Immediately setting about to learn the trade, she’d asked questions and took advice from any successful merchant who was willing to respond to her queries. She’d also studied the prosperous bookstores in the city, noting which business practices, displays, and public readings drew the most customers. Very quickly-since their funds were limited-she’d mastered the necessary aspects of bookselling and merchandising. To those tried and true principles, she’d added particular elements of interest to her: a free library for the working poor, a small gallery where women artists could show their work, a Saturday evening reading group open to all. She also kept a steaming samovar on a table near the doorway so customers could help themselves to tea when they walked in.
The bookstore had granted them a modest living. But coming as they did from families of moderate means, they were well acquainted with living simply. While Rosalind had concentrated on managing the bookstore, Edward had written and published poems and, unbeknownst to her, authored the auxiliary works that had rendered him funds for gambling.
There had been times during the years of their marriage when she’d felt overwhelmed. Their financial resources were always stretched thin. But she’d never long succumbed to desolation-a testament perhaps to her father’s hearty spirits and her mother’s optimistic nature, which she’d inherited. Her mother had served as helpmate and inspiration to her father, who had spent a life engaged in scientific research. Eschewing fame and monetary recompense, he’d been intent on the pure joy of discovery.
So she’d fully understood Edward’s passion for poetry; she’d even sympathized with his fascination for gambling. She had only wished he might have been luckier at the tables. And slightly less moody. Stronger.
But they had both been so young when they married. Young and full of dreams.
She’d wondered more than once if he’d accidently fallen into the Thames that stormy night or whether he’d jumped from Westminster Bridge.
Her unconscious sigh shattered the silence, jerking her back to reality and her fast-approaching deadline.
She glanced at the clock. Two fifteen.
She put pen to paper, the nib fairly flying over the page. She didn’t have time for maudlin introspection or reflection on what might have been. She had to finish ten pages by eight in the morning. And that was that.
She was paid by the page.
It was piecework, pure and simple-like a seamstress who was compensated for the number of garments she completed in a day.
Rosalind smiled.
This was easier.
She’d never learned to sew despite her mother’s best efforts to make her a genteel young lady who could embroider her husband’s slippers or sew a fine seam. Fortunately her father had taken her side and she’d studied his favorite subjects instead: botany, anthropology, history, Latin, and Greek.
Even more fortunately, she’d quite by accident forged a new market for her steamy novels. Her publisher was ecstatic-his delight measured in increased fortune for her and less agreeably in persistent demands that she write faster.
Her stories ran counter to the accepted male narrative of domination bolstered by various fantastic devices with which to restrain female characters. Not that she was averse to an occasional bondage scene. After all, their bookstore had always sold books by Anonymous that were kept behind a screen in a back room. The risquй books and magazines bound in innocuous bindings had generated excellent sales.
But when she’d first undertaken the task of continuing Edward’s secret work, she’d instinctively penned tales appealing to her feminine sensibilities. Almost instantly, word of mouth had translated into a tidal wave of eager customers. Women readers, a major component of the bookstore’s customer base as well, had quickly heard of her writing-not that they knew it was hers-and had taken to indulging themselves in sexual fantasies tailored to female imaginations and passions.
Not that her male customers were averse to purchasing the weekly magazines that published her books in serial chapters. Mr. Edding’s Facts and Fantasy was a typical example of the cheap serial fiction that boomed after the abolition of the Newspaper Stamp Tax in 1855. But what increased the volume of her readership so remarkably was the additional female audience.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising. It was, after all, an era of sweeping social changes, many of them specifically directed toward women’s rights. There was increasing ferment for women’s suffrage, and reforms in marriage, divorce, and inheritance laws had over the past fifty years broadened the scope of female self-determination. Women could now sue for divorce, gain custody of their children, retain control over their own property-not easily, but it could be done. Women were, on the whole, leading much more complex and productive lives.
Female artists were coming to prominence as well in exhibitions previously closed to them. Sexual issues, unrelated to chauvinist bias, were being researched for the first time, and the studies were being published in the burgeoning field of psychology both in England and on the Continent. Radicals, socialists, and feminists had come together in the Men and Women’s Club to debate, dispute, converse, and expound upon the sexual issues of the day even while the vast public barely noticed. The government’s policies directed at mass education had given rise to unprecedented numbers of readers hungry for knowledge and entertainment. And with the advent of the typewriter, more and more women were entering the workforce, domestic service no longer the sole occupation open to females of lesser rank. Also, universities had begun enrolling women, albeit in limited numbers, and those pioneering females were unprecedentedly taking firsts at Oxford and Cambridge.
In some small measure, her stories ran parallel to contemporary women’s pursuit of liberty and freedom in all areas of life. Not that women were free from their corseted, high-collared, straitlaced world of patriarchy, puritanism, and prejudice, but critical change was in the air.
And with it, a crisis of masculinity had begun.
Enough, enough! She had no time for musing.
Her piecework had to be finished.
She smiled. If her stories continued to sell well, someday she might actually visit Constantinople.
She wiggled her toes in her slippers, shoved a heavy fall of auburn hair from her forehead, and bent to her task.
Should Lady Blessington sigh or scream in orgasmic ecstasy?
The erstwhile eunuch was very well endowed-very well, indeed.
She rather thought Lady Blessington might scream, she decided, her pen once again racing over the page.
Rosalind didn’t look up again until the last page was complete, the newest chapter conveniently coming to an orgasmic conclusion. Then she checked the time, smiled, and stretched leisurely.
Six. She had a sufficient interval in which to bathe, dress, and breakfast before carrying her manuscript to Bond Street and turning it over to Mr. Edding. His stationery shop was tres fashionable; only the best clientele ordered their monogrammed writing materials from him. And he looked so very unlike a publisher of bawdy literature that her anxiety about having her secret occupation exposed was minimal.
MR. EDDING LITERALLY rubbed his hands in delight when she walked through the doorway of his shop at eight. “What a pleasure to see you, Mrs. St. Vincent!” he exclaimed. “We are most anxious for your new chapter. You’ll be pleased to hear that the circulation has increased to six thousand copies! I hope you may find the time to increase your production. Perhaps add another serial for our little periodical.” He put up his hand. “I know, I know, your business requires attention as well. But, my dear lady, if you would be amenable to an increase in your wages-say double the amount-you could hire someone to oversee your shop and satisfy your readers in the process.”