“Apparently.” Seeing the dreamy look on the woman’s usually dour face, Rebecca bit back a grin.
When she was ready, Rebecca thanked Miss Joly, went downstairs, and positioned herself on one of the comfortable sofas in the hall. She picked up a newspaper from a side table and skimmed over the print, only half-aware of what she read.
The clerk had told her that Mr. Edgecombe would be dining there in the next day or two, and she didn’t want to miss his arrival and her chance to talk with him.
Yes, John had told her to get the manuscript into Mr. Oliver’s hands and ask him to recommend it to his publisher. But why not bypass the man who had betrayed him and deal with the publisher directly? John had said Edgecombe & Co. did not accept unsolicited manuscripts. But perhaps if they met personally, Thaddeus Edgecombe might make an exception. She hoped.
A notice in the newspaper caught her eye:
Eminent author Ambrose Oliver is currently staying at the Swanford Abbey Hotel, Swanford, Worcestershire. He can be seen nightly at 7:15 in the commodious dining room, where guests partake of excellent French cuisine prepared in the cleanest manner, with the best wines of all sorts. The hotel offers elegant accommodations for Gentlemen and Ladies of the first Quality....
It read like news and an advertisement in one. Mr. Mayhew was certainly making the most of the author’s presence.Rebecca thought of the half-empty dining room last night. She guessed this notice would bring in more customers.
A few minutes later, a well-dressed man with curly dark hair, bushy side-whiskers, and small gold spectacles came through the front doors, parcel under his arm and newspaper in hand. He resembled William Edgecombe, whom she had met a few times.This must be his brother, she decided, her pulse quickening.
Setting aside the paper, Rebecca rose. But before she could walk over, the man advanced on the desk where Mr. Mayhew was speaking to the clerk.
The proprietor looked up at his approach. “Ah, Mr. Edgecombe. A bit early for dinner, but if you would like to wait in the parlour or perhaps the coffee room ...?”
The man frowned, eyes blazing. “I am not here for dinner. I am here to drop off a dictionary and ink for Mr. Oliver. Apparently I am errand boy now as well as publisher. Man consumes more ink than brandy, and that is saying something.”
He set down the parcel, then slapped the broadsheet against the desk. “And I suppose you are responsible for this article in the newspaper? It was bad enough when they announced Mr. Oliver’s plan to retreat here, but now to detail his schedule, specifying when he dines so he might be gawked at like an animal in a menagerie? Mr. Oliver is here for solitude, to focus on his next book, not to entertain hordes of curiosity seekers.”
Having read the notice, Rebecca could understand Mr. Edgecombe’s point.
The owner squinted at the newsprint. “I am as surprised as you are, Mr. Edgecombe.”
“I doubt that.” The publisher spun on his heel and stalked away, leaving the hotel without giving her a chance to speak to him. Lead filled her stomach. Dare she go after him?
Rebecca gathered every scrap of courage she could muster and followed the man outside.You can do this. For John.
From the top of the stairs, she saw the publisher beside the drive, talking to the commissionaire. “Please have my carriage brought back around.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Moseley stepped away to summon the coachman.
Rebecca hurried down the stairs. “Mr. Edgecombe?”
The man turned. “Yes?” His gaze raked over her, his expression inscrutable.
She began, “I wonder if you, as Mr. Oliver’s publisher—”
“What of it?” he snapped, eyes narrowed.
“I would like to ask you ... for advice about my brother. He is an excellent writer and editor. He has worked for ... another author and corrects galley proofs for the newspaper. He has also written a few novels and—”
Edgecombe’s jaw tensed. “My firm does not accept unsolicited manuscripts. Most are not worth the paper they are scribbled on, and we cannot invest the time.”
“But my brother was acquainted with yours. Might you not make an exception?”
“Where is this brother?” He looked past her. “Is he not with you?”
“Unfortunately, no. He is ... ill, so I have come in his stead. I hoped to—”
“I see. Well. Can’t talk now. I have a meeting in Birmingham. Hoping to convince Washington Irving to let us publish his next book. So, if you will excuse me...” A carriage rumbled up the drive.
Frustrated tears threatened, but Rebecca forced herself to try once more. “I understand. Perhaps ... another time?”
He seemed about to refuse, then glancing at her and seeingher tears, desperation, or maybe only a pretty face, his gaze softened infinitesimally.
