Are we so insignificant to you, papa?
Pippa wondered if in America, where he lived, his children were branded as bastards, or did he pretend to be married to his Anna? How did he live with himself? And how she resented that she still cared for him and hoped his family was not ostracized.
“You are still a coward, Papa,” she whispered, hating the tears that smarted behind her lids.
This burden to provide for their future now rested on her shoulders. Her mamma needed her to be strong, and inventive. They could not rely on the goodwill of the countess forever, and they would have to return to Crandleforth soon. They’d already retrenched, and a few servants had been let go to everyone’s distress. The thirty-room manor with its extensive ground was taken care of by a very loyal skeleton staff. With their coffers running on empty, and tenants unable to pay an increase on rent, Pippa needed a wealthy husband who would not mind she came without a dowry and a past scandal, or she could seek employment.
It spoke volumes that employment was more appealing to Pippa. The notion would horrify her mother’s sensibilities, but she could potentially earn enough money to ensure they were fed and clothed. Two gentlemen, and she used the honorific loosely, whom she had relied on had so easily betrayed the trust she'd given them. It was time to forge a path using her wits and intelligence.
She closed her eyes, hating the desperate fear worming through her heart.
The countess entered the sitting room, her cheerful manners preceding her like sunshine.
“Lavinia dear, how morose you appear this morning! Come we cannot have that. Shall we take tea together?”
Her mother brightened, and Pippa's heart eased to see it. She greeted the countess, and conversation on the latest gossip in the ton ensued. Pippa excused herself and hurried up the winding stairs and went to her chamber. Once there, she knelt and drew a small trunk from beneath her bed. She opened it and removed several bound books. Pushing to her feet, she opened the first book which had been smartly written by her.
Misadventures in Crandleforth.
A piquant story of a girl of eighteen falling in love with a young naval captain. The young girl had dressed as a boy to join him on his adventures, with much hilarity and adventures ensuing, with the promise of love between the pages.
With a sigh, she plucked at the list of noteworthy publishers she’d made a list of. “Courage,” she whispered to herself. “All it takes is courage.”
Jane Austen had published several works, and the world had seemed pleased when the author had revealed herself to be a woman. Pippa gently ran her finger across the name she had scrawled under the title.
Written by Phillip Cradmore.
Perhaps she could have it replaced by Pippa Cavanaugh. With a light laugh at her fancy, she closed the book, forming a plan in her heart. She would approach every publisher on her list until she found a place for her stories.
She recalled an advert she had seen from a popular printing press seeking writers. They would receive a visit as well. And if they were not interested, she would extend her search even further. It was time for her to take on the burdens of taking care of her future.
I’ll not fail you, mamma. I vow it.
A few days later, Pippa had almost given up hope. Several publishers had been reluctant even to accept her manuscript and give it a read because she was a woman. Their attitude had frustrated her, and even a few had asked her to reveal the identity behind the dark hat and veil she wore to each meeting. Of course, she had refused and had informed them only the written promise of a contract could motivate her toward that endeavor. Instead, she'd introduced herself as Miss Beaver, for having quite admired that animal for some time now.
But now, the press which had advertised seeking writers seemed quite interested, and she was dizzy with excitement and trying her best not to raise her hopes for them to be deflated. A portly man sat before her, a large oak desk separating them as he thumbed through her work. At times he paused, seemingly holding his breath, other times he laughed out loud, uncaring the author was before him, watching his every reaction with keen anticipation, and half dread and half thrill bursting in her heart.
He’d been reading for more than an hour, and she’d only interjected once to inform Mr. Bell that she drew inspiration from Shakespeare and Jane Austen, and that her blend of romance, adventure, and intrigue would appeal to the public given this year’s bestselling books. Then, Pippa had contentedly sat on the edge of the well-padded chair, assessing every nuance of Mr. Bell’s expression, at times shifting in her seat to peer at the section which caused him to chuckle so.
Finally, he set down the manuscript, and settled back in his chair, crossing his hands in a clasp around his rotund belly. There was a smile around his lips, and his amiable face did seem flushed with excitement.
"By jove, you have a talent, Miss Beaver. A wonderful, wonderful talent.”
She barely prevented herself from bouncing on the chair. “Oh thank you, Mr. Bell, I promise—”
He held up his hand, and she faltered.
“I can see that you are familiar with the workings of upper society. Your rich description of the ball young Hetty attended in disguise was simply superb. The manners and etiquette conveyed in the viscountess’s speech and actions are excellent. I simply cannot credit that to anyone’s imagination. You, my dear, are a gentlewoman.”
Pippa blinked. “Errr…. I have been privileged to be invited into certain circles before,” she edged cautiously. “But I am not of the ton.”
Mr. Bell considered with a good deal of skepticism before saying, “That will do if that is all you’ll allow!”
Confusion bubbled inside her. “Mr. Bell, would you like to publish my story?”
He considered her for another second, then said, “No.”
Her heart sank like a stone to the bottom of the ocean.