16. Chapter 16 #2
As a single woman, I had not felt the need for anyone’s approval or permission—but as a married woman, a covenanted partner with Ames, it felt wrong to publish another book without his knowledge.
Yet if he disapproved, how could I break a contract with my publisher without repercussions?
They didn’t know my real name, but if I didn’t fulfill the contract, they had a legal right to learn it and then use that information against me.
And though I had struggled with this deadline, writing was still something I cherished and I didn’t want to give up.
And the money it brought in would help the castle.
It was yet another secret I would need to keep from Ames, at least for now.
My bedchamber was dark and dreary as I entered a few minutes later, my notes crumpled in my hand. Tears had gathered in my eyes, though I wasn’t certain why. I’d heard people criticizing my books before, and it had bothered me, but it never brought me to tears.
The rain continued to pour outside my windows.
If the sun had been shining, perhaps I wouldn’t be so upset.
Or maybe it was the stress of the manuscript that was bothering me.
The success of the first two novels had placed unexpected pressure on my shoulders.
I needed to ensure that the third novel was just as good, or perhaps better, than the first two.
It would not do to have women like Mrs. Danby and Mrs. Harrington laugh at my failure.
Or maybe it was Ames who had brought me to tears.
Even though he didn’t know he was talking about the books I’d written, hearing him call them gossipy dime novels had hurt more than it should.
I had to remind myself that he hadn’t read them, he didn’t know I was the author, and he was making a broad assumption, like so many others.
I wiped away the tears and went to my desk, where I pulled out the rest of the manuscript.
My stomach had settled, but I just wished my emotions would do the same.
I needed to focus on the last part of the story and decide how I was going to end it.
Despite my former hesitations about Ames not knowing about my writing, I needed to honor my commitment to my publisher and send off my manuscript with time for it to arrive by the deadline in New York.
I just wasn’t sure how to end it.
Perhaps Molly could help me. She often brainstormed ideas with me when I was stuck.
I hadn’t spoken to her about this novel, which I’d tentatively titled The London Campaign , since we’d arrived at Pickering Castle.
She had already helped me with the heroine’s story goal, but I needed a unique and compelling twist for the end.
“Lily?” Ames opened the door without knocking—something I’d invited him to do—and paused as he saw me standing near the writing desk, looking at my manuscript.
I felt like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar—and I must have looked guilty, because he frowned as he entered my room and closed the door.
“Is everything all right? You looked like you weren’t feeling well when you left the drawing room.”
I wasn’t sure what to do about my manuscript.
There were over a hundred handwritten pages in the stack.
I didn’t want to draw undue attention to it by trying to hide it—but I also didn’t want to take the risk that he’d inquire about what I had written.
I wanted to tell him about my books, but I needed more time to decide how best to share the information.
I decided to try to ignore it for now and said, “I was feeling a bit unwell, but I’m better now.”
“Was it something someone said?” He moved closer to me. “Did someone insult you? Was it Collins?”
I couldn’t help but smile at the assumption. “No. Collins did not hurt my feelings.”
“I can still see the remnants of tears in your eyes. Someone said something unkind.” He studied me. “Whoever it is, I will speak to them about their thoughtlessness.”
The irony made me both want to cry and laugh, but I couldn’t tell him he was the culprit who had hurt my feelings.
“It’s nothing. Truly.” I gave him a smile that I hoped would convince him. “I just needed a little space. Four days inside with our house guests is three days too many.”
A scornful smile pulled up the edges of his lips—until he saw my manuscript. “What is that?”
A sickening sensation came over me as my stomach dropped.
Ames walked to my desk, a curious frown on his face. “It almost looks like you’re writing a book.” He put his hand on the stack and faced me. “Is this yours?”
I swallowed the nerves bubbling up my throat as a cold sweat broke out on my skin.
I had never told anyone the truth about my writing, except Molly and my attorney.
And I suddenly realized why I had never taken great offense when someone disliked my books.
Even if people hated them, they didn’t know I was to blame.
Having Ames learn about it was far more intrusive. If he didn’t approve of them, it would cut deeply. He had just told the group that he wouldn’t let his wife read my books. What would he do when he learned I had written them? Would he make me stop?
I had no choice but to tell him the truth. I just wished I’d had more time to come up with a proper explanation.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I said, trying not to let my voice quaver.
He removed his hand from the manuscript, a concerned frown on his face.
“I hadn’t thought to tell you before today—but perhaps I should have.”
Ames crossed his arms, as if to brace himself.
“They’re not dime novels,” I said quickly as I walked to my desk and opened the drawer where I kept copies of Daughters of Fortune and The Price of a Title .
“In some social circles, they are critically acclaimed,” I added.
“And in others—” I swallowed again. “Women like Mrs. Danby and Mrs. Harrington do not approve, because they reveal the truth hidden just under the surface of society. They don’t like others to know about their lifestyles and their excess waste.
That’s why I wrote them, to fight against society. ”
Ames did not speak.
So I rambled on.
“I wrote the first novel to express my own frustration and anger about New York society as I watched my mother struggle to get a foothold. I wanted her to see that it was a ridiculous goal, that she could do more with her money and influence if she wasn’t wasting so much of both trying to impress Mrs. Astor and the others.
I didn’t know I was a writer, but I thought it was a good story, and maybe, if Mrs. Astor read it, she’d see the foolishness, too.
So—” I paused to see if he wanted to say something, but he continued to watch me in silence.
“So, I brought it to Harper & Brothers and submitted it under a pen name. To my surprise, they not only published it, but asked for a second, and then a third book. But I have never given them my real name—only Molly and my lawyer know that I am the author of those books.”
“O’Neal knows?” His voice was deep and unyielding.
I nodded but frowned. “That’s your only quest—?”
“It is not my only question,” he said, his voice hard, “but it is the only one I can think of that will not offend you at the moment.”
My momentary surprise quickly disappeared and, in an instant, I was angry. “Offend me? You did not know me when I wrote these novels, so you have no right to be angry about them, and you have not read them, so you cannot judge them.”
“I do not have to read them to know they are not suitable for a duchess to write. I might not have known about them when I married you, but had you told me, I—”
“What, Ames?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Would that have stopped you from proposing to me?”
He studied me for a moment and then said, “It would have made me think longer and harder about the prospect.”
I inhaled and pulled back. “I am the same woman.”
“Who kept a secret from me.”
“Unlike you? Have you kept nothing from me?” My voice rose higher than I intended.
“You deliberately withheld this from me, Lily.”
“I have told no one—not even my mother or sisters.”
“You claim that you want to help the Welby family,” he said, breathing heavily, “yet if word circulated about this, it would do untold damage to our reputation.”
“Unlike the smugglers using your caves?”
“I told them to quit—at the threat of harm to myself and my family. Will you quit writing these—these novels , at the threat of harm to your family?”
I stared at him, my chest rising and falling on waves of uncertainty.
“I see.” Ames clenched his jaw and looked past me to the window. “So sacrificing for this family is something that only I am required to do.”
“I did not—”
“You are right, Lily. You did not.” Without another word, Ames left my room.
As the door closed behind him, I had the sudden urge to throw my manuscript at it.
How dare he accuse me of not sacrificing for the family.
Everything I had done in the past month and a half had been a sacrifice.
Marrying a stranger, moving to an unfamiliar place in the middle of nowhere, renovating a crumbling castle with my money, and taking the risk of inviting friends to meet his ill-mannered brothers.
The tears began in earnest now, and I knew exactly why.
I threw myself onto the bed and wept as I had not wept since my father had died.
I cried for all I had lost and for all that I might lose.
But, most of all, I cried for the way Ames had looked at me, as if he didn’t know the real me and I had been a great disappointment to him.
I wanted nothing more than to make him happy—but I was failing miserably.