by Beth Byers
Yes, Charles thought, yes. This one, he thought, this would be a best seller. Charles could feel it in his bones. He tapped out his pipe into the ashtray. This would be one of those books he looked back on with pride at having been the first to know that this book was the next big thing. Despite the lateness of the hour, Charles approached his bedroom with an energized delight. A letter would be going out in the morning.
GEORGETTE MARSH
It was on the very night that Charles read the Chronicles that Miss Georgette Dorothy Marsh paced, once again, in front of her fireplace. The wind whipped through the town of Bard’s Crook sending a flurry of leaves swirling around the graves in the small churchyard and then shooing them down to a small lane off of High Street where the elderly Mrs. Henry Parker had been awake for some time. She had woken worried over her granddaughter who was recovering too slowly from the measles.
The wind rushed through the cottages at the end of the lane, causing the gate at the Wilkes house to rattle. Dr. Wilkes and his wife were curled up together in their bed sharing warmth in the face of the changing weather. A couple much in love, snuggling into their beds on a windy evening was a joy for them both.
The leaves settled into a pile in the corner of the picket fence right at the very last cottage on that lane of Miss Georgette Dorothy Marsh. Throughout most of Bard’s Crook, people were sleeping. Their hot water bottles were at the ends of their beds, their blankets were piled high, and they went to bed prepared for another day. The unseasonable chill had more than one household enjoying a warm cup of milk at bedtime, though not Miss Marsh’s economizing household.
Miss Marsh, unlike the others, was not asleep. She didn’t have a fire as she was quite at the end of her income and every adjustment must be made. If she were going to be honest with herself, and she very much didn’t want to be—she was past the end of her income. Her account had become overdraft, her dividends had dried up, and it might be time to recognize that her last-ditch effort of writing a book about her neighbors had not been successful.
She had looked at the lives of folks like Anthony Trollope who both worked and wrote novels and Louisa May Alcott who wrote to relieve the stress of her life and to help bring in financial help. As much as Georgette loved to read, and she did, she loved the idea that somewhere out there an author was using their art to restart their lives. There was a romance to being a writer, but she wondered just how many writers were pragmatic behind the fairytales they crafted. It wasn’t, Georgette thought, going to be her story like Louisa May Alcott. Georgette was going to do something else.
“Miss Georgie,” Eunice said, “I can hear you. You’ll catch something dreadful if you don’t sleep.” The sound of muttering chased Georgie, who had little doubt Eunice was complaining about catching something dreadful herself.
“I’m sorry, Eunice,” Georgie called. “I—” Georgie opened the door to her bedroom and faced the woman. She had worked for Mr. and Mrs. Marsh when Georgie had been born and in all the years of loss and change, Eunice had never left Georgie. Even now when the economies made them both uncomfortable. “Perhaps—”
“It’ll be all right in the end, Miss Georgie. Now to bed with you.”
Georgette did not, however, go to bed. Instead, she pulled out her pen and paper and listed all of the things she might do to further economize. They had a kitchen garden already, and it provided the vast majority of what they ate. They did their own mending and did not buy new clothes. They had one goat that they milked and made their own cheese. Though Georgette had to recognize that she rather feared goats. They were, of all creatures, devils. They would just randomly knock one over.
Georgie shivered and refused to consider further goats. Perhaps she could tutor someone? She thought about those she knew and realized that no one in Bard’s Crook would hire the quiet Georgette Dorothy Marsh to influence their children. The village’s wallflower and cipher? Hardly a legitimate option for any caring parent. Georgette was all too aware of what her neighbors thought of her. She rose again, pacing more quietly as she considered and rejected her options.
Georgie paced until quite late and then sat down with her pen and paper and wondered if she should try again with her writing. Something else. Something with more imagination. She had started her book with fits until she’d landed on practicing writing by describing an episode of her village. It had grown into something more, something beyond Bard’s Crook with just conclusions to the lives she saw around her.
When she’d started The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend, she had been more desperate than desirous of a career in writing. Once again, she recognized that she must do something and she wasn’t well-suited to anything but writing. There were no typist jobs in Bard’s Crook, no secretarial work. The time when rich men paid for companions for their wives or elderly mothers was over, and the whole of the world was struggling to survive, Georgette included.
She’d thought of going to London for work, but if she left her snug little cottage, she’d have to pay for lodging elsewhere. Georgie sighed into her palm and then went to bed. There was little else to do at that moment. Something, however, must be done.
Death By the Book Preview
Chapter Two
Three days later, the day dawned with a return to summer, and the hills were rolling out from Bard’s Crook as though being whispered over by the gods themselves. It seemed all too possible that Aurora had descended from Olympus to smile on the village. Miss Marsh’s solitary hen with her cold, hard eyes was click-clacking around the garden, eating her seeds, and generally disgusting the lady of the house.
Miss Marsh had woken to the sound of newspaper boy arriving, but she had dressed rather leisurely. There was little to look forward to outside of a good cup of tea, light on the sugar, and without cream. She told herself she preferred her tea without cream, but in the quiet of her bedroom, she could admit that she very much wanted cream in her tea. If Georgie could persuade a god to her door, it would be the goddess Fortuna to bless Georgie’s book and provide enough ready money to afford cream and better teas. Was her life even worth living with the watered-down muck she’d been forced to drink lately?
Georgette put on her dress, which had been old when it had been given to her and was the perfect personification of dowdiness. She might also add to her dream list, enough money for a dress or two. By Jove, she thought, how wonderful would a hat be? A lovely new one? Or perhaps a coat that fit her? The list of things that needed to be replaced in her life was near endless.
She sighed into the mirror glancing over her familiar face with little emotion. She neither liked nor disliked her face. She knew her hair was pretty enough though it tended towards a frizziness she’d never learned to anticipate or tame. The color was a decent medium brown with corresponding medium brown eyes. Her skin was clear of blemishes, for which she was grateful, though she despised the freckles that sprinkled over her nose and cheeks. Her dress rose to her collar, but her freckles continued down her arms and over her chest. At least her lips were perfectly adequate, neither thin nor full, but nothing to cause a second glance. Like all of her, she thought, there was nothing to cause a second glance.
Despite her lackluster looks, she didn’t despise her face. She rather liked herself. Unlike many she knew, the inside of her head was not a terrible place to be. She had no major regrets and enjoyed her own humor well enough even if she rarely bothered to share her thoughts with others.
Georgette supposed if she had been blessed with liveliness, she might be rather pretty, but she knew herself well. She was quiet. Both in her persona and voice, and she was easily ignored. It had never been something that she bemoaned. She was who she was and though very few knew her well, those who knew her liked her. Those who knew her well—the very few who could claim such a status—liked her very well.
On a morning when Georgie was not worrying over her bank account, she could be counted on entering the dining room at 9:00 a.m. On that morning, however, she was rather late. She had
considered goats again as she brushed her teeth—no one else in Bard’s Crook kept goats though there were several who kept cows. Those bedamned goats kept coming back to her mind, but she’d rather sell everything she owned and throw herself on the mercy of the city than keep goats. She had considered trying to sew clothing while she’d pulled on her stockings and slipped her shoes on her feet. She had considered whether she might make hats when she’d brushed her hair, and she had wondered if she might take a lodger as she’d straightened her dress and exited her bedroom.
All of her options were rejected before she reached the base of her stairs, and she entered the dining room with an edge of desperation. As she took her seat at the head of the table and added a very small amount of sugar to her weak tea, her attention was caught by the most unexpected of sights. A letter to the left of her plate. Georgette lifted it with shaking hands and read the return address. Aaron & Luther Publishing. She gasped and then slowly blew out the air.
“Be brave, dear girl,” she whispered, as she cut open the envelope. “If they say no, you can always send your book to Anderson Books. Hope is not gone. Not yet.”
She pulled the single sheet of paper out and wondered if it was a good sign or a bad sign that they had not returned her book. Slowly, carefully, she unfolded the letter, her tea and toast entirely abandoned as she read the contents.
Moments later, the letter fluttered down to her plate and she sipped her scalding hot tea and didn’t notice the burn.
“Is all well, Miss Georgie?” The maid was standing in the doorway. Her wrinkled face was fixated on her girl with the same tense anticipation that had Georgette reading her letter over and over while it lay open on her plate. Those dark eyes were fixated on Georgette’s face with careful concern.
“I need cream, Eunice.” Georgette nodded to her maid. “We’re saved. They want Chronicles. My goodness, my dear, wonderful woman, see to the cream and let’s stop making such weak tea until we discover the details of the fiscal benefits.”
Eunice had to have been as relieved as Georgette, but the maid simply nodded stalwartly and came back into the dining room a few minutes later with a fresh pot of strong tea, a full bowl of sugar, and the cream that had been intended for supper. It was still the cheapest tea that was sold in Bard’s Crook, but it was black and strong and tasted rather like nirvana on her tongue when Georgette drank it down.
“I’ll go up to London tomorrow. He wants to see me in the afternoon, but he states very clearly he wants the book. We’re saved.”
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Miss Georgie.”
“By Jove, we aren’t just saved from a lack of cream, Eunice. We’re saved from goats! We’re saved my dear. Have a seat and enjoy a cuppa yourself.”
Eunice clucked and returned to the kitchen instead. They might be saved, but the drawing room still needed to be done, dinner still needed to be started, and the laundry and mending were waiting for no woman.
When Miss Marsh made her way into London the following day, she was wearing her old cloche, which was quite dingy but the best she had, a coat that was worn at the cuffs and the hem, and shoes that were just starting to have a hole worn into the bottom. Perhaps, she thought, there would even be enough to re-sole her shoes.
On the train into London from Bard’s Crook, only Mr. Thornton was taking the train from the village. When he inquired after her business, she quite shocked herself when she made up a story about meeting an old Scottish school chum for tea. Mr. Thornton admitted he intended to meet with his lawyer. He was rather notorious in Bard’s Crook for changing his will as often as the wind changed direction. An event he always announced with an air of doom and a frantic waggling of his eyebrows.
Mr. Thornton had married a woman from the factories who refused to acknowledge her past, and together they had three children. Those children—now adults—included two rebellious sons and one clinging daughter. He also had quite a slew of righteous nephews who deserved the acclaim they received. Whenever his wife bullied him too hard or his sons rebelled too overtly, the will altered in favor of the righteous nephews until such time as an appropriate repentance could be made.
Georgie had long since taken to watching the flip-flopping of the will with a delighted air. As far as she could tell, no one but herself enjoyed the changing of his will, but enjoying things that others didn’t seem to notice had long been her fate.
The fortunate news of the inheritance situation was that Mr. Thornton’s nephews were unaware of the changing of their fortunes. The clinging daughter’s fortune was set in stone. She never rebelled and thus never had her fortunes reversed, but she clung rather too fiercely to be a favored inheritor.
Mr. Thornton handed Miss Marsh down from the train, offered to share a black cab, and then left her without regret when she made a weak excuse. Miss Marsh selected her own black cab, cutting into her ready money dreadfully, and hoped that whatever occurred today would restore her cash in hand.
CHARLES AARON
“Mr. Aaron,” Schmidt said, “your afternoon appointment has arrived.”
“Wonderful,” Charles replied. “Send him in with tea, will you Schmidtty?”
“Her, sir.”
“Her? Isn’t my appointment with an author?” Charles felt a flash of irritation. He was very much looking forward to meeting the author of The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend. He had, in fact, read the book twice more since that first time.
Schmidt’s lips twitched when he said, “It seems the author is a Miss Marsh.”
Charles thought over the book and realized that of course Mr. Jones was a Miss Marsh. Who but a woman would realize the fierce shame of bribing one’s children with candies to behave for church? Charles could almost hear the tirade of his grandmother about the lack of mothering skills in the upcoming generations.
“Well, send her in, and tea as well.” Charles rubbed his hands together in glee. He did adore meeting new writers. They were never what you expected, but they all had one thing in common. Behind their dull or beautiful faces, behind their polite smiles and small talk, there were whole worlds. Characters with secrets that only the writer knew. Unnecessary histories that were cut viciously from the story and hidden away only to be known by the author.
Charles rather enjoyed asking the writers random questions about their characters’ secret histories. Tell me, author, Charles would say, as they shared a cup of tea or a pipe, what does so-and-so do on Christmas morning? Or what is his/her favorite color? He loved when they answered readily, knowing that of course so-and-so woke early on Christmas morning, opened presents and had a rather spectacular full English only to sleep it off on the Chesterfield near the fire.
He loved it when they described what they ate down to the nearest detail as though the character’s traditional breakfast had been made since time immemorial rather than born with a pen and hidden behind the gaze of the person with whom Charles was sharing an hour or two.
Charles had long since become inured to the varying attitudes of authors. Thomas Spencer, who had given Charles a rather terrible headache that had been cured by Miss Marsh’s delightful book, wore dandified clothes and had an arrogant air. Spencer felt the cleverness of his books justified his rudeness.
On the other hand, an even more brilliant writer, Henry Moore, was a little man with a large stomach. He kept a half-dozen cats, spoiled his children terribly, and was utterly devoted to his wife. In a gathering of authors, Moore would be the most successful and the cleverest by far but be overshadowed by every other writer in attendance.
Miss Marsh, Charles saw, fell into the ‘Moore’ category. She seemed as timid as a newborn rabbit as she edged into his office. Her gaze flit about, taking in the stack of manuscripts, the shelf of books he’d published over the course of his career, the windows that looked onto a dingy alleyway, and the large wooden desk.
She was, he thought, a dowdy little thing. Her eyes were nice enough, but they barely met his own, and she didn’t seem to
know quite what to say. Her freckles seemed to be rather spectacular—if one liked freckles—but it was hard to anything with her timid movements. Especially with her face barely meeting his own. That was all right, he thought, he’d done this many times, and she was very new to the selling of a book and the signing of contracts.
“Hello,” he said rather cheerily, hoping that his tone would set her at ease.
She glanced up at him and then back down, her gaze darting around his office again. Mr. Aaron wondered just what she was seeing amidst all of his things. He wouldn’t be surprised to find she was noting things that the average fellow would overlook.
“Would you like tea?”
Miss Marsh nodded, and he poured her a cup to which she added a hefty amount of cream and sugar. He grinned at the sight of her milky tea and then leaned back as she slowly spun her teacup on the saucer.
“Why Joseph Jones? Why a pen name at all?”
Miss Marsh blinked rather rapidly and then admitted, “Well…” Her gaze darted to the side, and she said, “I was rather inspired by my neighbors, but I would prefer to avoid their gossip as well. Can you imagine?” A cheeky grin crossed her face for a moment, and he was entranced. “If they discovered that Antoinette Moore wrote a book?”
“Is that you?”
“Pieces of her,” she admitted, and he frowned. The quiet woman in front of him certainly had the mannerisms of the character, but he couldn’t quite see Miss Moore writing a book and sending it off. She was such an innocuous, almost unnecessary character in the book.
Was Miss Marsh was a literary portraitist? He grinned at the idea and wanted nothing more than to visit Harper’s Bend or wherever it was that this realistic portrayal existed in real life. What he would give to have an afternoon tea with the likes of Mrs. Morton and her ilk.
