by Becky Lower
She scanned the room along with her mother. Now that the rush of debutantes was over, people had paired off and were populating the dance floor as the musicians began playing. The crush of bodies was making dancing difficult, and the room, with its masses of people, along with the heat from the myriad of candles, made Rosemary very warm. She raised a hand to wipe her brow, relieved to see no one upon whom her mother could foist them.
Her mother grabbed her hand before it made its way to her face. “No! Don’t wipe your face in such a fashion. You mustn’t get your gloves dirty, as they have to cover your fingers all night. Use your handkerchief, if you must. But take care not to ruin your makeup. Blot, don’t rub.”
“Thank you, Mother. I’d almost forgotten that I daren’t remove my gloves tonight. I soaked my fingers until they pruned, but the ink stains would not budge.” Rosemary blotted her brow, and returned the hankie to her reticule. “Not that ink-stained fingers are going to matter to anyone tonight. Dorcas and I have already been designated the proverbial wallflowers at our Cotillion.”
Her mother stood, took each girl by the hand, and pulled them from their wallflower chairs. “Not if I have anything to say about the matter. The Cabots have just arrived, and I’ve been told they have a striking out-of-town visitor accompanying them this evening. My girls have always managed to impress men from out of town, and tonight will be no exception. Come along, my darlings. Let’s go meet the new dashing young man before another young woman can get her claws into him.”
With Charlotte in the lead, the trio made its way to the Cabots, who were surrounded by well-wishers. Charlotte embraced Mrs. Cabot and acknowledged Mr. Cabot.
“May I introduce two of tonight’s debutantes? My daughter, Rosemary, and her friend, Dorcas, just came down the stairs a few minutes ago.” She put her hands into the small of their backs and pushed each girl forward. They curtsied in unison to Mr. and Mrs. Cabot and murmured a greeting. Rosemary expelled a small breath when she realized the Cabots were alone. She would not have to be paraded in front of their out-of-town visitor as if she were a horse for sale. Or a slave. She could go back to her chair and sit for the remainder of this ghastly evening. And then get back to her garret.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a familiar head of long, dark hair tied into a stylish queue. The room began to tilt on its axis and she couldn’t catch her breath. There could not be another person in New York who wore his hair in such a fashion. Rosemary’s steps faltered, and she turned to run back to her chair.
Mrs. Cabot motioned to him. “And I’m pleased to introduce our company, recently moved here from Boston. Henry Cooper, please say hello to one of the finest families in New York. May I introduce you to Charlotte Fitzpatrick, her daughter, and a friend.”
Henry turned from the group of people he was talking to and faced the ladies, confusion overtaking his features. “Miss Wyatt? Phoebe?”
Rosemary’s stomach dropped as she stared at her publisher. Her hand came to her mouth, which gaped openly, as her surprise mounted. What was Henry doing here? And why, in the mad crush of people, did they have to come face to face? If she thought Henry seemed confused, it was nothing compared to her own reaction. Her carefully crafted world was crashing down around her. What should she do? Correct her mother? Correct Henry? How could she now conduct her business with him? The room began to spin uncontrollably, and her legs shook.
Charlotte seemed not to notice Rosemary’s reaction to the man. “I’m afraid you have the wrong woman, Mr. Cooper. This is my daughter, Rosemary Fitzpatrick. And the other young lovely is Rosemary’s best friend, Dorcas Winchester.”
Henry extended his hand to take Rosemary’s, just as she fainted and dropped into his arms.
• • •
“Great,” Henry muttered as he placed his hands under her knees and lifted her limp body. With Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Mrs. Cabot leading the way, Henry carried the unconscious woman into a private room off the ballroom and laid her on a couch, kneeling beside her. A doctor was being sought from the ball’s attendees, and the ladies and Henry attempted to bring what comfort they could to her in the meantime. Her friend, whose name he’d quite forgotten in the confusion, hovered around the group, reminding him of a hummingbird at a fragrant flower. The flower in this instance being Phoebe Wyatt, despite what anyone said. Henry had picked up right away on the scent of patchouli in the air around her.
Henry knelt beside the woman, holding her hand, and ran his eyes over her face. Same hair, same long eyelashes. If she were to open her eyes, he was positive he’d see the color gray. Yes, the woman before him was indeed Phoebe Wyatt. But why was she here posing as someone else? Posing as a highborn woman? He reluctantly turned his gaze from her to Mrs. Fitzpatrick as he stood.
“What is the explanation for this? You say she is your daughter, Rosemary?”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, she is my daughter who had her debut tonight. Perhaps she resembles someone you know, but she is indeed my daughter.” Henry could see Mrs. Fitzpatrick pull herself erect, and could almost feel her bristling at his questions. She gained control of her emotions in a short moment and turned toward him as he rose. “I’m sorry, but in the confusion, I missed your name.”
“It’s Henry Cooper. I’ve recently moved here from Boston to take over Page Books.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick seemed unsettled, as her hands fluttered through the air, but she stood her ground beside her daughter.
Henry and Mrs. Fitzpatrick locked eyes for a long moment.
“I believe her to be someone else entirely. A secretary for an author. And her name is Phoebe Wyatt. If I were to remove her glove, would I not see ink stains on her fingers? There was an especially large stain on the second finger of her right hand the other day. Shall I remove her glove and see if there is a match?”
He noticed Mrs. Fitzpatrick took a gulp at his words. And moved in front of the prostrate woman to protect her daughter, putting herself between Henry and Rosemary. Or was it Phoebe?
Henry finally extended his hand to Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “I’m sorry to have caused your daughter to faint. But I’m certain she is the same woman who has been coming to my office for weeks now masquerading as a working woman. A Miss Phoebe Wyatt. I’m the new publisher.”
“The villain.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick whispered the words under her breath as she allowed him to take her hand. As he bowed over her outstretched palm, his mind buzzed.
Villain? Surely, he was mistaken, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick hadn’t spoken those words. She seemed to be exactly what he expected of a friend of the Cabots—a petite, friendly, scintillating, highbred woman. Not someone who would abide subterfuge. But she offered no explanation as to why her daughter had posed as a secretary, either.
The young woman on the couch was beginning to stir, so Henry reached down and took her right hand again, peeling the glove off slowly, freeing one finger at a time. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. Fitzpatrick as he did so. Her eyes flitted from him to her daughter, to the doorway, and back again. Finally, the young lady’s hand was freed from the glove, and Henry held it up for inspection. The ink stains were perhaps a bit more faint than they had been a few days earlier when he’d last seen her, but they were evident. Still holding the soiled hand aloft, his gaze fixated on Mrs. Fitzpatrick, waiting for an explanation.
The silence in the room was deafening.
The doctor rushed in, finally, unfreezing the occupants. He was followed by another gentleman of middle age who put his arm around Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Henry stood a bit apart from the group around the prostrate woman and allowed the doctor to bring her around with smelling salts. He’d give the doctor room to work and allow her family to get close, but he wouldn’t leave the room without an explanation.
Finally, the doctor stood, and the young woman was aided to a sitting position. She placed her hand to her face for a moment—the ungloved hand with the ink-stained fingers shielding her eyes. Henry followed her every move
ment.
The gentleman who had arrived with the doctor leaned over the stricken woman and whispered a question that Henry couldn’t make out. But he pieced it together when the young lady raised her eyes to him and the gentleman’s gaze followed. Henry had definitely been the topic of conversation.
The man rose and came forward with a grim expression on his face. Henry’s body tensed in the defensive en garde position.
“I understand you’re responsible for making my daughter faint. Granted, you’re a handsome devil, but still. I believe an apology is in order.”
“She’ll get her apology as soon as she explains her duplicity to me. She’s been visiting me in another guise for several weeks now. She even made up a name for herself. I know her as Phoebe Wyatt. I had no idea she was a proper, highbred woman.”
“You thought she was a lightskirt? Dear God.” The man ran his hand through his hair.
“No, not a lightskirt, sir. Rather, a member of the working class. She told me she was a secretary to the elusive, reclusive, Mr. Elliott.”
The man cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, Mr. Elliott.” He finally stuck out his hand and offered it to Henry. “That would be me. F.P. Elliott, at your service.”
Henry accepted the offered hand as a matter of course. “I didn’t realize Miss Wyatt was your daughter. I was told you were an uncle of hers. Why is her last name, for this evening, anyway, Fitzpatrick, if she’s truly your daughter? Wouldn’t she be Rosemary Elliott? Forgive my confusion, but, as for you, why would someone who doesn’t leave his home suddenly decide a crowded ballroom is the place to be? You’ve been ignoring my wishes to meet for weeks now, and Miss Wyatt, or rather Miss Fitzpatrick, or Miss Elliott, kept making the excuse that you never left the house, since you hated crowds.”
“Well, it was Rosemary’s big night, after all.” Mr. Elliott shook his head.
Henry tore his gaze from the man and glanced over to Phoebe—no, Rosemary. Miss Fitzpatrick. Miss Elliott. It was his turn to shake his head. He no longer could figure out what to believe.
At last, Rosemary got to her feet and moved alongside the two men.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Cooper, for trying to pass myself off as a secretary. I thought it would be more believable than being who I really am. I apologize.”
The scent of Rosemary’s fragrance made its way to his nose, and his smile was automatic and genuine. He took her ungloved hand and laid a kiss on her ink-stained fingers.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet the real you, whoever that may be. And I apologize for making you faint. I’ve never garnered such a response to being introduced before.”
Rosemary’s mother hurried over to the small group and placed her hand on Mr. Elliott’s arm. “George, I think we should take Rosemary home now. It’s been quite an evening.”
George?
Rosemary and Mr. Elliott both turned to Mrs. Fitzpatrick with pained expressions on their faces.
“You’re right, Mother. We should be getting on home. Good night, Mr. Cooper.”
The trio hustled out of the room without a backward glance or a further explanation, leaving Henry alone with his thoughts, which were rioting out of control. Perhaps it was the remaining aroma of patchouli that muddled his senses. He thought Phoebe, or rather, Rosemary, had said her uncle’s name was Frank. Who the hell was George?
CHAPTER TEN
“Well, that was a close one,” Rosemary’s mother exclaimed as she settled herself into the carriage for the short ride home.
“There was nothing remotely ‘close’ about it, Mother! We’ve been unmasked, all of us.” Rosemary almost screamed in frustration. Instead, she stomped her slippered foot against the floor of the carriage. The soft sound was not nearly as satisfying as a scream would have been.
“Whatever do you mean? Well, yes, I agree your play-acting as a secretary will have to come to a halt. Mr. Cooper now realizes you are in the same social circles as he is. I think it might be a blessing in disguise, so to speak. You will no longer have to pretend to be someone you aren’t. You can now show up for your meetings in your usual fine clothing, which will entice the handsome Mr. Cooper. You’ll begin courting each other. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised at all to have him show up on our doorstep on the morrow.”
Rosemary flung a sharp gaze at her mother, who was expounding nonsense. “My disguise will still be in play, Mother. Perhaps not as Phoebe Wyatt anymore, but I still can’t reveal that I am F.P. Elliott. Papa was doing an admirable job of imitating him until you came over and ruined things by calling him ‘George.’ Whatever am I to do now?” Rosemary dropped her head into her hands.
Charlotte reached a hand out and ran it over Rosemary’s hair. “Cease with your melodrama, Rosemary. I know it’s what you write, but you don’t need to give in to it at every turn in real life. I believe you give your handsome Mr. Cooper too much credit. I didn’t see him react to my calling your father George. It probably slid right by him.”
The corners of George Fitzpatrick’s mouth lifted into a smile. “He probably didn’t react to you calling me George because he was still trying to figure out why Rosemary’s last name was Fitzpatrick, when I called her my daughter and then introduced myself as the elusive Mr. Elliott. I fear we did create a lot of confusion for your Mr. Cooper tonight.”
Rosemary lifted her head and stared at her parents. “Will you both please cease with such foolishness? He is not my Mr. Cooper. And I’ll thank you not to attempt to make him otherwise. It’s hard enough having to work with the man and to hide my true identity without the two of you throwing some of your abysmal matchmaking efforts into the mix. Especially you, Mother.”
Her mother’s face became a mask of innocence. Rosemary stifled a groan.
George took hold of his wife’s hand, and his expression grew solemn. “Now, Charlotte, Rosemary’s right in this case. Don’t go getting any of your ideas about how to marry her off. She’s already got a profession she’s in love with and making money at, despite what society thinks of educated women. Perhaps it’s for the best if she reveals herself entirely to Mr. Cooper as soon as possible. He will then release her from her contract, and they will be done with each other. She doesn’t need a man to provide for her. Especially if the man would prevent her from doing what she does best—create wonderful works of fiction.”
“Maybe not to provide for her, George. But a good book won’t keep you warm at night, unless you rip the pages out and feed them to a fire.”
“How dare you utter such a blaspheme, Mother! Tear a book apart? Bosh. What utter nonsense.” Rosemary stomped her foot on the carriage floor again, annoyed when the only sound emanating from her outburst was a gentle plop.
Her mother leveled a gaze at Rosemary. “Bosh, is it? Well then, I suppose your comment that you have no interest in Mr. Cooper is also bosh. He made you faint, daughter. Need I say more? I’ll have to see about inviting the Cabots and their new friend Mr. Cooper over for dinner soon.”
This time, Rosemary didn’t stifle her groan.
She rolled her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. Immediately, Henry Cooper’s face popped into her head. Her stomach, which had been queasy since her fainting spell and subsequent smelling salts experience, now began to jump, like a frog from the riverbank into the water. He is not my Mr. Cooper, despite what Mother says.
But he possibly could be.
The thought came from nowhere and hit her between the eyes as if it were an arrow on a target board. When she’d leaned over his desk the other day in his office, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. He’d leaned forward as she’d leaned in closer. His breath had touched her cheek as his gaze homed in on her lips. She’d moistened them with her tongue in preparation for what she had been certain would be when the earth would tilt and life as she had experienced it up until then would cease to be.
But instead of a kiss, she’d gotten the royal brush-off. He’d stood so quickly it had thrown her off-balance, and he’d hustled her out of the room b
efore she’d been able to catch her breath. Had his actions been because he had the same response to her as she did to him? Did he notice how the air crackled whenever they were together? Tonight, when she’d come to consciousness again and he’d been at her side, even when hordes of people had surrounded them, it was as if they’d been the only ones in the room.
Or were his actions the result of him being appalled by her brazen behavior when he had absolutely no interest in her? Was his lack of interest because he thought she was a mere secretary and beneath him in stature? Or did he just not care for her, regardless of who she was and what strata of society she occupied? If such were the case, exposing herself as not the secretary to the famous F.P. Elliott, but in actuality, F.P. himself, or herself, she guessed, wouldn’t matter to him. Perhaps her father was right, and she should divest herself of all duplicity and let Henry Cooper release her from any further obligations to his company. His was not the only publishing house in New York City. She could find another company, one that would take a single glance at the sales F.P. Elliott had racked up over the past few years and immediately offer a contract, without a proper meeting between the author and the publisher. Yes, it was time to erase the duplicity. One layer had been removed tonight. Now it was time to take care of the rest of it. So why did the thought of never seeing Henry Cooper again make her heart ache?
• • •
Dorcas sat in her usual corner in the garret, reading a book and twirling a strand of her reddish-blonde hair in her fingers while Rosemary attempted to work on her next scene. Every now and then, Dorcas would sigh or cough, pulling Rosemary from her story. Despite Rosemary’s repeated requests for quiet, Dorcas could not be stilled for long. Finally, she threw the book to the floor with a loud crash, startling Rosemary and making her upset her ink bottle.
“Ooh, Dorcas, now see what you made me do!” Rosemary grabbed a towel from the dressing table and began to mop up the blue-purple mess before it stained her desk.
