Clary had indulged too freely in sweet wine and dessert. “I think the seed cake did me in, and I fear they’ll start in with music and dancing soon.”
“I thought you were fond of music.” Helen passed Clary a cup before settling next to her. “Sitting together like this reminds me of Rothley’s autumn dances.”
“We did all of our best plotting while sitting along the wallflower wall.”
Helen cast her gaze at the open notebook in Clary’s lap. “What are you plotting this evening?”
“Employment and where I might seek a position. I’m also working up an estimated budget of expenses. I wish to secure my own lodgings as soon as I’m able.”
“I’m glad you’ve shifted from misery to plotting.” If Helen was worried Clary’s change in fate would affect their plans for Fisk Academy, her expression revealed none of it.
“What’s most disappointing is that my father only thought me worthy of a bounty for whatever man wishes to bind himself to me in wedlock.” Clary slapped her journal shut and settled against the back of her chair.
“You cannot be surprised.” Helen lowered her voice to a confidential tone. “Your father valued tradition. Marriage is what our fathers expect of us.”
“Even yours?”
“My father planned my marriage when I was still a child.” Helen’s voice softened. “The son of his business associate was to be my groom.”
“Who?” She and Helen shared a desire to work and improve the lives of others, and Clary assumed her friend also shared her desire to postpone marriage.
“Nathaniel Landau.”
“That handsome doctor from the Royal London Hospital? The one who came to visit the school?”
“He is handsome, isn’t he?” Helen removed her glasses and blew a bit of lint from one lens.
“Half the girls wanted to follow him out the door when he spoke of employment opportunities at the hospital.” With his dark wavy hair, easy smile, and natural charm, Dr. Landau had been an instant favorite at Fisk Academy. Clary’s chief memory of his visit was how difficult it had been to keep the girls from giggling every time he said something amusing.
“Nate has a heart for helping his patients in the East End,” Helen confided. “He’s passionate about making a difference through medicine.”
“And you’re besotted with him.”
For a young woman who usually excelled at concealing her emotions, Helen was failing miserably. Her cheeks had taken on a peachy hue and her green eyes glinted in the gaslight.
“I never planned to be,” she said defensively. “We’ve known each other since childhood. He’d always been a friend but never more until . . . well, until the last few months.” She swallowed down the last of her punch and took a deep breath. “I’m quite independent. You know that. But lately I find that I miss him when we’re apart. Quite a lot.”
“So you’ll chain yourself to him forever?”
Helen’s brow pinched in a frown. “I don’t recall anyone mentioning chains.” She turned a scrutinizing gaze Clary’s way. “When did you become so averse to marriage?”
“I can’t pinpoint a date.” Perhaps it had simply been her parents’ example of how miserable wedlock could be. Her father had carried on exactly as he pleased, while her mother frittered away her days, planning menus and selecting gowns. She’d seemed more miserable with each passing year.
“Surely in twenty-one years, some gentleman caught your eye, if not your heart.”
“Plenty catch my eye. I can acknowledge a handsome gentleman’s appeal easily enough.” Even if the man in question was boring and boorish and managed her family’s publishing business. “But the notion of vowing my life away, my choices, my freedom.” The thought ignited a panicky flutter in the center of her chest. The panic of being trapped with no way to escape. “I cannot imagine any man who could persuade me to forfeit my independence. At least not yet.”
Helen’s mouth puckered in a thoughtful moue. “You’ve never fallen in love? Not even a little?”
A nervous laugh burst from Clary, but Helen continued to stare. A sandy-brown brow arched up. A sure sign that she’d keep pushing for an answer.
“There was someone once.”
“I knew it.” Helen’s excited pitch drew a few gazes their way.
“Digby Smythe was twelve when I turned ten, and I thought him the most interesting boy in our village.”
“And?”
“I gave him a drawing I’d made for him.” A chipmunk in a top hat. She’d gotten quite skilled at drawing the little creatures and thought the fancy headgear a nice touch. “He called me ‘pudgy Clary’ and tore my sketch in two.”
“Digby sounds dreadful.”
Clary laughed to think of her foolishness. How nervous she’d been. How much care she’d taken with the little chipmunk, which, thinking back, was quite like Digby, with his sleek brown hair and beady eyes.
“You should take another chance,” Helen whispered. “Not all men are as rude and thoughtless as Digby Smythe. Your brother is happily married, and your sister.”
“My brother broke his wife’s heart before finally having the good sense to marry her, and my sister happened to find the one man in England who suited her. She waited a long time. I can wait too.”
“Perhaps a bit of dancing and less waiting is in order.” The voice of Clary’s brother-in-law, Grey, Earl of Stanhope, startled them both. “Forgive me, ladies, but I couldn’t bear to see two such lovely creatures stuck in the corner. Which of you will partner me for the first dance?”
“I would be honored, Lord Stanhope. I’ll join you directly.” Helen smiled as Grey executed a dramatic bow before heading back into the gathering of guests.
“You were right,” Clary admitted.
“Wonderful. I do enjoy being right sometimes. What was I right about?”
“I have no business lingering in the corner and grousing about my inheritance when we’re in a room filled with potential philanthropists. Perhaps some of them would be willing to contribute funds toward the school.” Clary nudged her chin toward her sister and a literary-minded couple Kit and Phee had befriended.
“No.” Helen shook her head. Her voice had taken on the firm tone she used with the girls at Fisk Academy. “It’s your birthday.” Determination shone in her eyes. “A family gathering is no place for business.”
“Have you forgotten that my family owns a business?” Clary tipped her friend a grin.
Helen’s left eye began to twitch behind her spectacle lens, a sign that she was about to pull forth an ingenious idea. “Why don’t you work for Ruthven’s?”
“No.” Clary shook her head with extra vehemence. “The point of finding employment is to strike out on my own. How can I be independent if I’m working for Ruthven’s? A business I now own a piece of?”
“You want work, and quickly. Believe me, positions are hard to find and extremely competitive.” Helen’s cheeks went ruddy, as they always did when she was excited. “You said you wished to take part in running the company. Why not assist with managing Ruthven’s or contributing to editorial decisions?”
“I can’t just waltz in and take over.” Though imagining the look on Gabriel Adamson’s face if she did so was almost worth trying it.
“I’d never suggest you be quite that high-handed. But think of what you might learn. We’ve both talked about purchasing typewriters for the girls at Fisk. If you became proficient, you could teach them.”
Helen was making sense. Rational arguments were Clary’s weakness.
“I suspect Mr. Adamson wouldn’t want me underfoot.” The man couldn’t even manage to endure an entire carriage ride with her. “If I’m going to be there, I’d want to contribute. What could I contribute to the running of Ruthven’s?”
“You’re one of the cleverest young women I know, creative, thoughtful. I’m not sure you’ll know until you get there.” Helen leaned over and whispered, “But first you have to get there.”
“
He won’t like me lingering about the office, I suspect.” Mr. Adamson’s glower was fresh in Clary’s mind.
“You are co-owner, and you won’t be lingering; you’ll be applying your time and talents. After spending four years at study, surely you’re as competent as Mr. Adamson.”
Now that had a nice ring to it.
CHAPTER FIVE
“There is no victory quite as sweet as turning disappointment into determination.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
Few visited the Ruthven offices who were not expected. Workroom employees were due at half past seven. Vendors arranged appointments weeks in advance. No meeting was ever scheduled before nine. Gabe imposed order efficiently and effectively on the daily goings-on of the business. If some random Londoner happened across their threshold, it was usually because the poor sod got lost.
Over the years, Gabe had learned the rhythms of the workroom floor by heart, memorizing the clatter of the printing presses and the patterned strikes of Daughtry, his assistant, and other clerks tapping at their typewriters. When productivity waned because of inane chitchat, he caught that too. And immediately cut such nonsense short.
So when he settled behind his desk on Monday morning, a half hour before any other employees were due to arrive, as was his habit, he savored the bliss of quiet. He felt something akin to peace. After weeks of mulling, he’d made a choice. He would inform Kit Ruthven of his plans to leave Ruthven’s and take the position offered by Wellbeck Publishers.
Why shouldn’t he go? He owed no loyalty to the late Leopold Ruthven. The man had been a reprobate, far worse than his family suspected. Only grudgingly, Gabe had come to respect the son. Kit Ruthven trusted him to carry out his duties, rarely questioning or interfering with his management. He even admired the man’s determination to share ownership with his sisters. If he’d been lucky enough to inherit anything of value, he’d have happily shared with Sara too.
Of course, Gabe didn’t believe in luck. Only in scrabbling and fighting for every scrap of good fortune that came his way.
Change was necessary. He needed the higher salary Wellbeck’s offered. He’d been beholden to the Ruthvens for long enough.
Unfolding the letter from Wellbeck’s, he smoothed the document on his desktop. Beside it, he poised a nib pen over a fresh sheet of foolscap and began scratching out a formal reply. A moment later, a noise in the outer workroom jolted his attention, and his nib sputtered blots of ink across the paper.
Hell and damnation. Gabe crushed the ruined page in his fist and shot up from his chair. No one ever arrived this bloody early, and he’d secured the door behind him when he’d let himself in.
After shrugging out of his suit coat, he rolled up his sleeves and moved slowly toward the door. He took care to land his boots softly on the polished wood. A distinctive sound froze him in place. Not the rustling that had initially drawn his notice but a steady, rhythmic tick of type bars hitting the platen of a typewriter.
Plastering himself against the frame of his open office door, Gabe gazed across the workroom to get a glimpse of the early morning typist. Irritation flared, and his chest collapsed in a long sigh.
Bent over Daughtry’s typewriter, Miss Ruthven swiped a strand of hair from her face and then proceeded to jab haphazardly at the keys. With her back to him, her body curved in a perfect hourglass shape. A single loose curl had slipped its pin, hanging down her back in the same sinuous line. Despite the fact that he’d never entered the workroom to find a lovely woman working away at one of the desks, she looked strangely right perched on Daughtry’s chair.
He couldn’t lambast her for skulking into the office and commandeering the old man’s typewriter. This was her office now. Her business. Her typewriter, if she damn well pleased to use the machine. Apparently, she did.
Gabe cleared his throat as loudly as he dared.
She jumped before turning an irritated glare his way. “You startled me.” After an enormous gulp, her tone softened. “I didn’t expect anyone so early.”
“Likewise.”
“Do you always arrive before everyone else?” She collected whatever she’d been composing from the typewriter and turned to face him.
“Always.” Gabe gestured toward Daughtry’s work space. “What required typing so urgently?”
“Nothing.” She shoved the paper behind her.
The movement amused him. How many filched objects had he pushed behind his back or stuffed into his pockets as a child? Once he’d even hidden a stolen pocket watch in his mouth while a constable passed on his nightly rounds. The bitter tang of tarnished metal had lingered on his tongue for days.
“May I?” he asked, palm out, much more politely than any copper had ever cross-questioned him.
She notched up her chin a moment and then relented, shoving the half-covered sheet in front of him. “It’s nothing. Truly.”
The page smelled of flowers. Gabe wondered if she imprinted her scent on everything she touched. Rows of letters typed over and over were broken with lines of text such as “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” The words were familiar to Gabe, though he couldn’t recall from where.
“I must become proficient with the typewriter. I came early so as not to disturb anyone.” She stepped closer and snatched the sheet from his fingers. “Did I disturb you, Mr. Adamson?”
“No,” he lied. But she did disturb him. Mightily.
His senses ignited in awareness, every nerve firing. She was the brightest spot in the room, her blouse a bright buttercup yellow that clashed with the darker gold of her hair. And those violet eyes of hers seemed to eat up everything they beheld. She had an eager way of gazing about, as if she was seeing the world for the first time, and every sight fascinated her.
She moved constantly too, like a flower swaying in a stiff breeze. Shuffling her feet, twisting at the hips, she behaved as if the act of standing in one place put a fearsome strain on her patience. “Would you mind if I continue, at least until the other employees arrive?”
Yes, I would mind quite a lot.
“As you wish, Miss Ruthven.”
“Will you be at the meeting later this morning, Mr. Adamson?” she put to him over her shoulder after settling herself back into Daughtry’s chair.
“Of course.” The question irked him, almost as much as her sweet floral scent. Where did she think he’d be? This was his domain. At least for a little while longer. “I’m the one who called the meeting.”
As he headed back to his office, a thought struck like a punch to the gut.
He’d miss this damned place—the tidy workroom, the hum of activity when a shipment came in or a new title started production, even the simple orderliness of his desk. Employees like Daughtry, who believed in working as hard as he did to make the enterprise a success, were a rarity. Would he find the same at Wellbeck’s?
Then another thought came, and a chill spilled down his back like ice water.
“Will you be attending the meeting, Miss Ruthven?”
She shifted her enticing hourglass figure, glanced at him over her shoulder, and shot him an irksome grin. “Since I’m here, I might as well.”
Wonderful.
When the bell over the front door jingled at ten minutes to nine, Gabe sprang from his desk, straightened his necktie, and smoothed a hand through his hair, eager to face Kit Ruthven. Requesting a private meeting before the general company weather report must have struck his employer as odd, but Gabe couldn’t wait another day.
Sara was right. Time shouldn’t be wasted. Now or never. That philosophy had saved his skin more than once.
“Is something amiss, Adamson?” Ruthven strode into Gabe’s office and stuck out his hand in greeting.
“Not at all, sir, though there is a matter I wish to speak to you about.”
Aside from height, they were opposites in every way—background, temperament, and, most starkly, how they viewed the publishing business. Mr. Ruthven pushed for change, regardle
ss of financial prudence. Caution had been a hard-learned lesson for Gabe, but he’d become skilled at avoiding risk and fighting the instinct to run headlong into trouble.
“I have a proposal for you,” Ruthven said, seating himself in front of Gabe’s desk and hooking his hat over one knee. “But let me hear you out first.”
The speech he’d planned petrified in Gabe’s throat. Doubts swarmed in.
He should have given Ruthven a chance to pay him more before submitting his resignation. He deserved a higher wage. By any standards, his compensation was meager compared to the responsibility the elder Ruthven had heaped on his shoulders. Other men would have harangued their employer a dozen times already.
“Something’s troubling you.” Ruthven leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees as he subjected Gabe to an irritatingly intense stare. “Is it your sister?”
“No, not my sister.” In an offhand comment, Gabe had mentioned that Sara was unwell. He’d given no details, and Ruthven must have assumed she was ailing with more than the common cold.
“If there’s anything you need. Time away from the office. More help. You need only let me know.”
Gabe covered the letter he’d planned to present to Ruthven with his hand. “Mr. Ruthven, after due consideration, I have decided . . . ”
“You seek an increase in compensation.”
“Yes.” Gabe clenched a fist over the resignation letter.
Kit leaned forward in his chair. “Precisely what I wished to speak to you about.”
“Is it?”
“You keep Ruthven’s running at a profit. Every member of my family is in your debt. I may not have agreed with my father often. Ever, to be honest, but he made a wise choice when he selected you as manager.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gabe said, biting out the words. He hated thinking of the elder Ruthven and how he’d acquired his job. But the son’s words emboldened him. “What amount had you considered?” He’d carefully calculated the sum needed to provide Sara with a generous dowry and to begin saving for his own future.
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 4
