now? Women could write books and sell them for money, could they not? And she wouldn’t have to leave home to seek work if she became an authoress, would she?
She rose, dusting the dirt from her backside.
She had the solution.
Picking up her skirts, she dashed from the garden. Her solution would only work if she had Brookes’s help.
Brookes’s eyes glazed over as he stared at the ledgers piled in front of him. Henry kept meticulous records, in a tiny and cramped script that left Brookes cross-eyed after hours of reading. He spent the morning studying the mill’s profitability. After examining the ledgers closely, he decided to look at making adjustments to the spinning mules. A few tweaks here and there could save valuable time and labor. He resolved to formulate a plan with the mill manager for increasing the mill’s profits and saving labor. He needed to prove himself as twice the man he had been before the war, as though gaining more wealth from the mill could make up for his lost leg. Maybe it would impress Sophie, anyway.
The door to the library swung open, and his butler, Bunting, entered, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Miss Handley to see you, Captain.”
“S-Sophie?” he stammered in bewilderment. Had she come to make amends or offer some explanation of her standoffish behavior? Her rejection stung more than he cared to admit.
“No. Miss Harriet Handley.” Bunting opened the door wider, and motioned Harriet into the room. A look of astonishment was still pasted to his usually blank countenance.
A rush of pleasure suffused Brookes. An afternoon spent in Harriet’s company was preferable to proving himself anew to Sophie. But his happiness faded when he spied her. No wonder Bunting was dumbfounded. She looked positively untidy, with her rumpled gown and none-too-clean apron. He rose from the desk and grabbed her hands. “Whatever’s the matter?”
She dropped his hands as though they were on fire. “I have a proposition for you, Captain.”
The most adorable streak of dirt bisected her cheek. Against his better judgment, he reached up to rub it with his thumb. “Proposition?” he echoed.
“Oh, sorry.” She laughed ruefully, scrubbing her cheek with the corner of her apron. “Yes. Or a business deal. Whatever term you like.”
A tug of his old mischievousness pulled at his insides. He liked the sound of proposition. “Tell me.”
“I want to write with you.”
His hope deflated. Well, after all, what had he expected her to say? That she wanted to court him? He motioned her to the settee, and sat down across from her. “I don’t understand you. What do you mean? Do you want to write a book?”
“Yes. Remember how we spoke about the need for realistic books about the war? Well, I want to write one. And I want your help so I can do it well.”
Her words cast him into unfamiliar territory, so he fell back on his soldier’s training. He peered at her, trying to assess her thoughts. Did she really want to write his memoirs? The thought of sharing what he had suffered made Brookes recoil. His palms began to sweat.
“I’ve always wanted to be an authoress. In fact I wrote a few books before Papa died. But I want to try it again. I want to write something and sell it. For money.”
He quirked the corner of his lip in amusement at her unnecessary afterthought. Then he directed his attention back to her scheme. He shook his head, attempting to clear his thoughts. “Why write anything new? Why not try to publish what you already have?”
She looked away, blushing. “I don’t have it anymore.”
“Why do you need me?” His words held an edge. While he liked the idea that Harriet might need him, was she merely using him for her own gain?
“I thought we could be a team. An equal partnership. I will write, and you supply the facts.”
In the army, he had been carefully schooled never to show weakness. He did not forget that training now.
“I can see how I can help you. And it’s not that I don’t want to assist you. But if you’ll forgive me—how does this help me? Aren’t most partnerships mutually beneficial?”
“Um…” She bit her lip, looking at a complete loss. “It might help you to talk about the war.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do. He shook his head. “I may not want to.”
“You’d only have to talk about what you want, or verify facts, I promise. And—” she stared at him beseechingly “—if we worked at Tansley Cottage, you could see Sophie more often.”
Brookes turned away. Could he really talk about the war? His ghastly experiences might shock this slip of a girl. He wanted to help her, but his memories of the war still bled like open wounds. He had no desire to take off his bandages and show the gashes to Harriet.
A compromise was in order. He sighed and turned back, staring deeply into her pale face. “My answer is yes, on two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“First, you speak with Stoames, as well. He served as my batman and he is a walking military encyclopedia. He knows a great deal more about the war than I do. Any details beyond what Stoames can supply, I will endeavor to help.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, we work here at Brookes Park. I get very busy and may need to beg off at a moment’s notice. There’s more room to work here, too.” It was safer, too. He liked the security of his own four walls, his own familiar territory.
She nodded, but a shadow of uncertainty crossed her face. “All right.”
What had he done? Brookes swallowed nervously. He needed to get away from her, and get back onto sure footing. “I’ll fetch Stoames, and we will explain the plan to him.”
“I would love to.” She dazzled him with the brightness of her smile.
He loved that smile. Remembering her weakness, he added, “Feel free to choose a book or two while I am gone.”
The blood pounded in Harriet’s temples. Pressing her hands together, she forced herself to stop trembling.
Now she might see him often, to keep her vow to Sophie, but the arrangement was strictly business. And she would write a book, and possibly save her little family in the process. Harriet gulped several lungfuls of air. Her composure returned, and her hands ceased shaking. She gazed down at her lap, startled to see she still wore her dirty gardening apron.
She looked a perfect sight. No wonder he seemed so shocked by her proposal. Sophie would never visit anyone looking less than flawless. Even in poverty, Sophie still managed an elegance that Harriet could never attain. But then, she sought his advice on a business matter and did not make a social call. He was Sophie’s intended and not her young man. So who cared what she looked like?
Harriet shut off her thoughts with a snap. She gazed around the library, taking in the floor to ceiling shelves crammed with volumes bound in red and brown Moroccan leather. Brookes’s offer of a new book tempted her,
