“And an exceptional poet.”
He blinked. “What?”
She strode to the block of hay and swiped up the book of poetry. “I only read the first twenty pages, and already I cannot believe I ever let you so much as glance at my scripts. You must think I’m the most amateurish—”
“What? Vivian, I’ve literally never read anything so entertaining or emotional or witty—”
“Have you read anything by Sir Gareth? Because that man can write.” She stabbed her finger in the center of the leather cover. “It should beyourname here, Jacob. You did this. You deserve the praise.”
His throat no longer seemed to work.
“These are your words,” she said softly, pressing the book into his hands. “You deserve the fame.”
His fingers clutched the volume. “Wouldn’t you take pride in your plays being produced all over England, even if the public believed them to be written by Lady Whipplesnout?”
“No,” she said simply. “I’m proud of what I’ve written, even if it never leaves my kitchen. I don’t want some fictional Lady Whipplesnout to achieve fame and fortune. It means nothing if no one knows it’s me. If the page doesn’t bear my name, it’s not my achievement.”
“I disagree.” He gestured around the barn. “Every rehabilitated animal who leaves here able to survive is an achievement, though no evidence of my involvement is left behind. There’s just as much poetry in the flap of a no-longer-broken wing as there is in the pages of this book. This barn is my theater, and these animals the only audience I need.”
“Bollocks,” she said. “Everyone dreams of bowing in the footlights to the thundering of applause.”
“Maybe you do. I’ve tried that. It isn’t for me.”
“How do you know? A pseudonym isn’t the same as—”
“One of my first memories is stumbling in a tent crowded with onlookers. I forgot my line. They pelted me with whatever was in their hands, and roared with glee at how wretched I looked dripping with rubbish. I’ve never forgotten the sound of their laughter.”
Vivian looked appalled. “Where on earth—”
“The same circus where I met Graham. He grew up there, too, though he became a talented acrobat and the star of the show. The circus manager said I wasn’t interesting enough to scare up a single farthing. He relegated me to the animal tent so that paying customers wouldn’t have to look at me. Told me I belonged in a barn because I wasn’t better than an animal myself.”
“Oh, Jacob. Of course you’re better than…”
He gestured around them. “Better than who and where I am?”
“Better than a cruel, greedy circus manager,” she said firmly. “There’s nothing wrong with loving animals or working in a barn. There’s nothing wrong with Jacob Wynchester, animal trainerandpoet extraordinaire. You don’t belong in the shadows.”
“I like the shadows.”
“You’re scared of the light, which is different. You’re talented, Jacob. Truly the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. It hurts my heart to be the sole keeper of that knowledge. I want the world to know how marvelous you are.”
Her compliments made his throat feel tight, so he pushed them away. Along with the realization that those old dreams hadn’t died after all. Hedidwant to stand on center stage, and hear the audience applaud for him. Not for his brother. Not for a nom de plume.
Ordinary Jacob Wynchester. Who was maybe a little bit extraordinary after all.
You can’t conquer your fears if you don’t face them, Vivian had once said.
For her, maybe he would try.
27
Viv dropped her pencil back onto her kitchen table only when her fingers cramped up too much to continue holding on any longer.
If she couldn’t sleep anyway due to her worries about Quentin, she’d inadvertently been handed the best distraction on the planet: The theater manager would soon be casting her suffrage reform play.
He might not be expecting Viv’s ten-page outline detailing her best suggestions on cast, costumes, acting, stage decorations, timing, and audience participation, but if he adopted even a quarter of her advice, it might actually be a good performance.
She stretched out her indented and sore fingers before picking up the pencil again.
