by Lily George
Brookes sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve never really given much thought to my spirituality, you know. I always lived for the moment. Cards, women, drink. Later, soldierly dignity, worth, honor. But never with a deeper meaning. Never with a higher purpose. What you and Harriet have told me—I am afraid of it, a little.”
Cantrill pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Of course. It’s terrifying to turn yourself over to the unknown. But trust in Him, Brookes. He will grant you peace. Of that, I am certain.”
Brookes shook his head. It was so difficult to wrap his brain around the concept. He wanted to believe. He wanted to begin. “How do I start?”
Cantrill shrugged. “I can’t really tell you, Brookes. You’ll have to find your own way. But I’ll tell you one thing. Harriet can help you on your journey. That’s why I say, marry her. And if you don’t, I will.” He held up his hand as Brookes’s mouth dropped open to protest. “I know what you’ve said, and I won’t dally where you’ve marked your territory, my good fellow. But I feel that she can set you on the right path, and be a loving and caring helpmate for you. A lot of women aren’t. Beth Gaskell wasn’t.”
“Your betrothed?”
“Betrothed no more. And yes, she couldn’t adjust to an idea of living simply and giving to others. She wasn’t prepared to be my wife. I harbor no ill will toward Beth. But I also recognize a good thing when I see it now. And I would hate to see you squander it on any supposed connection to Sophie Handley.”
Brookes sighed. “I am trying to find a way out.”
Cantrill stood, taking the teapot back to the kitchen. “Find it, then,” he barked. Brookes recognized his attitude. Lieutenant Cantrill issued commands to his men in the same tone of voice. The desire for battle burned through Brookes. Thanks to Charlie, he had his marching orders.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Harriet paused before the bookshop, swallowing nervously. Her heart pounded like a big bass drum as she clutched the parcel more tightly to her chest. She couldn’t believe what she was about to do. But there was no other choice. Papa told her the truth long ago. Most publishers would never assume the grave financial risk of publishing an untried author’s work. In all likelihood, Harriet would have to bear the cost of publishing the book herself. She bowed her head. The Handley family coffers could not afford a gamble on Harriet’s publication. She prayed on it and this was her only hope. She must earn the money on her own.
She opened the door, and the tinkle of the bell announced her entry to a bespectacled man hunched over a desk. His eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, Miss?”
“I have some books I would like to sell.” She placed the package carefully on his desk. “They were part of my father’s library.”
The bookseller gave a deep sigh and rolled his eyes. “Miss, with all due respect, I don’t see a lot of valuable books come in here. The pricey ones never make it to Bath, but go straight to London. I can take a look, but I doubt they would fetch more than a few pounds at most.”
“My father was Sir Hugh Handley.” Harriet pushed the books closer to the old man, noting the sudden gleam of interest in his eyes.
“Sir Hugh Handley’s library? Well, then, let me take a look.” He grabbed at the parcel and ripped it open. “Such a pitiful few left. I’ve heard his library contained thousands of volumes. Of course, they all went to the London booksellers and a few made it as far as France.”
Harriet nodded, tears stinging her eyes. “Yes. There were thousands. This is all that’s left.”
He pawed over the pages with delight. “Ah, I see you kept the Homer. A rare edition, fine engravings. Lovely, isn’t it?” He looked up at Harriet and blinked. “What else have you here? Aristotle? A Bible? Edmund Spenser? Ah—the Aeneid, very lovely, the Dryden translation. And a book of verse. A rather ragtag lot. No real common theme uniting them.”
Harriet cleared her throat, not trusting her voice. It might have a telltale quaver, and she couldn’t cry in front of this stranger. “No, and they weren’t the most valuable in my father’s collection, sir. Only the ones I loved best.”
He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Well, Miss Handley, these books aren’t worth very much on their own. But, since they are remnants of the fabled Handley library, and because the Homer is rarer than the others, I can offer you twenty-five pounds for the lot.”
Harriet sighed, relief flowing through her being. “Twenty-five pounds? That sounds fine.”
He stacked the books neatly and smiled. “In truth they are probably only worth twenty, but I will add in the extra fiver for a tribute to the great Sir Hugh. What a collector. Last of a breed, you know. One of the few who understood the art of amassing a fine library. Now, I will need to go to the back room to retrieve the money. Wait here, if you please.”
Harriet stared down at the books, bidding each one a silent goodbye. Selling them was like selling off members of her dear family, but she must let them go. Seeing them desecrated by the duns was insupportable. By saving them, and then selling them to finance her own career, she gave herself the security she lost when Papa died. Harriet sniffed. No matter how practical she tried to make it sound, it still left a bitter taste in her mouth. The sooner the transaction was done, the better.
The bookseller scurried back, and counted out the money with a flourish. “There you go, Miss Handley. Good luck to you.”
Harriet tucked the coins and bills into her reticule, and nodded. “Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Back out on the street, Harriet paused to rub her temples. The preceding two weeks had whizzed by in a flurry of activity and anxiety. After her conversation with Cantrill, she submitted to the throes of finishing her novel. Recalling her ability to write at home was so proscribed by family concerns and social engagements, Harriet wrung every moment of writing time from her remaining visit to Bath.
She begged Aunt Katherine’s permission to submit to her muse, and the old woman acquiesced with touching alacrity. Scarcely an afternoon passed without a servant bringing Harriet fresh ink, new sheets of foolscap, or tempting refreshments. Auntie admonished all the servants to remain quiet about their daily tasks, and shooed Brookes off to the Pump Room and card parties in the company of Stoames and Cantrill. Thanks to the old woman’s generosity, Harriet finished the book as her journey to Bath was drawing to a close. And now, it only remained for Harriet to find a publisher.
She directed her steps toward Aunt Katherine’s flat. Now she secured the funds to pay for the printing of her book, if only she could find a publisher willing to take it. Of course, most publishers wouldn’t do business with a woman. Her steps slowed. Perhaps she could prevail upon John to negotiate on her behalf. No one else could help her, since Papa’s death.
Her days were spent in such a flurry of writing activity that she almost had no time to speak to John, a good thing indeed. Until Sophie wrote to him and severed all ties, Harriet could not trust herself in his company for long. And of course, Sophie had chosen this moment to become the slowest of correspondents, delaying her letter to the captain these two weeks at least. Harriet frowned. Had Sophie changed her mind yet again? Sophie deserved a good shake sometimes.
She climbed up the steps to the front door and crossed the threshold, taking off her bonnet. Stoames crossed the vestibule, smiling at her.
“Good day, Miss Handley. How are you?” He paused, nodding at Harriet.
“Very well, Stoames,” Harriet replied distantly, still trying to puzzle out the whole question of obtaining a publisher. “Is the captain at home?”
“I think he’s in the library, Miss. Working on a few business matters. His mill manager wrote today.”
“Good.” If he was already in a businesslike frame of mind, perhaps she could approach him without too much awkwardness. She smiled. “Thank you, Stoames.
”
Harriet stepped over to the library, the elaborate Persian rug in the hall muffling her footsteps. She rapped twice on the partially closed door.
“Come in.” John’s voice sounded curt and distracted. Harriet paused. Perhaps now was a bad time. On the other hand…she touched her reticule, heavy with her bitter fortune. There was no time like the present.
“Good day, John.” She crossed into the room and smiled at him.
He glanced up from a ledger book and pile of papers with a brief smile. Closing the ledger, he leaned back in his chair. “Harriet, come in. I haven’t seen you much during the past few weeks. How goes the manuscript?”
She stood in front of the desk, her legs trembling. What if he said no? What would she do then? She was likely to fall over if she wasn’t careful. Abruptly, she sank into one of the leather chairs beside John. “That’s what I am here to tell you about. If you aren’t too busy.” She waved a hand at the paperwork stacked in front of him.
“No, in truth, a pause might do me good. So, how close are you to finishing?”
“I’m finished now.” His eyebrows lifted in surprise and she smiled tightly. “Finished earlier this week. Thanks to your help, and your aunt’s, of course. And now I am in the position of finding a publisher. I was wondering if I could obtain your assistance yet again.”
“Of course.” He regarded her with a quizzical air. “What do you need me to do?”
She cleared her throat, hoping her voice would not betray her nervousness. “Most publishers won’t deal with a woman. I was wondering if you could make inquiries on my behalf. There’s a publisher in Town, Samuel Eagleton & Co., that might be willing to take it. They’ve published military memoirs and histories before. A novel might interest them, too.”
He nodded and pulled out a sheet of foolscap. “Samuel Eagleton, London,” he echoed in a low tone. “Anything else?” He looked at her from under lowered brows, pen poised in midair.
“Any publisher, including Eagleton, will want me to cover the cost of printing the books.” He set the pen down, his eyes boring into her. “With untried authors, that is the accepted practice,” she hastened to assure him. “I’ve managed to put together a small sum, enough to cover the first printing, if Eagleton accepts.”
“How much money?”
“Twenty-five pounds.” She patted her reticule for emphasis.
His gaze narrowed speculatively. “Harriet, what did you do to gather together that much pin money?”
Harriet looked down at her lap. She could not meet his gaze. “I sold Papa’s books.”
“You sold them? To whom?” His voice lowered, betraying his disapproval.
“Whitstones Ltd. In the High Street.”
“Why would you do a thing like that, Harriet? I know how much those books meant to you.”
His words grated harshly on her nerves, causing tears to prick at her eyelids. After all, the books were hers to sell, weren’t they? Who was he to judge her? “They were all I had, John. If I am going to publish the books, then I need money for the printing process. I have nothing else of value, and my family can’t afford to gamble on my success.”
He sighed. “Well, Harriet, that was a great sacrifice you made. I can’t say I am happy you did it, but I understand why. I would have happily loaned the money to you. Aunt Katherine would have, too, you know.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.” Of course, John didn’t know she was already in debt to Aunt Katherine for the new gown. Publishing the book was the only way Harriet could repay her, as well.
“Why not? We’re going to be family soon.”
She shook her head. “I am indebted to both of you already, more than you even know.” The heat crept over her face, drying the tears in her eyes. Of course, Sophie’s letter hadn’t arrived yet. He still thought he would become Sophie’s husband. Would he accept the elder sister in her place? Doubt flooded Harriet’s soul.
A tense silence filled the room. Harriet finally dared to look up, only to find Brookes staring at her with a curious intensity. He nodded briskly, signaling his decision.
“I’ll write to the publisher right away.” His voice softened. “Thank you for trusting me with this task, Harriet. I know how much this means to you and your family. I’ll do what I can to help.”
Relief and gratitude coursed through Harriet. She was glad she was sitting down. Had she been standing, her legs would have given out. “Thank you, John.” She opened her reticule. “Do you want the money now?”
“Let’s wait to see what the publisher says.” He smiled. “I know you are good for it.”
Brookes alit from the phaeton, glancing up at the address. Whitstone’s Booksellers. Yes, this was the place. The shop was smaller than he imagined. In fact, he had driven past it many times without sparing it a second glance.
“Back in a moment.” He nodded to Stoames, who slid over and took the reins.
“Take your time, Captain.” Stoames saluted and leaned back against the seat.
The door stuck as he opened it, so he pushed it with his shoulder. His effort caused the bell to swing violently, giving an alarming jangle. A little old man, bending over a stack of books on a scarred mahogany desk, jumped at the sound. Brookes strode in, his boots echoing on the bare floor.
“Can I help you, sir?” The old man regarded him closely. “Is there a particular book you want?”
“Yes.” Brookes removed his hat and stared at the bookseller, sizing him up. “I believe a young lady came in today and sold a few books to you. I’d like to buy them back.”
“Of course.” The bookseller rubbed his palms together. “Now, let me see. There were five books altogether, at a cost of ten pounds each. That will be fifty pounds, sir.”
Brookes nodded, tossing his hat onto the desk. “Allow me to be frank, my good man.”
“Yes?” The bookseller smiled, like a dog baring his teeth.
“The lady sold you an edition of Homer. As a collector, I know that book alone is worth about three times the sum you quoted me for the lot.”
“Indeed, sir. I am passing the bargain on to you. Being friendlylike to a fellow collector.”
Brookes shook his head in astonishment. This old blackguard’s cheek knew no bounds.
“I’ll take the lot for the price you paid for them. Twenty-five pounds.” Brookes held his gaze, waiting out the old man’s bluff.
His adversary flushed deeply, but kept his countenance. “Honestly—I should make something off the deal.”
“You’ll sell them to me for the price I named, and count yourself lucky. Otherwise, I’ll have to make it known that you like to fleece unsuspecting and trusting young women. You won’t be able to sell a drink of water in the desert when I finish with you.”
The old man swallowed and his flush deepened. “Twenty-five pounds. I’ll wrap them up.”
“No need.” Brookes smiled, counting out the money. “I’ll take them as they are. I’d like to make sure I have the right titles before I leave. It would be dreadful indeed to return home with the wrong books.”
The bookseller nodded, accepting the money with trembling fingers. “Just as you say, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brookes stared at the page in front of him, and then sealed the envelope with a sigh. After a few discreet inquiries among his acquaintances, he learned that Samuel Eagleton was a legitimate publisher, not a scoundrel like that bookseller. He never wanted Harriet to be cheated again. He yanked the bell-pull and gazed down at the stack of books on his desk. He hid them in his desk drawer since his visit to Whitstone’s two days earlier. How to return them to Harriet, he hadn’t a clue. He wanted it to be a welcome surprise, but Harriet was such a proud young lady. If she knew she had been swindled and Brookes saved the day, he
r mortification might consume her. Brookes didn’t want to add to her distress. He ran one hand over the worn leather cover of the volume of Homer. Then he scooped the books up and locked them back in the lower left-hand drawer of his desk. Until he could solve the larger problem of telling Harriet his true feelings, the books were the least of his troubles.
Brookes had not said a prayer in years. Only once did he attempt to plead with the Lord for help and comfort, on the night he had lost his leg. Throughout that endless and terrible night, he could not even form the words in his mind. But now, overwhelmed by frustration and longing, he bowed his head and prayed.
As soon as he was done, a tremendous burden lifted from his chest. He had always been the one others leaned on for support. His men trusted them with their lives. Relinquishing some control to a higher power was a welcome relief. Invincibility exhausted him. He found an unexpected comfort in prayer.
Knowles, Aunt Katherine’s butler, knocked discreetly on the door and paused on the threshold. Brookes waved him in. “Knowles, I have a letter for the post. See to it at once, if you please.”
“Of course, Captain. A letter arrived for you this morning.” Knowles handed him an envelope.
Brookes looked at it, bewildered. The handwriting, all loops and curves, was familiar. Sophie Handley’s writing. He furrowed his brow. Why would Sophie be writing to him? He handed the Eagleton letter over to Knowles. “Make certain that letter leaves in today’s post,” Brookes admonished him.
“Very good, Captain.” He bowed and left the room, as silently as a cat.
Brookes sank back down into his chair, ripping open Sophie’s letter so quickly that he almost tore it in half.
Dear Captain Brookes,
I am writing to release you from any further obligation for an engagement between the two of us. In the days since your return I have pondered our affection in my heart and have come to the conclusion that I cannot love you, and any fondness I might have felt was heightened by the distance between us during the war. I am not insensible of the fact that, in ending our understanding, I am severing the possibility of increasing my family’s fortunes. I have consulted with my sister, Harriet, on the matter and have told her that I would marry you if she wished. Harriet feels that my marriage to you would be indecent.
