Anne Barbour (3 page)

Behind the viscount, a plump young man bobbed his head in agreement. In a few moments Lord Chelmsford, with a cheerful nod, had departed, and Tally was ushered into the publisher’s office.

Outside the shabby old building the viscount closed the door behind him. He settled his curly-crowned beaver on his head, and his lips curved in an odd smile. What a singular coincidence, to be sure. He had recognized the girl at once, of course. He doubted he had once thought of her since that night some four years ago, when he had, with intentional brusqueness, forced her to face down her tormentors. Time had done little to improve the aspect of the colorless damsel whom he had partnered in the oddest dance of his career, but those great brown eyes had stayed with him. He smiled again as he remembered the pride in which she had garbed herself, like the raiment of a queen.

Now she presented herself as plain Miss Talitha Burnside. He experienced a mild curiosity at this, but his mind leaped to the fact that under “Miss Burnside’s” plain exterior lurked a blazing talent, a talent for which he had, at the present, a most pressing need.

Apparently she had not recognized him. He found himself unexpectedly piqued at this. But then, why should she? She had no doubt exorcised the whole, humiliating incident from her memory. He certainly had no intention of resurrecting a painful moment by reminding her.

But what a stroke of luck that he had met her again, and right on Mapes’s doorstep! He smiled, picturing the scene that must be taking place behind the doors of Number Three, and he whistled as he made his way to his next appointment.

In the publisher’s office. Tally settled herself in a large chair opposite the plump young man.

“But,” she began, looking doubtful. “I was not expecting…”

“Yes, Miss Burnside? Your appointment was with George Mapes, and I am certainly he.”

Mr. Mapes laughed, his spectacles glinting in the late afternoon sun pouring through the office window.

“You were expecting to meet my father, Mapes, Senior. He was called away unexpectedly, so you will have to make do with me, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that—well...” Tally trailed off uncertainly.

“I understand, Miss Burnside. You had corresponded with my father, and he is the gentleman with whom you expected to deal. Please be assured that he has given me your letter, and I am fully cognizant of your reason for being here.”

He peered again at his guest, and Tally thought his gaze held some degree of reluctance. She tensed herself for the attack.

“Very well, then,” she began briskly. “You are aware that I am applying to you as a caricaturist. I have here a representative sample of my work, as well as a letter of introduction from Thomas Beecroft.”

“Mm, yes. You mentioned Beecroft in your letter to my father. His name, as you might imagine, carries a great deal of weight.  Until he retired ten years ago, he was one of England’s premier caricaturists.” He gazed uncertainly at Tally for a moment. “You actually studied with him?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Tally firmly. “As you may know, he retired to Cambridgeshire. His present home is not five miles from my own. I met him soon after he moved in.  I was only a child then.”

Tally paused. Should she tell him just how she, a grubby twelve-year-old had met the Great Man? She chuckled unselfconsciously and was surprised at the encouraging grin returned by Mr. Mapes. She could not know that her eyes, when she laughed, narrowed to sparkling slits that seemed to invite an answering smile.

“As it happened,” she began, the corners of her generous mouth lifting in an engaging curve, “Uncle Bee—that is, Mr. Beecroft, caught me stealing apples from his orchard. He rang a tremendous peal over me, and in retaliation, as soon as he had stumped off I sat right down and drew a picture of him. I have always had a love of drawing and take my sketch pad with me everywhere. I’m afraid I was rather in the habit of scribbling horrid drawings of people I particularly disliked. I always destroyed them right away, but in Uncle Bee’s case, the wind caught my paper just as I finished, and blew it right into his front garden.

“When he found it, he was not angry, as I expected he would be. Instead, he came to my father and offered to instruct me. Ever since, I have spent every moment I could spare learning about line and form and balance, and all the other components of art. And these”—she indicated the drawings—“are the result.”

She laid the untidy bundle on the desk, and Mr. Mapes reached for it, his expression resigned.

As he leafed through the sheets, however, his face lightened. When he had looked at them all, he began again, subjecting each to a minute scrutiny. At last, he looked up with a smile.

“Well, now.” He sat back in his chair and stared at her thoughtfully. “Miss Burnside, your skill is, quite frankly, astonishing, especially for a female. I think we can use your talent.”

Tally released the breath that she had been holding for what seemed like the entire time she had been in Mr. Mapes’s office.

“Ordinarily,” he continued, “Mapes and Son does not handle caricature work. We produce in the main, serious tomes on science, religion, the arts, and current events. It has only been within the last year that I have been able to convince my father that the public is crying out for something more frivolous. The phenomenal success of the Ackermann firm with Rowlandson’s work finally convinced him to take the plunge.

“Thus, it happens that we are preparing for publication, in serial form, a book called
Town Bronze.  “
It is the story of the adventures—or rather, the misadventures—of a pair of men about town called Clifford and Clive.”

Tally frowned. There was something familiar in all this.

These two scapegraces,” continued Mr. Mapes, “cover the length and breadth of London, as well as its heights and depths. Clifford is a peer, newly arrived in Town, who meets Clive, a kindred spirit, ripe for any spree. Their activities take them from the most exclusive gaming clubs in St James’s Street, to the sluiceries of the East End — from the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball to Cribb’s Parlour. Does this sound like something you could handle?”

Tally nodded firmly, wondering what a sluicery might be, and who or what was Cribb — and what was so special about his parlour?

“Of course, Mr. Mapes. I am reasonably familiar with the London scene.”

“Mm,” responded Mr. Mapes enigmatically. Then he hitched himself forward in his chair and his voice became intense. “But the most important aspect of
Town Bronze
, at least to our firm, are the characters portrayed in it. Our readers will meet Lady Beddable, Lord Deeppockets, Sir Toby Potwell, Lily Lightskirt, and Miss Primrose Promise, among others. All of these will be easily identifiable as persons of note in our little metropolis. Particularly, if the “portraits” are suitably drawn in the book’s illustrations. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, I think so. I suppose the persons involved are those who have already made themselves ridiculous in the eyes of the world.”

“Quite.” Mr. Mapes smiled, delighted at Miss Burnside’s quick grasp of the essentials. “People want to read about the nobs. They want to see the foibles and fribbles of those who aspire to be the shapers of our world. Your sketch of the Duchess of Wigand, for example, is perfect! You’ve captured her arrogant self-satisfaction in a few strokes without falling into the grotesqueries of poor old Gillray (he’s gone quite barmy, you know) and young Cruikshank. This is the kind of thing we want for
Town Bronze
.”

Tally felt a stirring of eagerness. She could do this! She knew her fingers contained the talent to bring to life all the silliness, the artificiality, yes, even the cruelty of the denizens of London, from the lowest chimney sweep right up to the Prince Regent, if necessary.

Mr. Mapes was sunk in another thoughtful pause, his fingers steepled in front of him. Tally watched him expectantly, and at last he spoke again.

“We cannot pay you a great deal, Miss Burnside. It was my father’s stipulation that if we were to venture into “trumpery satire,” as he put it, we would expend very little money, at least until it becomes a proven success. The author of the book has agreed to work for next to nothing. He is...” Mr. Mapes appeared to be groping for words, “a, um, peer. A wealthy man who writes for enjoyment. It is his stipulation that his name not be revealed as the author of
Town Bronze.”

Tally’s eyes widened. The lines scrawled on the viscount’s vellum page leaped to her mind. “I say, Cliffie, what do you say to a toddle in the Park?” Chelmsford must be the author of
Town Bronze
! That’s why he had insisted on seeing Mr. Mapes ahead of her. He had recognized in her just the sort of mouse who could be bullied into selling her talent for a pittance.

Tally sighed inwardly. She would dearly have liked to show him that he was very much in error, but she was in no position to dictate terms. She desperately needed to get her foot in the door of the publishing world, and, yes, she would work for a pittance. At first, anyway.

She straightened in her chair and faced Mr. Mapes squarely.

“Sir, I will be frank with you. First of all, I must assume that the author of
Town Bronze
is Lord Chelmsford.”

The young publisher’s response was an audible gasp. “But how—that is to say—what a ludicrous idea, Miss Burnside.”

“I think not, Mr. Mapes. But,” she continued in a kind tone, “you need not fear a lack of discretion on my part. You see…” and here her eyes fell to her lap, where she had begun to twist a small ring she wore. “I, too, wish to remain anonymous. I have my reasons,” she finished, as she observed Mr. Mapes’s expression change to one of guarded curiosity.

“Of course, Miss Burnside,” he answered smoothly. “That is quite commonplace among female scriveners. As you may know, the author of
Sense and Sensibility
is featured on her book covers simply as, ‘a lady.’ There is little or no precedence for a female caricaturist, but I should imagine the same arrangement would suffice.”

“No.” Tally’s response was abrupt. “I have decided to produce my work under a pseudonym. My drawings will be signed simply ‘Mouse.’ “ She continued quickly. “It was a pet name my father used for me when I was very small.”

Accustomed to the foibles of the literary world, Mr. Mapes merely smiled briefly.

“Very well then, Miss Burnside. Lord Chelmsford, by the by, has, chosen to be known as ‘Dash.’ ”

“Yes. Well,” Tally rushed on, determined now to conceal nothing from the man who was about to become her employer, “I am not really Miss Burnside.”

This produced another gasp from Mr. Mapes.

“I mean, well, of course, Burnside is my family name, but I am called Lady Talitha Burnside, my father being the Earl of Bamfield.”

George Mapes’s countenance now took on the expression of one who has been granted a heavenly vision. His plan for what he contemplated would be the runaway success of
Town Bronze
counted heavily on the discreet rumor he planned to circulate that its author was an unidentified peer. And here, dropped into his lap, lay additional grist for his mill. The paltry sum he had been about to offer in remuneration was quickly revised upward.

To his pleasure, Miss Burnside, or rather Lady Talitha, agreed to the amount, with the stipulation that she be accorded a small percentage of the book’s sales. Mr. Mapes smilingly agreed, and thus the interview dosed.

“I must say,” said Mr. Mapes, “that your being aware of the author’s identity will smooth the way in your collaboration with Lord Chelmsford, for of course, it will be advantageous for you to meet with him from time to time.”

Tally felt a flutter of dismay.

“Oh, no! I do not plan to be out and about, and—I’m sure his lordship and I can conduct whatever business is necessary through your office.”

Mr. Mapes’s brows rose.

“Dear lady, you cannot have considered. Since the book is to come out in serial form, it will be necessary for you to know, even before his lordship has finished his first draft, the persons and places described in each chapter, so that by the time he has readied an installment for publication, your illustrations will also be completed.

“As for going out and about, again you must realize that if you are to bring Lord Chelmsford’s London to life, you must be au courant. You must be familiar with the interior of the Italian Opera, the pathways at Vauxhall, Hyde Park at promenade. Your ladies must be dressed bang up to the echo. I notice here that the Duchess of Wigand’s gown is at least three years out of style. The public notices things like that, Lady Talitha.”

The sick feeling had returned to the pit of Tally’s stomach. She knew that Mr. Mapes spoke the truth, but how could she bear to open herself to the bored ridicule she had experienced during her first visit to London? More important, how could she bear the constant company of Lord Chelmsford? In the years following her departure from the realm of the
haut ton,
she had outgrown the childish feelings of hurt and humiliation of those brief, painful months. In Lord Chelmsford’s presence, she would be constantly reminded of them.

She stood in thought for several moments before she squared her slight shoulders and faced Mr. Mapes.

“Yes, you are quite right. Please tell the viscount that I shall be pleased to meet with him at his convenience for the purpose of conferring on our project.

Tally left Mr. Mapes’s office a few moments later, with his expressions of good will and satisfaction ringing in her ears.

She was exhilarated at the success of her interview with the little publisher, but before her floated the image of a pair of cool, gray eyes. The thought of a collaboration between herself and the exalted Lord Chelmsford filled her with deep misgiving, mingled with a stirring of unacknowledged anticipation.

Chapter Three

By the time Tally had deposited Miss Adlestrop at her sister’s home, the hour was far advanced, and when the ancient carriage shuddered to a stop before a fashionable town house in Half Moon Street, dusk had begun to descend.