Romantic Rebel Read Free Page B

Journal, ready for distribution. Emblazoned on the cover in large black print was the title of my essay, “A Daughter’s Dilemma,” by ?. He had changed Anonymous Lady to that coy question mark. Somehow it hinted at a great mystery. A question mark could be anyone. A royal princess run amok, Lady Caroline Lamb, Madame de Stael. The possibilities were endless, and intriguing.
    That the article was so prominently displayed did not suggest it was written by an unknown provincial like myself. The cover was illustrated in a cheap and garish way that shocked me. A buxom young woman, who would never in a million years be mistaken for a lady, was bursting free from chains, as well as from the top of her gown. In smaller print there was a lure to draw in the reader. “What does a young, beautiful lady do when she is thrown penniless into the world?”
    I heard a sharp gasp and Annie exclaimed, “Oh dear!” in shocked accents.
    “This is not the way your magazine looked last month, Mr. Pepper,” I said weakly.
    “No, it is changing every issue, following the trend suggested by my readers. It began with the sort of stuff you just handed me—pretty descriptions and poems and fashions and recipes. Other publishers are doing that better than I can, so I have opted for a different tack. You will be familiar with Mrs. Speers. She is my top writer, to judge by the letters. She writes in your vein, but not nearly so well. She writes about the downtrodden plight of ladies today.”
    The name was familiar. Her marble-covered novels littered the shelves of the lending library at Milverton. “I thought she was a novelist.” And not one of my own favorites either.
    “She used to scribble gothics, but she has run dry in that line.”
    “Do you feel there are enough ladies interested that you can make a go of this?” I asked doubtfully.
    “You’d be surprised how many there are, and where they are hiding. Everyone from mousy housewives in the provinces to bored peeresses have written praising me.” He glanced carelessly at the litter of papers on his desk. A quick peep showed me there wasn’t a letter amongst the lot. It was proofs for his magazine that were strewn about there.
    I was quite simply struck dumb at what he was suggesting. My fit of anger had been dissipated by pouring out all the spleen in that one essay. To have to rehash the same thing, month after month, seemed impossible. Yet to walk away with no possibility of future earnings was even worse. London had rejected my first essay. I knew the two efforts Pepper was holding were uninspired. I hadn’t even enjoyed writing them. What to do?
    “Think about it,” he said. “I know you have it in you to be a literary star, Miss Nesbitt. It is infamous the way you were left out of your da’s will. Aren’t you interested in righting such wrongs as you see about you?”
    “Yes.”
    He tossed up his hands. “There you are, then. Let me see anything you write. The payment will rise as you pick up your audience. I don’t waste money on overhead, as you can see. After we have a collection of a couple of dozen essays, I see it going into a proper book. Anything in the way of fiction on the subject will be welcome as well. I have a line of ladies’ novels—cheap gothics for the most part, but once you are established, I will put you out more handsomely.”
    My mind was reeling with such future glory. A star in the literary firmament, collections of my essays. No wonder if I sat mute. It was Annie who got us out of the office.
    “We’ll let you know,” she said, and rose huffily to her feet.
    Pepper hopped off the desk and walked us to the door. “Are you staying in town a spell, ladies?” he asked.
    “Yes, I am moving to Bath,” I replied.
    “Ah, excellent! I do like to have my writers about me. I have persuaded Mrs. Speers to move here as well. A widow lady. I am calling on her this evening. She would be thrilled to meet you, Miss Nesbitt. She admired your essay