by Becky Lower
“And it will probably be sooner than we all think.” Grace ran a hand over her stomach and her lovely blue satin gown.
Halwyn was focused on his wife as he followed the movement of her hand, but Rosemary wanted to pry his attention away from Grace, and toward her dilemma.
“Halwyn, you’ve done so much to help Jasmine’s business become the successful dress shop it now is. So I’m hoping you can assist me this time.”
Halwyn passed the bowl of steaming mashed potatoes to his wife before he finally tore his gaze away from her and fixed it on Rosemary. “I’m happy to help. What do you need?”
“How much do you know about my Harry Hawk series?”
“I glanced through the contract Mr. Page sent you when you began the series, if that’s what you mean. Is there something amiss?”
Rosemary and her mother exchanged a glance. At Charlotte’s nod, Rosemary took a deep breath and continued.
“The contract is fine, except for the fact it’s now null and void. Mr. Page has retired, and he’s sold the company to a new owner, from Boston. The new owner will be in town in two days and insists on interviewing each author in person in order to determine to whom he wishes to extend new contracts.”
Halwyn nodded, and grabbed a dinner roll. “Makes sense to me. What’s the problem? You’re one of their best writers, and your dime novels are quite popular.”
Rosemary’s heart softened as she drank in her brother’s praise. “Thank you, Halwyn, for your show of support. But do you even know what a dime novel is? Do you have any idea where my books take place? What they’re about?”
His lips quirked into a half-smile. “I, uh, I …” He locked eyes on Rosemary. “Why do I feel as though I’m back in school?”
Rosemary stared at the table. This was a disaster. She took a deep breath and raised her gaze again to her brother.
“Because I’m in trouble. Mr. Page assumed for years that F.P. Elliott is a man, and I did nothing to dissuade him. You know how some men are. They think the only good place for a woman is in the home and having children.” Her gaze drifted to her sister-in-law, and she smiled. “I don’t mean to imply there’s anything wrong with having children, Grace. I hope to have some myself someday. Just not now.”
She turned back again to her brother. “I couldn’t take the chance Mr. Page would not publish me. He made the assumption I was a man based on my books being about gunslingers in the west, and I let him think what he wanted rather than take the chance he’d reject my work.”
Halwyn sat back in his chair, and slid his glance to his father. “I was aware Rosemary used a pen name for her writing, but not for once did I realize she was impersonating a gentleman. So this deception’s been going on for five years now? And you allowed it, Father?”
George Fitzpatrick tugged at his cravat, and took a breath. “Yes, Halwyn, I did. I thought it was harmless enough. Who would have predicted the dime novel would take off as it has, and that my daughter would be one of the authors gaining notoriety? It’s probably best she use a pen name anyway, not to deceive anyone, necessarily, but to discourage her fans from tracking her down here at home. I want peace and quiet when I get home from work, not a crowd of people in front of the house, slinging guns as they imitate Harry Hawk, for God’s sake.”
Halwyn pinned Rosemary with his gaze. “So now a new publisher is coming in, and you feel you need to find someone to impersonate Mr. Elliott, to continue the duplicity? Why not use this as an opportunity to confess that you’re the true genius behind the series?”
“I can’t. At least not until I know what I’m up against. I need to find out what my new publisher thinks of women in the work place. And female authors in particular.”
Rosemary folded her hands in her lap. She doubted Halwyn would help her now. Damn his moral fiber, anyway.
“I’m sorry, Rosemary. I’m aware that your writing is important to you. But if you have to achieve success by duping everyone, is it really worthwhile? Don’t you want to be recognized for your own merit?”
She raised her head defiantly. “Of course I do. I’d love nothing better than to tell the world there is no old, crotchety man stuffed away in a garret cranking out dime novels. I’m the author and I’ve been the author all along. But I harbor no delusions as to how that tidbit of information would go over. If I go to the new publisher on my own and unmask myself before I even know what I’m dealing with, I’ll be escorted out of his office so fast my head will swim. Those are the facts of the matter in today’s society.”
“What about if I do it?” George’s deep voice invaded the staring match between Rosemary and Halwyn.
Rosemary swiveled her head toward her father. “You’d do that for me, Papa?”
“If I can, I’d be happy to. So, tell me about this Harry Hawk fellow.”
Rosemary smiled for the first time. She loved to talk about her hero, who was loosely based on her brother-in-law Joseph. “Harry is half Indian, Cherokee, who is now working in Texas. He straddles two cultures, not really fitting into either the white world or the Indian one.”
“Just like Joseph!” Valerian nearly shouted. “I can’t wait until I turn eighteen, and can spend the entire summer on his ranch. One more year.”
George rested his gaze on his daughter. “It’s nice to see you’re using your family as fodder for your writing. So what does your hero do for a living? Round up wild horses and break them like Joseph does?”
“No, he’s a hired gun for the railroad company that’s encroaching into Indian territory with its tracks. But in order to represent Mr. Elliott, you also need to know more than the premise of my series. You need to be aware of how many books I’ve got planned, what the timeline is for production, and how much I’m paid. The details of my obligation. Do you really think you can pull it off?”
Her father shifted in his chair. “There is a lot to impersonating you, but I’ll devote myself to learning it all over the next few days if it would help you.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Rosemary’s stomach unclenched, and the food in front of her suddenly became appealing. She sniffed the fragrance of the meal with gusto.
“When did you say the meeting was to take place?” Halwyn asked, just as she picked up a forkful of succulent roast beef.
“It’s in two days, Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock.”
Halwyn turned to his father. “But you can’t possibly attend on Wednesday. That’s the exact time of the monthly board meeting at the bank.”
George smacked his forehead with his hand. “Of course. How could I have forgotten?” His eyes went to his daughter. “I’m sorry, dear, but I’m going to have to retract my offer.”
Rosemary placed her fork back on the table. The beef again resembled shoe leather in her mind. There was no way out except to expose herself. Unless she could think of something else; really fast.
Several minutes later, Rosemary glanced up from the unappetizing food as Grace weakly called to her husband. Grace’s face had turned even more pale than usual, and Rosemary sensed alarm in her voice.
“Halwyn, I think we’d better head home and call the midwife. My water just broke.”
A flurry of activity followed, as Charlotte rose from the table and called for the butler, barking out orders for a carriage to be brought around to the front of the house as soon as possible, and for another person to deliver a message to the midwife. Saffron jumped around the room in her excitement, and insisted on accompanying Halwyn and Grace back to their home, along with Charlotte. In a few minutes, they were on their way for the drive of several blocks to Halwyn and Grace’s stately townhouse. George decided to retire to his library for the remainder of the evening. Valerian quickly finished his meal and left the house to spend some time with his horse in the carriage house behind the main home before heading to bed. The commotion evaporated as everyone departed, and quiet once again fell over the house.
Rosemary sat in silence. While she was happy for Halwyn and Grace, she had n
ever been more alone than at that very moment. All the focus was on the happy couple and the new birth about to take place. Rosemary’s plight, and her future, was forgotten in the chaos. The real reason for the dinner, at least in her mind, was to find a solution to her problem. But it had been overshadowed by the untimely insistence of Halwyn and Grace’s child to be born tonight.
Tears smarted at her eyes, and she blinked them away as she continued to sit at the now-vacant table. Cook’s great food was going cold and congealing, napkins were thrown on top of the plates, the padded chair where Grace had been sitting showed a water mark, and there was a puddle on the floor. Rosemary put her head in her hands. Now what was she to do? She might be able to ignore one request for an interview with the new publisher—plead illness or some such—but Halwyn would not now be coerced into helping her. Even if she could get around his initial objections to her duplicity, he was only hours away from being a first-time father. He would be absolutely over the moon about his child, as he should be. But where did that leave her?
Rosemary ran her fingers lightly over the linen tablecloth, arranging the bread crumbs into a neat little pile as she pondered what steps to take next. Her wine glass had been untouched during the meal, so she raised it to her lips and took a healthy sip. She rolled the liquid around in her mouth before she swallowed, basking in the fine fruitiness of the drink.
Her father had offered his assistance, but with Halwyn now about to take a few days off from the bank to celebrate with his wife and new baby, Rosemary didn’t want to burden her father with her problems. The scent of wax assaulted her nostrils as the candles in the center of the table flickered and died.
The same could be said about her career. She drained the rest of the wine before she stood. Some serious thinking needed to be done. She could not let this new publisher get the best of her and Harry Hawk.
CHAPTER THREE
“What are you doing, Screaming Eagle?” Harry tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
“Her father is running the railroad through Sioux land.”
“And by kidnapping his daughter, you think he’ll sit down and smoke a peace pipe with you?”
The Indian tossed back his long, straight, black hair and tightened his hold on the woman. Harry’s grip on his gun tightened as well when her whimper reached his ears.
Rosemary rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. She whimpered, much as her heroine had done in the passage she’d just written. She was to meet with her new publisher in a matter of hours, and she still had no solution other than to confess there was no Mr. Elliott. She was aware of the Brahmin Bostonians, and their ways. They traced their roots back to the original founding fathers of the country, and considered themselves “enlightened” in the arts. She huffed. Even in their “enlightened” states, she highly doubted they’d welcome a female author into their midst. Whatever was she to do?
Her gaze lifted from the words on her sheet of paper. Bosh! She shook her head to clear it of the nonsense that threatened her every movement. She was no whimpering damsel in distress! If anything, the tables were turned the exact opposite. It was her job to save Harry Hawk. To make certain all his stories could be told for years to come. That he could continue to sling his gun in the wild country known as Texas. Or anywhere else in the West. Wherever she wanted to place her stories. There were other publishers in town, and she didn’t need to impress this Mr. Cooper fellow. She should unmask herself and make no excuses for her pen name.
And if the world were a just place, that would be fine. Women would be accepted as authors in the same manner as men. But this was 1859, she reminded herself. Yes, there was Jane Austen, and more recently Harriet Beecher Stowe and a handful of others, but a woman finding success as a dime novel writer? With topics such as the wild American west, mountain lions, guns, Indians? She hardly thought so, even if she took up the habit of chewing tobacco and dressed as a man. Still, Harry was depending on her.
She hung up her pinafore and left the garret since no more writing would be accomplished today. And until she was assured her contract would be renewed, there wasn’t much sense in continuing with her story. She left Harry and Penelope, the name she’d decided on for the daughter of the railroad boss, behind and descended one flight to the floor of the house where the bedrooms were located.
In her room, she opened her armoire and hastily pawed through the available dresses, searching for something appropriate to wear to the interview with her new publisher. Her fingers stopped when she touched the soft flannel of her favorite gray skirt. It had been worn so much, the skirt was a bit shabby, but Rosemary couldn’t let go of it. An idea popped into her head. What if she dressed as a working-class woman? One who didn’t have the money to buy new clothing just because what she had was showing signs of wear? She could claim to be Mr. Elliott’s secretary! She could tell the new owner it was her job to transcribe Mr. Elliott’s hen scratches into readable stories, which was why she had such vast knowledge about each story. She also could be responsible for taking care of his correspondence, that kind of thing. Her brainstorm might just work! Why hadn’t she thought of this solution before? Rely on herself rather than on the men in her family? Dear F.P. could be a recluse, preferring his garret to any type of social involvement, and she could be his public mouthpiece, speak on his behalf. She could pull it off, keeping the author’s true identity locked in the garret for all time! She bounced from one foot to the other as her idea took shape.
The more she pondered posing as a secretary, the more appealing it became. It was a perfect solution. Much better than confessing who she really was at her first meeting with the new publisher. Much better than dressing as she normally would for a day out on the town. A highbred young lady wouldn’t be involved in manual labor, even if it were secretarial. Yes, the ruse might work. She quickly pulled the gray skirt from the armoire, paired it with a fairly plain white blouse, added a dark gray sash around the waist, and picked a simple straw hat from the shelf. If she pulled her hair into a chignon, and dressed in the ensemble she put together, she would indeed resemble a secretary going about her business. And gloves. She needed them to cover up her perpetually ink-stained fingers. It might fit into her plans to have her ink-stained fingers visible to the new publisher, but for the sake of the general public, it was not necessary to draw attention to them. She’d just make certain to remove the gloves at her meeting. Her excitement grew as she assembled her outfit on the counterpane of her bed. Ladies of business dressed themselves. She’d leave her lady’s maid in the basement, where she was working on the laundry, and avoid the pointed questions she’d surely have. Rosemary grinned at the clothing on the bed and clapped her hands together. Definitely a lady of business.
And her business today involved duping old Mr. Cooper. She would become Phoebe Wyatt, a niece of the reclusive Mr. Elliott who hadn’t left his garret in years. She had always loved the name Phoebe. Her fertile imagination spun out a background for herself. Orphaned, taken in by the Elliott family, the least she could do to pay back their kindness was to work with the uncle no one ever laid eyes on. Especially since she loved books and reading. Yes, her manufactured story could work. She was one of her new publisher’s best authors, even if he didn’t yet know it, so if she couldn’t weave an elaborate tale, no one could. She’d be able to pull the wool over the doddering Mr. Cooper’s eyes. Or, in this case, flannel. She had been dreading their meeting since she’d received the letter. Now, she could hardly wait for it.
• • •
Rosemary stopped when she got to the main floor of the house, surprised to see her mother in the drawing room. Drat! She had thought she could escape the house undetected.
“Where are you headed, Rosemary, dressed in such an outfit?”
Rosemary took a seat opposite her mother, and wrung her gloved hands together. “My meeting with Mr. Cooper is this afternoon, and after the dinner the other night when little Georgie decided to make his appearance, I realized I was
on my own. So I’ve decided my best course of action is to impersonate Mr. Elliott’s secretary. But only until I can determine the true nature of Mr. Cooper. If he’s an enlightened sort, I’ll reveal myself to him soon enough. But right now, I can’t take the risk.” She heaved a great sigh after she pleaded with her mother for understanding.
Her mother pursed her lips together before she answered. “I think it’s a brilliant plan, my dear.”
“You do?”
“Well, you know how much our family loves to have its little secrets and to have fun with society. So, yes, I’d say it’s a good, solid plan. If Mr. Cooper turns out to be a truly enlightened nineteenth-century gentleman, such as your father, you can reveal yourself to him at an appropriate time. If not, you can continue to pose as Mr. Elliott’s secretary. It would explain how you have all the details about the characters, the contracts with the publisher, obligations still owed, and all the rest. I figured, sooner or later, you’d come up with a perfect solution.”
“All right, then. Thank you, Mother, for being behind me in my little secret. I guess I should quit stalling and get over to the office. It’ll be the first time I’ve actually set foot inside it.”
“But you know where it is, right? Should someone go with you?”
“Yes, I know where it is. Actually, it’s not too far from here. A good walk. And no, I don’t want anyone to come with me. In order to pull off the deception of a perfect working-class secretary, I must show up by myself, don’t you think? I’ve been by the place before, anyway. I wanted to see where my books were being printed. But now I get to go inside. I’m excited. And a little bit nervous.”
“And who knows? Maybe Mr. Cooper will turn out to be a handsome single man.”
Rosemary ran her hands down her soft flannel skirt. “Mother, please. One thing at a time. I’ll find a husband when the time is right. For now, I need to salvage my career. The only man in my life right now is Harry Hawk. And he’s depending on me.”
