Chapter Four
“We can go as high as forty pounds in advance and then fifteen percent of the royalties thereafter.” Sophie tapped her foot on the floor of the cab, betraying a nervousness that Eleanor had not seen in her employer before.
“Forty? And fifteen? Royalties are usually twelve percent. Is Chester, or whatever their true name is, worth so much?” Granted, the detective novel about a jewel thief who stole only from the most aggravating aristocrats and would ransom the items for embarrassing secrets was hilarious, made more so by characters who bore a resemblance to figures who graced the social pages.
Reading it had piqued her relentless curiosity.
The manuscript had contained details about high society that felt too subtle to be fake.
She was ravenous for a sequel, just to experience more of that world.
Sophie’s tapping quickened. “It has too much detail about the beau monde to be written by an outsider, which means society ladies will devour it looking for a clue to the author’s identity, and the rest of the population will read it just to see the lords get their comeuppance.”
“A bestseller, then.”
Sophie nodded. “And I need it. The building next door has become available for lease and I’d like to expand the business. Book sales have increased across the board. Now is the time.”
Delighted, Eleanor grasped Sophie’s hand with a firm squeeze. “That is excellent news. My goodness. Congratulations.”
Sophie deserved every success as recompense for the opportunities she gave others. Of all of Eleanor’s employers, Sophie was the one who provided her staff with the best working conditions and fairest wage. More than a handful of women had gained independence because of her.
“Thank you.” Sophie took a shaky breath. “Leasing more space is a risk, but one has to take them. Signing Chester would be a safeguard. I would feel like I was leaping over the Thames rather than Niagara Falls.”
Eleanor’s mind perked. “Did you know, Matthew Webb died trying to cross the river below Niagara Falls? Imagine being the first to swim across the English Channel and then following that success with your death?”
Sophie frowned. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“Uh… No…” Eleanor grimaced. “That was likely a fact best kept for another time.” The Captain might enjoy it. She would include it when she wrote him next.
The cab pulled to a stop, and Sophie thumped her gloved fist into her palm. “We must do what we can to sign Chester. I have no desire to drown in the world’s largest waterfall.”
Eleanor opened the cab door. “Actually, Niagara is neither the tallest nor the widest of the world’s waterfalls,” she said as she alighted. “Those distinctions belong to—” She stilled as Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Right. Let’s focus on the task at hand. Wooing Chester.”
Chester was, in fact, a woman named Agatha. Not just any woman named Agatha. She was the Dowager Countess of Wharton, widely known as a dragon of the ton, often featured in the gossip pages for her tendency to make young men quail.
Yet here she was, author of what would be a most scandalous novel, sitting in a modest restaurant with only a single footman for company.
“I was under the impression that I was meeting you alone, Miss Cumberland,” Lady Wharton said, regarding Eleanor as one would an anonymous package with a corner smeared with blood.
“Miss Wright is a trusted advisor, Your Ladyship, and essential to my business. I assure you, she will not reveal a thing.”
Lady Wharton narrowed her eyes. “Essential how?”
“She has read what seems like every book in existence—fiction and nonfiction—and can easily tell me if a story is unique or if it has been told a dozen times over.”
“And yours is unique, Your Ladyship,” Eleanor added, trying to play her part in the wooing.
Lady Wharton looked as though she’d swallowed something foul, but she refocused her attention on Sophie. “Why should I sign with you, Miss Cumberland? I’ve had three other offers.”
“I have the best compositor in England.” She gestured to Eleanor. “Even The Times hires her when they can due to the speed at which she works. I can publish your book faster than any other house.”
Never had Eleanor seen a look as sharp as the one directed at Sophie now. “Are you suggesting that I’m old?” Lady Wharton asked. “That I have precious few years left on this Earth, and thus must publish before I croak?”
Sophie flushed and stammered. “Not at all. I would never…” She looked to Eleanor for help.
Eleanor delivered it the best way she knew how.
“Did you know that life expectancy has increased by thirty-one percent in the past hundred years, and that it has little to do with advancements in medical care overall but specifically advancements in pediatric care? If a person survived childhood last century, they were likely to live just as long as they do now.”
“Which is how long?” Lady Wharton asked sharply.
Eleanor swallowed, wishing she knew what answer the dragon wanted. “Seventy-odd years,” she answered truthfully. “Longer if they have access to good food and medical care.”
“And how old do you think I am…?”
Good God. Eleanor exchanged a glance with Sophie, who had turned white. “Not a day over fifty, surely.”
Lady Wharton harrumphed. “Your eyesight does you well, Miss Wright. I suppose that’s due to your occupation.”
Eleanor’s shoulders loosened. She had come safe through that particular eddy. “There are reasons other than my eyesight to choose Sophie, Your Ladyship.”
“Such as?”
“The quality of her work is far superior to others’. Her books are more thoughtfully designed. She’ll spare no expense sourcing the most beautiful, unique fabrics and leathers, and each is set, printed, and bound by women who take pride in their work.”
Sophie blushed. Lady Wharton’s expression softened for the first time that evening. “Continue.”
“Her books are more than products on a shelf. They are art, just as the words inside are. My library is more extensive than you could imagine, and her books stand out for their quality.” Beneath the table, she squeezed Sophie’s hand. It was a fact, not an exaggeration.
Lady Wharton stared at her with such forceful scrutiny that Eleanor’s insides squirmed.
Finally, the dragon released her grip. “I doubt our definitions of an extensive library are aligned in this case, Miss Wright, but I do see your point.” She pursed her lips. “Do you read the papers you typeset, Miss Wright?”
Disconcerted, Eleanor looked at Sophie before responding. “I do.”
“Do you have a satisfactory understanding of what is happening in the world beyond society’s gossip?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship. I might only set one newspaper page a week, but I read them all.”
“What is the square root of nine hundred sixty-one?”
Where on earth was the dowager duchess going with this? “Thirty-one.”
“Who is currently winning the war in Chile?”
Eleanor’s temper rose slightly. She’d never had her intelligence questioned by another woman.
If Sophie weren’t in need of this deal, she’d give the old bat the same response she gave men who presumed her stupid.
“The war is over, Your Ladyship. Balmaceda lost. Britain’s investors can breathe easily.
I hear the nitrate trade is stabilizing already.
” She grunted as Sophie kicked her, a not-so-subtle request that she adjust the tone of her voice.
She coated it in sugar. “Is there any other information you’re lacking, Your Ladyship? I’m more than happy to help.”
Next to her, Sophie sighed. Lady Wharton’s eyes widened and the footman who had been unsettlingly quiet until then coughed. After a long and awkward moment, Lady Wharton turned back to Sophie. “What are your terms?”
Sophie exhaled the breath she’d clearly been holding.
“As good as you’ll get elsewhere. Hopefully better.
Fifteen percent royalties with forty pounds in advance.
Our distribution network is large and I am confident that we can sell just as many copies as anyone else.
More, even, given your book will be art. ”
“I need more.”
Sophie’s confident bearing slackened. “I presented my best offer. I wouldn’t attempt to underpay you. Fifteen percent is well above standard.”
“Then it will have to be something else.”
Eleanor and Sophie looked at each other. What else could there be?
“I need a companion,” Lady Wharton continued.
“Pardon?” Sophie blinked. Eleanor was equally confused.
Lady Wharton stared at them as though they were not all there.
“The season has only just begun, which means I have months of social events with insufferable people, most of whom aren’t even aware that there was a war in Chile.
I need someone who can extricate me from banal conversation and provide a modicum of intelligent discourse or I might expire of boredom.
I am at my limit. Miss Wright’s curiosities amuse me. ”
The compliment was satisfying, but still… “Your Ladyship, I have a job.” Several, in fact.
“Do you work at night?”
Eleanor smiled tightly. “Not often.”
“Good.” Lady Wharton thumped her hand on the table, the heavy thud as decisive as a judge’s hammer.
“You can work during the day and be my companion in the evening. Go see Madame Laurent tomorrow and tell her you need some new clothes posthaste. Her studio is on Regent Street. You can put it on my account.”
“I can afford my own clothes,” Eleanor said through gritted teeth.
“Even better.”
The conversation had gotten wildly out of hand. Lady Wharton wasn’t even looking at her now. She had signaled for a piece of paper, which her footman handed over, and was now sliding a note across the table to Sophie. “The terms are agreed upon, then. You can send the contract to this address.”
Eleanor cleared her throat. “I apologize. There has been some sort of confusion.”
Lady Wharton looked up, somewhat peeved, and waved her hand dismissively. “I will pay you, of course, and then at the end of the season, I will sign the contract.”
Sophie looked at Eleanor, pleadingly. The publishing house could expand. More women could be hired. Sophie would have the success she deserved.
“For heaven’s sake, Miss Wright. You strike me as a woman who likes to learn things. Why wouldn’t you want to be my companion for a time?”
That, too, was a perfectly reasonable argument. A chance to experience the beau monde in real life would be even better than another of Lady Wharton’s novels. Eleanor would be privy to those details Lady Wharton described, and the ones edited out.
Please, Sophie mouthed.
But what if a couple of months immersed in a different world shifted things in hers?
Life was perfect as it was. She was content.
She didn’t want anything to change. Not all knowledge was passive.
There were things she’d learned in the past that had changed her perspectives and altered her behaviors.
Through knowledge she had gained and she had lost—lost friendships, lost dreams, lost a sense of who she was at times.
Lady Wharton raised an eyebrow, her look the equivalent of a gauntlet thrown.
Galvanized, Eleanor steeled her taffeta girdle.
There wasn’t a book she wouldn’t read. There wasn’t a perspective she didn’t want to understand.
On the occasions that knowledge had shifted things, it had been for the better.
Besides, life was perfect as it was. There was nothing the aristocracy could show her that would change it.
Dear Captain,
Thrice this week, I’ve felt as though I stood at the edge of a precipice. The first was a momentary illusion my foolish mind had conjured. The second I backed away from. But tonight I looked out over another and, this time, my curiosity got the better of me. Here’s hoping it doesn’t kill me.
—Booklover
Dear Booklover,
I realize that I’ve made some basic assumptions and so should probably clarify.
Do you have four legs and a tail? I do not ask so that I may judge.
I simply must know. If you do, I’d keep eyes on your curiosity at all times.
If you are biped, however, your chances of surviving this precipice are higher.
Dear Captain,
I snorted my tea as I read that. Baskerville—who is the only feline in this house, just as he prefers—was much put out.
I will have to repair the snag he pulled in my favorite wrap.
The laugh was worth five minutes of mending.
I hadn’t realized how much tension I’d been holding until you eased it. Thank you.
—Booklover