Page 43 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Juliana Harcourt dipped her pen once more and brought the nib to the paper, its surface already filled with bold, angular script. The ink dried quickly in the morning warmth, and she paused to blot the final line before leaning back, the faintest trace of a smile touching her lips.

Mr Jonathan Halliwell had just completed another chapter. If such a man had truly existed, Juliana might have given him her applauding accolades. Alas, he existed only to the reading public and to the man who ensured his royalty payments.

She drew a careful breath, folded the fresh pages, and set them beside the stack already waiting for the post. Across the narrow escritoire, a letter lay open, its neatly printed seal bearing the name of Blackwell & Sons Publishers.

She had read it thrice already, but her eyes returned to it again.

It was not the first such letter she had received, yet she still always carefully examined the words of acceptance repeatedly.

“We are pleased to inform you that A Romance at Ramsgate has been accepted for publication,” it read.

Her hand hovered above the page before she turned it facedown, as if its presence carried a temptation best restrained. The letter offered a quiet triumph, but one not easily shared. In the household beyond her chamber walls, no one must ever hear of Mr Halliwell’s success.

Juliana reached beneath the desk to draw out the small iron key tied on a ribbon. It slipped easily into the concealed drawer built into the lower compartment. The mechanism gave way with a soft click. Inside lay a bundle of yellowing pages, bound with string.

Each envelope bore her name, written with the same formal exactitude in which Mr Halliwell’s name was scrawled. However, the letters beyond the formality harboured a much different message. She untied the bundle with care, plucking the first from the top of the fragile stack.

“Miss Harcourt,” she read silently to herself, sneering at the words she had perfectly memorized. “While your prose displays some felicity of expression, we do not believe the market favours such a style from a female pen.”

She shook her head. That was the letter that had almost cost her the ambition to pursue her dream.

She picked up another letter, its edges softened from too many readings. The wax had crumbled long ago. The hand was bold and inked in blue. It had arrived just after her twentieth birthday, the summer Arabella made her first formal appearance in society.

The memory returned with sharp clarity. On the day she had received that last letter, her father had discovered her with an ink-smudged cheek and papers spread across the floor. She remembered his narrowed eyes, the way his jaw had clenched …

“A lady ought not concern herself with the affairs of publishers,” he said. “There is little honour in rejection, and less dignity in pursuit.”

Juliana flinched. She had never meant to allow her father to discover her secret attempts to have her writing published. Her parents supported her talent as a hobby. However, their strict sense of propriety dictated that she never entertain the notion of becoming a ‘real author.’

No gentleman from the ton would accept a wife who indulged in such pursuits. Thus, she was hardly surprised at her father’s repulsion as he glimpsed her recent rejection letter atop the messy stack of pages on her desk.

“I had hoped to prove them wrong,” she said, averting her gaze.

Her father shook his head, his disapproval very apparent in his eyes.

“You have proved yourself stubborn,” he said. “And foolish. Have we not impressed upon you how unsavoury this makes you as a potential bride?”

Juliana nodded numbly, but she could not force herself to speak…

The message had been clear. No one, even her own family, would ever accept her as an author …

He had left the room then. She had heard the door close behind him, softly but with finality.

Her mother, undoubtedly informed by her husband of their daughter’s scandal, said nothing to her for days afterwards, her silence a form of censure worse than scolding.

Still, Juliana had continued to write, albeit under the name of her imaginary author. And even as Mr Halliwell’s success continued and grew, she could not forget the words of the letters she quickly returned to their secret drawer of shame.

With a rushed breath, she straightened the pages on the desk, the chapter she had just completed still bearing the freshness of recently dried ink.

Mr Halliwell’s sharp-tongued, fearless, and scandal-prone heroine had escaped another fictitious entanglement.

His readers would cheer her boldness. They always did. The irony did not escape Juliana.

She rose, carrying the finished pages to the writing box, and tucking them behind a folder labelled in a hand no one would recognize.

The clock on the mantel chimed ten. She looked once more at the hidden drawer.

The letters waited in silence, unanswered by Miss Harcourt.

But Mr Halliwell had another acceptance. She had won, if only behind a mask.

Juliana had only just secured her fresh pages when a sharp voice cut through the corridor.

“Arabella, this is absurd,” the baronet said, clearly scolding his youngest daughter. Juliana froze. The sharpness of his address echoed up the stairs, unmistakable even through the carpeted landing.

A muffled reply followed. It was softer and harder to decipher, but it was unmistakably Arabella speaking.

She shut the writing box at once. The key, ever near at hand, slid into its lock and disappeared beneath the drawer lining.

She crossed the room swiftly, smoothed her skirts, and opened the door.

By the time she reached the morning room, Arabella had pressed herself into the far corner of the settee. Her hands were knotted in the folds of her muslin gown, pale blue, now crumpled from trembling fingers. Her cheeks were blotched, and her eyes were red and swollen.

Sir Lionel Harcourt stood by the hearth, his jaw tight and arms folded.

“Forgive my intrusion,” Juliana said as she entered, hurrying towards her sister. “What has happened?”

Arabella looked up at once, and fresh tears spilled over.

“I told him,” she said, voice catching. “I told him I wished to marry Thomas.”

“Captain Greaves,” Sir Lionel corrected. “Not only has he no estate or notable connections, but there are terms which must be met before I even consider such an arrangement.”

Arabella sobbed.

“He is honourable,” she said indignantly. “And he loves me. That should be all that matters.”

The baronet shook his head, his stony expression unchanging.

“That is not the point,” he said sternly. “Your feelings, though unfortunate, do not alter what must be done.”

Juliana stepped closer. Her hand found Arabella’s and squeezed it.

“What must be done?” she asked, hoping to help her sister.

She was aware of Arabella’s feelings for the captain.

In fact, she was the one who had encouraged her sister to speak openly to their father about her wishes to marry him.

However, it appeared that the conversation had yielded terrible results.

The baronet turned towards her fully, his brow lowered.

“Your sister cannot marry before you,” he said matter-of-factly. “Certainly, not a man of such a lowly status.”

Juliana’s stomach turned cold. The words struck with blunt finality.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, wishing she had somehow misheard her father.

The baronet nodded curtly.

“She is the younger daughter,” he said. “Custom dictates the elder marries first. It would appear improper otherwise.”

Juliana’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Improper?” Juliana repeated.

She felt Arabella’s fingers tighten, her voice trembling as she rejoined the discussion.

“He said I must wait,” she said. “He said it would shame the family if I married first. He said that no respectable gentleman would overlook such a breach of decorum.”

Juliana turned back to their father.

“And do you believe that, Father?” she asked. “Do you truly believe that Arabella’s happiness must be postponed because I have not yet secured a husband?”

The baronet nodded again.

“I believe that a man must protect his daughters’ reputations,” he said. “I will not have this family ridiculed in drawing rooms from Hanover Square to Bath. You are four-and-twenty, Juliana. It is time you made a match.”

Juliana’s heart raced as she stared at her father.

“And if I do not wish to?” she asked.

Arabella inhaled sharply, and Juliana saw the look of anguish, the silent plea not to speak further. Her sister’s happiness, so nearly within reach, was now tethered to a condition Juliana had never sought to fulfill.

Sir Lionel raised an eyebrow.

“Then you may content yourself with spinsterhood,” he said. “But you will condemn your sister to the same fate, as I will not allow her to marry until you do. That is final.”

He stepped to the door, then paused.

“To that end, you will attend this Season,” he said in that same cold, emotionless tone. “It will start with Lady Pemberton’s salon this evening. Eligible gentlemen will be present, and it would do you credit to remember how a young lady is expected to comport herself.”

Juliana said nothing. Arabella had turned away, her face buried in a handkerchief. The baronet departed without waiting for a reply. Only once the door had shut behind him did Juliana speak again.

“I had not expected him to object,” she said softly.

Arabella shook her head, patting her sister’s arm gently.

“I had hoped that if I told him plainly, he would see I was in earnest,” she said. “Besides, as you said, he would never know if Thomas and I did not speak with him.”

Juliana sat beside her, unsure of what to say.

The sisters sat in silence for a moment.

She had been perfectly content with the prospect of a spinster’s life, and until then, her father did not seem eager to press the matter of marriage.

However, her own choices would be the end of her sister’s dream.

How could her father be so willingly cruel to daughters he claimed to adore?

Arabella shook her head, then reached for Juliana’s hand again.

“I do not blame you,” she said firmly despite her tears. “Do not sit here blaming yourself.”

Juliana squeezed her sister’s hand softly.

“You should,” Juliana said. “I would.”

Arabella gave her head another firm shake.

“But I do not,” she said. “You did not ask for this.”

Juliana looked at her sister’s tearful eyes, so open and sincere, and felt a slow, cold twist of shame beneath her ribs.

No, she thought bitterly. I have not asked for it.

But I have also done nothing to avoid it.

She had ignored every entreaty, dismissed every eligible suitor, and undermined every suggestion of matrimony with barbed remarks and elusive answers.

She had been determined not to marry, and now that refusal would cost her younger sister her future.

“I am not like you,” she said softly. “Father seems to forget that. I do not wish to write books, travel the world, or shock dinner parties with irreverent remarks. I only want a home of my own. A husband who loves me.”

Juliana’s throat tightened. Her sister had cast no blame with her words, but Juliana took responsibility just the same.

“Then you shall have one, Arabella,” she said with resigned resolve.

Arabella looked at her.

“How?” she asked.

Juliana stood and smoothed her gown.

“I will attend Lady Pemberton’s salon tonight,” she said. “I will smile. I will converse. I will do everything required of a marriageable young lady.”

Arabella blinked.

“But you—”

“I have no desire to marry,” Juliana said, finishing the thought for her sister. “But I have even less desire to be the reason you do not.”

Arabella looked stunned. Juliana leaned down and kissed her sister’s brow.

Then she turned to go. She had meant what she said.

However, that did not suddenly make her all right with agreeing to a marriage she would never want.

She needed to think and sort her thoughts before she said something to make Arabella feel guilty.

She climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last. Her chamber door closed behind her with a soft click. She moved to the escritoire again, the box where Mr Halliwell’s next chapters lay waiting. Her hands trembled as she opened it.

A scathing satire began to form in her mind. A farce of a Season filled with witless young men and simpering chaperones. A heroine determined to remain untouched by marriage, only to find herself ensnared by irony and fate. She would attend this Season.

She would study every fool, every hypocrite, every pious matron, and every arrogant suitor who believed a woman’s greatest triumph lay in marriage.

She would write them all down. She would turn this absurd injustice into the most biting novel she had ever composed.

She would find a way to secure Arabella’s future without sacrificing her own.