Chapter 10 #2
“I always thought of it as more like pretending. Just like writing the Tommy Treadwell stories. You know they’re not true, but they’re not lying.
They’re pretend. And because it’s quite usual to use a false name, a nom de guerre,” a second wink directed at Henry, “in writing books, I thought people might forgive me for hiding behind a name like Puddlewick.”
“I see.”
“And your grandfather was curious and found where I lived, and I am here to meet you and . . .”
“And what?”
“That’s all. Just to meet you.”
“Did Grandfather tell you we want you to write another book?”
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“Will you?”
“I . . . I am going to try.”
“Is it very difficult to write a book?”
“Sometimes it is. And sometimes it’s very easy.”
Mina got off the sofa and took Susannah’s hand. “This book will be very easy.”
For the first time, the authoress’ answering smile was a bit unsure.
Mina pulled on Susannah’s hand. “The stable cat has had kittens. Would you like to come see them? Their eyes just opened.”
“Mina,” Henry said. Mina turned to look at him. “Miss Beasley has had a long journey.”
Over Mina’s head, Susannah made a face at Henry.
“I would love to see the kittens,” she said and stood.
Henry arranged for his and Susannah’s dinner to be served in the room that had always been called the little library. He thought the dining room would be too much for her. Maybe tomorrow, after he had taken her around the house.
“Your granddaughter is lovely,” Susannah said and spooned up her soup.
“She is very taken with you. I read to her before she went to bed, and she asked if you would read a chapter from one of the Tommy Treadwell books to her tomorrow night.”
Susannah turned pink. “I don’t want to be doing you out of your job, my lord.”
“I’m delighted to be the audience for a change. But I warn you not to bungle any words or skip pages. She knows it off by heart.”
“Can she read?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever have her read to you?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Did you ever read to your parents?”
Her eyes went far away. “In the middle of the night, I sometimes read to my mother.”
“And what of your father? He wrote a book.”
“He did. He devoted his life to writing a book.”
Henry could hear the unsaid He devoted everyone’s lives to his book.
“And what was this book?”
“A Treatise on the Schism between Morality and Faith as Demonstrated in the Folklore of the British Isles and Beyond.”
Henry could make nothing of that title, could not possibly imagine what the book would be about.
“But when he’d finished it, no publishing house would pay a fee for it.” Susannah stirred her soup. “Someone took it on commission, but then no one wanted to read it. That broke my father’s heart. And we were in debt for years afterwards.”
Two authors in a family. One with some success, one without. One a woman, one a man. One wrote amusing stories for children, the other wrote something that sounded quite tedious to Henry. And Susannah placed more value on her father’s unread writing than on her own.
She broke into his thoughts. “I shouldn’t have told Mina writing a book was difficult. I’m sure I’ll have no trouble.”
“We will do all we can to make it easy for you to write here.”
Except if she didn’t find it easy that would mean she had to stay longer at Bledsoe Park, and he’d have more time in her company.
“I have spoken to Mrs. Rumney and Eakins,” Henry nodded at the butler, “and we will set you up in the large library and put by a large store of paper and ink. You’ll have access to your miniature muse when you want her and peace at other times.”
But surely Henry would be allowed to bother her on occasion?
The rest of the dinner was served by Eakins and the footmen.
“What am I eating?” Susannah hissed over the table to Henry.
“Salmagundi.“
“Salma . . . ?”
Henry looked at his plate. “This one has chicken, egg.” He poked with his fork. “Ham, beetroot, pickled cabbage.”
“Oh.” She looked happy and relieved. “Normal things, just all together.” She took a mouthful and chewed and swallowed. “I taste fish.”
“Anchovies. Do you not like fish?”
“I love fish.”
He loved how she said love.
She forked up another bite. “But I’ve never had very much of it.”
Yes, the Beasleys wouldn’t eat fish often in Much Wemby and then only the varieties that could be found in the Wem, nothing from the sea.
He thought of oysters. They were sold cheaply all over London, but Susannah wouldn’t have tried them. How quickly could he get fresh oysters sent to Bledsoe Park? No, it was too late in the year. Perhaps Susannah would stay until autumn, and he and she could slurp from the shells together.
Another kind of hunger, the kind not quenched by eating dozens of oysters, gnawed at him.
When they finished eating, he got up and went to the small cabinet with no key and opened it and took out a purse he had put there earlier.
“You were speaking of publishing fees.” He gave the purse to Susannah and took his seat again. “Would you like some port?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had port. What is this?” She lifted the heavy purse.
“Three pounds in half-crowns as a rather meager deposit on the book. Just some handy coins in case you need to do some shopping.”
Her face fell. Leaden-headed Henry. He’d paid her in a crass manner in front of the hovering butler and the footmen clearing their plates. Worse, he’d reminded her of their positions relative to each other.
No. He turned his backbone into a rod of steel. She was surrounded by Bledsoe Park. She was not likely to forget their positions.
He was the one forgetting their positions.
“Maybe you should wait to see if you like the book,” she said. But she did not hand back the purse.
“I will like it.”
And if he did not, he would still tell her that he did. He almost laughed. His word would soon be worth nothing.
“Your confidence in me is very heartening,” she said.
She didn’t look heartened, but he said, “Good.”
“Do you mean to publish the book yourself, my lord?”
“No.” An earl did not involve himself in trade. “After you make a fair copy for Mina, you can go back to the Manwaring Brothers and sell them this one, too.”
“That seems,” she hunched her shoulders, “not fair. You would own the book. You paid for it.”
I don’t want it did not seem the right thing to say.
Instead, he said, “We can discuss it when you finish the book.”
Many months from now. Didn’t books take a great deal of time?
“All right,” she said and tucked the purse into her lap, but she seemed uncomfortable and asked if she might retire after only a few sips of port.
“I know you must be tired, Miss Beasley. All those kittens you had to cuddle.”
He would never forget the sight of Mina and Susannah sitting in the straw, each with a kitten held against a cheek and the other kittens tumbling over their laps.
Henry watched Susannah go up the grand staircase before making his way to his study. After his absence of more than a week, he had a sizable stack of correspondence waiting for him on his desk, and it included a letter from the Manwaring Brothers.
The Right Honble. The Earl of Ashthorpe
My lord,
We received your letter addressed to Mr. Augustus Puddlewick, the author of ‘The Tales of Tommy Treadwell’ and ‘The Further Adventures of Tommy Treadwell.’
We regret we are unable to forward the letter.
Our accounts show that two different men, a Mr. Roger Beasley and a Mr. George Beasley, were the agents of sale when we purchased the Puddlewick manuscripts.
However, we have not come across the Beasleys again in all these years and would not know where to find them.
Would you like us to hold the letter in case we ever do learn of Mr. Augustus Puddlewick or should we return it to you?
Yr. humble servant,
Lionel Manwaring
PS Forgive the impertinence of this request. If you ever manage to correspond with Mr. Puddlewick, would you kindly direct him to write to or visit us at our firm in London?
And Henry had his own letter to write.
Dear Aunt—
I have returned to Bledsoe Park with Sir John’s message for you.
Regarding the matter for which I asked your assistance, please do not trouble yourself any further. I have changed my mind.
My apologies, and I am very grateful for any efforts you might have already made on my behalf.
Your nephew—
Ashthorpe Henry