Chapter One
The Right Honorable Miss Bernice Namath
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about Mr. Moran wasn’t quite right. Silence hung in the air as I sat across the large oak desk from the gentleman in question at the T.J. Moran Publishing House. He was much younger than I anticipated and attractive in a brooding sort of manner.
“You work for the Trustworthy Talent Agency, and your name is Mrs. Worth?” Mr. Moran held my letter of introduction, his sharp eyes seeming to look straight through me. “Are you the proprietress?”
“Am I the proprietress?” Oh, bother! I resisted the need to squirm in my very lumpy chair. In hindsight, I should have never chosen Worth as my alias. However, the surname went well with trustworthy, the name of my agency. If I said yes, he might not hire me because he’d rightly assume I did not plan to work for him long-term. The urge to fidget became stronger as I had no option but to bend the truth. “My sister is the proprietress.”
Well, it wouldn’t be a complete lie if one ignored the verb tense. Once I saved up enough money, Eloisewouldquit her job as a nurse at the hospital, and wewouldrun the agency together. I hated lying to him, but my need to secure my family’s future outweighed my reluctance. More strained silence ensued, broken only by the squeaking of his spring chair as he swiveledfrom left to right. I waited for him to decide my fate, my stomach tied in knots.
“Mrs. Worth, what does Mr. Worth think about you working long hours, unaccompanied, and with a man?” An errant auburn curl fell onto his broad forehead. He dropped my letter of introduction onto the desk before brushing it away. The hair immediately fell back in place. “Because you can assure him that I keep a professional office.”
“I’m afraid my husband is deceased.” Not now or ever had there been a Mr. Worth. After my father’s death left my sisters and me days away from the poor house, I manufactured William Worth, a non-existent husband who resembled my father’s man of business.
“I see here that The Right Honorable Miss Eloise Namath gives you glowing recommendations. How long did you work for Baron Namath?” Mr. Moran pinned me down with his direct gaze. If not for the bloodshot whites, his eyes would be a striking hue of russet brown. Not that I should be noticing, but it was difficult not to.
I lowered my lashes and tried to still my racing pulse. While Mr. Moran looked rather rumpled, he carried an undeniable masculine appeal, a twist I hadn’t expected.
“For three years.” Another lie, of course. I had applied for positions at multiple businesses but had been turned away without the proper endorsements. In desperation, I made the tough decision to use my family name to my advantage.
“She has glowing things to say about you. Most ladies refuse to let exemplary employees leave their employ.” Mr. Moran tapped his finger on the page, dislike in the cast of his tight smile.
“I can assure you that wasn’t the case.” Disdain against the aristocracy was noticeable amongst the people in the neighborhood. As a member of the upper tier, I saw a differentside of that life. However, I wasn’t arrogant enough to think that my experiences hadn’t jaded my perspective. While I wanted to defend those with whom I’d grown up, I wasn’t blind to the reasons many people were suspicious of the gentry.
“It is neither here nor there.” Mr. Moran lifted the letter once more, effectively changing the subject. “I am not interested in her opinion of you. I am more interested in mine. Your skills will prove your worth. Can you type?”
“Yes, I am very proficient at typing.” I had chosen typing as my first skill to master in preparation for my new endeavor. Unlike my sister, I had no interest in working in a hospital. Nursing was one of the few professions open to unmarried women, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. “I typed the letter you hold on Miss Namath’s behalf.”
He stared down at the letter, another silence ensuing while he read the introduction with great care.
I studied his cluttered office. Not a single empty space existed on his desk. What I could only assume were manuscripts sat in piles all over the room. In the far corner, there appeared to be a large wooden frame with a boxing bag hanging from it, an odd thing to have in an office, but then again, Mr. Moran was an odd fellow.
As the silence stretched between us, I worried that I might have made a typographical error on the page. I resisted the need to fidget. Unlike Moran, who had a modern chair, the one I sat in was most uncomfortable, with a lopsided seat and a fragile, latticed wooden back. I feared that if I moved too quickly, it might break under my weight.
“You also claim to know shorthand?”
“I do know shorthand,” I corrected, my temper sparking at his doubtful tone. While men mainly learned the skill, I had made it a point to be the exception. It was a matter of pride forme to master the same skills as any man, thus making myself invaluable to my future employer. Hopefully, Mr. Moran.
After another long moment, he met my regard once more. He shuffled a few papers on his desk before playing with the end of his pen.
“Tell me, Mrs. Worth, are you prone to fainting or the vapors at things that are, well, unconventional?” A slight flush showed under his collar, his tan tie loosened and slightly askew.
The pivot caught me off guard. What a strange question to ask. I stared out the window behind him to compose my reply, the dull afternoon light barely breaking through the warped glass. My answer could very well disqualify me from the position, yet I had to be true to my own morals. However, my family depended on me, and I couldn’t disappoint them. “No, I am not prone to hysterics.”
If I were, I would be curled up in a ball in my bedroom, despairing of ever escaping the untenable situation my father had left us in.
“Literature is very idiosyncratic, and I deal with some works others might not approve of.” Mr. Moran averted his gaze, making me even more suspicious.
What was he hiding? Reading was my passion, and I often visited the lending library. Bittersweet memories flowed through me. It had been painful to sell off my father’s library, but the proceeds had kept my family afloat until the funds dried up. In desperation, I’d rented out our ancestral London home and moved my sisters to a boarding house. Once I gained employment, the family would again be on solid ground. But I had to get the job first. “I understand.”
Mr. Moran tilted his head. If possible, he studied me with even more intensity. “Do you truly understand, or are you saying that to placate me?”
“I am not sure how to answer the question. If it even is a question.” Honesty worked wonders. There was too much double speak, and attempting to wade through the waters was exhausting. My father often despaired of my blunt manner and cited my stubborn nature for failing to find a husband. I thought the reason to be my lack of dowry, but my father was guilty of that which he judged.
A smile played over Mr. Moran’s lips, tilting the left side higher than the right.
My fickle heart picked up its pace at the slight imperfection.
