Chapter Fifteen

G eorge stared blankly at the manuscript in front of him. His scrawling handwriting filled each page, ending halfway down the paper on the fiftieth page. When he wrote so quickly, other people struggled to read his handwriting. Fortunately, Mr. Sherman, of Sherman and Peabody Publishing, found it reasonably legible. Reasonably. He still sometimes frantically called George into the office to ask what in God’s name he’d meant by one of the scribbles.

How was Sherman going to do that now that George no longer lived in London? It was a question George had been evading for the last two weeks. Every time he tried to confront the reality of how his working life would have to change, he ran away from the problem by finding some less knotty intellectual tangle to unravel in its place.

Today, he distracted himself by once again wondering what on earth Belle meant when she said the work he published under his MacPherson nom de plume was derivative. Derivative? What did that even mean? All writers drew on the stories and tropes of the past. Even Shakespeare had taken most of his plots from other sources, and no one ever called him unoriginal, did they?

I’d like to see her do better! Though George sometimes had the habit of talking out loud while he thought, he kept this particular complaint to himself. After all, he no longer lived alone. He had already spoken to the serving staff about staying out of the study, but at any minute, Belle might take it into her head to come looking for him there. She was the mistress of the house, so he couldn’t order her to never enter the room.

Or could he? For one fanciful moment, George toyed with the idea of putting a “No Girls Allowed” sign on the door. But he was no longer a schoolboy trying to avoid an annoying younger sibling. He was a grown man, and his wife was (fortunately) significantly less annoying than his little sister. Since he and Belle were both adults, he should simply ask her to stay out of the study. It should not be hard to make himself clear on that point. Belle already seemed to understand about the need for solitude. Though not, perhaps, about the pain of being interrupted.

Pleased to have resolved the question, George got up from his desk and stretched. He had been sitting for hours—or at least what seemed like hours—and he could stand it no longer. He needed to move more! It could not be good to spend all his time in a single stuffy room, crammed into an uncomfortable wooden chair.

In his old Grub Street life, he would have walked everywhere. Nearly every day he spent in London, rain or shine, involved walking to the nearest street vendor, the local pub, the circulating library, his publisher’s office, or, in the not-too-distant past, Priscilla Brooke’s bakery and her living quarters above the shop. Once he had been quite at home there.

The thought of Priscilla called up a host of sensory memories: the smell of fresh-baked pies, the taste of iced tea cakes, the prickle of a stiff-backed horsehair sofa, and the rustle of freshly aired sheets. George quickly shoved the latter memory out of his mind. Now that he was married, thinking about Priscilla felt disloyal. That affaire was in the past, and he had no cause to think of Priscilla at all. Belle need never know about any of that .

George strode more quickly down the short corridor to the back door. No one used this entrance, so far as he could tell. Tradesmen and deliveries came to the kitchen door on the side of the house, not this door. But this was the fastest way to the orchard, and the orchard was the best place for a ramble on a hot July afternoon. The country lane that ran parallel to the river could also be a pleasant place for a walk, but some parts of the lane lacked shade at this hour. The orchard would be cooler.

Once he reached the orchard, George slowed down to enjoy his surroundings. Here, summer light danced with tree shadows. Now and again a bird chirped lazily. This part of the orchard abutted the pasture, so he could smell hot grass and the occasional whiff of cow manure. He walked down one row, then up the next, but too soon he came to the last row. He still had no idea what ought to happen next in the novel he was supposed to be drafting.

He stood at the end of the orchard, wavering. He was of half a mind to go for a longer walk along the river. But could he justify leaving his work for so long in the middle of the day? If Belle noticed his absence, she would ask questions. He preferred not to have to talk about his current writing project if he could avoid it. After hearing her criticisms of Rosalind , he wanted to conceal his nom de plume , at least for now.

Someday, after he’d earned fame and fortune with his writing, he would reveal the truth to his wife. She would be proud and happy and apologize for ever having doubted “Alec MacPherson’s” abilities. George strode up and down the orchard paths a second time, imagining how much Belle would regret her criticism when he finally achieved literary fame. But, given how slowly his writing had been going lately, he might have a very long wait before he could reveal his secret.

No one in his family knew that George wrote novels as well as book reviews and essays. Given his father’s dislike for fiction, George could not admit to this side of his literary career, even though it was the kind of writing he liked best. Mr. Kirkland thought it was bad enough that George wasted his abilities merely reviewing novels. He would have been horrified to learn that his son wrote his own novels, too.

George’s mother had always been a little more liberal on the subject of imaginative literature. She allowed her children to read Mother Goose rhymes and books of nursery tales as well as more devotional works. But she rarely read novels, in deference to her husband’s opinion. She, too, would be dismayed rather than pleased if she ever learned that her son wrote fiction. Caro would not have disapproved of George writing novels, but he didn’t trust her to keep it a secret. In his experience, anything confided to one family member eventually reached all the others, too.

On the other hand, the Canning family read novels and loved them. In fact, George used to borrow books from Oliphant Hall, sneaking Robinson Crusoe or Gulliver’s Travels into his room and hiding them under his mattress like contraband. He intended to tell Belle the truth about his writing. He just hadn’t found the right time for bringing it up.

Up until their conversation about MacPherson’s writing, George had toyed with the idea of waiting until Ermintrude was published to reveal the secret. Then he would give Belle the first copy, bound in a ribbon, with an affectionate inscription. He might even dedicate it to her! She would be over the moon.

Except that Belle hadn’t liked Rosalind , so she probably wouldn’t like its sequel, which related the story of Lady Rosalind’s younger sister, Lady Ermintrude. Ermintrude was less histrionic and more comical than her temperamental older sister. The humor in this volume would be much stronger, and there were some parodies of high society that George thought very entertaining.

But George had a sinking feeling that Belle would say that Lady Ermintrude, like her fictional sister, behaved inconsistently from one scene to another. In truth, character development was George’s least favorite part of writing fiction. He preferred catapulting his characters from one ridiculous situation to another.

Unfortunately, the British book-buying public seemed not to love MacPherson’s comedies of manners. Only a few reviewers liked Rosalind and the sales had been moderate, at best. Mr. Sherman had delicately hinted that perhaps George ought to study the market a little more and see if he could write something that might sell better.

George had hoped that Ermintrude would be the book that made him successful, proving the critics and his editor wrong. He’d spent hours rereading his favorite novels, trying to figure out how those authors succeeded where he always seemed to fail. But none of that would matter if he could not finish writing the book!

Which meant he’d better sit back down and write, hadn’t he? He sighed and trudged back to the house, his head hanging down. He couldn’t really justify a longer break, given how little progress he’d made today. Or yesterday. Or for weeks, if he was honest. His muse seemed to have deserted him entirely.

He squared his shoulders and marched through the back garden, only to find himself within a hair’s breadth of a collision with Mrs. Hastings.

“I am terribly sorry!” he gasped.

“Oh, it’s as much my fault as yours,” she said cheerfully. “I was so busy thinking about dinner that I didn’t look where I was going.” She gestured to the basket of fresh-picked French beans she carried.

“Well, we don’t want you to spill the beans.” George, worried about the way the basket kept tipping, took it out of her hands.

Mrs. Hastings beamed at him. “Indeed we don’t. I should hate to have wasted the time picking those.” She dusted her hands off on her apron. “Not but what the garden is a pleasant place to be today, aside from the heat.”

“Yes, I was just stretching my legs in the orchard.” George held the kitchen door open for her, then followed close behind. After a quarter hour spent in the bright afternoon light, the kitchen seemed downright Stygian. He had to wait until his eyes adjusted before he could carry the basket of beans to the table.

“Thank you, sir. Now, was there something you needed?”

George grinned, recognizing the hint. “No, Mrs. Hastings. I’ll be on my way.”

But as he turned to go, he caught sight of the damaged wall. The gouges in the plaster had all been patched up. The patches were still visible, being a different shade from the rest of the wall, but at least the wall was whole now.

“I see someone mended the damage that burglar did.”

“Aye, Mr. Hastings patched it up.” Mrs. Hastings had been preparing to wash the beans, but she turned around to face George. “That reminds me, Mr. Kirkland. Have you made any arrangements for securing the door? So as to keep treasure hunters out, I mean?”

“Ah, no, not yet, but I’ll be right on it.” George had, in fact, entirely forgotten about it. He surreptitiously patted his pockets, hoping against reason that he might have a notebook and pencil on hand so he could jot down a reminder. All he found was a handkerchief in need of washing. How long had he been carrying that in his pocket?

“It’s no great matter,” Mrs. Hastings assured him. “It’s only that young Peggy has been complaining about how uncomfortable the floor is.”

“I don’t blame her,” George agreed. “I wouldn’t make a dog sleep on that floor.” A dog? Now that was an idea! Why hadn’t he thought of it? Perhaps the security problem would be easy to solve after all. “I say, Mrs. Hastings, do you know anyone who might be selling a guard dog?”

“I don’t know anyone who’d part with a trained guard dog,” she said doubtfully, “but I believe that Squire Cawley, up at Waterbury Lodge, was looking to sell some bulldog puppies. You might talk to his groundskeeper.”

“That’s a splendid idea. I’ll do that.” George particularly liked this mission as it gave him a reason to delay sitting back down to write. He still had absolutely no clue what ought to happen next in Ermintrude. Maybe, just maybe, he should’ve taken Potter’s advice and tried making an outline first, rather than diving in headfirst without a plan.

It might not be too late to make an outline of the rest of the novel. His usual method of drafting had not worked so far. Maybe it was time to try something else. But that would be a problem for another day. Today, he was going to go see a man about a dog. He left the cottage, whistling as he headed westward, toward Waterbury Lodge.

This errand proved more successful than his writing session. Not only was Mr. Cawley up to receiving visitors, he seemed quite pleased to meet George. He invited George into his library for a brandy. George accepted, more out of a desire to be polite to his nearest neighbor rather than particularly wanting a drink.

Mr. Cawley handed George an unnecessarily full glass and settled into an armchair near the open French windows. “I believe I must’ve seen you visiting your uncle back when you were a lad, Mr. Kirkland.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled pleasantly.

Mr. Cawley could have been no more than ten years older than George, but he already had the look of a bluff, sporting country squire. His hair had begun to recede, and his tanned skin indicated that he spent a good deal of time outside. George guessed he took a hands-on approach to managing his farmland.

If I wrote a character like Mr. Cawley, Arabella would say it was only a caricature of a country gentleman. George kept his bitterness to himself, instead smiling back at his host. “I seem to recall you driving about the country in a gig drawn by what looked like a circus pony.”

As a child, George had envied young Walter Cawley, who seemed to be everything George wanted to be: dashing, athletic, and wealthy. Strange to sit with the man now that Providence had brought them back together. George and Squire Cawley differed widely in both situation and personality, but they now belonged to the same community and would most likely move in the same circles. Uncle William’s generosity had made George an independent gentleman, even though he chose to continue his literary career.

Mr. Cawley burst into laughter. “Oh, dear Lord, yes. Poor old Baldwin. He did look like a circus pony, didn’t he? He was an excellent carriage horse, though. Good wind, fine legs, lots of stamina. He couldn’t help being as spotted as a Dalmatian dog.” He took a small sip of his brandy, then set the glass down. “We were all so pleased to hear that Finch’s Cottage was to be occupied at last. We’ve missed your uncle these last few years.”

“Finch’s Cottage?” George could not remember having heard it called that.

“Ah, forgive me, I know your uncle changed the name.” Mr. Cawley quickly explained. “The place used to belong to my family—or rather, my grandmother’s family. The Finches. She was the last of the Finches, so the property came to us. My grandfather sold it to pay for improvements to Waterbury Lodge, I believe.”

“I did not know that.” George studied the older man uncertainly. People could be touchy about selling properties that had been in the family for generations. “I hope you don’t mind that the place no longer belongs to the Finches. It really is a charming house.”

“Oh, goodness, no, you are welcome to it!” Mr. Cawley dismissed George’s concern with a wave of his hand. “If I ever visited the place as a child, it’s more than I remember. Even before your uncle bought it, the place was leased out. And my grandfather had a devil of a time finding tenants, too. Most people who want houses in the country prefer to have a park for the sake of hunting. No, we are quite happy to let someone else make use of the place.”

“Glad to hear that.” If young Mr. Cawley had wanted to reclaim his family’s ancestral land, George would have felt conscience-bound to sell it. But he would have been very unhappy about it, and Uncle William might have been downright apoplectic.

Mr. Cawley drained the last of his brandy and sat up straighter. “So, Mr. Kirkland, is this purely a social visit, or was there something particular you wished to discuss?”

“Oh, right!” George leaned forward in his chair and explained about the recent break-ins, the damage to the kitchen, the servants’ fears about possible future violence, and his hope that a guard dog might help.

Cawley’s mouth gaped wide. “You mean people still believe in the treasure? That’s absurd!” He shook his head and cracked a rueful grin. “I admit that when I was a boy, I believed my Aunt Tilly’s stories about there being some precious object hidden in the house, but I left that belief behind when I grew up. I had no idea that anyone outside the family had even heard the story.”

George chuckled. “Oh, we all heard it when I was a child. I don’t know who first told it to me, but I know my sister and I went all around the kitchen, knocking on the walls in search of a hollow space. Never did find it, of course.”

“If anyone finds anything of value hidden in that house, I’ll eat my hat!” Cawley cheerfully offered. “But enough of that. I should think you do need a guard dog! Why don’t you come out to the kennel with me and I’ll show you the pups?”

George followed the squire out the door, confident that he’d seen the last of the vandalism in the kitchen. No one would break into the house knowing it was guarded by a ferocious-looking dog.