“I see,” he said. “The secret is well-maintained. Until I was told, the only person who knew the identity of Mrs. Wilson was Uncle Basil. So you can imagine the chagrin among my employers at Mulberry and Hawes when he had a stroke and appeared to be about to stick his spoon in the wall. Insensible for days, poor old thing, and then unable to speak for ever so long.”
“How awful!” exclaimed Katherine.
“It wasn’t pleasant,” Grimthorpe agreed. “I’m his heir, but I’d as soon not inherit that way. Fond of the old fellow, you see. What with trying to keep him alive and fend off the fellows from the office who wanted to hang about his bedside shouting ‘Who Is Mrs. Wilson?’ – well, don’t want to go through anything like that again. Oh, but what am I saying? You’ve had your own griefs here, of course.”
Katherine nodded. “It was indeed a shock, but it was quick. And we’ve had time to become accustomed.”
“So,” Rupert concluded. “It seems I must let my employers know that Mrs. Wilson is dead. They’ll be beside themselves.”
“Well, as to that,” Katherine said cautiously.
“Yes?”
She leaned forward confidingly. “Among Papa’s papers, I found an incomplete manuscript. And you must understand that I’ve learned that the Mrs. Wilson books form the greatest part of the family’s income. So. Well, the truth is, I’ve been finishing the book myself.”
“I say!” Rupert exclaimed. “How sporting of you! But have you ever written a novel before?”
“I have not,” Katherine admitted. “But neither had Papa before he wrote Count Olpho.”
“It might serve,” Rupert said thoughtfully. “Indeed it might. I would have to read the work, of course. I work with authors and am counted a good judge of material.”
“I would be grateful for any assistance,” Katherine said. “I’ve been dealing with this all alone, with no one to confide it. I confess having your counsel would take a load off my mind.” She thought for a moment and added, “Have you any Greek?”
“Greek?!” exclaimed the young man. “I hope there’s no Greek involved! Oh, I had what any schoolboy might have. You know, ‘Rose’s Greek Grammar’. But of course I haven’t touched the subject since I left school.”
Katherine smiled at him reassuringly. “You needn’t actually use your Greek. I was just looking for a plausible reason for you to assist me. My sister and aunt believe I’m organizing Papa’s papers, and he was writing a commentary on Homer, you see.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I at least recall enough Greek to pretend in a drawing room that I’ve been working with it. So long as no one quizzes me on the subject.”
“They won’t,” Katherine said confidently. “They don’t ask me questions about it, so I think we’re safe there.”
“It sounds like we have a plan,” Rupert said with satisfaction.
“Indeed it does,” Katherine agreed. “At dinner, I will ask you the Greek question again. This time, please pretend to more of a facility with the language, in order for us to arrange your assisting me.”
“I understand,” Rupert said.
“Oh, dear, how deceitful this all is!” Katherine said suddenly.
“It is a shame,” Rupert agreed. “But you must know that your father and now you are not the only authors who choose to remain anonymous. Mulberry and Hawes publishes several in the same situation. Novels are so little respected in society that many authors prefer not to be known for them. I would hope that one day, a form of literature that gives so much pleasure to so many people would gain more respectability.”
“To be candid, I’ve disparaged gothic novels myself,” Katherine admitted. “Though I greatly enjoy more domestic works like Sense and Sensibility, and of course Mister Scott’s novels are universally admired. My aunt and sister are great readers of gothics and love Mrs. Wilson. I can’t escape the apprehension that it was my own statements on the subject that might have moved Papa to maintain his silence.”
“Don’t distress yourself on that front, there’s no way for you to know,” Rupert advised her.
Katherine shook her head and gave a little laugh. “And of course, I had no notion how difficult it was to produce one of those ‘silly books’ until I tried it myself.”
Rupert chuckled. “I so often hear fellows suggest that they might ‘scribble down’ something in order to make a little extra of the ready. I always encourage them to try it. If I were more ill-natured, I would lay a wager on whether or not they could complete their task.”
Katherine stood. “My family thinks I’m breaking the news to you about Papa’s death. Shall we go meet them?”
They found Aunt Alice and Helen in the drawing room. Rupert greeted them gracefully, expressing condolences on their loss and apologizing for appearing before them in all his dirt. He was rewarded with a cup of tea and then released to his room, to freshen up and rest before dinner. Aunt Alice warned him as Katherine was leading him out of the room, “We keep country hours here.”
“I expected nothing else, ma’am,” he told her and followed Katherine to his room. There she left him and returned to the drawing room to hear the verdict.
“A very well-spoken young man,” offered Aunt Alice.
“But so plain!” complained Helen.
“Not precisely handsome,” Alice admitted. “But not homely or coarse. A gentleman, obviously.”
Dinner that evening was enlivened by the spectacle of Mister Rupert Grimthorpe cordially sustaining a friendly barrage of interrogatories. The Rose ladies had few new experiences or acquaintances entering their rural sphere and intended to make the most of this one. Much of the first course was devoted to an exploration of Mister Basil Grimthorpe’s sad condition, the sudden stroke and long recovery. “I’m afraid he will never fully return to his old strength and abilities,” Rupert said.
“And you’ve been caring for him?” asked kind-hearted Helen.
“Yes, indeed, for he’s all the family I have,” Rupert explained. “He raised me when my parents died and sent me to school and found employment for me. I owe him so much.”
During the second course, delicate questioning from Aunt Alice drew forth the information that Rupert was his uncle’s sole relative and heir. The address of the Grimthorpe town home made it evident that the elder Grimthorpe was a man of considerable substance. Young Mister Grimthorpe, then, was a young man with expectations. Alice gave Katherine a significant look, which Katherine contrived to ignore.
Over dessert, Rupert asked about the daily routine at Rosebourne and how he might be expected to fit into it. Explaining their daily rounds, Aunt Alice added that Katherine was curating her papa’s papers, which took a portion of every afternoon.
“Indeed!” Rupert said, turning to Katherine with a look of interest.
“It must be done to honor Papa’s memory,” Katherine said. “But I confess I often feel woefully inadequate to the task. I have no Greek, you see, and Papa’s work is a commentary on Homer.”
“Greek!” exclaimed Rupert. “I was quite a dab hand at Greek in school. Perhaps I could assist you?”
“Would you?” Katherine asked with real gratitude.
“Oh, Katherine, no!” said Helen. “Bury poor Mister Grimthorpe in those fusty old papers? You can’t mean it!”
“Fusty old papers?” replied Rupert. “Why it’s no such thing. Homer has always counted among my favorite writers,” he added, perjuring his soul without hesitation. “And I confess to a great interest in learning Mister Rose’s thoughts on those great works. It would be an honor and a privilege.”
His enthusiasm was unmistakable and wholly unfeigned. Rupert was indeed eager to get his hands on Sidney Rose’s papers and learn the status of the latest and long-overdue Mrs. Wilson opus. In fact, his current situation as his employers’ sole conduit to their most best-selling author gave him a prestige among his fellows that was unusual for a young man at his time of life. He only hoped that Miss Rose was up to the task and that Mrs. Wilson’s reign was not coming t
o an end.
TWELVE
While both Katherine and Rupert were anxious to begin their collaboration, Katherine felt that for them to leap in immediately following breakfast would present an odd appearance and might raise questions. She decreed that they would repair to Papa’s study at her usual time in the afternoon. But first came the marketing, and Rupert decided to accompany the Rose sisters on their rounds.
So when Katherine and Helen set out toward the village, Rupert took possession of the market basket and accompanied them. It was a pleasant excursion, showing Piddledean to Mister Grimthorpe and Mister Grimthorpe to Piddledean. He declared himself enchanted with the village, immediately perceiving, or so he said, its salubrious clime and various amenities which made it second only to London as a desirable place of residence.
While he was admiring Piddledean, Piddledean was returning the favor. Mister Grimthorpe, though not handsome, had a natural geniality of temper and had learned while on the Town how a young man of slender purse might best present himself to secure dinner invitations, so that there were few that met him who were not pleased. In their progression to the village shops, he was introduced to the Roses’ friends they encountered, and admired Mrs. Shelby’s flower beds and Mrs. Worth’s cats. At the fishmonger and greengrocer, he exclaimed over the freshness of the wares which would, he assured them, cause their London counterparts to expire from envy were they to learn of it. Coming to the church, he admired the proportions of the nave and the neatness and convenience of the vicarage.
Mister Downey was the only village resident they encountered who was not charmed by Mister Grimthorpe. If anything, he was oddly disquieted to see a young man of such address in residence at Rosebourne, sharing every meal with Miss Rose and having opportunities for ingratiation that were unavailable to the vicar.
The Fordice ladies, met at the haberdashery, found Mister Grimthorpe a pleasant gentleman, though he could not of course long draw their attention from the fashionable and titled occupants of the Manor. Miss Julia Fordice was later heard to remark, in what she imagined to be a fashionable drawl, that it seemed that the vicar had not after all come up to scratch and now the Roses were reduced to importing suitors before Miss Katherine was left entirely upon the shelf.
Following this invigorating excursion, the Rose sisters and their guest returned home and went to their various occupations, Helen to her pianoforte and Katherine and Rupert to Papa’s papers.
Katherine went to the desk and removed the Mrs. Wilson manuscript from its concealing cloak of Homer. She stood for a moment with the papers in her hands, suddenly overwhelmed with shyness.
Rupert gave her an understanding smile. “I know,” he said. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Authors have told me it’s like giving their child to a stranger.”
“It is hard!” Katherine admitted. “I wonder at Papa. He never struck me as a particularly bold man. How did he dare? For the first book, I mean. I suppose it gets easier when one becomes more accustomed.”
“I gather he had an urgent need for money,” Rupert said. “That often does the trick.” He held out his hands for the manuscript and Katherine reluctantly passed it over.
Rupert took the stack of pages to a comfortable chair by the window, settled down and began to read. Katherine watched him for several minutes. She tried not to fidget. Finally, she took a seat at the large desk, pulled out some fresh sheets of foolscap, and began to write. It was a humorous scene she wrote, between the housekeeper of Thunderclap Castle and an itinerant knife sharpener. Where or even if it would fit into the completed story she didn’t know. She only knew she had to occupy herself or go mad.
From the chair by the window came occasional noises, unhelpful remarks such as “ah”, and “oh!” and several times a brief snort that suggested laughter. After several long hours, Rupert finally turned the last page and sat back, rubbing his eyes.
“Well?” demanded Katherine.
“Interesting,” he said thoughtfully.
“Oh, dear,” Katherine said. “That sounds like something you say when you’re trying to be tactful.”
Rupert gave her a sharp look. “Miss Rose,” he explained, “behold me at work. I am not being social, I am not being tactful, I am not being politic. When I say interesting, I mean interesting.” Indeed, there was a brisk matter-of-factness to his tone that was markedly different from his conversation in the village.
“Could you be specific?” Katherine suggested, lacing her fingers together. “I tried to match my writing with Papa’s.”
“Well, you didn’t,” Rupert said. Seeing her crestfallen expression, he raised a hand. “I didn’t say it was bad, just that it’s different. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I can see our publisher believing that this manuscript was written by one person, but there is a shift in writing style, as if our author is learning, and trying other things.”
“In what ways?” Katherine asked humbly.
“For one thing,” Rupert said, “the story is more plausible. Oh, there are the dangers and the escapes and what-not, but the villain is more like someone you might actually meet. And the heroine has become more plausible to match. I like it. I think we can retain Mrs. Wilson’s established readers and perhaps add some more. With the humor as well, that’s an added benefit.”
“The comic bits were enjoyable to write,” Katherine admitted. “And yet I felt uncertain about them, wondering if they would interfere with the suspense.”
“Not at all,” Rupert assured her. “Comic relief is a fine old literary tradition. Consider that even the darkest of the Shakespeare plays had their comical characters. Your father’s Mrs. Wilson books also had their comic moments, only you have added more. My employers may be told that Mrs. Wilson is exploring her craft.”
“They must be expecting to see a manuscript soon,” Katherine said with a worried frown.
“Indeed, it is late for Mrs. Wilson’s usual schedule. I suppose I must write to them and tell them that Mrs. Wilson has been dealing with a family emergency and this year’s manuscript will consequently be late. Won’t they fret about that!”
“I believe your uncle claimed that Mrs. Wilson was a widow with five children. So perhaps a sick child could be the emergency.”
“Splendid! A sick child would be ideal. They can scarcely complain about a delay when the reason is a mother tending to a sick child. Though, actually, I’m sure some of them could complain, but at least they might feel guilty about it. I might even be able to convince them to give the poor dear a rise in pay.”
Katherine chuckled. “It would certainly be appreciated. But who do you work for, Mister Grimthorpe, the publisher or the author?”
“I work for the publisher,” Rupert said. “But I suspect my greatest value to them is my ability to speak to and for Mrs. Wilson. So of course it is a relationship worth cultivating.” He slapped his hands together and said, “But now, speaking for the publisher, we still don’t have an ending for this book. Have you a scheme in mind?”
“I do indeed,” Katherine said, “but look at the time. I have other duties, and we have exceeded the time I generally spend working on Papa’s papers. We will have to address the thrilling conclusion tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course,” Rupert said agreeably. “I will write to Mister Hawes and we can continue tomorrow.”
They went their separate ways then, Rupert to his correspondence and Katherine to her household chores.
Dinner that evening was enlivened by Aunt Alice’s realization that the publishing house that employed their guest was the very same house that published Mrs. Wilson, and by her and Helen’s subsequent employment of various stratagems attempting to induce Rupert to let fall some nugget of information about their favorite authoress.
Aunt Alice tried the outright question. “Is she young or old? The liveliness of the tales argue for a young woman, but there is an experience in the tone that speaks of an older woman.”
Helen attempted the outrageous assertion, presented
to be contradicted. “Well, I have heard that Mrs. Wilson is really Princess Charlotte!”
To all of their attempts, Rupert merely smiled and said nothing. Finally Aunt Alice remarked peevishly that she never dreamed that such an amiable young man could be so disobliging. Rupert answered her seriously. “You must understand, Miss Rose, that Mrs. Wilson is one of our authors who values her privacy and guards it closely. Why, it is more than my job is worth to identify her or to give out any information that might lead to her identity.”
“I can’t understand it,” Alice said. “We quite admire the lady. I see no need to be so secretive.”
“Ah, but you are not Mrs. Wilson’s only admirer,” Rupert pointed out. “Consider, if her identity were known, you might want to write her a letter praising her latest work. If in her vicinity, you might want to stop her on the street and speak highly of her writings. Nothing at all remarkable about that, and if it were only that, no serious detriment. But you are only one person. Multiply your potential contacts with Mrs. Wilson by hundreds, or even thousands, and you can see that the attention would become quite onerous and would require the poor lady to become outright uncivil if she wanted any peace.”
Aunt Alice looked thoughtful. “I suppose that might be true,” she admitted.
“How would you rather Mrs. Wilson spent her time?” Rupert added. “Answering her correspondence, or writing her next novel?”
“Oh!” Helen interjected. “Writing her next novel, to be sure! Mister Grimthorpe, you must guard her identity with your life!”
The party laughed at this, and the subject changed.
Following dinner, Aunt Alice made another remarkable discovery. Mister Grimthorpe’s presence in the house meant that they had a fourth for whist.
The following afternoon, Katherine and Rupert went to the study for more work ‘with Papa’s papers’, and Katherine attempted to explain her concept for the thrilling denouement of The Peculiar Staircase. She was dismayed to discover that a proposed chain of events that seemed so clear in her mind and that would appear quite plain once it was written down nevertheless came out in spoken narrative in a total muddle.
Katherine, When She Smiled Page 13
