go. I just remembered that I have an important engagement.”
He left his club and called for his carriage, but when it came, he waved it away. Instead, he took a long walk.
He went over everything he could recall of Miss Dove’s manuscripts—which wasn’t much, for he hadn’t read much. And what he had readhad so failed to capture his interest that he could only remember a few things. Something about how a girl-bachelor could decorate her flat. Stuff about how to give an Afternoon-at-Home. The proper way for a lady to ride in the park. Just thinking about these topics, and he was already bored to distraction. So what was making her a success? He just didn’t see it.
That, he realized with dismay, was the crux of the problem.
Though he could not see the appeal of Miss Dove’s writing, other people did. Somehow, in the space of two months, her Mrs. Bartleby character had become a sensation. How could he have been so wrong about her appeal to the reading public?
Her accusation came back to slap him in the face. You are too closed-minded.
Was that true? He had always prided himself on being open to opportunities. Had he somehow become closed-minded without even realizing it? He thought of his editors, of all the manuscripts they had recommended over the years that he had rejected. How many more Mrs. Bartlebys were in the rubbish heap? There was no way to know.
He had always trusted his instincts, and they had never failed to tell him the truth. His success as a publisher had always come from his ability to know what people wanted to read and providing it for them at just the right time.
Was he losing that ability? Were his instincts deserting him? Self-doubt, something he seldomhad cause to feel, whispered through his mind. Were the qualities that had made him Britain’s most successful publisher deserting him?
He paused at Hyde Park Corner, where a boy in a cap stood amid stacks of newspapers. Three of his own were there, along with the London Times and the Social Gazette . Harry bought a copy of the latter, found himself an empty bench in the park, and sat down. He read every word of today’s All Things London , by Mrs. Honoria Bartleby.
When he had finished, he knew all about the giving of wedding breakfasts, but he still felt no more enlightened as to why she’d caught the public’s fancy than he had before. On the other hand, he knew his private opinion of her work no longer mattered.
Harry sat back on the bench and considered the situation as objectively as he could. Publishing was a cutthroat business, always shifting and changing. He could not afford to become closed-minded. Some of his most profitable ventures over the years had sprung from unexpected events that he turned into opportunities. Perhaps this was such a moment. Harry began to get an idea, and his innate optimism began to return.
After about an hour, he stood up, knowing there was only one thing to do. He’d meet with Barringer and accept the terms of sale the earl had outlined. He had to do it now. The way things were going, if he delayed, Miss Dove’s success would cost him another fifty thousand pounds.
Emma loved her new life. She loved spending her afternoons exploring London shops in search of information to share with her readers. She loved exercising her ingenuity, inventing ways to transform the commonplace into the unusual, so that even the most frugal matrons could arrange elegant meals for their families and even the busiest girl-bachelors could make their flats comfortable and cozy. She loved writing, and she loved seeing her compositions in print. She loved Mrs. Bartleby, because every morning when she sat down to work, when she typed the advice of that fictional character, she could hear dear Aunt Lydia’s voice again. It was almost as if Auntie were sitting beside her, helping her along, sharing her newfound success.
And she was successful, surprisingly so.
Despite her former employer’s rejections of her work,
He left his club and called for his carriage, but when it came, he waved it away. Instead, he took a long walk.
He went over everything he could recall of Miss Dove’s manuscripts—which wasn’t much, for he hadn’t read much. And what he had readhad so failed to capture his interest that he could only remember a few things. Something about how a girl-bachelor could decorate her flat. Stuff about how to give an Afternoon-at-Home. The proper way for a lady to ride in the park. Just thinking about these topics, and he was already bored to distraction. So what was making her a success? He just didn’t see it.
That, he realized with dismay, was the crux of the problem.
Though he could not see the appeal of Miss Dove’s writing, other people did. Somehow, in the space of two months, her Mrs. Bartleby character had become a sensation. How could he have been so wrong about her appeal to the reading public?
Her accusation came back to slap him in the face. You are too closed-minded.
Was that true? He had always prided himself on being open to opportunities. Had he somehow become closed-minded without even realizing it? He thought of his editors, of all the manuscripts they had recommended over the years that he had rejected. How many more Mrs. Bartlebys were in the rubbish heap? There was no way to know.
He had always trusted his instincts, and they had never failed to tell him the truth. His success as a publisher had always come from his ability to know what people wanted to read and providing it for them at just the right time.
Was he losing that ability? Were his instincts deserting him? Self-doubt, something he seldomhad cause to feel, whispered through his mind. Were the qualities that had made him Britain’s most successful publisher deserting him?
He paused at Hyde Park Corner, where a boy in a cap stood amid stacks of newspapers. Three of his own were there, along with the London Times and the Social Gazette . Harry bought a copy of the latter, found himself an empty bench in the park, and sat down. He read every word of today’s All Things London , by Mrs. Honoria Bartleby.
When he had finished, he knew all about the giving of wedding breakfasts, but he still felt no more enlightened as to why she’d caught the public’s fancy than he had before. On the other hand, he knew his private opinion of her work no longer mattered.
Harry sat back on the bench and considered the situation as objectively as he could. Publishing was a cutthroat business, always shifting and changing. He could not afford to become closed-minded. Some of his most profitable ventures over the years had sprung from unexpected events that he turned into opportunities. Perhaps this was such a moment. Harry began to get an idea, and his innate optimism began to return.
After about an hour, he stood up, knowing there was only one thing to do. He’d meet with Barringer and accept the terms of sale the earl had outlined. He had to do it now. The way things were going, if he delayed, Miss Dove’s success would cost him another fifty thousand pounds.
Emma loved her new life. She loved spending her afternoons exploring London shops in search of information to share with her readers. She loved exercising her ingenuity, inventing ways to transform the commonplace into the unusual, so that even the most frugal matrons could arrange elegant meals for their families and even the busiest girl-bachelors could make their flats comfortable and cozy. She loved writing, and she loved seeing her compositions in print. She loved Mrs. Bartleby, because every morning when she sat down to work, when she typed the advice of that fictional character, she could hear dear Aunt Lydia’s voice again. It was almost as if Auntie were sitting beside her, helping her along, sharing her newfound success.
And she was successful, surprisingly so.
Despite her former employer’s rejections of her work,
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