The Determined Bachelor (25 page)

Now Nicole was in greater suspense than ever. She had
never been in a hackney before, and declared that this was almost as exciting than going to see the Prince. Was their destination far off? How would they get back? It was not much farther, replied her governess as they stopped at the intersection of Jermyn and Cardon streets, waiting for a procession of geese to be herded across the street to a marketplace. This part of Town was different from any other Nicole had observed. The pedestrians were not so fine, and the shops were much simpler. It was a district full of the bustle of business being conducted on every corner, and within the buildings lining the streets. Few of the grand vehicles which hourly rattled past their own house were visible here; here was a working class, men of business and merchants, printing houses and law offices. Not far from here, but in a more fashionable section, they had first met at the office of Sir Basil's solicitor. How long ago that day seemed now! thought Anne, studying the profile of her little companion. Nicole's bright eyes were fastened upon the passing men and women, her little nose nearly twitching from excitement, and made pink by the cold air. She had grown to be so much a part of Anne's life that she could not fathom living without her. How she would miss that high ringing voice, that sparkling laugh, those endlessly curious, candid questions. Most of all, she would miss the child's natural point of view, her guileless reactions, and her peculair distinctions between people and events.

“In a few years' time,” said Anne aloud with a trace of nostalgia already, “you shall be driving about in your own barouche, quite a lady of the world! After a year or two in France, and with the benefit of a cosmopolitan education, I don't doubt but you'll be the toast of London—and perhaps Paris, too!”

Nicole turned her wide brown eyes upon her. “Do you think so? I do hope so, Miss Calder! It would make Uncle Basil very proud, don't you think?”

“He is already as proud as he needs to be,” replied Anne. “You could not be improved one whit in his eyes.”

Nicole looked very pleased, too pleased even to respond, but after a moment's silence, she murmured, “I am a little afraid of going to France, Miss Calder.”

“Why? Oh, my dear—you mustn't worry about anything. You shall see how easy it will be.”

Well, perhaps if
you
are there it shall not be too awful,”
responded the child, slipping a little hand into Anne's muff. “I don't think I should be afraid of going
anywhere
with you!”

Anne did not reply. A hot prickling sensation in her eyes made her blink and turn away with a forced smile. If the truth be known, she felt the same way about Nicole—
her
company might ease the way through any dilemma. She hoped that would be true now, when she needed help the most, and in such a difficult moment. But it was far better this way. A thorough search of her own heart had assured her of that. No good could come of her remaining in London, at least not in her present situation.

The hackney cab drew up shortly before an old brick establishment, over the door of which was inscribed the legend, “Peabody & Peabody, Publishers of Books.” The coachman handed down the young lady and the child, and received his payment with a nod and a little bow. Having pulled the bell, Anne and Nicole were soon admitted to a rather dark and musty hallway, smelling strongly of ink. A young man, evidently an apprentice or clerk, inquiring who they wished to see, was told, “Mr. Carlysle.” And who, if he might ask, should he say was calling?

“Anne Calder,” replied Anne.

The young man's eyebrows instantly shot up.

“Miss Calder?” His formerly diffident manner vanishing, he bowed and led the way straight through an outer office, where several clerks were working at their desks, and knocking at a more handsome door than the others in the place, disappeared within.

“Who was that?” demanded Nicole, her eyes large.

“A publishing assistant,” came the response.

There was no time for further comment. In a moment the door opened again, and the young man bowed them in.

“Miss Calder!” exclaimed an elderly man of dignified aspect, rising from his chair behind an immense desk littered with papers. “I had expected you yesterday. Do sit down, please. And the child?”

Anne smiled at the gentleman's uncertainty.

“A young friend, Mr. Carlysle. Miss Lessington.”

“Ah! Miss Lessington—well, do you please take a chair as well.”

The two females were soon ensconced in chairs before the desk, and the elderly man resumed his own. Mr. Carlysle
blinked and smiled—rather, as Nicole very justly remarked later, like an owl.

“I suppose you have come to collect your books?” demanded he after a moment.

Anne nodded.

“Well, well! And I have them here for you, all done up in paper and string. But I suppose you shall want to look at them?”

“If it is not too much trouble, yes.”

“Very well, very well,” the elderly man responded, with a rather fatherly indulgence. “Yes, yes—it is not quite the same till one sees it in print, is it? Always looks rather different.”

The parcel, rather small, thought Anne, was duly taken up and a knife applied to the string. All this took a good deal of time, as Mr. Carlysle was of a quite deliberate temperament and rarely rushed along. At last, however, the string was removed, the paper unwrapped, and there, before Anne's astonished and delighted eyes, lay two slender volumes of red morocco.

“Looks pretty well, don't it?” demanded Mr. Carlysle. “We did quite a good job on it, I think.”

“A lovely job!” murmured Anne, taking up a volume. It was some moments before she had recovered her breath enough to turn to the first page, and to see, after the title and the nominal legend, the first few lines transposed by the miracle of modern science into neat black type.

“A pity you won't use your name, Miss Calder. It is getting rather fashionable to do so, even with ladies. You see what a change it made when Miss Austen revealed her identity. And, of course, Mrs. Radcliffe has not suffered from it.”

“Perhaps in time,” murmured Anne, turning over the pages and marveling afresh every moment at the improvement which the regularity of the lettering and the weight and quality of the paper had upon her simple language.

“How long shall it be before I know if it is well received?”

“Oh, not long at all!” exclaimed Mr. Carlysle. “Why, have not you seen the
Courier
? Mr. Nash has already given it high marks. Let me see, I had it here somewhere. We always let about two or three copies to the journalists, you know.”

Mr. Carlysle rummaged amongst his papers and retrieved a clipping from a news sheet.

Accepting it from his hands, Anne had the profound shock, amazement, and delight, of reading six paragraphs of glowing praise of her little work. It was termed variously
“lively, truthful, and cleverly wrought: as neat a satire as Miss Austen ever gave us. As neat a piece of work, in fact, as any of our novelists has handed us upon the subject of life amongst the squirage.”

“Well, well—what do you think?” inquired the publisher, peering at her from beneath his great bushy brows.

“I—hardly know what to say!”

“But it is well-deserved, my dear, so you oughtn't to feel too humble. I warrant you shall have your share of come-downs after all. One always does, you know. Pay heed neither to the praise nor to the criticism, save where you can profit from it. That is my credo. By the bye—another client of mine has expressed some pleasure with your little book. I shan't mention his name, but you ought to know he is one of our most celebrated novelists.”

Anne could only nod, barely able to comprehend her good fortune.

“But, in the long shot, of course, the thing that's important is not the praise of the journalists, but of the people. I've often seen works die upon the stand which were thought great by the critics. Tis the general public which must decide at last upon the merit of the book.”

“And—and how long shall it be before we know
their
verdict?” inquired Anne, afraid of pushing her luck too far.

“Why! Not long; not long at all. A few months, a year or two—by then one ought to know something. Don't look so crestfallen, my dear Miss Calder. You must occupy your mind with another novel, so it shall be neither a disappointment nor a false triumph. The great thing is to get on with one's work.”

Now Anne had cause to feel miserable. How dare she confess her own doubts just on that point? Only a few days before she had thrown the remnants of her latest work into the fire, and since then had hardly dared put pen to paper. She heard Mr. Carlysle's next words with some dismay:

“A flash in the pan is no good, of course. You must prove yourself capable of repeating your success, else no one shall think twice about you. Especially with this sort of novel, which must draw a limited audience—since it can hardly appeal to our greatest reading public—it is necessary to write another as soon as possible. I suppose you have got something underway?”

“Only,” murmured Anne, “an idea. I had thought I might do a satire of city life.”

“Along the same lines?” demanded Mr. Carlysle quickly.

“Well, Sir—no, not exactly. I had thought it might be upon a broader scale, but indeed, I don't know if I'm up to it.”

“Hm,” said the gentleman, scratching his chin. “Don't know about that. Mustn't jump from one thing into another quite so fast. Better to keep up with the same thing. Wouldn't you like to do another country story? Something different, of course, but along the same lines—perhaps leaving the clergy out altogether. A merchant's family might do nicely.”

“A merchant's family!” breathed Anne. “But I know nothing about merchant's families!”

“More than you do about life in London, I'll warrant. You said you had only taken up residence in town a few weeks ago, did you not?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mr. Carlysle regarded her with his keen, blinking eyes.

“Take my advice, Miss Calder. Go back to the country and give us another country satire. There are not many who can do them well, whereas there are a hundred novelists who can weave a yarn about the city with a flick of the pen. The key for that sort of thing is to have a solid understanding of the society. I believe you are better placed in a simpler environment. Trust me,” continued he upon seeing her crestfallen look. “It takes far more skill to make a simple subject interesting, than a complicated one. Stick to your own ground.”

Meekly, Anne nodded her head, feeling a great deal more defeated than she would let on. How glad she was that he had not glimpsed her unfruitful attempt at satirizing a baronet! And how right he must be, too. She ought to have seen it from the start.

But she had not much time to bemoan her situation, for in an instant Mr. Carlysle rose, as if in a sign of dismissal, and held out his hand.

“You have a fine hand, Miss Calder. I should hate to see you roughen it by attempting a subject too broad for you. Very well, then—good day. Do you speak to the clerk, and he shall make out a check for you.”

Nicole, dumbfounded by everything she had seen and heard (though who can say exactly how much she comprehended of it), held out her little hand and curtsied prettily. Mr. Carlysle granted her one brief, twinkling smile. In a moment, the two were out the door.

Having been tongue-tied during all of the foregoing interview, Nicole could scarcely suppress her curiosity. As soon as
they were out in the street again, she demanded urgently to know what Mr. Carlysle had meant. What were the books he had given her? Was she really an authoress, like Lady Cardovan? And why had he said she ought to go “back to the country”?

Anne steered the child across the street, through a tangle of traffic and to the other side. Her own head was so full of ideas, impressions, and bewilderment, that she could hardly reply to Nicole's inquiries. For the moment, she put her off by suggesting they go into a nearby coffee house and have a cup of chocolate, a suggestion which Nicole agreed to instantly.

Once ensconsed inside at a little table with a view of the bustling dining room, Nicole repeated her questions, now with a much graver look, for she had had time to decide in her own mind that she was about to lose her dear Miss Calder.

“Are you going to be a famous authoress, Miss Calder?”

“Hardly, my dear,” returned Anne, smiling. “I don't think I am much in danger of
that
. I have only written a little story, which so far hardly anyone has read. And it must remain a great secret between you and me—you are capable of keeping a secret, aren't you? Of course you are.”

“If you would like me to, I shall keep it. I shan't tell anyone, not even Uncle Basil or Lady Diana. They are not to know either?”

“No one save you and me.”

“And Mr. Carlysle,” added the child, who had been much affected by that gentleman's manner.

“Yes, and Mr. Carlysle. But not another soul.”

“Why?” asked Nicole, after a moment's hesitation, for she possessed a natural sense of delicacy which was a continual source of amazement and delight to her elders. “Why must we keep it so secret? If
I
had written a book, I should want everyone in the world to know about it at once!”