Page 6 of A Story of Love

“I know Mr. Parker has promised to help you get your manuscript published, Lori, but surely there must be a better way to go about it?” Freddie gave her a look of pained disapproval. “I did not object to the Miss Emily articles, but this”—Freddie broke off and shook her head. “Well, this sort of journalism is something else, entirely.” When Lori didn’t answer—because what could she say?—Freddie asked, “Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

“Don’t you think I’ve looked for a better way?” Lori demanded. “I have submitted the story to more than a dozen publishers. I have loitered for more afternoons than I can count at The Temple of the Muses,” she said, naming the famous bookstore which everyone said was the best place for a writer to find a publisher. “It was there that I became acquainted with Mr. Keats and Mr. Hazlitt, and they very kindly offered to show the manuscript to George Lackington.” At Freddie’s puzzled look Lori explained, “He’s the publisher who just released that marvelous story—The Modern Prometheus.”

“You mean that monster story—Frankenstein?”

Lori smiled. “It’s not really about a monster, Freddie. It’s an allegory for—” she broke off, not wanting to get into a literary debate. “Anyhow, Mr. Keats is friends with Mr. and Mrs. Shelley, and he claims that it was Mrs. Shelley who wrote the novel, if you can believe it.” The woman was scarcely more than a child! Lori had been both overjoyed to learn a woman had written the magnificent book and demoralized because she feared that she would never write anything even half so good. Or at least she hadn’t yet.

Freddie did not look impressed. “The Shelleys have cast themselves so far beyond the pale that they will never be readmitted to decent society.”

“I know they are outcasts, Freddie, but in the world of publishing Shelley is a force to be reckoned with. And evidently his wife, who is scarcely eight-and-ten, not only wrote this masterpiece, but she somehow managed to get it published. Lackington is one of the few publishers who will even consider a manuscript written by a female.”

“If Mr. Lackington will accept stories written by women, then why are you working for Mr. Parker?”

Lori bit back a groan of frustration. “It isn’t that simple, Freddie. I need help getting my manuscript in front of Lackington. Until that happens, I need to earn a living.”

“I have told you again and again that I would pay you to be my assistant.”

“You don’t need an assistant, and we both know it. You already don’t charge me enough for my room and board—”

“I feel dreadful accepting any money at all when you insist on living in the carriage house!”

“I like it out there.”

Freddie sighed but did not argue. Instead, she gestured to the paper in front of Lori, “What are you going—”

The French door opened and Mrs. Brinkley came onto the terrace, scowling at the sight of the turkeys. “Have you been feeding them?”

“No,” Lori lied. “Mr. Vickers just came over to cheer me up and Mrs. Vickers followed along to see what he was doing.”

Mrs. Brinkley rolled her eyes. Although she’d worked at the house for years—long enough to have seen at least five sets of turkeys come and go—she still considered them nuisances rather than pets.

She held out a small envelope. “This just came for you, Miss Lori.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brinkley.” She waited until the housekeeper went back inside before glancing down at the message and groaning at the familiar handwriting.

“Parker?” Freddie asked.

Lori nodded and gingerly unfolded the message, as if a live asp might leap out at her.

The words were worse than a venomous reptile.

I want to see you immediately. This story is your mess, and you will draft a retraction.

After you’ve done that, we will discuss whether you have a future at my newspaper.

She refolded the paper slowly and looked up to meet Freddie’s knowing gaze.

“Did he give you the sack?”

Lori smiled sickly. “Not yet. He has at least one more piece of work for me.”

Chapter 3

Eleven Months Later

Lori was perched atop a stack of packing crates outside The King’s Purse, peeking in a second-floor window when something small and hard slammed into her back.

“Aaarrgh!” Her startled shriek was joined by an ear-splitting mreeeeooooooow as sharp claws embedded themselves into her shoulders.