The Literary Undoing of Victoria Swann

Chapter One

On an overcast afternoon in April, Victoria Swann stepped from a carriage onto a brick sidewalk in Beacon Hill. Under her boots coursed rivulets of slush and mud, evidence that Boston had survived yet another winter. She gripped the iron handrail and climbed the steps to her publisher’s door. Lifting her face into tepid sunlight, she felt the early spring air brush her cheeks. She was a mountaineer, high at the peak and flush with accomplishment. In her carpetbag lay the start of an altogether new sort of novel, unlike any of her previous ones. She lifted the knocker and struck it against the brass plate. Her writing had gotten her into this mess, and it would have to get her back out.

The door swung open, and her editor’s gangly clerk bowed and moved out of the way.

“Welcome, Mrs. Swann, welcome.”

Victoria prepared for the fanfare that greeted her at Thames, Royall & Quincy. Her editor would serve her favorite pastries, and as she sipped tea, the young clerks would circle around as if she were that rare snow leopard Mr. Barnum paraded about the country. But who were these young men who liked to toss furtive glances her way? Aspiring editors, they were never the best-looking specimens, their posture weakened from hours bent over manuscripts. But at least a husband of this sort wouldn’t go missing for days. These fellows were decent. They were, after all, book lovers. 

Victoria craned to search for them now but sensed something amiss. She stood alone in the Spanish tiled vestibule with the brass hat stand and chinoiserie umbrella holder. Not a soul in sight, she deposited her parasol with a disappointing thunk. Down the hall, she spotted the bustle of a ruby-colored dress and an equally startling mane of flowing red hair. A handsome gentleman with his own abundant silver mane followed. Victoria watched them disappear into an office while her bald-headed editor, Frederick Gaustad, waddled after them, cigar smoke in his wake.

A moment later, several stray assistants passed close by and Victoria caught the eye of the gangly one who had let her in. She asked him what was going on.

“It’s terribly exciting,” he said, coming to take her things. “Miss Pennypacker is paying us a visit.”

“The dance hall singer?”

He bobbed on the balls of his feet. “Yes, she’s writing an advice book for young ladies and we’re to publish it.” 

He invited Victoria to take a seat in the front parlor and said that Mr. Gaustad would be with her shortly. She strode onto the Persian carpet but didn’t know which way to turn. She couldn’t possibly wait contentedly on the deep leather sofa. Was it true that Thames, Royall & Quincy planned to put out an advice book by someone other than Mrs. Swann? And why was she being corralled into the waiting room like a traveling salesman or, God forbid, an aspiring author? 

In the gold-framed mirror above the mantelpiece, Victoria caught a glimpse of herself. It took only a fraction of a second to spot the frown lines at the corners of her mouth and the pinched redness around her eyes from too much reading and writing. She tried to recall the girl she had been a dozen years before when, unable to resist her own pretty reflection, she had stood on tiptoes to see herself in the glass. Full of gumption and more excited than nervous, she had been sure that good things were about to come her way. And they did. A robust Frederick Gaustad had made a quick assessment of her first romance and adventure novel and promptly decided to publish it. Victoria’s life had changed that day and was never the same.

A much-changed Gaustad appeared in the doorway now. More rotund than ever, he limped to greet her and emitted a slight groan as he bent to kiss her hand. How astoundingly delicate oversized men could be. 

“Lovely to see you, my dear.”

“Good to see you, too, Frederick.”

“I only wish it were more often.” He waggled a finger at her. “Your readers are always eager to hear from you.”

“My readers hear from me as often as humanly possible.” Victoria forced a smile. “Any more frequently and my hand would drop to the page, pen fallen from a lifeless grip. You wouldn’t want that, now, would you?”

“Ever so dramatic! But I don’t see how you manage without the use of a typewriter. You know how it slows you down.” 

“I’m anything but slow. It’s the constant deadlines you set. My poor assistant, Dottie, pounds away to do her part. I can’t imagine the chaos of two machines clacking at once. But come now, Frederick,” Victoria said and held out her elbow for him to take. “Don’t we have other things to discuss? I’m here for my final edits.”

“Yes, yes, of course. And whatever your methods, we’re grateful for the outcome.” With a feeble hand, he steered her toward his office door. “We’re counting on you. You’re my special girl.”

He squeezed tighter and Victoria was glad that his vigor had returned, though then he began to cough and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Your illness is back. You should see a doctor.”

“Doctors!” Gaustad said, putting away the cloth. “The only one I’ve ever liked was the fellow who saved the day in one of our early Mrs. Swann’s. Remember how splendidly we did on that one?”

Victoria did remember. The doctor who had saved the day had used indigenous medicines concocted by female spirit healers of the jungle. She had learned all about those remarkable women and their magical substances at Harvard’s Peabody Natural History Museum. Sadly, the skills of those Amazonian women had been lost not only on her editor but her readers as well. According to Gaustad, the interior plate depicting the heroic doctor in an open-necked shirt had been the cause of the stampede at the booksellers. 

But Victoria didn’t remind him of any of that now for Victoria had started to sense that her editor was losing his grip and not only on her elbow. As they entered his office, he babbled apologies about the state of his headquarters, which was, as ever, a bookish mess. Muscular, glass-fronted cases with scrolled pediments loomed from floor to ceiling, the shelves several deep in leather-bound books. Papers and thick portfolios lay strewn across the massive desk and matching credenza. Heaps of other manuscripts pooled in the corners. A potted palm, added for civilizing effect, drooped over its parched soil. 

Gaustad called out, and a young lady with impeccably coiffed hair and a trimly tailored jacket hurried in. She snatched up full ashtrays and kicked crumpled balls of discarded paper under the desk. Victoria observed that girls these days had to perform a vast array of duties while bone stays poked their flesh, stiff material squeezed their midsections, or cumbersome bolts of fabric tripped them up. She would encourage Dottie to dedicate one of Mrs. Swann’s upcoming advice columns to the absurd challenges faced by corseted and constrained women trying to compete in the work force.…