“What foolishness,” she scolded herself after a moment. Settling atop her bed, one leg tucked beneath her, she turned the letter over, slid a fingernail beneath the wax seal, and lifted it. No point in delaying the inevitable.
As she unfolded the paper, her eyes were arrested by the letter’s opening words:
Dear Miss Burke,
I have read The Wild Irish Rose with great pleasure—
“Great pleasure” did not sound like a rejection. Surely a man as busy as Mr. Dawkins would not take time to express the great pleasure he had felt in tossing her beloved manuscript onto the rubbish heap…would he?
—and believe others will do the same, the more so given its timely—and, if you will permit me, rather extraordinary—subject matter.
“Extraordinary subject matter”? A euphemism, she supposed, for a woman’s foray into the world of politics. But as women’s opinions in such matters were so little valued otherwise, how else was Cami to speak if not through the pages of fiction? She returned her eyes to the letter.
However, as this novel purports to be a work of realism and not of the Gothic school, I must draw your attention to one flaw. I fear that a London audience will find your English villain wholly unbelievable, a caricature drawn out of Irish prejudice.
Annoyance pricked along her spine. Caricature? Ha! That only meant she had succeeded in holding up a mirror before one Englishman’s eyes. Now, if only she could force them all to recognize their reflection.
A man, even an Englishman, is rarely as unrelievedly bad as your Granville. Though it may seem to go against the moral of your tale, I assure you his failings will be more powerfully felt if he has been shown also to have some strengths. A faithful portrait must be drawn with light and shadow.
If you are willing to undertake these revisions, we are prepared to review the manuscript again, with an eye to purchasing it outright for publication. This is, as I am sure you are aware, quite a generous offer for an untried author.
Please indicate your intentions by return post.
Yours, &c.
Benjamin Dawkins, Jun.
The letter slipped from her trembling fingers and drifted down to the coverlet. Despite his reservations, Mr. Dawkins was willing to take the time and trouble to read her book again. He hoped to purchase it, to publish it! He would not say that if he did not have some confidence in its potential to succeed.
Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes, fogging her spectacles. All the sacrifices—rising early, scribbling frantically by the light of a candle before even the housemaids were awake; exchanging the green of Dublin for the grime of London; even leaving her family, wondering if she would ever see them again—would be worth it.
If she could find a way to render the despicable Lord Granville more believable, or at least more palatable, she would be an author.
But just how on earth was she going to manage that?
Without a knock of warning, the door to her room swung open. Cami hastily folded the letter and thrust it into the drawer of her bedside table.
Felicity wandered in and flopped onto the bed, not waiting to be invited. “Oh, Cousin Camellia,” she sighed, a tremor in her voice, “Mama says I must marry Lord Ash.”
Cami sat more upright. “Marry him?” Although the news was not entirely unexpected—in the Earl of Merrick’s circle, unmarried gentlemen visited unmarried young ladies with a single goal in mind, after all—the speed with which the decision had been made alarmed her. She had never even heard the man’s name mentioned before today.
“Papa has reached a—an understanding with him, it seems. Something about Stephen’s debts.”
Just yesterday, Uncle Merrick had lit out for Derbyshire with his wayward son in tow, muttering something about teaching him the meaning of “rustication.” Did the arrangement with Lord Ash also have something to do with their sudden departure?
“Are you to have no say in the matter?”
A thin smile, followed by an almost imperceptible shake of her perfect blond ringlets. “You know Papa is too gentle to force me to do anything against my will. But Mama says if I accept Lord Ash, we are saved,” Felicity said. “If I refuse him, we will be ruined. If he asks me, how can I say no?”
Heat flared in Cami’s chest and spread through her body, warming even the tips of her ears. When the first flush of shock passed, it left her chilled. She struggled to find words of consolation. “Perhaps it will not be an intolerable match. He is rather…that is, he’s very…” Arrogant? Sardonic? No, those would never do. She needed a description Felicity might actually want to hear. Finally, she settled on “…handsome.”
Felicity’s pert nose wrinkled. “Do you think so? But he’s…why, he must be even older than you, Cousin. And he’s so…dark.”
Felicity could be forgiven for thinking of thirty as old, she supposed. But dark? The writer in Cami wanted to press for more specific adjectives, words that would leap off the page and belong only to Lord Ash. Hair the color of burnished mahogany wainscot that disguised a secret passageway, eyes the precise shade of the forest floor in early autumn. And a voice…but here Cami had to concede that dark suited the timbre of his deep voice—a fitting pitch for the dark, troubled soul to which it belonged, if Mr. Fox’s story was to be believed.
“King says Lord Ash’s reputation is quite as charred and sooty as his name,” her cousin continued. “He is said to be a—a rake.” The last word was little more than a scandalized whisper. Cami knew she ought to chide Felicity for repeating servants’ gossip, but she could not bring herself to do it. Not with his friend’s revelation still ringing in her own ears.
Despair at her cousin’s predicament mingled uneasily with the elation Mr. Dawkins’s letter had brought, leaving Cami feeling something she could never remember having felt before: light-headed.
