She knew the publisher was going to be surprised. Perhaps he would even be angry. But she was determined not to let him leave until he promised to take her work home with him.
Once he reads it, he won’t care what my gender is. All he wants is a good story to publish, and that is what I will give him.
She reached the library and came to a stop. She took deep breaths, calming herself, focusing on the mission ahead.Her knuckles were white from how firmly she clutched the manuscript, but she hardly noticed.
Finally, the time had come.
It was once she stepped into the large library that she spotted the publisher with whom she had spent the last week corresponding.
He had his back to her, bent over the desk at the room’s center, reading through a text of some sort, by the looks of things. The single lantern lit the immediate space around him, plunging the rest of the room into darkness.
Helena came to a stop a few feet away. She watched him for a moment, bracing herself. And then, with nothing else to wait for, she spoke.
“Good evening. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
The publisher’s name was Mr. Ramsay, and this was the first time that Helena saw him in person. He was shorter than she, balding terribly, and had a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least two times. His eyes were beady and lifeless, and when he turned to see her standing there, a gleeful smile spreading across his thin lips, she felt a sudden stab of worry.
“Ah, Lady Helena, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She balked, taking a surprised step back. “I… You know me?”
“Of course,” he purred as he walked toward her, stepping out of the light and into the shadows. “You did ask me to meet you here, did you not?”
“N-No,” she stammered, her confusion mounting. “It was Mr. Monroe who asked you to meet. I am merely… He sent me ahead to speak with you first.”
Mr. Ramsay chuckled. “No need for subterfuge, Lady Helena. We are well past that.”
“What…” She glanced around, that stab of worry inside her growing by the second. “What do you… There is no subterfuge.”
Helena didn’t know why she was lying. After all, she fully intended to tell him who she was—she had no choice! But the fact that he already knew was concerning and highly worrying.
He clicked his tongue. “I will admit, when you first started writing to me, I believed it was Henry Monroe with whom I was conversing. Why would I not?” He shrugged and gave his head a shake. “But once you asked me to meet you this evening… well, the veil was lifted.”
“I don’t understand. How…”
“Your stories,” he explained. “Oh yes, I have read them all. They are quite good, as I am sure you know. Only…” He tittered lightly. “It was clear once I looked closer that the author could not possibly be a man.”
Helena’s mouth dropped open. “It was?”
“To a trained eye,” he said casually. “Little giveaways and such. Pairing that assumption with this clandestine meeting, I put it all together as a detective might.” He smiled, showing his crooked teeth. “And as is often the case, I was proven right.”
It was exactly what she wanted to hear. What she had hoped for. And yet for reasons that Helena could not explain, something felt terribly wrong.
She glanced around the empty library again, wondering if this was nearly the brilliant plan that she had originally envisioned, or if it had the makings of a disaster.
“And… and you do not mind?” She swallowed. “That I am a woman?”
He flashed his beady eyes, his smile growing. “Is that it then? The manuscript?”
“Oh…” She was clutching it to her chest. “Yes. This is… I was hoping you might…”
“May I?” He held his hand out for it.
“Of course…” Her hand was shaking as she handed him the manuscript.
He took it and then, without asking for permission, snatched her arm. “Come…” He started to drag her toward the lantern by the desk. “Let us explore.”
Helena gasped at the feel of his hand on her arm, but she did not shrug it off. She told herself that this was as good a response as she might have wanted, and that maybe Mr. Ramsay was simply… odd.
