The Earl’s Forever Quill (Preview)

Chapter One

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.

 

Chapter Two

Nathaniel had always despised London in the spring. The streets swelled with noise and soot, the stench of horses, sweat, and fashionable desperation rising like heat from the cobbles. The parks teemed with peacocks, both feathered and human, strutting for attention. Every salon, every assembly room, and every drawing room became another stage for matrimonial farce.

There is no way that all these people are as happy and unified as they appear, he thought bitterly as he observed yet another obviously married couple laughing and clinging to one another. He stood at the window of his godmother’s townhouse on Berkeley Square, watching the carriages parade past. Somewhere below, liveried footmen shouted to one another. 

He turned from the glass. The room behind him bore all the marks of the dowager countess’s influence. There were gilt mirrors, Aubusson carpets, and an absurd number of porcelain figurines on every table. Not one thing was out of place. Not one shadow was permitted. He rubbed his brow, then pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. The headache had started before breakfast and had not since relented. He could still hear her voice, clear as crystal and twice as sharp, issuing orders as she inspected his cravat …

“You are six-and-twenty, Nathaniel,” she had said. “You are an earl. You cannot sulk about in Yorkshire forever. A title must be visible. It must be respected.”

He said nothing, despite his silently protesting thoughts. There had been no point, as she had already made her point quite clear.

“I have written to Lady Pemberton,” she said. “Her salon is this evening. Every eligible girl in London will be there.

He had not asked whether they would be intelligent, kind, or capable of enduring a northern winter with equanimity. He knew the answer already. The truth was not that he opposed marriage. The truth was that he had never witnessed one worth emulating. 

He could still remember the slam of the drawing room door on that winter night. His mother’s voice had been shrill and her footfall uneven. She had been drinking. Again …

“Your father spends the family fortune like a child in a sweet shop,” she said to a son who was far too young to hear the words even once, never mind for the tenth time. “And I am the one left to beg our butcher for credit.”

He was fourteen then. He had not moved from the staircase.

Much later that night, he witnessed his father come in from Brooks’s with his waistcoat undone. His breeches were stained with wine, he was two days unshaven, and he reeked of brandy and betrayal.

“You shall not speak to me of restraint,” his father said when confronted by an equally inebriated wife, slurring the words. “I am a peer of the realm. You are merely my wife. My conduct is my own, and you would do well to remember that …”

Nathaniel had learned then what society meant by nobility. It meant freedom to ruin whomever one pleased and expect deference for the privilege. It meant presenting a façade to one’s peers while living a life of the utmost debauchery and hypocrisy when no one was looking. And marriage was not an enviable or desirable institution. It was just another means to appear respectable and acceptable, and a way to bear children to help keep up that appearance.

It had taken years to restore even a fraction of the estate’s solvency. His father’s debts were buried in every corner of the country. Nathaniel had spent his Cambridge years not at leisure but in the law library, learning precisely how many ways a man might be held responsible for the chaos of his lineage. In studying law, he had found solace, not in the information he found, but in the factuality of it all. The law was definite and solid. It was not ambiguous in its meanings or its finality. It was straightforward and unyielding. Most of all, it was consistent and unable to lie to him.

He had returned to Loxley Hall after his mother’s funeral. The place had been gutted of servants and dignity. He had lived in two rooms while the rest rotted. The tenants had come, hat in hand, with quiet hope. He had hired a steward, cut leases, repaired roofs, fired drunkards, and paid the schoolmaster’s arrears. And still, it had not been enough. The land needed drainage. The tenants needed seeds and tools. The hall needed walls that did not admit every wind from the moor. In short, it needed more than his father’s coffers had left to offer.

He had sent a letter to the Dowager Countess of Halford last November, requesting the release of the remainder of his trust. Her reply had been prompt, and it was the very reason he had travelled to her home.

Marry respectably. Then we shall speak of money.

She had raised him when his parents would not. She had paid for his education. And she had once more taken him in while his estate remained largely unsuitable for habitation. He did not doubt she believed herself right with her absurd demand. And perhaps, she was. He would not pretend to be the foremost expert on earldoms or marriages, and certainly not on societal standards. Those who observed him out in public did so with raised eyebrows, as he had little use for the expectations of virtual strangers. Yes, it was possible that his godmother truly was thinking of what was best, not only for him, but for the future of his estate and earldom, as well. But the price she asked would bind him to a future he had never desired.

He stood and walked to the escritoire. A stack of correspondence awaited reply. He ignored it and opened the bottom drawer instead. Beneath the accounts book and unopened invitations lay a battered folio. He drew it out. The title page contained only one name: The Witty Widow of Wycliffe. It was a romantic serial in five instalments and written by a man who did not exist. He had sent it anonymously to a publishing agent in Holborn, unsure whether it would be laughed from the office. It had not been.

He had published four more under the same signature. They paid very little. He had never revealed the truth to anyone. But those stories had preserved his sanity in Yorkshire winters. They had been the only part of him untouched by scandal, debt, or duty. And now, they too would be sacrificed in favour of his duties to his estate, his tenants, and to his godmother. And to a future bride, it seems, he thought with a shudder. The future Lady Something Blackthorne, and Lord Nathaniel Blackthorne … All hail the Earl and Countess of Loxley …

He stared at the folio for a long moment before tucking it away again and then sent orders for his valet to meet him in his chambers. Then, he reluctantly left his desk and his work to make ready for that evening’s salon, which was to be the first of many dreaded social events to come for him. His only hope was that his godmother might recant her demand for marriage when she saw how utterly he failed to attract a bride during the Season.

***

The Pemberton townhouse stood on Bruton Street, its windows blazing with candlelight. Conversation spilled from the drawing room to the hall, muffled only by the velvet draperies and the soft rustle of silk. Nathaniel and the countess entered the townhouse, greeted with the polite indifference reserved for those newly returned to Society after too long an absence. The spinster Lady Pemberton, resplendent in peacock blue, welcomed them with effusion and immediately turned to secure their presence in what she called “the literary circle.” In truth, it was an uneven collection of titled men and ladies whose intellect ranged from keen to ornamental.

After a brief, cordial exchange with Lord Penbrooke, who looked as if his outfit had been tailored directly from the dress of his hosting wife, Nathaniel took his place near the hearth, schooling his features into mild interest. He had no desire to speak and even less to be spoken to. But then a voice cut through the civilized hum.

“I say again, the anonymous essayist’s proposals are dangerously naïve,” a man said, his voice bellowing as Nathaniel turned to identify him. “To suggest that legal reform must serve the tenant farmer as much as the landowner is a pleasing fantasy, but one born of inexperience.”

Nathaniel recognized the speaker as Lord Reginald Beckett, a man with more titles than convictions. He knew the essay in question as well. It had been his. The essay had been published under the heading Conscience and Common Law: Reflections from the North and had circulated modestly among reform-minded gentlemen. It had also received no small share of derision.

“Perhaps the experience of which you speak is what is naïve,” he said. His godmother gave him a warning look, one which he ignored.

Lord Beckett looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Naivety implies a belief in something impossible or untrue,” he said. “And I believe that I speak for every businessman here when I say that our experience with such matters is very real.”

Nathaniel nodded. He knew he should continue the debate with care, lest he give himself away as the author. He contemplated his point while another gentleman chimed in to agree with Lord Beckett.

He might have chosen to remain silent, had a young lady not spoken.

“Forgive me, Lord Beckett, but I believe you misread the essay entirely,” she said. “The author does not propose that landowners surrender their rights. He argues that justice must consider the balance between duty and power.”

The room turned, falling eerily silent. Nathaniel looked at her fully. She was seated just beyond the circle, near a table of pamphlets and periodicals considered to be ambitious reading materials for noble women. Her gown was a modest green silk, serviceable but well-fitted, with no excessive ornament. Her hair was arranged without affectation. Her expression, however, was earnest, intelligent, and utterly unrepentant.

Lord Beckett narrowed his eyes.

“You have a generous view of the matter, My Lady,” he said. “You must allow that essays written anonymously often disguise their author’s true purpose. This one, while prettily phrased, strikes me as the product of youthful rebellion.”

Nathaniel watched as her chin lifted.

“Or moral clarity, My Lord,” she said. “One need not be a revolutionary to believe that stewardship includes responsibility to those who live and labour on one’s land. If the laws fail to account for that, they are not just.”

Silence followed once more. Even Nathaniel’s godmother looked briefly uncertain whether to reprimand her or applaud.

Nathaniel cleared his throat, intrigued to observe such a seemingly intelligent young woman.

“Have you read the author’s other works, My Lady?” he asked.

She turned towards him.

“I have,” she said with a confidence that enthralled everyone present.

Nathaniel smirked, taking a casual step towards her.

“Then allow me to ask you something,” he said. “Do you believe the essays to be persuasive?”

She nodded.

“They are,” she said. “Though I confess, I prefer his earlier work. There is less polish but more urgency. One feels he is writing from lived experience, not ambition.”

Nathaniel tilted his head. 

“And what of the more entertaining offerings in the periodicals?” he asked. “I understand The Witty Widow of Wycliffe continues to enjoy some popularity.”

A few ladies tittered. Someone mentioned a scandalous third instalment. The woman looked unimpressed.

“I have read it,” she said. “It is amusing enough. Light fare. But the author does not understand love.”

A murmur passed through the group. Lord Beckett smothered a laugh into his brandy. Nathaniel studied the young woman with raised ire.

“Indeed?” he asked. “That is a bold declaration.”

She met his eye. 

“It is a bold premise to presume that love may be reduced to farce and flourish,” she said with disconcerting confidence. “Wit alone does not make a heart true.”

His lips curved. 

“Perhaps the author meant only to amuse,” he said, knowing perfectly well that the young lady had a point.

She shrugged, looking utterly impassive.

“Then he has succeeded,” she said. “But he has not persuaded his audience. Nor has he moved them.”

Nathaniel bristled, but he forced his expression to remain unmoved. Lord Beckett raised his glass. 

“A fair critique, My Lady,” Nathaniel said coolly. “And, I might add, more civil than the ones published in the reviews.”

Nathaniel bit down on his tongue. Never had he heard such public criticism of his work. He was not a friend of Lord Pembrooke, and he did not know the young lady. He was not adverse to constructive criticism, but he felt as though he himself was being assessed. He pushed aside the thought that perhaps he deserved such harsh judgments on a subject he was sure he did not understand. He was proud of his writing, and it was his pride that reacted to the words of the people around him.

Beside Lady Pemberton, who was hosting the salon that was rapidly becoming the most interesting event Nathaniel had ever attended, another older lady rose hastily, as if someone had just lit her dress ablaze. She rushed to the young woman’s side, and her scolding eyes could have burned directly through the younger lady.

“Juliana, darling, I would like to introduce the Earl of Loxley,” she said, with a pointed glare at the young woman. “Lord Loxley, this is Miss Juliana Harcourt, daughter of myself and the Baronet Sir Lionel Harcourt.”

Before she could offer a pleasantry, her mother took her arm. Only Nathaniel could see how fierce the older woman’s grip was. Before he looked away, he noticed the resemblance. It was clear that the older woman had once been very striking. Much like her daughter was, despite her crimson cheeks.

“Juliana,” she said in a voice sharp enough to pierce satin. “We are leaving. Now.”

Miss Harcourt nodded without protest.

“Good evening,” she said, more to the room than to him.

He watched them go. They paused at the foot of the stairs. While the rest of the room began buzzing with gossip, Nathaniel found himself eavesdropping. The baronet’s wife spoke in a low voice, but not quite softly enough to keep the words from echoing off the walls and filtering back to Nathaniel’s ears.

“You have humiliated yourself in front of half of London,” her mother said, not troubling to lower her voice. “You speak like a bluestocking and make yourself ridiculous. No one wants a wife who argues with titled men in drawing rooms. That man is a peer. You are the daughter of a baronet with an unfortunate talent for being overheard and a curse of speaking too bluntly. You will be silent when spoken to and agreeable when asked. That is the way of things.”

The voices faded down the stairs. Nathaniel remained in his chair, still holding his untouched glass. He did not know why her words had wounded him, but they still stung. She had dismissed his romantic writing with a precision that left no room for complaint. She had praised his political work with sincerity. Yet it was her remark about love that remained. He had written the Widow of Wycliffe series to amuse. He had delighted in the banter, the clever twists, the romantic contrivances. He had never claimed to understand love. But now he wondered if there was any credence to Miss Harcourt’s words.

His father had spoken of love only when drunk, calling it a woman’s trap. His mother had treated it like currency, exchanged for jewels and influence. Nathaniel had always believed both were wrong. Yet he had never considered what might be right. He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. She had called his essays urgent. She had called his stories shallow, and he did not know which mattered more. Even so, he found that he hoped to see her again.