Chapter 11
F leet Street was a veritable cacophony of people coming and going.
It was the first time that Mercy actually understood why anyone loved London. For herself, the madness of the great city, with ships coming in from all around the world, was astounding. She rather liked Heron House with its solitude and beautiful gardens but Fleet Street was a marvel.
It was a little bit wilder than most of the beautifully groomed places that she had seen owned by the ton. Unlike those gilded homes, the excitement of Fleet Street hummed through her blood.
People all but ran up and down the street, through the tangle of horses, coaches, and carts. Mercy heard the conversations of writers as they talked back and forth, speaking on various points that they wished to have printed out. The buildings had the most delightful character. Old pubs were on either side of her, some of them dating back to before the Great Fire.
This was one of the few areas of the city that had survived, and she adored it.
It was the first time she had considered that living in London could be quite a marvelous thing. She would not have to simply live in the isolation of a beautiful estate on the outskirts of the city. No, here she could come to feel the vitality of real, gritty life.
She turned from the street to the publishers, Nelson, Pondike, and Hero, straightened her jacket, then tilted her hat at a jaunty angle atop her curled hair, and strode through the doors.
Her lady’s maid, Gemma, was just a step behind Mercy. She didn’t like having to take someone with her, but she understood the necessity in this society of making sure that she was not ruined or got into difficulty.
After all, she wasn’t a fool. She didn’t know this city, and Gemma knew it far better than she did. And young ladies of society—though she didn’t really consider herself of society—needed chaperones. Even a maid would do.
Tobias was very busy at present with his printing press, completely in love with his betrothed, and Mercy had no wish to bother him with her difficulties. Not when he was so happy. She couldn’t recall seeing him so happy, and she did not wish to take that from him in any way.
Besides, she wanted to sort this out herself.
As she crossed into the busy foyer, several people bustled back and forth carrying reams of paper. The scent of ink filled the air. She felt right at home. Gentlemen were dressed in garments of many hues. Cut away coats seemed to rule the day.
The men’s embroidered waistcoats were bolder than the ones she had seen in the ton, though likely less expensive.
There was a sort of devil-may-care attitude in this place. One that she liked very well. This felt like a place where anything could happen.
A gentleman with a bright green coat and fluffy blond hair spotted her. He came over with surprising energy, though he appeared a bit surprised by her presence, and asked, “May I help you?”
“Yes,” she replied confidently. “I am Miss Mercy Miller, and I would like to see Mr. Hero.”
She had done her research and discovered that Messrs. Nelson and Pondike had died years ago, and the establishment was now under the management of Mr. Hero.
The young man cleared his throat and gave an apologetic smile. “Mr. Hero is quite busy. May I—”
Though it rankled, she blurted, “I am the sister of Tobias Miller. And a guest of the Duke of Westleigh.”
The young man’s eyes shot wide at the recognition of those two names. Mercy was not above using names to gain admittance. Would she have preferred to enter entirely on her own merit? Of course. But a smart woman used the system at hand whilst trying to alter it.
After all, she was no fool.
She understood how things worked. Miss Mercy Miller would not gain entry into the hallowed office of the renowned publisher of novels.
The sister of Tobias Miller and the guest of the Duke of Westleigh would.
The young man gave her a slight incline of his head. “Of course, Miss Miller. For you? I can take you upstairs at once. I’m sure Mr. Hero can make time for such an important young lady.”
The flattery seemed genuine, but it wasn’t really a compliment. As she had done nothing for it. She was merely attached to two significant men, in this fellow’s eyes. But such was the way of the world at present.
With that, she, with Gemma in tow, began following the gentleman up the winding narrow stairs. It was far narrower than she expected, but perhaps the place devoted all of its space to the business of printing. Which was how it should be.
“Are you a lover of novels, Miss Miller?” the young man asked over his shoulder. “Is that why you’ve come? Perhaps you would like to meet or correspond with one of our authors?”
“Something like that,” she replied carefully. “I do love novels, though I also began to read them upon my visit to London. I admire the work here very much.”
“As do I,” Gemma had the boldness to add.
Mercy beamed at her maid, realizing it had taken a great deal of courage to speak up at such a moment. But she was glad the girl felt she could, even though servants were usually expected to be silent.
The gentleman paused, gave Gemma an odd look, then swung his gaze back to Mercy. “How marvelous that we have been your introduction.”
At last, she was brought to a doorway where the young man knocked vigorously and said, “A visitor for you, Mr. Hero.” Without ado, the young man threw open the door and gestured for her to enter.
She headed in boldly with Gemma eagerly joining her.
Mercy turned about, looking for Mr. Hero in the room filled with books and a desk that was covered in papers.
A gentleman sat behind the stacks, bent over, scribbling furiously.
Mr. Hero, who had to have been about sixty years of age and with a clear penchant for good food and wine, lifted his gaze.
He dropped his pen and stared at her agog.
“I welcome you to my office,” he said, leaning back and lacing his hands over his waistcoat, “but I do not understand what you should find so interesting in it. My man was most remiss and did not say your name. What is it?”
“Miss. Miller,” she supplied, suddenly feeling as if he was not terribly pleased to have been interrupted. “I am Tobias Miller’s sister.”
The man’s face creased. “That fool,” he stated.
She was astonished. English people were not usually given to such blatant insults, at least not in the upper classes.
“I cannot agree with you, sir. My brother is no fool.”
Mr. Hero snorted. “He keeps printing absolute nonsense. Those pamphlets of his are absolute tosh.”
She stared at Mr. Hero. She wasn’t entirely certain which part was tosh. The tosh that spoke against slavery, the tosh that spoke for women’s rights, or the tosh that argued that children under the age of five should not be shoved up chimneys in order to clean them.
Still, the man published divine novels.
“What can I do for you, Miss. Miller?” the man drawled at last. “Clearly, you already know a great deal about publishing since it is in your family.”
“You are correct,” she agreed, squaring her shoulders. “But I should like to start in the business of publishing novels.”
“Should you?” the man said, pushing back from his desk. He looked exhausted by her, as if she was the most insufferable thing to cross his path in years. “I understand that young ladies often suffer boredom, Miss Miller. I realize that embroidery, dances, curling one’s hair, and dressing several times a day may not always be the most inspiring thing.”
She tensed at this. She did not like this line and where he was suddenly going. Whilst she had nothing against the young ladies who spent their time thus, she’d certainly not spent her life in those endeavors.
“But starting a publishing company to publish novels,” he continued, his nostrils flaring with disdain, “is really beyond your milieu.”
“Is it?” she asked, forcing herself to smile, even as she felt a white-hot wave of rage. “Pray, tell this poor, ignorant female why.”
He did not seem to catch her sarcasm. As a matter of fact, he seemed to take her earnestly, which was another point against him.
He rallied himself to the task and said with shocking vehemence, “Young ladies simply do not have the mind for it. Perhaps you are capable of organizing the running of a few things under your brother’s supervision. After all, young ladies do run estates. But the great works of literature? Even the rather low stuff which ladies do write and is exceedingly popular? You simply won’t be able to manage the editing of it.”
She felt herself crackle with fury. In fact, she was so hot with rage that she might have burnt to a crisp on the spot. Thankfully, she did not. In fact, she felt that anger sharpen her words. It was tempting to tell the man to go to the devil, but she had experience with men like him.
Slowly, she drew in a breath and eyed him carefully. “So, you have nothing to advise me on?”
He splayed his hands on his desk. “Oh, I do.”
“And that is?” she prompted, wondering what other nonsense he would spew in an attempt to educate her on what she was capable of.
“Everyone has heard that you are likely to be selected by the Duke of Westleigh, my dear. Marry him. Make babies. Improve the world that way. That is what young ladies are really for,” he said. “And if you are bored, go ahead and assist your brother in printing that drivel that he does. And then the world will get on very, very well.”
She tightened her hands, digging her fingers into her palms.
Behind her, Gemma let out a small sound of surprise at the man’s opinions.
Even she, the lady’s maid, seemed astonished by this extremely rude behavior.
“Of course,” Mercy replied evenly, forcing herself to be rational to the point of coldness lest he call her hysterical. “How foolish of me to forget that my primary job is to bear children. I did forget it for a moment, but I will say that you are so right. Ladies do get bored. Perhaps I shall simply start a publishing company as a whim,” she mused. “I’ll need something to do with all those hours between changing clothes. Until the babies arrive…”
“I do not think—”
“It is clear you did not think, sir,” she cut in. “With the Duke of Westleigh as an investor—which he will be since he will likely be my future husband as you say—yes, I shall do very well. I shall hire all the right people. Lots of ladies.” Mercy cocked her head to the side as an idea hit her, and she smiled slowly. “As a matter of fact, perhaps I shall offer considerably higher wages to the staff that work for you. Do you think that they should like to work for the Duke of Westleigh?” she drawled.
The man’s face went red to match his nose. “Now, hear, hear,” he said, “you can’t…”
“Oh, I can,” she said, her voice low. “I really, truly can.”
Mercy did not wait to hear what other poison might fall out of his arrogant mouth. She turned, swung her skirts behind her, and marched out.
From the expression on Gemma’s face, the girl looked as if she longed to give a cheer.
Mercy winked at her, even as she placed a hand over her middle.
In all her life, she had never met someone so rude and infuriating in such a setting. She had known men who were aggressive, crass, unkind, even violent. But this was different. This was an insult to her intelligence and her worth that she had never experienced before.
In New York, Mr. Norris had wanted to make her his, but at least he valued her intelligence and abilities, and that was why he wanted her.
However, Norris did not value her autonomy or her right to say no.
Mr. Hero? He did not even value her brain, her heart, her mind, her soul. No, she was simply a vessel to bear babies.
Well, she might like babies. Babies were all well and good. She might even have a few of them one day.
But she was not about to be laid up in a room where she put out a child every year.
As they bustled back out to the busy street, she paused and looked at Gemma. “This was an absolute failure. We are going home.”
Gemma’s brows rose “Your home?” she piped. “To the Americas?”
“No, no,” she countered, waving her hand. “To Heron House,” she replied.
Gemma smiled brightly at that. “Heron House is home for you then?”
“It’s a matter of speech, a matter of speech,” assured Mercy. But…I’m going to have a chat with the Duke of Westleigh.”
“Are you?” Gemma said, her eyes full of hope. “Are you going to marry him?”
Mercy pursed her lips as she contemplated Gemma’s face. “I don’t know,” she said. “But perhaps…it would be worth it. Imagine Mr. Hero’s face. Imagine how many people I could upset.”
She arched a brow, leaned forward, and took Gemma’s hand. “Imagine what I could do if I said yes.”
Gemma grinned. “Exactly, miss. Exactly.”