The bar turned out to be a wide table covered with bottles, glasses, scattered peanut shells, crumpled napkins, and damp bar towels. It was marginally quieter at that end of the room. Julia had little experience of workplace offices, but she wondered again how serious work was ever done in such a place. Austen handed her a gin fizz. “It’s not usually this bad. A lot of new people turned up tonight when they heard Pablo’s coming to show off his new protégé.”
He dropped his chin. “Oh boy. Brace yourself.”
A muscular, dark-haired woman of at least thirty kissed Austen with a loud smack and saluted Julia with her glass. “Wilhelmina Fischer, lamb. Call me Billie.” She threaded her arm through Austen’s. “Come to hail Pablo’s noble savage? Haven’t we all? I’d sell my grandmother for a novel that could pry real cash out of Arthur. Hell, I’d even prance around onstage for a weasel like Lenny Timson. Since that seems to be what it takes.”
She fished the cherry out of her drink and popped it into her mouth. Her black-rimmed eyes swept over Julia’s frock. “Couture, or I’m off my nut.” She pinched Julia’s sleeve. “Say, bunny, if you’re looking for dough, scram now. On a publishing salary, this mutt couldn’t keep you in last year’s rags. Or out of them.” She hooted at her witticism, turning nearby heads, and spanked Austen’s cheek before strolling off toward a group of men on the terrace.
“Sorry,” Austen said, before Julia could forbid another apology. “Billie drinks like a sailor. She’s a theater critic who’s discovered she makes a bigger splash panning a show.” He made a throat-slashing gesture. “Jugular, every time.”
“Ghastly woman.” Julia glanced about. “I assume I haven’t yet met your friends.”
Austen looked around too. “You’re right. It’s a miracle this place publishes anything at all. Horace’s a randy old dog, and he’s extravagant to a fault, but he has a great nose for books. I love the man, really. He’s been like a prince to me.”
A prince with presumptuous paws. “Is the guest of honor here?” Julia wondered. “The author from Nebraska?”
“I was hoping you’d forgotten.” Austen’s head pitched to the right. Through a half-open door, Julia saw the soles of a man’s shoes atop the backrest of a wide divan, as well as a jacket on the floor nearby. Someone in a pastel frock, likely a professional, celebrated the prone author. Julia examined her gin.
“Hold on.” Austen sidled over to the room. Keeping his head and shoulders angled toward the party, he reached in, found the door’s handle, and pulled it shut.
“Horace likes to treat authors like royalty when they visit, so he throws these parties and lines up, well, entertainment. It’s embarrassing, but most of them love it. This fellow’s found what Horace calls his casting couch. Sorry.”
“Do you think I haven’t seen prostitutes? I don’t shock easily. And please stop apologizing. What does Mr. Liveright do for his lady authors? Squire them himself?”
Austen blushed. “Horace prefers chorines and actresses to authors, at least to authors he intends to publish. He loves to show—”
A great shout drowned the rest of his sentence. Pablo Duveen loomed in the doorway. “We won!” he bellowed. “We outfoxed you old coots, and we’ve come for our cackle!” He turned to sweep Eva Pruitt into the room. A stiff-spined, dark-complected man followed.
A crescendo of good-natured curses engulfed the trio.
“Is that Goldsmith?” Julia asked, eyeing the second man.
“I knew it,” Austen said with a nod. “I bet a buddy Arthur couldn’t resist coming along tonight to gloat. Horace wanted Eva’s book too, you know, if only because Arthur had the leg up. Pablo egged him on with all his chirping about New Negroes.” He leaned closer. “And I bet Arthur forked over a big contract just to give Horace a good steam. They may be smiling right now, but oh boy, Horace is hating this as much as Arthur’s enjoying it. He’d kill to snatch Eva’s book for us and wipe that smirk off Arthur’s face.”
Julia eyed the rival publishers, their hands locked in a pretense of bonhomie. Austen dropped his voice. “I don’t know Arthur well, but then I doubt anyone does. He keeps his distance from Horace, treating him like something unsavory. I do know Horace resents Arthur something fierce. Oh, Arthur’s a genius for publishing, no doubt about that, but he’s such a prig. Arrogant, shrewd, careful to a fault with money and power—don’t get Horace started on the subject. They say Arthur’s ruthless about getting what he wants, which is always the best of anything.”
Julia studied the man as they moved forward to greet the newcomers. Shrewd and ambitious—Arthur Goldsmith certainly matched the description. A precisely tapered black mustache hovered like two sable paintbrushes above his mouth as he accepted the crowd’s attentions with small nods. He was dressed every bit as impeccably as Liveright, but with a surprisingly brazen touch: crisp pink shirt, white collar, magenta tie.
Goldsmith’s dark eyes assessed Julia during Austen’s introduction. His glance swept from her waist to her head before he dismissed her with the conventional courtesies. He’d sized her up—as a female—and decided she merited no further attention. It was true then: Arthur Goldsmith did love books more than women. Julia was far from the most attractive woman in the room, but she doubted any could rival her command of bookmaking. In measuring the woman, he’d overlooked the printer. Typical man. As he turned away, she raised her voice and said, “Stanley Morison speaks well of your work in raising typographic standards.”
His gaze returned instantly. It was shameless, of course, to drop the name of Britain’s foremost arbiter of typographic taste, and not altogether honest, as Julia had no idea what Morison thought of Goldsmith’s books. The important thing was that she’d invoked the fine bookmaking movement, a renaissance in which Julia included her work with Capriole. Anyone who paid serious attention to type, layout, papers, bindings, and so on—as Goldsmith did—would
