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Mr.Fernsby had also been occupied, to the point where Hulda was only seeing him at meals, save for yesterday, when he took a long walk across the island, mumbling to himself as he left the house. He spent almost all his time lucubrating in his office. Had taken dinner theretwice. Hulda wondered at it, but it wasn’t her place to pry, nor to interrupt. Still, she’d lingered by the door a time or two, listening, and heard nothing within. She’d thought to ask him aboutA Pauper in the Making, which she had taken the initiative to purchase, but with her mind so taken up with the possibilities of Mr.Hogwood, she’d yet to start it.
When Miss Taylor and Mr.Babineaux were occupied with their own tasks and Mr.Fernsby was not around to banter, Hulda quickly got bored. She still had not found the second source of magic and was ready to tear apart the foundation with teeth and nails, if only to occupy her mind with something other than Silas Hogwood.
After Mr.Fernsby took dinner in his office for thethirdtime, Hulda volunteered to see to retrieving his tray, telling Miss Taylor she could retire early. Shadows waved to her as she passed through the hallway; Hulda waved back, and the house rumbled in pleasure. She rapped at the closed office door with her first and second knuckle.
“Come,” Mr.Fernsby’s voice issued from within.
Pressing open the door, Hulda suppressed a sigh at the sight before her. Papers and pencil shavings scattered across the floor, ink smears on the desk, open books by the chair. His dinner tray rested precariously on the corner of the desk. Miss Taylor had cleared out other dishes, but Mr.Fernsby must have shooed away her efforts to do more.
“I’m here for your tray,” she offered.
He straightened like she’d trickled cold water down his spine and turned in his chair. “Hulda! I thought you were Beth.”
She didn’t correct him for not calling her Mrs.Larkin, though her wiser half warned that she should.Professionalism is protection,she reminded herself, but now it was too late to make the correction without being awkward about it, so she let it slide. She moved for the tray but paused before picking it up. “Might I ask why you’ve become a hermit?”
Mr.Fernsby set down his pen and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The other letter I got last week was from my editor. I’ve ameeting with him in a week and a half, and I want to have as much of this damnable thing finished as possible before I see him. I’m worried it won’t be as good as the first book.”
She glanced over the stacks of paper at his elbow. “I don’t know about the first book, but would presenting a synopsis of sorts suffice?”
“I can’t write a synopsis.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I would have to know the ending, and why would I finish a book when I already know how it ends?” There was mirth in the question, but she sensed his reasoning was entirely serious. “Actually.” He turned his chair toward her, and Hulda became very aware of how close his knees were to hers. She could feel heat emanating from them... but that was preposterous. Who had hot knees?
She flushed, realizing she’d completely missed what he’d said. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”
“Would you help me?” He clasped both hands over his knees, as though hiding them from her scrutiny. Her chest tightened. She hadn’t been staring at hiskneesof all things, had she? “Your idea for the beginning unfolded so well. I’d like to pick your brain again, if you have a moment.” Suddenly sheepish, he glanced around the room. “I, uh, will clean this up afterward.”
She waved the barter away. “I hardly care for the mess considering you’re under deadline, Mr.Fernsby.” She was grateful for the excuse to talk with him. She felt... better... around Merritt Fernsby. There was a simple wood chair in the corner, so she pulled it over, ensuring adequate space separated their knees. Fixing her professional self into place, she asked, “For what, precisely, do you need my assistance?”
He pulled over several papers and scanned them. “It’s for this blasted romance subplot.”
Her warm feelings dissipated, and the professional mask cracked. She stood. “I should go.”
“Oh please.” He grasped her hand. “Just hear me out.”
Her gaze shot to his fingers. He definitely noticedthat, given how quickly he released her afterward. He cleared his throat. “That is, if the others aren’t waiting on you.”
Rolling her lips together, Hulda sat, wrists and neck pulsing. “All right.” Her upright tone was slipping. “Tell me.”
“I’ve only just started it. I’ll go back and allude to it. Longing glances and the like,” he replied, and Hulda was grateful his eyes had focused on his papers and not her. “But I’ve got them alone together at this Quaker’s house, and I’m wondering... should I do this now? And do what? Though with her being an heiress and him being from Hartford, I intend for them to go their separate ways at the end. But I don’t want female readers to think—”
“Mr.Fernsby.”Straight back. Firm voice.
Pausing, he met her eyes. His looked especially blue when he was tired. “What?”
“I am aware my reading background does not make me an expert on the subject,” she went on, “but that is not a romance.”
“Sure it is—”
“If you don’t intend for the couple to have a happy ending, then don’t involve them with each other at all. You’ll lose readers. The general populace prefers comedies, not tragedies.”
He pondered this for a moment. His nose dipped when he pursed his lips. “So I should have them, what, kiss?”
Hulda fidgeted, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “I don’t know about that. But I’m sure as long as they’re together, perhaps married or engaged by the end...”
“They have to kiss before they get married. He’s a liberal.” He winked and glanced at the papers. “Might be too soon for that...unlessI add some tension to this scene where they’re hiding in a shed.”
