter with Jack while Lilly gazed at the scenery. Once home she vanished to her bedroom and spent the rest of the day and evening working on her newest novel, A Garland of Love.

  The following afternoon she wandered into the deserted library ready for a respite after a morning walking along Bailey’s, Newport’s most exclusive beach, picking her way among the heavy seaweed, arm in arm with Miranda.

  She picked up a copy of the local newspaper from a marble table and settled into a cushioned chair.

  The newspaper headline jolted her like an electric shock. Elna Price to Autograph Books. Mrs. Price in Newport? She reread the boldly printed caption and then skimmed the article. The ever popular author of dozens of dime novels will autograph her latest title at Aquidneck Books and Stationery, Thames Street, this afternoon between the hours of two and four o’clock.

  Lilly dropped the newspaper onto her lap. She’d love to glimpse what a famous novelist endured, dealing with her public. Did Mrs. Price enjoy chatting with her readers while she inscribed her name in books until her hand grew numb? Or did she grit her teeth and pretend to thrive on the jostling along with the admiration?

  She’d wager Jack would like to organize a similar event for Fannie Cole and capitalize on her popularity for his own profit. No doubt he’d try to force her into the limelight just to sell more books. But in case she was wrong about the horrors of publicity, she really ought to go and see for herself—not that anything would change her opinion.

  The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed one-thirty, time for Mama to send a maid to fetch her for a luncheon engagement at Beechwood, the summer home of Caroline Astor, the widely acknowledged queen of society. Lilly rose. She either escaped now to Elna’s signing or not at all.

  Quick footsteps in the hallway signaled Mama was nearby, no doubt in search of her daughter or daughter-in-law. Without a second thought, Lilly peered out the library door and spotted Mama entering the conservatory. Lilly flew up the staircase to her bedroom, grabbed her hat and reticule and hurried back down. She rushed out the front door into the sunshine, her heart beating double-time. As she strode across the lawn to the stable, she pinned the nondescript straw boater to her head with shaking hands. She didn’t dare glance over her shoulder in case someone waved her back home. If only Miranda hadn’t gone to the Redwood Library for a lecture on the effects of poverty, they could’ve ventured to the book shop together.

  Once the carriage rolled out onto Ocean Avenue, Lilly’s nervousness abated. She ’d successfully escaped from Mama and all her questions and social rules. Lilly grinned, satisfied at her accomplishment. It would do her good, professionally speaking, to understand how other authors coped with public exposure. Of course she ’d faint if any of her friends or acquaintances spotted her pushing through the crush of dedicated fans, especially after denying any interest in sensationalist fiction. But she didn’t expect to see anyone she knew at the book signing. Society ladies claimed romantic dime novels were written for servant girls, not for refined women who appreciated literary works.

  She’d heard Mrs. Price included no moral precepts in her stories which reduced them to titillating trash. That was hearsay, however. She ’d never read any herself. Fortunately Fannie Cole provided an alternative to Mrs. Price ’s type of dime novel, although many people lumped all the books together into one category—disreputable fiction. Mama certainly did.

  Lilly’s coachman reined in the horses and pulled up to the curb in front of the book shop. A line of women snaked around the entrance to the store. Laughter, loud Irish brogues, and clipped Yankee accents mingled with the clatter of carriages and carts. Everyday dresses made from inexpensive cloth without ribbon or lace defined most of the women as average townsfolk. As the crowd inched forward, Lilly scanned the unfamiliar faces. Although they’d never recognize her, she kept her eyes down and yanked her short mesh veil to the tip of her nose.

  Ten minutes later she passed the plate glass window and entered the busy store. Mrs. Price sat straight ahead, bent over a copy of her book, pen in hand. Lilly caught a glimpse of her plum satin dress, cut low, and titian hair frizzing beneath a large hat trimmed with silk violets, black lace, and an immense purple plume. Suddenly the author rose to her feet, chin jutting forward, arms spread wide. A hush fell over the audience.

  “Ladies,” she boomed, her gaze traveling from one fan to the next, “my publisher, Mr. Sterling, and I are most appreciative of your overwhelming hospitality.” She gestured toward the white-whiskered man beside her. “When we came to your fair town today we had no idea how kindly you’d treat us. Your support for my novels brings tears to my eyes.” As if on cue, her eyes glistened. A few teardrops rolled down her slightly shriveled cheeks. “Thank you so much for your outpouring of love.”

  Hands clapped in a deafening roar.

  Elna raised her palms and the crowd quieted. “As I meet you and autograph your books, please write your name and address on the slip of paper we’ve provided. At the end of the signing, I shall pick a name out of my hat.” She pointed to her headgear. “The lucky winner will receive a copy of one of my most beloved books, Flames of Love. However, if you don’t win the prize, we have copies you may purchase. I know you don’t want to miss this thrilling tale which I have penned just for your enjoyment.”

  Another round of applause broke out. Women rushed forward, jostled each other for position, and snatched books off the table, thrusting them at Elna for signature. Her laughter rang above the voices of the crowd. “Thank you so much for your affection, ladies.”

  Lilly stepped aside, ready to leave this theatrical event. She ’d seen more than enough to convince her that she didn’t find mob adulation appealing. She shuddered to think this was the kind of publicity Jack wanted Fannie to embrace. Raucous crowds, tours in strange cities, shaking hands, and signing autographs would rob her of her privacy. She ’d never take part in such a distasteful task. And Mama would die of humiliation to see her daughter make a public spectacle of herself.

  Turning, she made her way out the door just as the line surged forward. A nudge from behind pushed her off balance and she stumbled into the back of a gentleman. Jackson Grail.

  “What are you doing here?” she muttered. Her legs wobbled and her hands shook.

  Jack chuckled. “I could ask you the same question.” He hiked an eyebrow, obviously amused by her discomfort.

  “I came to buy—Irene—an autographed copy of Mrs. Price ’s new book. I thought she ’d appreciate the addition to her library of—dime novels.” A stack of cheap novels hardly qualified as a library of any sort. Would he believe her? Her excuse sounded so ludicrous. “And you? Did you come to purchase a book?” Picturing Jack engrossed in an Elna Price story brought on a broad smile, in spite of herself.

  Jack leaned forward and murmured in her ear, “I do have to keep up with the competition, you know. I’m here to see how well publicity works for Atwater Publishers. I expected to find crowds of fans lined up to fill the coffers and I was right.” His face split in a satisfied grin. “A book tour would work equally well for Miss Cole.”

  Lilly gave a grudging nod, then spoke softly. “I can see publicity is effective. And Mrs. Price thrives on the attention. Your Miss Cole may not.” Lilly wove through the congestion and out into the warm, briny air of Thames Street. Her gray serge walking suit felt much too hot for the afternoon weather.

  Jack followed one step behind as she headed toward her carriage. “I also wondered if Fannie Cole would appear.”

  Lilly’s breath rushed out of her lungs. “Well, did she?”

  He shrugged his square, mu
scular shoulders encased in a navy jacket of the finest merino wool. “I thought Miss Cole might come out of curiosity. Unfortunately I didn’t see any cottagers here, unless she arrived incognito.”

  “I didn’t spot anyone I know, either.”

  “Then that leaves you, Lilly.”

  Taken aback, she coughed up a nervous laugh. “Do I look like a novelist to you?”

  He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, much like a dressmaker gauging measurements. “Perhaps you do.”

  “Nonsense. I’m a would-be poet. Please excuse me. I must go.” Lilly headed down the sidewalk. She waited on the corner while her driver made his way down the congested street, weaving through a knot of carts and carriages.

  Jack must have lengthened his stride because he reached out and lightly touched the sleeve of her jacket. “Lilly, I was joking. I’m sorry I offended you.”

  She breathed with relief at his half contrite, half mischievous smile and didn’t brush off his hand. “That’s all right, Jack. I’m afraid I’m on edge lately. Do enjoy your afternoon.”

  With Jack’s help, she boarded her carriage and sunk into the plush cushion. Despite the shock of running into him, she felt glad she’d come to the book shop. Seeing the flamboyant and rather common Mrs. Elna Price reinforced her determination to remain out of sight. Never would Jack convince her to become a sideshow, a Lillian Russell of the literary world.

  As the carriage jolted forward, Lilly closed her eyes and let her worries temporarily diminish.

  NINE

  Half an hour later Jack found Lilly crossing the foyer on the way upstairs. He bowed and handed her Elna’s newest bestseller. “Here you go. I noticed you forgot to purchase a copy for Irene. It’s even autographed.”