Inside was an airy space with a bay window that looked out into the garden. A fluffed duvet of duck-egg blue sat upon an obscenely large bed, and a brown leather chair in the corner hosted a man’s shirt and trousers. By the window was a set of drawers. Jane opened the top drawer and found a thick pile of paper. Printed words of black, as from a press, covered the pages. A letter sat on top of the pile. Jane picked it up.
Dear sir,
Please find enclosed the first 10,000 words of my young adult novel, Land’s End. I include a self-addressed envelope for the return of the manuscript. Please be in touch if you’re interested in reading further.
Jane scowled at the page, fiercely curious. She remembered back to when her father sent her own novel, First Impressions, to Cadell, and the heartache when the publisher sent his reply.
Jane put the letter to one side. The printed title of a manuscript lay underneath. Jane inhaled a slow breath. A floorboard creaked; she looked at the door, guiltily, but the doorway lay bare. The house remained empty, except for herself and this manuscript. She turned to the first page.
Chapter One
It was four P.M. on a Tuesday when George Drummond first decided that firecrackers make terrible pets.
Jane stiffened. Fred had written a novel! She sat on the window ledge and read quickly and with excitement. Phrases she had never heard before littered the pages, as well as enough curse words to make her blush. But once she adjusted to the modern phrases and vernacular, the story engrossed her. A tumor afflicted a woman. In his desperation to save her life, her twelve-year-old son ran some sort of footrace—meant for adults, over an extreme distance—to raise funds to pay for her treatment. Jane found herself turning page after page, hurrying to see if the boy accomplished his task, if he finished the race, if he saved his mother. Before long, she had read halfway through the stack of pages.
“Hello, Jane,” a voice said.
She spun around in horror. The manuscript’s owner stood in the doorway. Jane froze.
The smile on his face faded as he looked down at her hands. “What are you doing?” he said.
Jane scrambled for an excuse. “I am sorry. I lost track of the hour,” she said. She commanded herself to breathe; she felt filled with horror and shame. “What are you doing home? I did not expect you back so soon.”
“I came home for lunch. And to see how you were.” He shook his head and peered at her with a sheepish look, then held out his hand for the manuscript.
She flinched as he took it. “Why did you never send it?” she asked. Despite her embarrassment at being caught, she could not help herself.
“What?”
“Your manuscript. Why did you never send it to the gentleman in the letter?”
He made no reply. Jane shifted her feet. They stood there in silence until he finally said, “I need to change clothes.”
Jane bristled at his tone—not angry, quieter. She wanted to cry. “Goodness, yes. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” Fred said nothing as she scuttled past him and he closed the door behind her.
Jane sat in the kitchen like a scolded child, mortified. Fred emerged from his room wearing the shirt and trousers that had been laid out on his chair.
“Fred, allow me to apologize,” Jane said.
He walked past her and did not meet her eye. “Don’t go into people’s rooms without asking,” he said in a soft voice.
“Yes,” she said. “I am sorry.” He walked out the front door without a farewell. Jane returned to the armchair in the sitting room and opened the sermons once more. She turned to the one entitled “On Female Reserve” and read it in full.
Chapter Thirty
Try as she might, Jane could not chase from her mind the image of Fred’s face when he’d discovered her. She reminded herself she did not care one way or the other what he thought of her, but still, she wished for their awkwardness to be reduced as much as possible. She was staying in his house and her journey home relied on his and Sofia’s help, and thus to be asked to leave at this juncture would be most inconvenient.
Fred was due home in the late afternoon. Jane planted herself in the armchair and stared at the door, awaiting his return. He walked in, finally, later than expected. Jane sat up from the armchair and waited for his salutation. He removed his brown coat. He nodded Jane a hello but said nothing, then walked to his room. The politeness and indifference of the greeting annoyed her. Silence posed a more worrying challenge than anger; she would have preferred for him to shout at her.
She found herself caught between two worlds of feeling. The first was a desire to make amends with Fred quickly, to restore her good standing in the house. This required that she speak no further of his novel or its characters, but to move quickly to lighter, prettier topics such as the weather or his favorite color. The second was an overwhelming, flame-licked burning to speak to this man about novels, about writing, about the light and fire of her life. She waded in with the second, treading softly, and followed him down the corridor.
“Fred, please allow me to apologize again,” she said. Fred closed his door, and Jane stood alone in the hallway. “I know what I did was unforgivable.” Jane spoke to him through the door. “I am a terrible, horrid person.” She hoped this would suffice to placate him. She waited at the door. He did not open it.
She sighed. “It’s of little consolation, but I found your novel to be beautiful,” she mumbled. There continued to be no answer from behind the door. Jane slumped and wondered how long it would
