Amanda Scott (15 page)

Several hours later, her back aching from sitting on the little stool that was all that had been provided with the table, she flung down her pen in frustration, wondering how anyone ever managed to write a novel. Though she had altered a good deal of Sir Mortimer’s work, she was by no means either finished or satisfied with her alterations, but she knew she would be sorry if she sat much longer without a better chair. Moreover, her standish was nearly empty, which seemed to her to be an excellent reason for stopping and going to bed. Deciding that she would try again in the morning, she straightened her pages and prepared for bed, unable to entertain the tiniest hope that Sir Mortimer or anyone else would approve of what she had done.

The following day when Lady Flavia demanded to know how it had gone, Nell was diffident, and when her ladyship demanded to have the revision read aloud to her while she knitted, her first reaction was near terror. Knowing, however, that if the project were to succeed, she must accustom herself to others reading what she wrote, she agreed at last to fetch her work. But she insisted that Lady Flavia must read it for herself.

“I could not bear it, ma’am, to be reading and wondering at the same time if what I am reading is making you perfectly ill.”

“I am sure it will do no such thing,” Lady Flavia assured her staunchly. She received the pages with enthusiasm and began reading at once, muttering a little to herself from time to time in a way that made Nell want to leave the room and never return. But at last she raised her eyes from the pages and said, “You frequently write well, child, just as one would expect you to do, and some bits are most amusing, but do you not think you would do better to write about what you know and less of this fantastic stuff about foreign dukes and princes? I know nothing about such things, of course, so I cannot know that you are wrong in any of your details, but I must own that what makes Miss Austen’s tales so amusing is the fact that she knows her characters well enough to point out their absurdities without making them any less human.” She sighed. “’Tis an art, after all, one supposes.”

Nell agreed. “I am afraid that the bits you like best are Sir Mortimer’s, ma’am, and I cannot pretend to write as well as he does, or Miss Austen either. I have tried to write it as he would wish me to, only to smooth it out and bring some sense to the whole. I thought the result rather awful, though.”

“Oh, no,” Lady Flavia declared hastily, returning the pages to her. “One merely thought to suggest … But there, I shall say no more. It must be for Mr. Manningford to decide if you are to show it to his father, after all. And you will not be seeing him until Monday, so you can work on it for two whole days, and no doubt you will be better pleased by then with the result.”

Nell had already decided that she would have to do a great deal more work before she dared show it to Manningford, for the thought that he might despise it was nearly more than she could bear. It was odd though, she thought, how she had such a strong desire to fix Sir Mortimer’s ridiculous story, as though she had caught some peculiar disease, for now that she had begun, though frustrated, she did not want to stop. As soon as Lady Flavia was settled with her knitting, she took a seat at the elegantly carved escritoire near one tall, narrow window, discovered to her satisfaction that it contained a proper standish and an adequate supply of writing paper, nibs, and ink, and set to her work.

It was slow going, but she forced herself to concentrate, and several hours later, when Sudbury interrupted her to inform her that Manningford was in the hall, requesting speech with her, she found to her astonishment that Lady Flavia was no longer in the room. Rising at once from her chair, she clapped a hand to the small of her back, wincing. “I must have a good chair, Sudbury. Do you see if you can find me one, if you please, and show Mr. Manningford in. Where is her ladyship?”

“In her bedchamber, dressing to go out, Miss Nell. Since Mr. Manningford desired speech with you, I did not disturb her.” Sudbury paused, a twinkle entering his eyes before he added, “Perhaps you would care to tidy your hair a bit and smooth your skirt before I show him in.” He nodded toward the pier glass above the mantelpiece, and Nell turned toward it, standing on tiptoe so that she could see her head and shoulders.

She gasped. Her curls were standing on end, as though she had pushed a rake through them, and there were two spots of ink on her right cheek. Glancing at her hands, she saw that her fingers were also smudged. “Ask Mr. Manningford to wait five minutes,” she told the butler as she snatched a handkerchief from beneath her sash and, waiting only until he had gone, damped it with the tip of her tongue and proceeded to tidy herself, leaving red marks in place of the ink stains on her face. The state of her hair made her long for one of the lace caps she wore when she visited Sir Mortimer, but after a brief struggle to force the riot of curls into order, she gave it up and moved quickly to sit down when she heard Sudbury’s hand once again on the latch.

Manningford, striding into the room with a harassed look on his face, did not appear to notice her untidiness. His manner was blunter than she was accustomed to see in him. “Good day, Miss Bradbourne, I am sorry to trouble you. I came to discover if you have had time yet to work on that fair copy.”

Bristling at his tone, she said, “Indeed, sir, I have, but surely you might have waited until Monday morning, when I return to Royal Crescent, to ask me.”

“The problem is more urgent than that,” he said. “My father has had another attack.”

“Another attack!” Nell’s hand flew to her mouth. “It must have been my fault for speaking to him as I did! Oh, will I never learn to control my wretched temper?”

“I daresay you will,” he retorted in damping tones, “if you will take care not to fall into a distempered freak whenever anyone brings you bad news. It was not your fault. Indeed, if anyone is to blame, it is I.” He turned abruptly and looked out the window for a moment before he added, “I told him after you left yesterday what I thought of his behavior toward you, and I reminded him that he had no choice but to accept your services or let his secret be known. But now, if that accursed book is to be done, you must do it alone, for according to Borland, this time I nearly sent the old man to his grave.”

“Oh dear,” Nell said, collecting herself in a sudden desire to soothe him, “but I am sure you did no such thing, sir. Your father has been extremely ill, after all, and we ought never to have allowed him to exert himself so unwisely over his novel.”

“No,” he said, turning, “and that is why I must know if you can do the thing, for from what you tell me, the entire work requires alteration. I cannot do it—that has already been established—but I intend to see the matter through, one way or another. May I see the portion you have modified? Though I do not pretend to know much about it, I believe I can tell if you have produced anything worth showing to someone who does.”

Nell was reluctant. “I cannot claim to have done anything noteworthy, sir. Indeed, I found the work most difficult. Oh, but here is my great-aunt,” she added on a note of relief when Lady Flavia entered the room just then. “She has read the whole and must be accounted something of a judge. She will tell you that the task you require is not one for me to accomplish.”

Lady Flavia, smiling and holding out her small hand, said calmly, “I shall say no such thing, sir, you may be sure, but perhaps we had better all sit down and discuss this task.”

The matter was quickly explained to her, and once she had exclaimed her dismay over Sir Mortimer’s second attack, she said, “But you are fretting yourself to flinders over finishing this novel of his, sir, and you need not be, for although my dearest Nell sets her achievements low, one is convinced that given her head she could do the thing for you, and very well indeed.”

“Excellent,” Manningford declared. “Just what I wanted to hear! Show me at once what you have done, Miss Bradbourne.”

R
ELUCTANTLY, NELL INDICATED THE
papers on the escritoire, and Manningford moved to the chair there and began to read.

The two ladies watched him anxiously, and the instant he looked up, Lady Flavia said, “’Tis mighty promising, sir, do not you agree?”

“I think it damned foolish,” he replied with a grimace.

Nell gasped. “Well, thank you very much, I am sure, but you have already said you know nothing of such things and I never claimed you would like it!”

“Don’t fly into the boughs,” he retorted. “I don’t pretend for an instant to know anything about such stuff.” He looked at Lady Flavia. “Do you truly think it up to snuff, ma’am?”

“Certainly, sir,” Lady Flavia said stoutly. “A trifle fantastic, perhaps, but then—”

“Just as I thought,” he said, pouncing on this mild criticism. “There are bits I truly enjoyed, where the writer exhibited a turn for description or for bringing a certain character to life before plunging the reader back into stilted nonsense about wicked dukes, foreign princes, and the like. Nobody of sense could swallow such stuff as that, though.”

“Just what one has said, oneself,” Lady Flavia admitted with a sigh. “Do you not agree that if Nell is to take responsibility for the whole, she would do better to alter it so as to write about things she knows? The best bit, to my mind, is when she describes Elizabeth’s loneliness just before that young woman accepts the arrangement with Lady Dashing to accompany her to that odd country, the name of which I shall not even attempt to pronounce. I suspect that that is just how Nell herself felt at Highgate before coming to Bath, and for the most part, you know, the tale could as easily take place here, for I am sure Bath has its own fair share of villains and innocent young women, though not, to be sure, of dashing young heroes.”

Nell, whose reaction to even the complimentary part of Lady Flavia’s comment had been a feeling of acute discomfort, said tartly, “I cannot change Sir Mortimer’s story so much, and for that matter, I can scarcely be held to know anything about Bath, having spent so little time to any purpose here.”

Lady Flavia, with a gleam of intent in her eyes, said gently, “But surely, my dear, Mr. Manningford could take you about, to show you the city, you know.”

He gave a sharp nod, saying, “And in any case, you must know Bath better than you can know that fantastic land on the Continent that you and my father betwixt you have created.”

She flushed. “At least I know what your father wants, sir, and the novel is his, after all.”

“What he wants is a finished work that can be dedicated to his royal highness,” Manningford said. “Unfortunately, he can no longer dictate his own tale to you, for after this last attack he could not speak at all for a time, and though his ability to do so has recovered somewhat, his doctor insists that he must avoid unnecessary exertion. That is why, since the old man only wants the wretched thing done without his being unmasked as the author, I had hoped we might oblige him.”

“By having me write the tale.” Nell’s tone was bitter, but Manningford did not appear to notice.

“Just so.”

“Well, I cannot do it on those grounds,” she said flatly.

He stared at her. “I thought you had already agreed.”

“Then you deluded yourself, sir, for the situation is greatly altered now, as I am sure you must see for yourself if you will only take the trouble to do so. When all I was doing was writing down Sir Mortimer’s words, there was nothing for anyone to cavil at. Even when I agreed to revise parts of his story, I did so with his plot, characters, and setting firmly in my mind. What you are now asking me to do is to discard the bulk of his work and submit my own tale to Mr. Murray as that of an author whose work he knows and admires. I cannot do it.”

There was a heavy silence. Even Lady Flavia seemed to have nothing to say, for she turned her face to the fire and sat staring at the crackling flames. At last, Manningford sighed and said, “You are right, of course. I failed to perceive as much before, because I was concerned only with meeting my father’s demands without submitting him to further anxiety. I see now that that cannot be done.” He slumped in the chair, looking defeated and very tired.

Nell’s temper subsided instantly. She had a strong urge to run to him and put her arms around him, to comfort him (just as, she told herself firmly, she would comfort her brother in a like circumstance), but she resisted it; and, although she could think of nothing to say that might cheer him, her mind began to grapple with the problem he faced. Only a moment’s reflection was needed to tell her she could do what he wanted; she was not by any means certain she could do it without compromising her principles.

He was watching her. “What is it?”

She met his look. “Merely a fantasy, sir, and nothing to stir your hopes.” When he continued to look at her, she sighed, adding, “I cannot deny that I should like nothing better than to do as you wish. Moreover, I can see that it might be possible to make more extensive revision than I have without altering the main portion of Sir Mortimer’s story. What has presented the greatest difficulty, after all, is my effort to keep the setting and characters as he would want them without knowing exactly what was in his mind when he created them; therefore, had I the freedom to alter those where necessary—even, perhaps, to use Bath, not as a brand new setting but as a model for things I wish to add to his setting—I believe I could do what you ask of me. The style of writing is and would remain his, of course, since having listened to him as much as I have, it is no great thing for me to imitate it.” Noting the spark of hope that leapt to his eyes, she added quickly, “But it is of no use to be thinking I shall do any such thing, sir, for I could not make the attempt without his leave, and he will never permit it.”

Manningford frowned and said, “Do I understand you to say, then, that if left to your own devices, you could transform his work into an acceptable novel?”

“By no means,” she retorted. “I am saying only that if I can do so in good conscience, I should like very much to try. I have no reason to be certain the attempt would succeed, and I would need both his blessing and his help.”