“I was mistaken.”
She glanced down. “This is old,” she said with a frown, running the tip of her finger over a curled-up corner. “The paper is yellowed. And it’s handwritten. You type your manuscripts, you said.” She looked up at him again. “When did you write this?”
“What does it matter? It’s a complete novel. There’s a hundred and thirty-five thousand words there, I daresay.”
“But an old manuscript isn’t what Lord Marlowe wanted at all! For your own sake, he wants you to write again.”
“I don’t give a damn what he wants. I have fulfilled my obligation. Take him the book, and tell him I expect to be paid the remaining five thousand pounds due to me under the terms of my contract.”
She hesitated, then gave a sigh of acquiescence. “Very well. I will convey your message to Lord Marlowe.”
As she took the manuscript from his hands, Sebastian was filled with an immediate, overwhelming relief. It was over. He never had to write another word. It was all over.
She didn’t seem to share his view of the matter. Instead of departing, she lingered, staring down at the manuscript in her hands. “Are you—” She broke off and lifted her face to look into his. “What will you do now?”
With that question, Sebastian’s momentary relief disintegrated. The deed was done and no going back. He wasn’t a writer anymore. With that realization, he felt again that yawning emptiness inside. What was he, if not a writer?
He kept his apprehensions hidden. “Good day, Miss Merrick.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then turned away. As he watched her go, he struggled to regain the blissful relief he’d felt moments before, but it was gone.
When she paused at the sofa, he tensed, waiting. Go, he thought with a hint of desperation. For pity’s sake, just go.
Hugging the manuscript to her chest with one arm, she dipped at the knees and picked up her dispatch case with her free hand. She took another step toward the door, but then, she stopped again and turned to look at him over her shoulder.
“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “You have what you wanted. Now, leave. And don’t ever come back.”
She pressed her lips together, gave a little nod, and turned away. She walked out of the room without another word, but her departure brought no relief. The image of her unhappy face lingered in his mind, and her question hung unanswered in the air.
What will you do now?
He hadn’t answered her because there was only one answer, an answer he could not give.
Write another book.
That was the true reason for this emptiness inside him. The only thing he had ever wanted to do was gone forever, and he knew there was nothing on earth that could replace it.
Chapter 7
When I say writing, O believe me,
it is rewriting that I have in mind.
Robert Lewis Stevenson
Dressed for bed, Daisy was sprawled across the rug in her room at Little Russell Street, lying on her stomach in a pool of lamplight, with Sebastian Grant’s manuscript on the wood floor in front of her. Quill, ink, and notepaper were nearby, and she’d made heavy use of them during the past three days, jotting down notes and questions as she waded through his book.
It had been slow going, but she was finished now. She had, in fact, finished quite some time ago. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed its deep, melancholy tones, and she realized to her surprise that she had been staring at the manuscript for over an hour. Rousing herself, she reached for the quill and another sheet of notepaper, intending to jot down her last few thoughts before going to bed. But she hesitated, hand poised over the paper, as the question that had been going through her mind for the past hour echoed yet again.
What if she was wrong?
Daisy gripped the quill tighter in her fingers, trying not to listen to that whisper of doubt, but she couldn’t silence it.
Her own work had been rejected. What made her, or the publisher who had rejected her, for that matter, think she could be of any use to another author?
She glanced at the pile of notes she had compiled during the past few days, and Sebastian Grant’s angry voice shouted through her mind.
Who the hell are you to think your opinion is worth a damn?
Daisy returned her gaze to the blank sheet of paper before her, but instead of writing comments, she began to doodle, idly drawing flowers and stick figures as she pondered his question.
A knock sounded on her door, and Daisy looked up as her sister, also dressed for bed, entered the room.
“Still at work, I see.” Lucy smiled, padding across the bedroom in her stocking feet to place a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “It’s terribly late, dearest.”
“I know. I’ll go to bed soon, I promise.” She drew another squiggle on the page before her.
Lucy bent down and gave a little laugh. “Are you editing the man’s manuscript by the use of Egyptian hieroglyphs?” she asked as she straightened.
“No, it’s just—” She broke off and stopped doodling with a helpless gesture. “I don’t know what to do.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Daisy I know,” Lucy commented in surprise. “You aren’t usually the least bit indecisive.”
“Yes, I know.” She set down her quill with a sigh. “I am always plunging full speed ahead like a transatlantic liner.”
“What’s troubling you?” Lucy settled herself in a nearby chair. “Is the book dreadful? Is that it?”
“It’s not dreadful, but I think it needs a lot of work.”
“And?” Lucy prompted when she fell silent.
“What if I’m wrong?” Daisy gestured to her notes. “I mean, there are heaps of things in this manuscript I think need to be addressed. Plot threads that lead nowhere. Protagonists doing things out of character…” She paused, then added, “But what makes me qualified to tell that to a literary legend?”
“Lord Marlowe believes you to be qualified.”
“Yes, and that is part of what baffles me.” Daisy sat up, hitching her nightgown up enough to cross her legs beneath her. “I mean, three days ago, when Lord Marlowe rejected my book, I was shocked. I hadn’t expected it. Conceited of me, I know—”
“It’s not conceit,” Lucy interrupted. “It’s that confounded optimism of yours. It’s something I’ve often envied, by the way.”
“You have?” Daisy was astonished. “But why?”
“You’re always so confident, dearest. So sure things will turn out well. You have such faith in people.” Lucy pushed her long blonde braid back over her shoulder and hugged her wrapper more closely around her, frowning a little. “I brood and worry, and always assume the worst about everything and everyone.”
“At least nothing ever takes you by surprise. When things don’t turn out the way I think they should, I’m always shocked.”
“True,” Lucy agreed. “Shocked, and hurt, too, I think.”
Daisy tilted her head, resting her cheek on her bent knees as she looked up at her sister. “You’re thinking of Papa, I suppose.”
“Not specifically, no, but our father’s as good an example as any. I remember the look on your face when he came home from Manchester and you realized he was drunk. Heavens, you couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d pulled out a pistol and shot you. Oh, how you hated him for that.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Not for the same reason. I hated him for hurting you. You hated him because he promised to change and you believed in him and he let you down. Nothing is more crushing than unfulfilled expectations.” She gave a sad smile. “I’ve learned to expect nothing from people. That way, I’m never disappointed.”
“I don’t think I could ever be as pragmatic as you.”
“Probably not,” Lucy agreed. “But we’ve wandered from the subject at hand. What’s really troubling you? Was having your book rejected so painful that you’ve lost faith in yourself?”
“Not precisely. It did hurt to have my
novel rejected, and it was a shock, but when Lord Marlowe made the suggestion that I help Avermore, and offered to pay me for it, I agreed at once, but I never thought of what it would entail.” She made a wry face. “The transatlantic liner plunging full speed ahead.”
“You seem to be talking as if your decision to accept Marlowe’s offer was a mistake.”
“What if it was? I didn’t think about it at the time. I was relieved to have an opportunity to do something worthwhile and redeem myself after being rejected, and the idea of having Sebastian Grant read my work and help me to become better…well, I jumped at the chance. And during the past few days, I’ve been fully immersed in reading it and making notes for revision. But now that I’ve finished that and I’m ready to present my opinions, I find myself swamped by doubts.”
She saw her sister start to reply, but she forestalled her. “Marlowe didn’t think my book worthy. In his comments, he said…” She stopped, embarrassed, and cleared her throat. “He said my novel was heavy, too bogged down with descriptions. My pace was slow, and I repeat myself too much.”
She saw Lucy’s compassionate expression, and she tried to smile. “It’s not all bad. He did say these are common mistakes among beginning writers, and I take some comfort in that. Oddly enough,” she added, struck by a sudden realization, “I’m seeing mistakes very similar to mine in Avermore’s novel. Perhaps he wrote it before he ever became published.”
“You think it’s that old?”
“I don’t know,” Daisy said slowly, thinking it out. “It would make sense. The style is much more in keeping with his earlier works than with the silly fluff he’s been producing of late years.” She heaved a sigh. “But what do I know? If I’m not qualified to be a published writer myself, if I am such a beginner that I can’t see and correct the mistakes in my own work, how can I assist a writer who is far more experienced? How can I edit his manuscript? What makes me such a proficient?”
“Marlowe hired you to write a review of Avermore’s play for the sake of expedience, but he did agree with it. He then employed you because he believed the quality of Avermore’s writing has deteriorated and that the man needed to face the truth about it. Marlowe knew you would tell the truth, no holds barred. Quite discerning of him, if you ask me.”
Daisy remained unconvinced. “Perhaps, but—”
“And,” Lucy interrupted, “Marlowe agreed with your subsequent strategy to hold Avermore’s feet to the fire by using his contract as leverage, a strategy that worked. And when you informed him that you acquired a manuscript from Avermore but that it was not the new one he was hoping for, he gave you full authority to edit it as you saw fit and work with Avermore to revise it. So far, I would say your success speaks for itself.”
“Thank you, but—”
“Furthermore, the fact that you can see in Avermore’s work what you cannot see in your own demonstrates exactly why Marlowe is right. You and the earl can help each other.”
“It was his face,” Daisy blurted out.
“What?” Lucy blinked, uncomprehending. “Marlowe’s face?”
She shook her head. “No, Avermore’s. As I was walking out with the manuscript, I glanced back and saw his face. There was such weariness, such sadness in his expression. As if…” She paused, striving for a way to explain. “He looked as if his lover was leaving him.”
“That’s a terribly fanciful description. Perhaps you imagined it. You do have a vivid imagination, you know.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I did not imagine it. I don’t think he will ever write another book.”
“If that’s so, it is his choice, dearest.”
“But what if I am partly to blame for it? When I critiqued his play, I didn’t think he would be bothered by my opinion, but now, in hindsight, I appreciate that he was. I hurt him, and I berate myself for having been so cavalier. Rejected myself, I now appreciate how painful criticism can be. If I go back and tell him everything I think is wrong with his manuscript, what will that do to him? I don’t want to hurt him again.”
“So do you want to simply give Marlowe the manuscript as it is, collect your fee, and go on your way?”
Everything in her rebelled against such a course. Yet, when she thought of the agony in his face, she was afraid of making things worse. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “I just don’t know. And, again, what if I’m wrong?”
“Daisy Merrick, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Lucy slid off the chair, sinking down beside her on the rug. “We both know there isn’t any being right or wrong about things like theater, art, and literature. There are only opinions, and others are free to agree or disagree. Marlowe believes that Sebastian Grant wants to write again, but that he needs help to do it. Marlowe hired you to be that help.”
“If you were me, what would you do?”
Lucy thought about that for a moment, then she said, “I couldn’t do it. I’d mark Sebastian Grant down as a lost cause without a second thought, turn the manuscript over to Marlowe, and happily collect my fee. But you are not me, Daisy. You hate giving up on people, and you would never forgive yourself if you didn’t at least try to help him.”
“Avermore doesn’t want my help. He told me to get out of his sight and never come back.”
Lucy reached out and brushed a loose lock of Daisy’s hair back from her forehead. “Isn’t that what people say when they need help the most?”
“Pass.” Sebastian finished putting the cards dealt him in order as the bidding for whist went around, but he scarcely heard the voices of the other three men at the table. His mind was preoccupied with another voice, one that had been echoing through his mind for three days.
What will you do now?
Damn that woman. Her words had haunted him ever since he’d handed her the manuscript. In his mind’s eye, he kept seeing her face, somber and unhappy. She’d accomplished her task and earned her five hundred pounds. What did she have to be unhappy about?
“Sebastian?”
The sound of his name jerked him out of his reverie. “Hmm?”
His partner, Baron Weston, gave him a puzzled frown from across the table. “It’s your bid, old chap.”
“Sorry.” He glanced over his cards, but that was of little help, since he had only the vaguest idea of how the bidding had gone thus far. “Three diamonds.”
Perhaps a change of scene would do him good. Nothing was keeping him here, after all. He thought again of Africa, but with reluctance, he discarded the notion. Even if he had the money, adventure was not really what he sought. He wanted…God help him, he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.
Weston had just made a bid—spades, Sebastian thought—and he forced himself to concentrate. Whist was a game at which he and his partner excelled and there was a hundred quid in it for him if they won the rubber. He glanced over his hand again, noting that he could support spades. “Seven spades.”
The moment he said it, he knew he’d made a mistake. To his left, Lord Faulkner challenged him with a double, and Weston gave a heavy sigh. Ten minutes later, Faulkner and his partner took the game and the rubber, forcing Sebastian to add another two hundred quid to his already sizable debts.
“Spades?” Weston muttered as they stood outside waiting for Sebastian’s carriage. “Why spades? What were you thinking?”
“I thought you called for spades.”
“I don’t know how you could have thought that, since I said five diamonds. I was following your lead. Living abroad has clearly ruined your skill at whist.” Weston gave him a dubious look. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” he lied at once. “I was a bit distracted tonight, that’s all.”
There was a pause, then Weston said, “I heard about your play. Hard lines, my friend.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He felt an overwhelming need to get away. Turning his head, he peered down the street, but his carriage was nowhere in sight. “I think I’ll walk home.”
“Home?
I thought we were going to Laverton’s supper party.”
He’d forgotten that, too. What was wrong with him? He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I believe I’ll give Laverton’s a miss, Wes, if you don’t mind.” Improvising, he added, “I’ve the devil of a headache. Feel free to take my carriage for the rest of the evening.”
He started down the street, leaving his bewildered friend staring after him.
What will you do now?
Perhaps Miss Merrick’s question bothered him because he’d never had to answer it before. All his life, he’d had only one ambition, only one obsession. He was a writer. He’d never imagined doing anything else. Even the title and estate had never been all that important to him, much to his father’s dismay. Only writing had ever mattered. Now that he had finally accepted that he was finished with writing forever, he felt as unanchored as a piece of driftwood.
He wanted…again Sebastian tried to grasp at a new purpose for himself. What did he want, damn it all?
Contentment. The word came so suddenly, he stopped on the sidewalk. He wanted to be content. And he had no idea how to achieve that state, for never in all the thirty-seven years of his life had he ever been content.
He resumed walking, turned onto South Audley Street and ascended the steps to the front door of his flat. He let himself in and dropped his latchkey onto the table by the door, then tucked his hat under one arm and pulled off his gloves, noting that the evening post had arrived.
Wilton came into the foyer, and Sebastian handed over his hat and gloves, then he picked up his letters. He sorted through them as he went upstairs, and upon entering his study, the bills went into the wastepaper basket. No point in keeping them since he couldn’t pay them. A letter from his tiresome second cousin Charlotte followed the bills, leaving only a quarterly report from his land agent and a letter from Aunt Mathilda.
Smiling, he set aside the envelope from Auntie and opened the report from Mr. Cummings first. His land agent informed him that the estate had managed—barely—to pay its own expenses from March to June, although the death duties imposed following his father’s demise eighteen months earlier still remained unpaid. The wealthy American tenants leasing Avermore had vacated, having decided Dartmoor was too remote for their tastes, and had decamped for Torquay, the fashionable center of English social life in summer. The rent was paid through September, however, and Lady Mathilda wished to move from the summerhouse into the main house until new tenants could be found.
With Seduction in Mind Page 9
