“I wish I had a publishing house,” said Marianne. “I’d publish your book immediately and make a lot of money too.”
She re-read the contents. “So, they like your writing and think their readers will enjoy reading it. Mr. Snodgrass says he finds it an engaging read.”
Olivia nodded.
“But they cannot publish because you are a woman. I’d like to put Queen Elizabeth the first in a room with them and see whatshe says about that. They would get short shrift from the greatest Queen of this realm.”
“I know, but we are talking about fuddy duddy publishers, who are stuck in their ways. I can’t throw them in the Tower of London for refusing to publish my book.”
“Now that is an excellent idea,” agreed Marianne. “Mr. Snodfellow”
“Erm… it’s Snodgrass.”
“Very well, Mr. Snodgrass would soon come to his senses with a night or two in the Tower.”
Olivia laughed and wondered how her friend had this special skill of being able to make others laugh in the face of adversity.
‘I suspect this is the end of my career as an author.”
“I disagree. This, Olivia, is a minor setback. In fact, the solution is obvious.”
“It is?”
“What name did you give them?”
“Mary Newnham.”
“I like that, by the way. What did the writer we enjoyed reading so much last winter call herself? It had to be a woman who wrote those stories.”
“The story about the mother and sisters who are disinherited and go to live in the southwest in a cottage? One of them had your name?”
“Indeed. Miss Marianne Dashwood. One of the reasons I loved that book so much.”
“I preferred the story about the misunderstanding between the proud hero and the lively young lady who has four sisters. One of the characters, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, rather reminded me of Uncle Harold.”
They both began to laugh uncontrollably and attracted a stern glance from a gentleman strolling past.
“Seriously Olivia, what was she called?”
“By a Lady.”
“I remember now. And look how successful her books have been. Mr. Snodgrass is a nincompoop.”
“I don’t disagree, but what’s the solution?”
“Submit to a different publishing house, but this time as a man. You were using anom de plumeanyway. I don’t see the difference.”
“You can be Giles, erm, Manley, or even G. E. Manley. Do it Olivia. I have a feeling this will do the trick.”
“Your idea gives me some hope. Thank you,” Olivia said, and squeezed her friend's hand.
“Now, you’ve reminded me. There are two books which we haven’t read by the Lady. One is about an orphan who goes to live in a large country house, and the other is about a young woman who is always trying to match make for others.”
“The second story sounds like it might be written about you Marianne,” Olivia said laughing, and they collapsed in a fit of giggles again, and then laughed even more as the disapproving gentleman walked past them again.
“Come along. My carriage is waiting. Let’s go now and retrieve your novel from the offices of Mr. Snodgrass and take it to another publisher. Hembsby, my driver, can take the package in and not attract any attention. All you need to do is write a covering letter.”
“This is all very sudden. I’m not sure…” Olivia was taken aback by the suggestion.
