“No, Harry.” Without cocaine, writing made him feel as if he were a fly drowning in treacle. “That play, that stupid, silly play, was the last thing I’ll ever write. I’m tired.” He slumped back in his chair. “So damned tired.”
Harry clasped his hands together on the desk top. “I never give advice to my writers because it’s usually a waste of breath. But in this case, I shall offer it anyway. Humor me for a change and take it.” He paused, and when he spoke again, there was a gravity in his voice Sebastian couldn’t ignore. “Stop flogging yourself for a few less-than-perfect stories. Stop taking the counsel of your doubts.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Stop avoiding your typewriter. Sit down and start work. The story will come.”
“There is no story. And I don’t give a damn about inventing one. That’s the trouble, you see. I just don’t care.”
“Sebastian, the only way to overcome something like this is by doing it. You have to sit down every day and write. Even if you think it’s god-awful, which—let’s be honest—is what you always think, write anyway. One word, then another, then another, until you have a book.”
“Damn it, are you deaf, man? There is no book. There isn’t ever going to be another book. I have nothing to say.”
“A writer always has something to say. You’re just not sitting down at your typewriter long enough to know what it is.” He frowned, looking thoughtful. “Have you ever thought about taking on a partner? About working with another writer?”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “No, no, no. I don’t collaborate. Writing is something one does alone.”
“You wouldn’t have to collaborate on the actual writing. Listen to me for a moment,” he added as Sebastian once again started to protest. “I know you writers. I know how this sort of thing goes. You sit down, it’s hard, you struggle, you give up. You try again, it’s even harder, you struggle, you give up. Each time it becomes more difficult to sit down in that chair. Discouragement sets in like dry rot, and before you know it, years have gone by and you haven’t written a thing.”
“Thank you for reiterating the past few years of my life.”
Harry ignored that. “A partner would encourage you to keep trying, would see that you don’t walk away every time things get difficult, and help you see the good in your work when you believe there is none. You could do the same for him. The pair of you could offer each other criticism and advice, toss ideas around when you’re stuck, that sort of thing.”
Sebastian knew some writers sought the help of their peers, but he wasn’t made that way. For him, writing was a long, hard strenuous climb alone, a climb he no longer had the strength to make. Harry would eventually have to accept that.
“I don’t need a partner.” He pulled out his watch. “What I need,” he went on, forcing a lightness into his voice he was far from feeling, “is lunch.”
Harry didn’t seem to hear. “It would have to be someone you can’t bully,” he said, obviously still enamored with his idea. “Someone who won’t go scurrying off like a frightened mouse every time you lose your temper.”
This was becoming irritating. “I do not have a temper!” He shoved his watch back into his waistcoat pocket, scowling. “Do you wish to dine with me, or not?”
“Dine?” Harry stared at him for a moment, then shook his head as if coming out of a daze. “Yes, of course,” he said and stood up. “By all means.”
They dined at the Savoy, and much to Sebastian’s relief, Harry left off any conversation about writing during their meal. Instead, they discussed politics, possible winners for the upcoming Ascot, and the exciting potential of that recent scientific invention called X-rays as they consumed an excellent meal of lamb cutlets and apple tart.
When Sebastian departed, he left Harry to pay the entire bill. Even though he hadn’t produced a book in four years, and he had no intention of producing one in the future, he felt no pang of conscience about it. Publishers, in his opinion, never paid enough for the books. Providing lunch to their poverty-stricken authors was the least they could do.
Chapter 4
If you wish to be a writer, write!
Epictetus
Daisy felt her meeting with Lord Marlowe had gone well. The viscount had made no mention of her blistering review of his most famous author, and he had accepted her novel, The Withering Moon, with an enthusiasm she found most encouraging. Though the encounter with Sebastian Grant had been most disagreeable, Daisy had departed Marlowe Publishing filled with high hopes.
During the week that followed, she worked on her writing with the utmost zeal and dedication. In the hope that Marlowe might like her latest novel enough to ask for more of her work, she pulled out her older manuscripts, chose one, and tucked it into a leather dispatch case she’d borrowed from her sister. She then returned her remaining manuscripts to the recesses of the drawer where she’d kept them, tried to stop any further speculations as to what Lord Marlowe’s opinion would be, and resumed the writing of her current novel. As she sat at the cramped writing desk in her bedroom and scribbled pages, she felt a sense of happiness and conviction she’d never felt before, and more strongly than ever, she felt being a writer was her destiny.
Despite this conviction, by the day of her second meeting with the viscount, she was a bundle of nerves. As an omnibus took her into the City, apprehension began to overtake her happiness and excitement, and she attempted to quell her doubts and fears with dreams of success. She dreamed of publication, notoriety, and critical acclaim. She dreamed of the day when she could hold out a copy of her first published book to Lucy, thereby presenting to her sister with tangible proof that she could succeed at something. She wanted that more than anything else.
By the time she reached Marlowe Publishing, Daisy’s nervous excitement was like a huge, glistening bubble inside her that pressed painfully against her chest. The viscount received her with even more charm and friendliness than he had displayed before, and as she sat down opposite him, watching him over the stacks of manuscripts that littered his desk, Daisy suddenly felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
“I have read the novel you gave me,” he said, gesturing to a particular stack of pages on the desk.
With those words, Daisy’s usual sunny optimism deserted her. She clasped her gloved hands together in her lap so tightly her fingers ached. “And?” she whispered, her heart in her throat.
“I’m pleased to tell you that you have a natural talent, Miss Merrick.”
That eased her apprehension a little.
“Your story is unique and interesting, and I liked its premise very much.” he went on. “Your work shows great promise.”
Her spirits began to soar.
“You have a great deal to learn, however,” he added before she could savor the happiness of the moment. “I’m afraid your story is too raw for immediate publication. I’m sorry.”
Her bubble burst. She watched in a haze of sinking hopes as Lord Marlowe picked up her manuscript and held it out to her over the top of the desk. She stared at it for a moment, stunned, wanting to deny that this had happened, and at the same time, berating herself for having been so unrealistic in her expectations. She forced herself to take the stack of pages from him, then she ducked her head, trying to shove down her disappointment and think of something to say. “Are there…”
Her throat closed up. She paused and swallowed hard before trying again to speak. “Are there any constructive suggestions you can offer me?” she asked, the pages in her lap blurring before her eyes. “Have you any advice as to how I can do better?”
“I’ve included a summary of my thoughts for you,” he said in a gentle voice.
She blinked several times to clear the blurriness of tears from her vision, and saw that there was a typewritten letter signed by the viscount on top of her manuscript. Part of her wanted to read the letter right then, for she burned to know what she had done wrong, but another part of her wanted to shove it all into the closest fire she could find and neve
r try again. “I look forward to reading your comments.” She opened the case and tucked the manuscript in beside the older one, the one he would probably never read now.
“I hope you find my evaluation useful,” he said as she closed the case. “If you are willing to learn, if you keep writing and strive to improve, I have no doubt you will become an accomplished author one day.”
Daisy’s hands stilled, and she couldn’t help remembering her assurances to Sebastian Grant in this very room that she would take any criticism in the proper spirit and learn from the experience. How he would laugh if he knew of this.
Still, she was no humbug. She intended to live up to her own words. Daisy took a deep breath and lifted her head, doing her best to conceal her disappointment.
“Thank you, my lord. I am most grateful for your time and your consideration.”
“Not at all. And I would be glad to read your future work.”
That was a bit of a comfort, but not much. “I appreciate that,” she mumbled and started to rise, but his next words stopped her.
“My wife tells me you are without a suitable employment situation at present.”
Daisy sank back down in her seat and felt her cheeks begin to burn at the reminder of her present circumstances. “Yes.”
“She also tells me that you have been in this sort of difficulty before, mainly due to your talent for speaking your mind. Do you believe that to be an accurate assessment? Forgive me,” he added at once, “but though these questions may seem intrusive, I have my reasons for asking them.”
Daisy forced herself to answer. “Yes, I fear I am far too frank in my opinions for my own good.” She tried to smile. “No doubt you have already observed that particular weakness in my character for yourself, my lord. So has Lord Avermore, I fear.”
Marlowe smiled back at her, appreciating this reference to the incident in his office the week before. “I assure you, I do not consider outspokenness a weakness. As for Avermore, it’s good for him to be knocked back on his heels once in a while. He’s too arrogant by half. The worst things anyone can do are pander to him or pamper him.” The viscount fell silent and leaned back in his chair, tapping a pencil against the desk and studying her for several moments before he spoke again. “Your review makes it clear you’ve read his other works.”
Daisy stared. “Of course I have. All of them. He’s written some wonderful books. Teeth of the Storm. The Bishop’s Reckoning. And his play The Third Wife—oh, I was on the edge of my seat for the entire performance.”
“But you do not care for his more recent efforts.”
She bit her lip and said nothing. She was trying—she really was—to learn when to keep her mouth closed.
Marlowe picked up a newspaper and read, “Once a lion of English literature, he has chosen to present us with more of the same slick, trivial pabulum that has marked his work for eight years now. This reviewer cannot help but feel saddened that Mr. Grant’s most brilliant work is nearly a decade behind him.’”
Daisy plunged into speech. “When I wrote that, I didn’t know…that is, I didn’t think about how Marlowe Publishing prints his books. Of course you’re angry. You must be, and when we met before, I was sure you would bring it up, but when you didn’t—”
“Miss Merrick, pray do not distress yourself. I knew about the review before it went to press that night. Mr. Tremayne, the editor of the Gazette, placed a telephone call to my home late that evening and read the review to me, asking if I wished him to edit it. I told him not to change a word.”
“You did?”
“I saw the play, Miss Merrick. Your assessment was wholly accurate. Furthermore, Avermore knows it.”
“He does?” Daisy gave an incredulous laugh. “Forgive me if I find that a bit hard to accept.”
“Nonetheless, it’s true.” He paused, then went on, “Though your fictional work is, in my opinion, too raw for you to be immediately published, I have observed certain other qualities in you that interest me greatly.”
Daisy was astonished. “Other qualities?”
“Yes. As we’ve already discussed, you have the extraordinary ability to be frank. I find that refreshing.”
She couldn’t help a rueful smile. “I believe you are the first person who has ever given me that particular compliment.”
He grinned back at her. “I am not surprised. You also have the ability to enunciate your opinions with clarity, a talent you demonstrated when you wrote your review of Avermore’s play. I can appreciate that some people, Lord Avermore among them, might not see that trait of your character as valuable, but I do.” He leaned forward in his chair and tossed aside the pencil. “I have an unusual proposition to offer you. If you accept, you could be of great help to an old friend of mine, and improve your own writing skills at the same time.”
“I’m not sure I understand you, my lord. What exactly are you offering?”
“A job, Miss Merrick. I am offering you a job.”
Sebastian’s dire prediction to his friend Lord Kayne on opening night proved more accurate than either man would have thought possible. The financial backers of Girl with a Red Handbag closed the play after a one-week run. Never had a Sebastian Grant play closed after a mere seven days, but a slate of reviews almost as brutal as that of the Gazette, combined with dwindling ticket sales, had prompted the decision. Rotherstein was furious and blamed Sebastian. Sebastian found it hard to care. Gin, he found, took the sting out of even the most crushing defeat. At least, until the next day.
He was roused from sleep by Abercrombie, who, for some idiotic reason, insisted upon messing about in his rooms with a fireplace poker.
“For heaven’s sake, man, cease banging that thing!” Sebastian muttered, slamming a pillow over his ear. “It’s May. We don’t need a damned fire.”
“Of course not, sir. Sorry, sir.”
To his relief, his valet left off toying with fireplace implements, but Abercrombie had barely departed before Saunders appeared, coming into Sebastian’s bedroom with the ringing announcement, “Morning post’s come, sir.”
Why did people have to shout so? he wondered with a grimace. Unable to work up the slightest interest in his morning’s letters, he grunted, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
But spending his entire day in bed was not to be. He didn’t know how long he slept following Saunders’ departure before his rest was again interrupted, this time by his housekeeper.
“Good morning, sir,” Mrs. Partridge said in her deep, ponderous voice, banging the door wide.
Sebastian jerked, startled by these sounds that had so rudely disrupted his slumber, and opened his eyes. “Yes, Partridge, what is it?”
“Eleven o’clock, sir,” she answered, as if he’d asked the time. “Breakfast has been waiting for you in the dining room, sir, in warming dishes on the sideboard. Cook wants to clear it away, being that it is so late in the day, but I’ve come to inquire as to your wishes.”
His stomach lurched in protest at the mere mention of food. “No breakfast,” he said hoarsely, baffled as to how anyone could think eleven o’clock late in the day. “I just want to be left alone.” He started to roll over, intending to go back to sleep, when his housekeeper spoke again.
“I suspected so, sir. I will have Cook clear the table.”
Sebastian waited for the closing of the door, indicating the housekeeper’s departure, but when that did not happen, he dared to glance at his housekeeper over his shoulder.
This nonverbal cue was sufficient encouragement for Partridge. “Temple and I are waiting to do the rooms, sir.”
He had no idea what “doing the rooms” entailed, but the firmness of the housekeeper’s voice seemed to anticipate no opposition from the mere master of the house, who by lying abed all day was clearly impeding the precise timetable of British household routine. Sebastian, however, didn’t care. “Partridge,” he said, licking his dry lips, “you are an excellent housekeeper, and I appreciate your efficiency. Now, get out.�
��
He watched the formidable housekeeper’s impressive bust heave with disapproval; but she departed without a word, much to his relief. He closed his eyes again and drifted off.
The thunderous gush of water through the drainpipes of the adjoining bath was the last straw. “For the love of God!” he roared, and regretted it at once. The act of shouting sent agonizing pain through his head, and he clamped his hands over the sides of his skull with a groan. Once the pain had subsided, he eased himself to a sitting position.
As if on cue, Abercrombie came in. “Ah, I see you are awake, sir. I am drawing a bath for you.”
“Yes, I comprehended that,” he muttered, pressing his palms to his skull. “Though a pistol might be more to the point.”
“A pistol, sir?”
“So I could rid myself of this beastly headache by blowing my brains out,” he explained as he pushed aside the sheets and stood up, moving with great care.
Despite the slowness of his movements, his valet was as efficient as the rest of his household, and an hour later, Sebastian had bathed, shaved, and dressed. After downing Abercrombie’s special secret remedy for the aftereffects of too much alcohol—a vile concoction of willowbark, peppermint, and various other more mysterious ingredients—Sebastian began to think life might be worth living. Though what he would do to occupy his time for the rest of that life was open to question.
He wandered down to his study, where he encountered Saunders just entering the room with a packing crate. Curious, he followed, and found that crate was not the only one his footman had brought into the room. A dozen or so similar crates littered the floor, along with two steamer trunks. “What’s all this?”
The footman bent to set the wooden crate on the floor. “The last of your things have arrived from Switzerland, sir,” he explained as he straightened. “Mr. Wilton thought you might wish to go through them before we take them to the attic.”
With Seduction in Mind Page 5
