“But what prompted Eldon to suddenly go on this crusade? I find it excessively odd behaviour, even coming from him,” asked Mrs Brownlow with a disapproving frown.
“He must have read Mrs Sable’s newest book,” Josephine interjected. “I heard his daughter had a subscription copy delivered early. Secretly, of course. Apparently, he found it in her room and nearly had an apoplexy.”
Viola sat up straight. “We are talking aboutThe Monk and the Maiden, yes?”
“But no, no, no! I was about to announce it myself; I am quite beside myself with excitement.” Josephine got up, picked up a leather-bound tome from her drawer, and waved it about triumphantly. “Fresh off the press! Mrs Sable’s newest book! Isn’t it wonderful? I obtained a copy for each of us. I thought we could start reading it immediately, together.”
The women crowed in simultaneous rapture.
“What a delight!” Mrs Brownlow exclaimed. “The Demon Lover of Castle Morvino! Ooh! This promises to be such a deliciously naughty read!”
“The Demon Lover? It can’t be. It ought to beThe Ghost of Gildenstone Abbey!” Viola picked up a copy and stared at the embossed letters on the cover. The letters swam before her eyes.
“It can’t be,” she gasped. “It is utterly impossible!”
“I tell you, ladies,” Josephine announced, “this promises to be Mrs Sable’s best book yet. Why, based on this brief excerpt Iread, she even makes me blush, and you know I normally blush as easily as a brick.” She fanned herself.
Viola flipped through the book hectically. “But how? But why?” How was this possible? Why had this story been printed? What happened toGildenstone Abbey? How did the publisher get his hands on this story?
Her mind flew back. She’d been in a hurry that day. She’d grabbed the leather folder from the bottom drawer of the desk and given it to Peregrine…
…and closed her eyes with a groan.
There it was. Right there. She must have grabbed the wrong folder.
She’d given the wrong manuscript to Peregrine.
The one with her earliest stories. The one she’d never intended to be published, because she’d been entirely irrational when she’d written it. Shortly after she believed Sebastian had emotionally abandoned her and their baby. She’d written it in a haze, a whirlwind of wild pain, yearning, desire, and bristling fury.
Afterwards, when she’d reread it, she’d winced and decided it was too explicit, too unrestrained. She’d left nothing to the imagination. Even she agreed it was too scandalous for publication. So she’d locked it away in that folder and placed it in that drawer.
Yet here it was. Printed, published, and tied with a bow. For the entire world to read.
And according to the giggles and shrieks of her fellow book club readers, who’d already begun devouring it, she’d definitely hit the mark. They cast shrewd looks and whispered with each other as they pointed out certain passages in the book.
Viola whimpered.
For this wasn’t just any story.
She’d immortalised Sebastian in it.
As the villain.
The ceiling tilted.
“Viola!” Josephine rushed to her and took her by her arm, and guided her to the next sofa, where she helped her lie down.
“Some hartshorn salts, quickly!” she called out.
Someone held the sharp, pungent vial under her nose.
Viola groaned. The world continued to spin, then it lessened after a while, and she dared to open her eyes again.
Josephine’s worried face hovered over hers.
“You’ll be all right.” She patted her hand. “I suppose it was all a bit too much. Let us give her some space, ladies. I suggest we each read the book on our own and reconvene at a later date.”
The ladies agreed and filed out of the room quietly, casting sympathetic glances in Viola’s direction.
