He studied her for a moment. “You are Miss Analise Crewe?”
“Yes sir.”
“When Lady Claridge sent me your manuscript, she wrote that you were her trusted companion and amanuensis. I assumed you would be older. What is your age?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
He folded his hands on his desk. “I read the first few chapters of your novel this morning, Miss Crewe.”
“You only read it this morning?”
“Do you see this towering pile of manuscripts, my girl? We receive hundreds of inquiries every month. Yours only rose to the top because of Lady Claridge’s personal recommendation. I assumed your work would be similar in style and substance to your mentor’s elegant and gentlewomanly tales, yet what did I find? Faery queens, talking dragons, princesses setting off on ludicrous quests. Pah!”
She wrapped her fingers tightly together in front of her in an unwitting attitude of prayer, willing herself to ignore a growing sense of dread. “Lady Claridge read my novel and said that it was quite different and delightful.”
“Different, yes. Delightful? She must have been blinded by affection.”
The breath left her chest in a rush, leaving her momentarily silent. Disbelief was giving way to dismal recognition of a new,unpleasant reality. She raised her face, focusing her eyes on his. “You didn’t like it?”
“The writing had a measure of charm, I will grant you, yet the novel doesn’t fit into any of the categories of literature that we publish, particularly the genres well suited to a woman’s sensibilities. It’s not a children’s morality tale, nor is it a comedy of manners, nor even a volume of poetry, such as is fitting for the refined reader of today.”
“The Brothers Grimm had great success with their fairy tales only recently.”
“Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm are scholars, well educated and well endowed with that most masculine of traits, a rich intelligence. You are very young, far too fanciful, and, of course, through no fault of your own, female; what gentlewomanly traits you may possess through birth are surely outweighed by your current lack of both social standing and spouse. I always have my staff do research into the circumstances of potential authors. Imagine my consternation to learn that after Lady Claridge’s passing, you arrived in London only to take lodgings at a boarding house with a most unsavory reputation and unfavorable address.”
Miss Flanagan’s Boarding House for Young Ladies had been the only door open to her, the only lodging she’d been able to afford. She’d pawned the last of her mother’s jewelry but it wasn’t enough for the back rent she owed.
She’d managed to convince herself that Mr. Norwood would offer her a contract then and there. Lady Claridge had praised her fantastical novel, but perhaps she had done so only out of pity mixed with affection?
She hadn’t come all this way, trudging through the streets every day for two hours to inquire at the publishing house, only tocome away empty-handed. Mr. Norwood must be forced to take her seriously.
“Oh that”—she waved a hand through the air dismissively—“it’s all a huge misunderstanding. You see I arrived in London earlier than anticipated, with very limited funds of my own, but my... my fiancé is arriving very soon, and I’ll be moved to luxurious lodgings in Mayfair.”
Mr. Norwood’s brow wrinkled. “You’re engaged to be married?”
She attempted to keep her face from betraying the lie. “I am.”
“And this purported fiancé’s name?”
“Er... we’ve sworn to keep our arrangement secret for now. He hasn’t told his family yet. They are a very ancient lineage and perhaps will attempt to dissuade him against the marriage. However, he is steadfast in his love for me. We are to be married as soon as he arrives in London.”
“I see.”
His tone said that he didn’t believe her. She forged ahead regardless. In for a penny, in for a pound. “And if you don’t like my fantastical novel, I have another manuscript that’s nearing completion.” She desperately searched her mind for a solution. What would pique his interest? “Before she passed, Lady Claridge gave me a detailed outline for her next Clovercote novel and bade me write the book and take up her mantle.”
It wasn’t completely a lie. Lady Claridge had dictated the outline to her, but only because she thought she would live to write the novel.
His eyes narrowed. “If that’s so, why didn’t she write to me about it?”
“It all happened so fast. She slipped away before her time. I was devastated by her passing.”
“As were we all. Her readership was one of the most devoted in all of England.”
Horrid man. Prejudiced against her writing, her sex, her very self. Small-minded—and greedy. It wasn’t literature or the artistry behind it that he cared for; it was only the money Lady Claridge had made for the publishing house.
Her mind, made agile by stress and desperation, leapt at the thought. Perhaps she could use his avarice to her advantage? “Wouldn’t another Clovercote novel, outlined by her ladyship and written by her companion, appeal to that very readership?” She held her breath and watched the machinery of his mind turn over this new idea.
“There could be some merit to that.” He steepled his fingers, staring out the window past her head. “Another Clovercote novel... who is the heroine?”