by Becky Lower
“Do sit, Rosemary, so we can discuss your situation as normal adults. You’re acting as if you’re a caged tiger, or something.”
A caged tiger. Hmmm. Her thoughts went to her latest work. How would a caged animal fit into her Harry Hawk story? She did her mother’s bidding and sat once again opposite her, mind awhirl with plot possibilities.
“Rosemary?”
Her eyes blinked, and she came back to the present. “Sorry, Mother. I just drifted for a moment.”
“Tell me your impressions of the man from your meeting with him. Your Mr. Cooper. Is he young? Older? Short? Tall?”
Rosemary bristled and pierced her mother with her gaze. “First, he’s not my Mr. Cooper. And besides, what does physical appearance have to do with the measure of the man?”
Her mother smiled. Just a ghost of a smile, but a smile nonetheless. Rosemary suddenly became very interested in the pattern of the carpet.
Her mother replied, “As you are well aware, a man’s physical presence has little to do with the mind trapped inside the body. But it will help to give me a mental picture of him, so I can know what we’re dealing with.”
Rosemary took a deep breath. “All right, then. He’s a young man, but not too young. Perhaps mid-twenties. The publishing company in Boston belongs to his father, but he’s allowing his son to have control of the dime novel portion of the business. At least that’s what I gathered from our conversation.”
“And his appearance?”
Rosemary shifted again in her seat. His appearance. The most handsome man she’d ever met. No, she couldn’t reveal that to her mother. “He’s tall, probably around six feet or so. His hair is dark, and he ties it back into a queue.”
“Hmmm. Not at all what my image of a Boston Brahmin is. What is his origin?”
Rosemary brought her lips together into a tight line. “I’m not certain, Mother, although he did mention he spent some time in New Orleans. Does it matter?”
Charlotte straightened out the wrinkles in her skirt, brushing her hands over her lap in a casual motion. Rosemary was well aware of what the action signified. It meant her mother was devising a plan. A plan involving her and Henry Cooper. She stood again, and began to pace.
“Will you sit down, child, and talk about this? You’re making me dizzy.”
“Only if you can promise me you have no more subterfuge up your lace sleeve.”
“Oh, do sit, Rosemary, and stop being so dramatic. It’s not as if you’re tied to some railroad track with a train barreling down on you. Your interaction with Mr. Cooper is merely a bump in the road.”
Tied to a railroad track with a train barreling down on you. Her fingers itched for a pen and some paper. Harry would save her. He had to.
“How did you make that determination? A bump in the road, indeed. More like the Grand Canyon out west.”
“However you want to define it, your problem is not the insurmountable mess you make it out to be. If you want to unmask yourself and be known as F.P. Elliott, I see no reason why you shouldn’t. If Mr. Cooper is so rigid in his mannerisms as to turn his back on you when you expose whom the real author is, you can always find another publisher who will take your work. You probably would chafe at working with him if he is so straight-laced, anyway.”
“But I don’t know the man well enough yet to gauge his reaction. Perhaps after another meeting …”
“Tell me, do you know if Mr. Cooper is a married man?”
Rosemary stirred in her chair. “I don’t know for certain, Mother. He didn’t make mention of a wife, but that means little.”
Her mother smiled, and again Rosemary thought her mother’s gaze could pierce through her clothing and to her soul. “Yes, perhaps another meeting with Mr. Cooper would be just what you need.”
Bosh. What nonsense. Her mother could not possibly see right through her.
• • •
The next few days were a wild flurry of activity for Henry. In spite of his initial disdain for his father’s business, he was fascinated by the printing department of his new company, and had spent many hours on the floor with all the heavy presses, inhaling the pleasurable scents of ink and paper, learning how the dime novels were mass produced. He was especially interested in the pictures on the front page of the pocket-sized novels. While the inside pages were all text, which was the most economical way to produce them, the cover usually contained one large, black-and-white picture along with the title. Henry loved watching the illustrators at work on their covers, which took days to finish.
The three illustrators cast a wary eye at Henry every time he appeared on the printing floor. They were well aware this man held their futures in his hands, and Henry tried to brush away their worries.
“Gentlemen, I plan to keep all of you on staff, so put your trepidation aside. I’m here to learn what you do. Please teach me.”
The oldest of the group, a man named Levi, grinned at him. But then, Levi had a perpetual grin on his face, anyway. He was stooped over from his many years as an illustrator, but his touch with his etching equipment was unparalleled. “Be happy to explain. We do a drawing first, on paper, and get it approved before we begin the etching process. We use a soft wood and a tool called a burin.” He held the tool up to Henry for examination. “What we do is carve away the part of the picture that’s to remain white. If a part of the picture has some ink, we create lines in the wood in varying widths to make the ink lighter or darker.” He held up a picture he was working on and circled an area on the image.
“And how long will it take you to finish a picture?”
“Depends on how complicated the picture is. A couple of days, usually.”
“What about adding another color?”
“Well, sir. It would take a different carving, and would be applied separately, over the black.”
“Have you ever done it here in this shop?”
“No, but I’ve seen it done other places. It’s tricky to get the ink laid down in the right place, but it can be done.”
“Well, Levi, as you probably know, the Harry Hawk series is among our most popular, and I’ve been told there’s another story about to be presented to me. I’ve got an idea for the cover of Harry riding on the back of a bison. How hard would it be to create an image similar to what I’m thinking? Possibly with a red banner for the title?”
Levi smiled. “Good old Harry. He’s one of my favorites. I can see him on the back of a burly bison. I’ll work up a couple of ideas for you to take a look at, sir.”
Henry grasped Levi’s curved shoulder. “Great. I hope I can add to the staff down here, maybe update the presses. I’m just now getting a grasp on what works and what needs attention. Carry on, gentlemen.”
As Henry wandered upstairs to his office, he gave some thought to his progression in taking over the company. He had successfully gotten through one round of interviews with all the authors who were currently under contract with Page Books, and had sorted through them, deciding to which he should extend new contract offers. He didn’t appreciate having to deal with Mr. Elliott’s secretary instead of the man himself, but obviously if he was giving thought to the next cover for F.P.’s story, he’d already made his decision about the man’s future with the company. There was no denying his talent. He was exactly the kind of mysterious, reclusive man that came to mind when Henry thought of an author. F.P. Elliott fell into the category of authors to keep. He made a note to himself to remind Miss Wyatt he still needed an official meeting between himself and the elusive Mr. Elliott, preferably this week.
He had yielded parry to the fetching Miss Wyatt during their first interview, and it was now time to counter-attack. He’d change up things between them by paying a visit to her residence unannounced today. She thought she could have the upper hand, to be the one to initiate contact and hold their meetings on her schedule. But her initial attack had fallen short because she had neglected the simple fact he had her address—everything that had transpired between the a
uthor and Mr. Page had been transacted by post. It was time for a riposte. He’d go straight to his target.
With his new course of action in mind, he decided not to wait until the following day to see her, as had been agreed upon. He could read women well enough and sensed she had been intrigued by him. Surely, by now, she should have returned to the office—if not for business, to advance their flirtation. Each day, Henry entered the office convinced she’d show her face—with those beautiful gray eyes. And he’d once again bear witness to her tiny waist. He was certain he could span it with one hand. Yet each day, he returned to his private quarters above the office without having had the benefit of feasting his eyes on the lovely Miss Wyatt. He wanted to see her again. No, he needed to. So today was the day. He’d visit her at home.
Henry grinned as he thought of the expression on poor Miss Wyatt’s face when she answered the door. Not Miss Wyatt. Phoebe. A lovely name.
For a moment, he thought about his father. How would he react if Henry chose a working woman as a wife? He’d be livid. Despite Henry’s appearance, which betrayed his mother’s French heritage rather than his father’s Brahmin side, he was still the heir to his father’s fortune and publishing business. His mother may never have been accepted by Boston society, but Henry would have to be. Begrudgingly, he supposed, but nonetheless. And if he returned to Boston with someone less than a member of high society, his father, and the rest of the Boston Brahmins, would rise up in disgust. The idea intrigued him. His father had done much the same when he’d brought home a beautiful French girl as his wife. Like father, like son.
Henry pawed his way through the various documents in his filing cabinet until he found the folder for F.P. Elliott. He flung open the file and scanned the page, in search of an address. And found it.
Damnation! He hit the top of the cabinet with his hand. A post office box! That was all. No physical address. He could not show up unannounced. The element of surprise was removed from his arsenal. His plan was spoiled. What to do now? Well, then, he’d use the damned post office box number and send a missive to Miss Wyatt, informing her he needed an audience with Mr. Elliott tomorrow or the contract he was going to offer would become null and void.
His grin returned as he thought of how Miss Wyatt’s lovely gray eyes would widen as she read his directive. Or would they narrow in displeasure?
He’d have to wait and see if Mr. Elliott put in an appearance. He hoped Miss Wyatt would take heed of his warning and be able to get the reclusive author out of his office, which he imagined to be a garret in a home somewhere in the city. The thought of being in New York, mere blocks away from Phoebe, he was certain, and not able to see her didn’t sit well with him. He thought of the picture Levi was sketching right now, of Harry Hawk on the back of a giant bison, with one hand over his head. See, he did have news for Mr. Elliott. Only he had no way to get in touch, except the mail. It would have to do, then. He grabbed a sheet of paper, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and began writing.
CHAPTER SIX
The Indian hesitated, then shoved the girl at Harry. “Take her, then. But keep everyone off our land.”
“I can’t promise that, Screaming Eagle. You’re raising a stink with the railroad, when it should be with the government. Not these honest, hard-working men who are just trying to build a railroad.”
“So bring me your chief, and we’ll talk.”
Rosemary took the letter she’d received the previous afternoon to the breakfast table with her. If she had to present the case again to her father, breakfast was usually the best time to do so. She took her place at the table quietly and waited until the maid vacated the room. For a change, they were alone at the table.
“Where’s Mother? And Saffron?”
“They ate earlier, along with everyone else. Charlotte said something about shopping for some last-minute items for your debutante ball Friday evening. So it’s just you and me.”
“Oh, the pesky ball. I do wish Mother would let it drop. I have no interest in going through with it.”
Her father grinned. “You know, Ginger said something very similar to me before she went through her season. And you know how well that ended.”
Rosemary sighed. “But I have a career, which is far more important than finding a mate. The only merit I can find in a cotillion ball and a high season is they give Mother something to focus on. Which is good, especially today. I have something I need to discuss with you, and don’t need the rest of the family to interfere.
She took a bite of a bacon and cheddar biscuit before she continued the discussion. Closing her eyes for the briefest moment, she savored the cheesy goodness of the roll. But she could only afford herself one moment of luxury, as there was serious business to take care of.
“I received a letter from Mr. Cooper yesterday. No, I take it back. It was not a letter so much as a directive.” Rosemary could feel the stirrings of her anger at being told in no uncertain terms what to do. “He said if I don’t produce Mr. Elliott by this afternoon, he’s canceling the contract. And I’ve got one more Harry Hawk story that I haven’t even shown him!”
“So you still want me to play the part of Mr. Elliott for you? I could free myself up for a portion of the afternoon.”
Rosemary smiled the tiniest bit. “Do you think you could pull it off, Papa?”
“I will be the first to admit your mother is better at making people see things her way, but I believe I could pass for Mr. Elliott. After all, you had me check over the contracts before you signed them over the years, so I’m familiar with the legal end of your business. But you’ll have to tell me about your story line. What’s the hero’s name again? Henry? Henry Eagle?”
Rosemary groaned. “No, Papa. Henry is the villain in this case. That’s the name of the new publisher. Henry Cooper. My hero is Harry Hawk, a half-breed.” She placed a hand on either side of her face and shook her head. “Perhaps my plan won’t work after all. Henry Eagle. Indeed.”
Her father smiled and took one of her hands. “I was close, wasn’t I?”
“I’ve molded Harry Hawk after Joseph, and the stories I write are all based on tidbits I get from the letters sent to us from Ginger, Basil, and Heather.”
“I can pull it off then, since I read the same letters. Your sisters and brother do lead exciting lives on the wild frontier, don’t they?”
“And someday, I’ll get to join them in St. Louis. But for now, my source of income is about to dry up unless you can remember our hero’s name.”
“I got it. Harry Hawk. Now, tell me something about Mr. Cooper. Is he an old ogre with a hunchback?”
Rosemary smiled for the first time since she sat, as she pictured Henry’s face on a stooped-over body. “No, Papa, Mr. Cooper is a man in his mid-twenties, I would guess. Tall, dark, and handsome.”
Her father’s quick glance was not lost on her.
“And no, don’t get any ideas. You’re as bad as Mother. I have no interest in him, other than business.”
“All right then, daughter. What time is your meeting with the handsome Mr. Cooper?”
“It’s at two o’clock. I thought I’d come by the bank first and go with you to the meeting.”
“You have this all thought out, don’t you?”
Rosemary smiled, a true smile, finally. “Well, I have had an overnight to come up with a plan. And I am a writer. When someone says to find the man and bring him to them, I can usually figure out a plot device, given enough notice.”
“All right then. I must get to work and get my day started. I’ll see you at the bank around half past one then?”
“I’ll be there. Thank, you, Papa. Mr. Cooper will now have no reason to cancel my contract.”
• • •
Rosemary was straightening out her brown-and-white pinstriped muslin skirt when she caught the sound of the door to the outside opening downstairs and the ensuing soft conversation. She patted her chignon, and picked up her straw hat and her white gloves before she made he
r way to the first floor landing, a bit curious who would come calling in the middle of the day.
She found her father collapsed in a chair in the drawing room. He had sweat pouring from his face but was shivering, as if he were standing outside without a coat in mid-December.
“Papa? I told you I’d meet you at the bank. You didn’t need to come home. But you don’t appear to be well. Whatever is the matter?”
He took hold of her hand and pressed it to his forehead. He was burning up with fever.
“Oh, Papa, we must get you to bed. You’re ill.” Rosemary glanced around for a servant to help her.
“Never you mind, child. I’ve sent Smithers off to find another man to help me to bed. I can’t imagine what is wrong, but it came over me so suddenly. I nearly fainted in the bank before Halwyn got me into the carriage.”
“I’ll stay and take care of you, since Mother’s out at her abolitionist meeting.”
Her father gave her a long and steady gaze, albeit fevered. “You’ll do no such thing. I may have to miss your meeting with Mr. Cooper, but you mustn’t. You can explain that I came down with a sudden illness, which won’t be any stretch of the truth. I don’t see the need for such a charade anyway. Any man with sense today can realize the value of a woman in the work force.”
Rosemary brought a rose-colored afghan from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her father, ignoring the fact the color made her handsome father look ridiculous. “Now, Papa, don’t go getting so riled up. You need some chicken soup and a doctor. Your concentration should be on getting well, not on my troubles with the worrisome Mr. Cooper. I’ll be fine. Can I get you some water?”
Her father nodded and closed his eyes. Rosemary returned to him with a glass just as Smithers returned with another manservant. Her father took a couple sips before he stood and allowed the men to steady him as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, the rose afghan trailing behind him. The head housekeeper, Annie, came up from the basement with some hot broth. Rosemary decided her father was well taken care of before she gathered up her things and left the house.
