facial hair. He sported a full brown beard, side whiskers, and mustache. But he had a more difficult time masking his resentment of Charles.
“Good morning, Charles.”
“Good morning, Martin.” Whatever Charles did for Martin, it still was never enough to suit his cousin. But he could hardly turn out a family member, especially one who tried so hard to succeed. It would not be right.
Martin dropped down into the sturdy Sheraton chair in front of Charles’s desk. “Have you reconsidered our discussion of yesterday?”
“No, Martin. I feel certain that competing with a monthly will not profit us.”
“It will if we hire the finest writers and illustrators. We could steal Thomas Nast away for the right sum. I am certain the Rycroft treasury holds enough money to ensure his defection as well as the cream of the writing crop.”
“I prefer to create a new market rather than go head-to-head. Rycroft Publishing will succeed by moving away from publishing the usual text and religious books. We’ll concentrate on fiction.”
“Who will buy fiction?” Angered, or simply frustrated, Martin’s arms flailed above his head. He often talked with his hands as well as his mouth. “Would you ruin our reputation with dime novel publications, Charles?”
“Rest assured, we will not be publishing dime novels.’’
“As vice president, do I not have any say?”
“I always listen to you.”
Charles knew Martin intended to be president of Rycroft Publishing one day. His cousin’s ambition made Charles a bit nervous. He could only hope that if something should happen to him, Martin would have learned enough to keep the publishing house solvent.
“Charles, can’t you see? I need to make my own mark on the company. I deserve my own project.”
“Then come up with one that I can approve. A monthly magazine will not win my approval.”
“Monthly magazines are the wave of the future. Why do you suppose the rest of the publishing houses —”
“Magazines will never replace books. Rycroft Publishing will continue to focus on books.”
Martin’s eyes seemed to shrink, growing smaller as he glared at Charles. “You are making a grave mistake.”
“I regret that you believe so.”
Martin pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the door.
“By the way, how is Sally?” Charles asked.
“Most days she is ill.”
Martin’s wife was expecting their first child. “Give her my best. I hope she will be able to attend Mother’s little gathering tomorrow evening.”
“Not to worry. We shall be there.”
As soon as Martin left his office, Charles wrote a hasty message to Boston’s most renowned private investigator, Herbert Lynch, asking for a meeting at the investigator’s earliest convenience.
* * * *
Mr. Raymond proved more pompous than any blue blood on Beacon Hill. Maeve’s headache started the moment Stuart ushered the tall, lean dance instructor into the drawing room.
Mrs. Rycroft and Stella Hampton had gone out earlier in the day without a word to Maeve. She told herself their snub did not matter. All that mattered was pleasing Charles.
In preparation for her dance lesson the carpet had been rolled back and the piano tuned. Maeve, however, wasn’t entirely certain that she was ready.
The dance teacher wore his curly, sandy-colored hair parted in the middle. His side whiskers boasted curls as well and ended where his mustache began. Impeccably dressed, Mr. Raymond appeared to be bound up tighter than Harriet Deakins’s corset.
He off-handedly introduced the accompanist who would play the piano during Maeve’s lessons. His son, Robert, who resembled Mr. Raymond in stature and coloring, smiled shyly.
When Robert began to play, Mr. Raymond’s starch dissolved in a puddle of liquid grace. In a swift, introductory demonstration, he danced for his skeptical pupil. Each effortless step he took became a lesson in artistry. Maeve had never known a man who possessed such grace.
After
“Good morning, Charles.”
“Good morning, Martin.” Whatever Charles did for Martin, it still was never enough to suit his cousin. But he could hardly turn out a family member, especially one who tried so hard to succeed. It would not be right.
Martin dropped down into the sturdy Sheraton chair in front of Charles’s desk. “Have you reconsidered our discussion of yesterday?”
“No, Martin. I feel certain that competing with a monthly will not profit us.”
“It will if we hire the finest writers and illustrators. We could steal Thomas Nast away for the right sum. I am certain the Rycroft treasury holds enough money to ensure his defection as well as the cream of the writing crop.”
“I prefer to create a new market rather than go head-to-head. Rycroft Publishing will succeed by moving away from publishing the usual text and religious books. We’ll concentrate on fiction.”
“Who will buy fiction?” Angered, or simply frustrated, Martin’s arms flailed above his head. He often talked with his hands as well as his mouth. “Would you ruin our reputation with dime novel publications, Charles?”
“Rest assured, we will not be publishing dime novels.’’
“As vice president, do I not have any say?”
“I always listen to you.”
Charles knew Martin intended to be president of Rycroft Publishing one day. His cousin’s ambition made Charles a bit nervous. He could only hope that if something should happen to him, Martin would have learned enough to keep the publishing house solvent.
“Charles, can’t you see? I need to make my own mark on the company. I deserve my own project.”
“Then come up with one that I can approve. A monthly magazine will not win my approval.”
“Monthly magazines are the wave of the future. Why do you suppose the rest of the publishing houses —”
“Magazines will never replace books. Rycroft Publishing will continue to focus on books.”
Martin’s eyes seemed to shrink, growing smaller as he glared at Charles. “You are making a grave mistake.”
“I regret that you believe so.”
Martin pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the door.
“By the way, how is Sally?” Charles asked.
“Most days she is ill.”
Martin’s wife was expecting their first child. “Give her my best. I hope she will be able to attend Mother’s little gathering tomorrow evening.”
“Not to worry. We shall be there.”
As soon as Martin left his office, Charles wrote a hasty message to Boston’s most renowned private investigator, Herbert Lynch, asking for a meeting at the investigator’s earliest convenience.
* * * *
Mr. Raymond proved more pompous than any blue blood on Beacon Hill. Maeve’s headache started the moment Stuart ushered the tall, lean dance instructor into the drawing room.
Mrs. Rycroft and Stella Hampton had gone out earlier in the day without a word to Maeve. She told herself their snub did not matter. All that mattered was pleasing Charles.
In preparation for her dance lesson the carpet had been rolled back and the piano tuned. Maeve, however, wasn’t entirely certain that she was ready.
The dance teacher wore his curly, sandy-colored hair parted in the middle. His side whiskers boasted curls as well and ended where his mustache began. Impeccably dressed, Mr. Raymond appeared to be bound up tighter than Harriet Deakins’s corset.
He off-handedly introduced the accompanist who would play the piano during Maeve’s lessons. His son, Robert, who resembled Mr. Raymond in stature and coloring, smiled shyly.
When Robert began to play, Mr. Raymond’s starch dissolved in a puddle of liquid grace. In a swift, introductory demonstration, he danced for his skeptical pupil. Each effortless step he took became a lesson in artistry. Maeve had never known a man who possessed such grace.
After
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