Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
SIRENS CIRCULATING LIbrARY, LONDON, MAY
Saskia wouldn’t have gone so far as to call her life regimented.
Rather, it was structured in a manner that suited her perfectly.
She liked structure—liked it in her writing, liked it in her life.
At five o’clock in the morning, she rose and spent her first two waking hours outlining, plotting, and writing.
At seven, she dressed, then made her way downstairs to the kitchen to break her fast with strong black tea and crumpets.
By eight, she was conferring with Mrs. Dunlevy, who served as both bookkeeper for Sirens and housekeeper for Saskia.
They discussed the day ahead and which tasks took precedence.
Then Saskia grabbed the stack of recently arrived broadsheets and lugged them into the Newspapers and Periodicals room, where she switched out yesterday’s news with today’s.
Next, she was moving through other rooms, pulling curtains open, Alice the housemaid in her wake straightening and cleaning behind her—a quick sweep of the floors, a swipe of the feather duster here or there, the disposal of the random cobweb.
At nine o’clock, Sirens was ready to open for business.
The number of members lined up at the front door at that hour, waiting to be admitted, never ceased to surprise Saskia. Some came for the day’s broadsheets. Others to return a book and check out another. Some wanted silent company. Others wanted long-winded conversation.
Then there were those who came to purchase the books published by Sirens, for their publishing house had several authors exclusively beneath their banner.
Seven out of ten buyers—she’d done the math—came to purchase a book by Harriet LaPlume.
And every time a customer asked for the latest release by Harriet LaPlume—every…
time—a lightning-quick rush of pure exhilaration spiked through her.
There was something so thrilling about accepting coin directly in hand for the words, characters, and stories she’d committed to paper.
As the morning progressed, she kept busy with the tasks Mrs. Dunlevy set out for her.
Then, soon enough, it was midday and Viveca was arriving for them to take tea together before her sister took over the afternoon duties and Saskia returned upstairs and wrote until closing time at four, when she would assist with end-of-day duties downstairs.
Viveca would say her farewells for the evening and depart for the home on Tichborne Street she’d shared with Blaze these last few years.
It wasn’t the most exciting life that Saskia led, but it had its successes and it fulfilled her.
She couldn’t think of any other life she would rather lead.
Five years ago, when the dukedom of Acaster had been sprung on Gabriel—and all their family of four, really—she hadn’t exactly been transported with joy by the prospect of becoming a Lady and all its attendant societal expectations.
But now, she was able to view that occurrence and this life from a different vantage point.
Her life as a lady had brought her opportunities and freedoms unpredicted.
So, not only was her life successful and fulfilling, it was lucky, too.
“Hello, sister,” came a familiar voice at her back.
Saskia half twisted and squinted through spectacles perched low on the tip of her nose. “Is it noon already?”
“Aye, it is,” said Viveca. “What task has Mrs. Dunlevy put you to this morning?”
“She has me taking inventory of Harriet LaPlume’s latest release.”
It felt strange to refer to herself in the third-person. But it was a necessary precaution, if she wanted to keep her identity as Harriet LaPlume a secret from everyone except Viveca. There was no keeping a secret from Viveca.
“Shall we take our tea upstairs today?” asked her sister.
“Why?” They usually took their tea in the kitchen.
“So we can discuss the Liam Cassidy pages.”
Like that, Saskia’s heart leapt into a gallop.
Of course, such an occurrence was always the case when her writing was the topic of conversation.
But this feeling was more than simply about her writing.
This was about her writing about Liam Cassidy.
She’d given Viveca those pages a week ago and, in the days since, had done her level best to forget them. But here was her heart hammering away against her ribs, revealing a single truth that couldn’t be denied…
Dormant didn’t mean forgotten.
“Of course.”
Several minutes later, she and Viveca were seated comfortably on the sofa in the upstairs sitting room, tea arrayed on the low coffee table before them. Saskia could only watch as her sister drank tea, consumed two pear tarts with gusto, and tortured her with small talk.
“Have you heard,” continued Viveca, relentless, even as her words were slightly muffled by a bite of cucumber sandwich, “of a friction match?”
“I haven’t.” Saskia was holding her teacup entirely too tightly.
“They’re calling it the Lucifer.” Viveca waggled her eyebrows. “Evocative, isn’t it?”
Unable to take it anymore, Saskia exclaimed, “Oh, will you just tell me what you think of the pages already?”
Brow lifted, Viveca set her plate down and exchanged it for the stack of papers Saskia had been doing her best to keep out of the edge of her vision—and failing.
“I read the outline.” Her sister’s voice had gone suspiciously blank. “It’s good.”
Viveca nodded, and Saskia tried not to read too much into that nod. Because if she did, she might suspect her sister was trying to convince herself that the outline was, indeed, good.
Criminy.
Viveca continued nodding. “Yes, the arc of taking the reader through the racing season is good.”
There was something her sister wasn’t saying.
“And the first chapter?” Saskia forced herself to ask.
Viveca’s gaze held hers. “There’s just one problem with the first chapter.”
“Which is?” She might just snap the handle off this teacup. She set it carefully on the table.
“It’s not good.”
The knot that had formed in Saskia’s throat tightened, threatening to garrote her. “Pardon?”
“It’s dry.”
Saskia scoffed, incredulous. “Please tell me how you truly feel about it.”
“It’s dead boring.”
Saskia’s mouth gaped open.
Which Viveca took as permission to continue.
“It’s not engaging in the least.” She tapped the cover page for emphasis.
“There’s no spirit in these words. They’re just a relating of facts.
Liam Cassidy is a jockey. He’s a winning jockey.
He trains at Somerton. Speaking of Somerton,” she continued, “you were clearly taken with it, for you labor on for pages about spring green turf and snow white railings and Palladian porticos. In fact, I learned more about Somerton in this chapter than I did about Liam Cassidy.”
It was almost comical how decidedly unimpressed Viveca was with the chapter—almost.
Heat burned through Saskia all the way to the tips of her ears.
And Viveca went on… “It’s like you’ve lost your understanding of character. It’s like…” She took an interminable moment to search her mind. “It’s like you’ve never written a book.”
Stung, that was Saskia in this moment. Not only by Viveca’s words, but by the honesty contained therein. It might not have been her best work, but surely it was serviceable enough. “Well, it is an early draft.” Oh, how that defensive little note in her voice annoyed the blazes out of her.
Viveca’s sea-blue eyes held a steely glint. The truth as Viveca saw it was coming, and all Saskia could do was wait and brace herself for it.
“There’s no life in it.”
Oof.
Saskia could’ve had any number of reactions to that last bit—hurt…offense…anger—but the fact was Viveca intended to provoke none of those emotions.
Viveca’s intention was to make the book better.
So, Saskia would sit and take the critique and let it make the work better.
Viveca’s head tipped to the side. “Aren’t jockeys superstitious?”
“I…don’t know.”
What did superstition have to do with anything, anyway?
“See?” Viveca exclaimed. “You should know.”
“If jockeys are superstitious?”
Viveca only answered her question with more questions.
“What are Cassidy’s superstitions? What are his rituals before a race?
When did he start them? Why did he start them?
The number of races he has won is a matter of public record.
Anyone can recite those facts. But what makes Liam Cassidy the Liam Cassidy?
The Liam Cassidy the public adores. The Liam Cassidy who is the best.”
Despite it all, Saskia found an overwhelmed smile tugging at her mouth as she held her hands up, palms out. “All right, sister, you’ve made your point.”
Viveca popped the last bite of cucumber sandwich into her mouth. Around it, she spoke. “I don’t need to tell you how to solve this.”
“You don’t?”
“Surely, you know the answer.”
Dread filled Saskia’s stomach.
The thing was she thought she might know the answer.
But, oh, how she didn’t want what she thought might be the answer to be the answer.
It was Viveca who said it. “You need to spend time with Liam Cassidy to make his memoirs spring to life. Facts aren’t enough. We must hear him speaking from the page.”
And there it was in plain English.
The answer Saskia didn’t want to hear.
After her last encounter with Liam Cassidy at the Drunken Piebald, she’d made a decision. She would write his memoirs…from a distance. Why did she need to spend time with the man, anyway? She was a fiction writer. She could easily fill two hundred pages.
But—of course—Viveca had seen through the filler and found that at the heart of all those words Saskia had written was little more than air.
And Saskia knew why.
She didn’t know Liam Cassidy.
She knew fictional characters of her own creation better than she did that flesh-and-blood man.
“Isn’t this week the start of the racing season?” asked Viveca.
Saskia didn’t want to answer.
Saskia had to answer… “Yes.”
“What’s the name of the first pair of races?”
The dread that had settled in Saskia’s gut might’ve become a permanent fixture. “The Two Thousand and One Thousand Guineas.”
Her sister’s brow lifted expectantly, as if to say, Well?
“The Two Thousand was run two days ago,” admitted Saskia.
She’d read about the race in the turf rags she now subscribed to. The colorful commentary had been enough for her to be able to imagine the tightly contested race. Apparently, Cassidy had received an “accidental” whip lashing to the face from another jockey.
And, apparently, that was all part of the sport.
That would definitely go into the memoir.
Viveca’s brow lifted with expectancy. “And?”
“And what?”
“Did Cassidy win?”
“He did.”
Viveca clapped her hands together. “Oh, this book is going to be such a success. But only if you…” Her eyes narrowed. “Sister, get yourself to Newmarket now. You can take my carriage.”
And that was the matter settled.
Within the half hour, Saskia found her bags packed and strapped to Viveca’s carriage and herself seated inside the luxury conveyance as it wove its way through London and toward Suffolk. Tomorrow was the running of the One Thousand Guineas, and it seemed she would be there to witness it.
To witness Liam Cassidy in his element.
To put life into the page.
And here she’d thought she could read about his season in the turf rags and write a memoir. She’d been wrong—and she had only herself to blame.
She should have expected this.
That Viveca would see through her fluff.
That she would have to spend time with Liam Cassidy.
The simple fact was she couldn’t trust herself around him.
Yes, all right, she’d harbored an infatuation for him for years.
She should’ve anticipated her response to him.
But she hadn’t.
That infatuation had existed in the realm of fantasy.
It had provided fuel for her writing.
That was all.
How could she have known meeting him in the way she had would put flame to fuel?
And what happened when flame hit fuel?
Conflagration.
But they’d agreed upon professional boundaries, hadn’t they?
They even had agreed-upon rules.
Well, a rule.
No kissing.
And, really, shouldn’t that one rule be enough to keep them each to their side of the professional boundary line?
She hoped.
She doubted.