“I’d say I don’t give a fig about the opinions of anyone who would object to your well-earned success, but my feelings don’t matter. You should do asyouwant.”
Should he? Could he?
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t fantasized about it a thousand times. But if Jacob Wynchester were a household name, everyone would look at him differently. Not just the people on the street, but his own family. Who loved him just as he was. So why would he change that?
He already had a life he adored. How many people of any color or class had a barn full of clever animals and a family who fought for justice wherever it was needed?
This home was Jacob’s place. Being a Wynchester was how he fit into his family, and into society, and into the world. It was fine. He knew how lucky he was. He was fortunate enough to helpotherpeople, every single day. Only a self-important prick would aspire for more.
Which… didn’t bode well, because Jacob secretly did long to see his name embossed on leather tomes all over the country:
JACOBWYNCHESTER,CELEBRATEDPOET
He wanted to be known for accomplishments in his own right, and not just as a nameless, faceless, behind-the-curtains animal trainer for the Wild Wynchesters.
But some dreams were just that: a happy fiction.
“If you’re not going to be a famous poet,” Chloe began slyly, “you could consider being a suitor.”
“Not you, too.” Jacob groaned. “Did Elizabeth and Marjorie put you up to this?”
“They love you. We all want you to be happy.”
“Do I have to marry to be happy?” He looked down at the smiling baby on his lap. “Maybe I don’t want a wife.”
Her eyes widened with interest. “Do you want a husband?”
“Maybe I’m happy caring for my animals.”
She gave him a long look, then smiled gently. “You’re right. We shouldn’t push. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Jacob glanced up, expecting to find one of his impatient siblings shooing them into the main room for cakes.
Instead, it was Mr. Randall, their butler. “Pardon the interruption. Do you want the mail, or shall I take it to the others?”
“Are those missives from Graham’s informants?” Chloe asked.
“No, I’m afraid it’s just a regular post delivery.”
“I’ll take it.” Jacob handed Chloe her baby so he could collect the pile of mail.
“What’s that?” She peered over his shoulder. “It looks like it’s from a publisher.”
It was indeed. The usualDear Mr. Wynchesterrejection that all of Jacob’s authorial intents engendered.
He crumpled it up and tossed it in the fireplace.
A move that would have been exponentially more satisfying if warm spring afternoons required a lit fire. The current rejectionsimply sat in a ball of white paper between two logs, along with several more of its brethren.
This was the last of several publishers to reject Jacob’s latest compilation of poetry without even reading it.
“Keep trying,” Chloe said with sympathy. “Some things are difficult to achieve, but worth it in the end.”
“Mm-hm,” he murmured noncommittally.
“I’m sure you’re not the only one whose work has been rejected,” she added. “Probably even famous poets like Sir Gareth didn’t become country-wide sensations on their first try.”
“Jallow landed the first publisher he spoke to,” Jacob said sourly.
