by Becky Lower
Dorcas ran over to help and, in a few minutes, the runaway ink was cleared up. She glanced at the towel in dismay. “Well, I guess this goes to the rag pile now. I’m sorry, Rosemary.”
“Why in the world would you drop your book? You know the rules by now. I must have absolute quiet in the mornings while I write.”
“Because this is not a usual morning. You fainted last night upon being introduced to the divine Mr. Cooper, and I want to know why. Have you met him before? And why did he think you were someone else? Your family rushed you away from the ball so quickly, I couldn’t ask any questions. And I’m dying to know.”
Rosemary smiled. Her friend loved melodrama, just as she did. Which was why she allowed Dorcas to read her books even before she delivered them to the publisher. Except now the melodrama had leapt off the pages and was being played out in real life.
“I guess I do need to offer some kind of explanation. Yes, I do know Mr. Cooper. He’s taken over the publishing house from Mr. Page.”
“Ooh, so he’s your new boss? How lucky can one girl get?”
“But therein lies the trouble. He thinks F.P. Elliott is a man, just as Mr. Page did.”
“So? If Mr. Page didn’t figure it out for the past three years, why do you think Mr. Cooper will?”
“Because while Mr. Page was content to correspond with the authors by the post, Mr. Cooper is insisting on meeting each one in person. So I decided to stall him a bit by pretending to be Mr. Elliott’s secretary. I’ve had a few meetings with him over the past weeks, but he still is insisting on a face-to-face with the author. And now I’ve been exposed. He no longer will believe I’m a secretary.”
“Well, this sounds as if the plot came from one of your stories. What name did you give yourself when you posed as a secretary?”
“I was Phoebe Wyatt. I’ve always been partial to the name Phoebe.”
“Well, there you go. Once your Harry Hawk story is finished, you can write about Phoebe’s perils. Maybe she can be a gunslinger in the Wild West, passing herself off as a man …”
Rosemary raised an eyebrow at her friend. “I think you should leave the writing to me, Dorcas. You’re a better reader than a writer.”
“Oh, I don’t know. My idea has some merit. Think about it. The Perils of Phoebe has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Dorcas settled back into her corner. “So, do you think you’ll hear from Mr. Cooper anytime soon?”
“I fully expect him to show up here this afternoon. He wasn’t given an explanation for my duplicity, and he needs to understand why I posed as Phoebe Wyatt.”
“Just wait until he figures out you’re really the author he’s wanting to see. Talk about duplicity. He’s only beginning to unravel your secret life.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of. But I hope I can keep my true identity from him until he realizes how valuable I am to his company.”
Dorcas sighed. “Maybe he’ll fall in love with you. Then it won’t matter.”
Rosemary arched a brow at her friend. “I don’t think that’s a possibility. But let’s change the subject. I’ll get no more writing done today since you’ve spilled my ink supply. Let’s talk about the cotillion instead. Did you meet any interesting men last night? Did you want to faint as well and make a fool of yourself, as I did, with anyone?”
“Well, now that you mention it, after you left, I did meet someone. Although you were so frazzled, I doubt you’ll have any recollection of the new doctor in town, the one who gave you the smelling salts.”
Rosemary settled back in her seat at her desk. “I remember the smelling salts, but not much more. So, do tell. Spill the beans instead of my ink. Is this new doctor a handsome man? Did he speak to you after I left?”
Dorcas began to relate the events of the debutante ball after Rosemary had departed. Rosemary listened with half an ear to her friend, thankful to turn the conversation away from Henry Cooper. But her stomach knotted since she was well aware he’d show up at the house this afternoon, demanding the truth. Various explanations ran through her head while Dorcas rambled on. Obviously, making Henry fall in love with her––Dorcas’s solution—wasn’t going to work. Rosemary weighed the options left to her. She’d have to see where her afternoon’s conversation with Henry led before she decided on her next course of action. And she was certain there’d be a conversation.
• • •
Henry stood in front of the Fitzpatrick brownstone and rapped on the door. He had not been invited, true, but he was owed an explanation, and he was certain he would be admitted. A simple query to the Cabots had revealed where the Fitzpatrick residence was located, and Henry had wasted no time in finding his way. The butler answered the door, took his card, gave him a haughty glare, and left him to stand outside in the cold April air while he announced Henry’s presence.
He blew on his hands to warm his fingers while he waited. He turned from the door and followed the movement of several carriages as they made their way down the cobbled street in front of the house. New York City was abuzz with people on their way to meetings and businesses. Even in the few minutes he was left standing on the doorstep, the traffic in front of the Fitzpatrick home increased.
The fact Phoebe Wyatt and Rosemary Fitzpatrick, or Rosemary Elliott, were one and the same still astounded him. Why would she need to put up a façade in order to deal with him? He hoped today’s meeting would clear things up. If he was in fact admitted to the home, which was still uncertain. He hopped from one foot to another in an attempt to stay warm.
Finally, the door reopened, and the butler escorted him inside, took his coat and hat, and placed him in the empty parlor.
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick will be down shortly.” The butler’s words came out clipped and stilted. He turned in much the same manner as his speech and left Henry alone. But not before giving him another haughty glare. Henry waited, thankful for the warmth the empty room offered, but thinking the butler had severely overstepped his bounds. The chill of his disdain for Henry threatened to take away any warmth the room offered.
Henry paced the room as his nerves overtook him. Just who was Phoebe, or Rosemary, anyway? He had been developing feelings for the woman. Now he didn’t know who she was, on the most basic of levels. Was she the working-class secretary, or was she from high society? Would his opinion of her change if she were one or the other? Did any of it really matter, anyway? He was certain that, whatever her social standing, she would fit neatly in his arms, and her lips would be soft and sweet. He had no wish to see Mrs. Fitzpatrick today. He wanted to be alone with Phoebe. Or Rosemary.
His musings were interrupted as Mrs. Fitzpatrick entered the room, followed by Phoebe. Or possibly Rosemary. Henry turned toward the women, hoping his disappointment with a chaperone wouldn’t be noticed. From the mere presence of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he got the message that he was in the room with Rosemary, the young lady of society who required a chaperone everywhere she went. Phoebe Wyatt was no longer. She had only been an apparition. Henry blew out a breath softly, already missing the spirited Miss Wyatt.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Cooper.” Charlotte Fitzpatrick extended her hand to him. “You’re early, and we don’t have tea ready yet, but we were expecting you at some time today. You are owed an explanation about last evening. Please take a seat.”
Henry bowed over her hand before he lowered himself into an upholstered chair and then flashed a glance at Phoebe. Rosemary. How long would it take him to remember to call her by her real name? She seemed nervous, and her tongue dashed out to moisten her lips. Just as she had done the other day in his office. The very lips he’d just been thinking about. His body stiffened at the sight, and he stifled a groan. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for seeing me with no advance notice, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and Miss Wyatt. Or should I say Miss Fitzpatrick? Or is it Miss Elliott?”
He caught Rosemary’s grimace, as the younger lady opened her mouth to speak.
“I owe you an apology, Mr. Cooper. That I wil
l readily admit to. I have been masquerading as a secretary. I am not Phoebe Wyatt, but rather I am Rosemary Fitzpatrick, a member of this household, and a debutante.”
“Why would you invent such a ruse?”
She shifted in her seat. “Because I could sense you weren’t ready to meet F.P. Elliott. Or at the very least, F.P. wasn’t ready to meet you. It was the only way I could think of to comply with your request for a formal introduction with the author.”
“So the gentleman from last night wasn’t Mr. Elliott, either? The man Mrs. Fitzpatrick called George?”
Rosemary pleated her soft lilac skirt with her fingers and lowered her eyes to her lap. Henry noticed that even though Rosemary was wearing a modest day dress, it was far superior in construction and fabric than the attire she wore when she posed as Phoebe Wyatt. He lamented the loss of the straw hat.
“No, sir, he was not Mr. Elliott. The man who tried to pose as Mr. Elliott last night is my father. He is not an author, but rather a banker. He was going to adopt the ruse of F.P. in order to meet the ridiculous rules you have stipulated, since the real F.P. is not currently available. My father is aware of how much the author wants to continue the contract with your company.”
Ridiculous rules? Perhaps spunky Phoebe had left the premises, but spirited Rosemary seemed to have taken her place. “But certainly such a farce is no longer needed. I’m here, at your home, where I assume the great F.P. is hiding out in one of the upper rooms. I can meet him on his turf. Surely, even the most reclusive of people wouldn’t object to a five-minute interview under those conditions.”
Henry caught the quick exchange of eye contact between Rosemary and her mother. Rosemary’s eyes darted from her mother to the window, to her lap again, and then to Henry. He sat patiently, waiting for an answer, still wondering what in the hell was going on in this peculiar household.
“Oh, good, tea’s arrived.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick rose as the teacart was wheeled into the room. “How do you take yours, Mr. Cooper?”
“With a dash of milk, please,” he answered. Mrs. Fitzpatrick fussed with the cups of tea, seeming to take an inordinate amount of time doing so. The silence became a fourth presence in the room.
His eyes moved back to Rosemary, annoyed she had found an extra measure of time to invent yet another excuse.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper, but Uncle Frank just took some pain medication and has retired for an afternoon nap.”
Henry’s body reacted as if he was in the middle of a long fencing match. He’d just been dealt a riposte, following his attack. He decided to retreat, for now at least, and to attempt to harness the rip of anger coursing through his body.
“Touché, Miss Fitzpatrick.” To be polite, he drank some of the tea and then stood, the ladies rising with him.
“I will take my leave, since I’m getting nowhere here today. I will remind you there will be no contract extended to the author without a face-to-face meeting, regardless of how long it is postponed. But I will caution you, Miss Fitzpatrick, my father wants my report as soon as possible on which authors to keep. And I’m assuming F.P. Elliott wants to remain on the roster at Cooper and Son Publishing. I’d hate for this apparent stumbling block to be his downfall.”
Henry’s eyes flitted over the young woman’s physique briefly. He decided to switch topics, to throw her off balance a bit. “Have you any interest in swordplay, Miss Fitzpatrick?”
Her startled glance amused him. “What? You mean fencing, as you were doing the other day?”
“Exactly. It’s much better to have a real opponent rather than merely an imaginary one. And I feel you’d be a worthy adversary.”
Henry caught the spark of interest in her eyes. “You’d be willing to teach me? What do I need to do?”
“Borrow some boy’s clothing and come to my office tomorrow morning. And since you’re no longer a working-class woman, I’ll expect you to bring along a chaperone. The first lesson will be no longer than an hour.”
Henry retrieved his coat and hat and left the brownstone. He was eager for the following day to arrive. Rosemary was an excellent wordsmith and could counter and parry with him verbally. That much he already was well aware of. But how would she be with a real sword in her hands? He couldn’t wait to find out.
• • •
“That went well, don’t you think?” Charlotte Fitzpatrick clapped her hands together, eliminating the silence that had pervaded the room since Mr. Cooper had so abruptly taken his leave.
“No, I don’t, Mother. Things are coming to a head much more quickly than I anticipated. I must do something. I can’t continue to delude Mr. Cooper.”
“But we’ve just cleared up everything. You’ve told him you’re not Phoebe Wyatt, but rather someone in his social strata, someone he may now consider wooing, and that your father is, in fact, your father, and not F.P. Elliott. I think our discussion went extremely well.”
Rosemary stared in amazement at her mother. “Have you forgotten the reason for all the deception in the first place? Who F.P. Elliott really is? I haven’t yet revealed the biggest duplicity of all. That F.P. and I are one and the same.”
Her mother tapped her finger to her cheek. “Ah, yes, I did manage to forget such a little detail. But he has offered to teach you fencing. I’m sure the proper time to tell him will happen while you’re learning to handle a sword. Just think of it. You’ll be able to spend more time with Mr. Cooper as he teaches you fencing, which I assume is one of his hobbies. You’ll be creating lasting memories together.”
“I may use the sword to slit my wrists if I can think of no good way to explain who the author really is. Little detail, my foot.”
Her mother tried to lighten the mood. “I think it will be loads of fun to learn fencing, don’t you? I’ve always admired the grace and athleticism of a pirate.”
Rosemary stood, and shook her head. “And when have you ever crossed paths with a pirate, Mother? Yes, that’s just what I want. To become a pirate. Maybe it’s the solution to my dilemma. I’ll jump aboard the next ship that comes into New York’s harbor and become a pirate.” She cast one last withering glance at her mother. “I’m going to head to the garret and write for a while. I didn’t get much accomplished this morning.”
A pirate, indeed. Her mother certainly had a maddening way of picking up on the most insignificant detail and overlooking the big picture. Rosemary climbed the stairs as she thought. There were no pirates in her dime novels. They were westerns, with cowboys and Indians and wild animals and damsels in distress. There was no room for pirates. But her Harry Hawk story was set in Texas, and it was close to the Spanish Main, where so many pirates roamed in the early part of the century. What if the damsel was to find herself at the end of a sword rather than at the end of a gun? Hmmm. Perhaps her fencing lessons could be used in her story, after all.
She took her pinafore from its hook on the door, donned it over her lilac day dress, and settled in behind her desk before taking a deep breath, pushing aside all thoughts of her precarious predicament. She took out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped her pen in the new bottle of ink and sat for a moment, remembering where she had last left her hero. She closed her eyes, waiting for her muse to enter the room so she could begin to compose the next installment of Harry Hawk’s story.
Henry Cooper’s face slid into her line of vision instead. His head of dark hair, tied back so properly into a queue, his snapping eyes when he didn’t get the answers he was searching for, that mouth of his pursed in thought. She let her mind drift. If he were to let down his hair, so it swirled about his face in the wind as he stood on the bow of a ship, if his eyes snapped as he used his sword as if it were a body part, slaying his foes left and right, if he turned and pressed himself and his tender lips up against her in triumph once he had vanquished his enemies ...
A moan of desire escaped her as she imagined the scene. Finally, she would be able to wrap her arms around him and feel the sculpted body lurking beneath his clothing. She would ret
urn his kiss, capturing his bottom lip between her teeth, and teasing it as she feasted on him as if he were a confection for her to devour. She sucked, she taunted, she could not control her body as she responded to his touch …
Rosemary’s eyes opened in a flash, and she gasped as the vision of the pirate who resembled Henry took shape in her head. Ah, yes, what a brilliant idea! Her pen flew across the page as her heroine, Penelope, was spirited away by a pirate. She’d need to pay close attention to her fencing lesson tomorrow so she could get the terminology and the moves correct. Penelope was going to fall in love with either a pirate or a cowboy. She’d let Penelope make her own decision.
Her senses were still jangling from her vivid, imagined encounter with Henry when she stilled her pen and took a breath. What if her mother was right this time? Her mother’s record as a matchmaker may have been off with Ginger and Jasmine, but she had been uncannily accurate with Heather and Halwyn. What if Henry’s offer to teach her how to fence was merely a ruse so he could spend more time with her? What if he were interested in courting her now that he realized she was a respectable member of society?
Somehow, she thought tomorrow’s fencing lesson could be the start of a new phase of her life. Perhaps her debutante ball had been a fiasco, but it didn’t mean she’d have to sit on the sidelines all season while her friends paired up and began to plan their weddings. She wasn’t the first young lady to have fainted at a dance, but she would overcome her initial setback if it were the last thing she ever did. And she could think of no better way to overcome her debacle of a debut than to capture the interest of the man who’d caused her to faint. What a story it would be to tell their children! But she was getting ahead of herself. He hadn’t even expressed an interest in her yet. In fact, he had firmly rejected her when she had thought he was going to kiss her.
Rosemary’s mind swirled with questions. Questions having nothing to do with her story. She set down her pen and thought about how things would change if they should spend time together socially, instead of under the guise of business. It would be totally acceptable since he was a Boston Brahmin, despite his appearance, and she was a member of one of New York’s best families. If Henry were to become interested in her as a potential life partner instead of merely a business partner, would he be more accepting of the fact she was masquerading behind a pen name? Maybe Dorcas’s idea wasn’t so farfetched. It was worthy of consideration.
