Chapter Text
Paul Blofis sighed, and leaned back in his chair. It creaked dangerously. He stretched his neck, hearing it crack ominously, and then rolled his poor shoulders. He removed his pocket watch, a gift from his grandfather, and quite possibly the most expensive single item he owned, from his waistcoat, and checked the time. Another hour here, and then it would rushing to a private tutoring session for…who was it again…Lord Kenilworth’s son?...He’d have to check his datebook. He might have time to grab a pasty from a bakery to keep his stomach from growling too much.
He rubbed his eyes, and bent down over the next manuscript.
It was late when Paul returned to the small flat he rented in the city. He was tired, and his eyes hurt. There were two letters and a bill from his tailor in the mail that the landlady had held for him. He sighed. The bill would need to be dealt with soon. Hopefully Lord Keniworth paid his bills on time, or Paul would have to draw on with his savings to settle it. He trimmed a single candle and set it next to the chair, while he lit a spirit stove to boil water for tea. It was cold, as was natural, in December, but he only lit a small fire. He horded his coal, and used blankets whenever he could stand it, to save a few extra schillings. The fire was not very warm, but it did take some of the chill off, and he set the bedwarmer on to warm. He did, however, spread the blanket across his lap when he had poured his tea and taken a seat in his chair.
His flat was small. It was all he could really afford on the little income he had from his grandfather. Grandfather had been able to put him through Oxford, but not much else, and his parents had little else to share with him, who needed every penny for his sisters’ doweries. He had a modest savings in the bank, a legacy from his cousin John, who he had grown up with, and had become an Army captain and died during the campaign to capture Martinique in 1794 from the Yellow Fever. He tried to leave that be as much as he could and live off the interest whenever possible.
He had worked as a lecturer at a private school for a while, but the work had been frustrating, and he needed a break. And he had wanted to try his hand at writing. But moving back to London might have been a mistake. His parents had retired to a cottage in the countryside, now that his sisters were married, so he hadn’t had a home to go back to in order to save on rent. And now he was even busier than he had been teaching, what with editing manuscripts for the publishing company and with tutoring on the side just to put a few more shillings in his pockets. He had been thinking about looking for another teaching position. Perhaps somewhere with a living included, somewhere in the quiet countryside, where he could focus on his book.
But he would miss the city. There was just something about London.
He reached into his satchel and drew out the manuscript he had been working on today. He’d not finished reading it when he was done for the day, and he’d found it so compelling he could not put it down. So he’d slipped it into his satchel and brought it home. No one would miss it overnight anyway.
The fire had nearly gone out, the candle had burned nearly all the way down, and his tea was cold when he finally looked up from the manuscript when he had finished. It was wonderful. So beautiful and heart breaking. About an orphaned woman and the men who mistreated her. One as a lover and one as a husband, how she overcame it, and raised her son. And it was a horrible shame he was going to have to suggest some large revisions to the end or turn it down.
But the story ends with her unmarried, and supporting herself. And though he knew it was often the way of things, it just would not be ok with any seller. She’d need to marry again at the end of the story.
Or die. But he’d hate for that to happen.
But he’d always have this story. Tomorrow he would correspond with the author. The manuscript had come in with a letter from S. Jackson, and gave a return address in Cheapside. He tucked it carefully back into his bag, downed his tea, cold as it was, and then rose from the chair. He shivered. It had gotten colder. He rubbed his hands to warm them, and then checked his watch. It was near to 11, well past the time he should have been in bed. He hurriedly readied himself for bed, taking out an extra blanket, and nestled the bedwarmer between them.
Tomorrow was another day.
It was three days before he could arrange a meeting with the mysterious S. Jackson. He had sent a note asking for the meeting the previous day, and a return letter had arrived with apologies saying it would not be possible to meet right away. He would be meeting Mr. Jackson today.
The publisher’s office had a small room that could be used for meeting with clients, and Paul waited, looking over yet another manuscript, when there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called.
A woman strode in the room. He was immediately struck by her confidence and self-assuredness. She was older, but still quite handsome, though her face showed evidence of lines of strain. Her dress was not of the latest fashion, and showed signs of use, but it had been updated with lace and ribbons, which he knew were cheap and made a goodly show for sixpence. Clearly a women who knew how to stretch a farthing. There was just something about her.
“Are you Mr. Blofis?” she asked.
Startled, Paul realized he had been staring, and he jerked to his feet. “Why…yes,” he stammered. “I’m sorry, are you looking for me?” he asked. “I’m waiting for…”
“Me,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Sally Jackson.”
S. Jackson.
“I…erm, why, yes, of course. I…I’m sorry…” he stammered, shaking her hand. “I had…no...idea.”
“No, of course,” Sally Jackson replied. “I find that people don’t take my work seriously if I sign my name at first.”
Paul supposed she had a point. It’s likely that her manuscript would not have even reached his desk under those circumstances.
“Won’t you…won’t you sit down Miss…erm…Mrs…?”
“Mrs. Jackson will do,” she said, taking the chair provided.
“Mrs. Jackson, then. I…wished to talk to you about your manuscript,” he said, mentally readjusting to the task at hand. “I will be quite honest, I quite enjoyed it. But it will need some modifications before it can be published?”
“Modifications? Like what?” she asked.
“Well,” Paul took a breath. Why did this seem so much harder now? “The ending. It will have to be changed.”
“Why?” she asked him. Her tone was level, but Paul could tell, somehow that she knew what he was going to say, and was just waiting for him to say it.
“Well…I don’t think the Company will publish it as it stands,” he admitted.
She sighed. “That…doesn’t entirely surprise me,” she said. “Yours is not the first firm that I approached Mr. Blofis.” She stirred as if preparing to leave.
“I am…sorry,” he said, and meant it. He was struck by the sudden and inexplicable conviction that the story felt real because it was real. This woman, here in front of him, had poured all of her heart and soul and experience into the story.
“What did you think, Mr. Blofis?” she asked directly.
He paused. “I thought it was excellent,” he said. “I couldn’t put it down. It was compelling and it spoke directly to my heart. If it were up to me, I’d publish it exactly as it is.”
Mrs. Jackson’s head came up in surprise, and she met his eyes. Her eyes were very blue, he noted. “Would you?” she asked, curiously.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I would.”
“I see.” She sighed. “Well, thank you for your honesty Mr. Blofis.” She rose. “I have no intention of changing the ending, Mr. Blofis. So if that’s what it will take, then I’m afraid I will have to look elsewhere. I don’t suppose I can have my manuscript back? Copying it out again is very painstaking.”
Paul was aware of an acute disappointment that he would not see this remarkable woman ever again after she walked out the door. “I…” He took a breath. “Mrs. Jackson. I would like to try. May I have one week to see if I can convince my employers to publish the work as is? If I can’t, I will return it to you.”
Mrs. Jackson looked at him in surprise. “Do you really think you can?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I think it is worth trying,” he said earnestly.
She gave him an odd smile. “Very well, Mr. Blofis. Please let me know how you fare.”
“Of course,” he said. “Good day to you, Mrs. Jackson.” He gave her a bow.
She dipped a small curtsey in return. “And to you, Mr. Blofis.” And then she was gone.
After a week, Paul felt nothing but disappointment and despair. He had tried, he really had. He’d shared the manuscript with his superior, encouraged him to read it. And he had, and while he’d agreed that it was well done, he had told him. “We can’t publish something like this, Blofis. I agree it’s excellent, but the ending has to go. There’s no moral in it.”
“What’s wrong with the ending?” Paul had asked.
“You know we can’t publish something like this, Blofis,” the man shook his head. “What would society say? It would be a scandal. No, I’m sorry. She’s either got to find redemption through a new marriage, or die as punishment for her sins.”
“Why?” Paul protested. “There are women like this all over London, all over the country, I’m sure.”
“Of course there are! And their lot is unfortunate, but we can’t be setting a bad example for everyone. Now, let it go,” the man said sternly. “It’s either got to change, or we will have nothing to do with it.”
After that, Paul got a bit more desperate. He showed it to a friend who worked for another publisher. He also returned it with regret. “It’s no go, Paul,” his friend said regretfully. “A bastard child and a failed marriage? We wouldn’t go near it with a pair of tongs.”
He’d told neither his superior or his friend that S. Jackson was a woman, of course, or they never would have even looked at it.
It was with a heavy heart then, that Paul waited for the return of Mrs. Jackson. It was odd, that he felt he’d come to know her through her book, felt her pain and her determination. He felt as though he had failed her.
She arrived through the door much the same way she had the first time they met, and his face must have given it away, for she gave him that sad sort of smile he had seen when she left last week.
“It’s alright, Mr. Blofis,” she began without preamble, and before he could speak. “I did not expect miracles. But I appreciate that you tried.”
He gestured to a chair. “Won’t you at least sit a moment?” he asked. “It is a long journey from Cheapside.”
“I actually wanted to speak with you, if you have the time,” she said, unfastening her cloak, and shaking a few drops of moisture from it. It had snowed the day before.
“By all means,” he said, retaking his chair, and sliding her manuscript across the desk toward her.
“I have been all over London these past two months, Mr. Blofis,” she said. “And you are the first person who hasn’t either thrown me out, or tried to talk down to me about my work the moment they realized I was a woman,” she said. “I’ve managed to have meetings with three different publishers aside from you, and none of them has shown the slightest interest in my work as it is, except for you.”
Paul shook his head ruefully. “Unfortunately, my opinion does not count for much, Mrs. Jackson.”
“Still,” she continued. “I intended to pursue publication independently, Mr. Blofis, and I would like you to help me.”
Paul was taken aback. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said, with determination. “I know it needs an editor before I can publish it, and if you’re willing, I would like to work with you.”
“Mrs. Jackson,” Paul stammered. “I…”
“I am afraid I cannot pay you up front, but I am willing to offer you a percentage of the sales in exchange for your assistance,” she said.
“Well, I…” Paul was flustered, he did not know how to respond to this. “I am certainly honored to assist you, madame,” he said. "But perhaps, if you are insistent, I should speak to your husband about the financial questions…?"
"My husband is dead," she replied. It was not said with any emotion that Paul could detect, and it was this flat delivery that took him aback more than anything.
"Oh," he replied. "I'm sorry…?" It came out like a question.
"I am not," she answered. "But no, Mr. Blofis. I have not husband to manage me, nor male relatives…well, none close enough to be concerned with. I am entirely my own person. Save for my son."
"I see,” he said. “How old is your son?”
“He is fourteen. My husband - my second husband, that is, was his stepfather,” Mrs. Blofis explained.
There was an odd jump there, a strange emphasis on the ‘second’ in her speech, Paul noted, but he went on. “Well, I would certainly be interested in your offer, Mrs. Jackson. But it is not something I should discuss here, on my employer's time. Perhaps we could meet somewhere and discuss this.” He paused awkwardly, trying to come up with an appropriate place to meet. His usual pub was right out, of course. It was no place for a lady. Where did one go to meet a lady for a business meeting? The weather had turned cold and foul, or he might suggest the Park. Open air, lots of people around, nothing improper.
She seemed amused by the expressions on his face. “You could come by my boarding house and we could meet in the sitting room. My borders are in and out, and the servants. It would be entirely proper.”
“You own a boarding house?” That perhaps explained her ability to consider funding the independent publishing of her book.
“The best thing my husband, my second husband,” there it was again, the quickly added second, “ever did was die and leave me his boarding house.”
“I see, and do you have rooms open?” He wasn’t sure why he was asking her. If it was nicer then the one he currently stayed at, he probably couldn’t afford it. And if it was cheaper then the one he currently stayed at, he’d probably freeze.
“You’re welcome to come and have a look, Mr. Blofis, any time,” she said. “And we can discuss the terms of our arrangement.”
“I…look forward to it, Mrs. Jackson, perhaps this Saturday?”
“I will be at home all day,” she confirmed. “My cook is off on Saturday afternoons, so I prepare dinner for the borders on Saturday, but I am free prior to luncheon.” She took a calling card out of her handbag. “Do you have a pen?”
“Yes, of course,” Paul said, and handed across a pen from the midst of his papers.
She wrote her address on the card, and handed it to him with his pen. “I will see you Saturday, then, Mr. Blofis. A good day to you.”
“And to you, madame,” he said as they rose. She nodded, and put on her cloak, and turned and left, leaving him a bit flustered and strangely eager for Saturday.
It was one of those cold, but bright winter mornings in London, with blue sky visible between the chimneys of the houses above his head, and his breath puffing out in little clouds of steam as he walked to the Cheapside address he’d given her. He found the house without too much trouble. And older stone building, perhaps from the reign of George I, but neat and cared for, if a little warn.
He was shown in by a girl, probably an undermaid, and found the inside warm and pleasant. Everything was a little slap-dash, clearly put together for comfort and integrity, not style, but it was inviting just the same. There was a warm and friendly fire burning in the grate, and he took advantage of it to warm his frozen hands.
He turned when the door opened, and was met with Mrs. Jackson, who wore a look of mild surprise.
“Mr. Blofis, welcome,” she said. “I will admit I was not quite sure if you would come after all.”
Paul could understand that, actually. If even half of what she had written in her book was from her own experience, she had been badly treated by the men in her life.
“Will you bring us some tea, Polly?” Mrs. Blofis asked her maid.
“Yes, Mrs. Jackson,” the maid replied.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Blofis?” she asked, gesturing to the comfortable looking chairs.
“Certainly.” They both sat down.
“I am very glad you decided to come, Mr. Blofis. It is…gratifying to find someone who believes in my work.”
“It is remarkable,” Paul gushed. “I’ve rarely read something so compelling.”
Her cheeks colored, rather prettily, Paul thought. “I know it needs some editing,” she insisted.
“Well,” Paul allowed. “There were a few places. I’ve started to make some notes.” He withdrew some papers from his satchel.
They began to talk. About her book. About topics that came up along the way. Before he knew it, several hours had passed, and he had to ask to excuse himself to use the necessary. When he returned, she looked troubled.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, catching the look on her face.
“Oh, yes,” she said, forcing a smile. “Quite all right thank you. Just…other things on my mind.” She glanced at the clock. “Oh, dear, I really do need to start dinner.”
“I will not detain you,” he said, beginning to gather his papers. She rose.
“Thank you, Mr. Blofis, for a delightful afternoon. I will begin to work on these edits right away.”
“I will look at the next section,” he promised. “Next Saturday?” he asked.
“Yes, that should be fine. I will…look forward to it.”
“As will I,” he replied. He gave her a bow, and she nodded, and showed him out.