Read Online Carola Dunn by Mayhemand Miranda - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mayhemand Miranda
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in a word there, until no printer in his right mind could make head or tail of it. Even I myself am confused when I attempt to put the pages in their correct order.”
“Yes, I see. But all you have to do is make a fair copy before you approach a bookseller.”
“I’ve tried it, with the beginning.” He reached across for a fan of a half dozen sheets and spread them before her. “It’s just the same all over again. New ideas come, I start rearranging, and in no time the muddle is as bad as ever.”
“But sooner or later you must be satisfied.”
“Perhaps, but when? I’ve no desire to hang on my aunt’s sleeve for the next several years, I assure you!”
“No.” Glancing up at him, Miranda had to believe him. His bright blue eyes shone with an eager sincerity impossible to mistake. Their glow made her feel quite peculiar inside. Reminded of his shocking conduct in the gardens, she hastily looked down.
“What am I to do, Miss Carmichael?”
“What you need,” she said reluctantly, “is someone to copy it for you. Someone you trust to correct obvious errors, or at least to draw them to your attention before proceeding, yet someone firm enough not to allow you to make further major alterations.”
“And someone with a neat, clear hand.” Mr. Daviot sighed. “I know only one person who meets every criterion, but Aunt Artemis keeps her far too busy for me to ask her to undertake such a monumental task.”
Miranda echoed his sigh. “If Lady Wiston is willing to grant me the time, I am willing to undertake it.”
She had anticipated this, so how had he succeeded in wheedling her into it without even trying?
* * * *
The incumbent of St. Mary le Bone Church had departed tight-lipped.
“The poor man finds it difficult to castigate me as he feels he ought,” said Lady Wiston blithely, “because I always give a donation to the parish poor even when I don’t attend his service.”
Her ladyship and the unruffled Sagaranathu retired to the green sitting room for the yoga lesson. Notwithstanding the rain, Mr. Daviot went off to Tattersall’s on a preliminary scouting expedition.
Even if Miranda had cared to brave the drizzle, Mudge refused absolutely to set foot out of doors in such weather. Having prepared a basket of comforts for the patients of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, for once she found herself at leisure.
Returning to the study, she sat down at the writing table. When she concentrated, Mr. Daviot’s handwriting was quite legible, but his system—if it could be called a system—of changes and additions took more effort to puzzle out. A bookseller might well not choose to take the trouble, she realized, especially with an unknown author.
She read through the first few pages, the attempted fair copy. He had decided after all to begin with his landing in the city of New York. The arrival within the month of the news from the capital, Washington, of the declaration of war against Britain made a fine dramatic incident.
His lively style reminded Miranda of the way he spoke. She enjoyed reading the tale. Yet something was missing.
Chin in hand, she gazed out at the dripping rose-bushes, musing. What was it the written story lacked?
She pictured Peter Daviot in this chair, herself seated at the bureau, listening as he related his adventures, watching him. Watching, that was the difference. The animation of his features had added an inexpressible sparkle to the story which the written word was unable to convey.
Finding herself smiling at the memory, Miranda called herself sternly to attention. What mattered was that readers who did not know him could not know what they were missing.
Despite her suspicion that she had been manoeuvred into offering, she rather thought she would enjoy working with him.
Unsurprisingly, Lady Wiston was perfectly willing to donate her companion’s services to her nephew. Mr. Daviot made the request when they gathered at luncheon.
“Of course, dear,” she said.
“Yes, I see. But all you have to do is make a fair copy before you approach a bookseller.”
“I’ve tried it, with the beginning.” He reached across for a fan of a half dozen sheets and spread them before her. “It’s just the same all over again. New ideas come, I start rearranging, and in no time the muddle is as bad as ever.”
“But sooner or later you must be satisfied.”
“Perhaps, but when? I’ve no desire to hang on my aunt’s sleeve for the next several years, I assure you!”
“No.” Glancing up at him, Miranda had to believe him. His bright blue eyes shone with an eager sincerity impossible to mistake. Their glow made her feel quite peculiar inside. Reminded of his shocking conduct in the gardens, she hastily looked down.
“What am I to do, Miss Carmichael?”
“What you need,” she said reluctantly, “is someone to copy it for you. Someone you trust to correct obvious errors, or at least to draw them to your attention before proceeding, yet someone firm enough not to allow you to make further major alterations.”
“And someone with a neat, clear hand.” Mr. Daviot sighed. “I know only one person who meets every criterion, but Aunt Artemis keeps her far too busy for me to ask her to undertake such a monumental task.”
Miranda echoed his sigh. “If Lady Wiston is willing to grant me the time, I am willing to undertake it.”
She had anticipated this, so how had he succeeded in wheedling her into it without even trying?
* * * *
The incumbent of St. Mary le Bone Church had departed tight-lipped.
“The poor man finds it difficult to castigate me as he feels he ought,” said Lady Wiston blithely, “because I always give a donation to the parish poor even when I don’t attend his service.”
Her ladyship and the unruffled Sagaranathu retired to the green sitting room for the yoga lesson. Notwithstanding the rain, Mr. Daviot went off to Tattersall’s on a preliminary scouting expedition.
Even if Miranda had cared to brave the drizzle, Mudge refused absolutely to set foot out of doors in such weather. Having prepared a basket of comforts for the patients of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, for once she found herself at leisure.
Returning to the study, she sat down at the writing table. When she concentrated, Mr. Daviot’s handwriting was quite legible, but his system—if it could be called a system—of changes and additions took more effort to puzzle out. A bookseller might well not choose to take the trouble, she realized, especially with an unknown author.
She read through the first few pages, the attempted fair copy. He had decided after all to begin with his landing in the city of New York. The arrival within the month of the news from the capital, Washington, of the declaration of war against Britain made a fine dramatic incident.
His lively style reminded Miranda of the way he spoke. She enjoyed reading the tale. Yet something was missing.
Chin in hand, she gazed out at the dripping rose-bushes, musing. What was it the written story lacked?
She pictured Peter Daviot in this chair, herself seated at the bureau, listening as he related his adventures, watching him. Watching, that was the difference. The animation of his features had added an inexpressible sparkle to the story which the written word was unable to convey.
Finding herself smiling at the memory, Miranda called herself sternly to attention. What mattered was that readers who did not know him could not know what they were missing.
Despite her suspicion that she had been manoeuvred into offering, she rather thought she would enjoy working with him.
Unsurprisingly, Lady Wiston was perfectly willing to donate her companion’s services to her nephew. Mr. Daviot made the request when they gathered at luncheon.
“Of course, dear,” she said.
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