The Bluestockings: Chapter Seventeen
"What was it with this town and vanishing women? The eerie similarity between Ruby’s mother and her own turned Eleanor’s stomach."
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Catch Up On Previous Chapters: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16
Eleanor
Eleanor’s legs were stiff and sore after running errands all morning for Agatha, but she’d gotten paid again, and the thrill of those crisp bills in her hand made it all worth it. It wasn’t enough to cover even one monthly payment towards what they owed for Bluestocking Books, but Eleanor felt proud of what she’d earned just the same.
Kicking off her sneakers, she belly-flopped onto the bed and reached into her bag for Alma’s book. She and Maggie had read through a couple of chapters before bed, trying to capture what kind of woman Alma had been. She was a lovely writer, the story of her newfound sense of home both tender and deeply, achingly human. The slow romance blooming between her protagonist and Valbrooke Hall’s charming owner had kept the girls up past their bedtime.
Sitting up, Eleanor flipped on her bedside lamp and leaned back to read some more.
The Woman of Valbrooke Hall, Draft Chapter Six
Upon her arrival at the house, Louise drifted towards the library with her story notes in hand, imagination aflame despite her best efforts to be rational. Working with books was satisfying work, to be sure, but over time, the story that had grown in Louise’s heart was her own. One she longed to share with Silas.
Her footsteps were muffled as she padded to the library door. Inside, she could hear the gentle rumble of Silas’ voice and another she recognized as that of Andrew Gelding, the Valbrooke estate manager.
“You’re distracted, sir,” Andrew chastised, voice stiff with formality despite the man’s reproach. “She’s your employee. A businesswoman.” Disdain curled like smoke around his words.
“What are you inferring, Mr. Gelding?” Silas replied, his tone laced with amusement. “You may as well speak directly.”
A pause, and then, “Ms. Murphy, sir.”
“She’s an exceptional writer,” Silas said. Pleasure unfurled within Louise’s chest. She pressed her ear to the door to hear every word he might speak of her. “I’m happy to have her on my staff. She’s bright, hardworking, and funny to boot.”
“You know as well as I do that’s not the only reason that woman’s here. I never took you for a butter and egg man,” Andrew declared. The force of his insult knocked Louise back from the door. Shock thrummed in her veins as she swallowed down the rising defense already forming in her throat. How dare he?
“Ah, Gelding,” Silas sighed. “Be reasonable. Ms. Murphy is a fine woman. She doesn’t need my money or my reputation.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it,” Andrew countered with a conviction Louise knew stemmed more from his high position on the Valbrooke staff than from any questionable behavior he’d witnessed on her part. It wasn’t enough to soothe her. The nerve! Surely, Silas would never give credit to such a bold and indefensible lie.
Ice tinkled against the glass, each moment heavy with anticipation, and then Silas spoke again. “I assure you, Gelding, that Ms. Murphy will never even find herself the dame on my arm, much less the mistress of this house.”
Eleanor pressed a palm to her heart as she read Silas’ words. Poor Alma. Ruby had gotten it all wrong if this story had anything to say about it. William had loved Alma’s work, admired it even, but he never fell for Alma herself. And it seemed as though the very real woman who had penned these words had lost her heart to him, along with something even greater:
Her home.
With a slap, Eleanor closed the journal, feeling like an intruder in Alma Gardyne’s most intimate thoughts. But, then, why would she have written the book if she didn’t want to share them? And for that matter, why would William have published a tome so clearly inspired by his unhappy relationship with the author?
Eleanor scrambled for her laptop. She scribbled the address of the bookshop carrying Alma’s novel on a notepad and hurried downstairs to put on her shoes. Using the landline James had kept in service for the sake of his cell phone-less daughter, Eleanor called Maggie and explained her plan.
A short walk later, she was face-to-face with her dad at Bluestocking’s register, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.
“I know that place,” James told Eleanor with a slurp. The steam rising from the mug momentarily fogged his glasses. “Great selection of rare books.”
Eleanor bounced on the balls of her feet. “Perfect,” she said. “Can we go there during lunch? I called Maggie to ask if we could swing by and pick her up on the way.”
James laughed. “I think we can wait until the weekend, honey. You know I usually eat lunch here, and we need to finish prepping for the discounted book sale.”
Eleanor blew a raspberry. She had forgotten all about that. In the meantime, she had a different bookstore on her mind. “It doesn’t start until three, and I’ll take over as soon as we get back. Promise. Please, Dad. Pretty please?”
James eyed the empty store. Then he sighed in resignation at the expectant look on Eleanor’s face. “Alright, fine. Get your stuff, and I’ll close up.”
“Thank you!” Eleanor squealed.
When Maggie slid into the backseat a few minutes later, she turned to Eleanor with a solemn face. “Girl, I have so much to tell you.”
Eleanor glanced at her dad, who was bobbing his head to some old song she’d never heard before. “What is it?” she said under her breath.
“I can’t tell you right now,” Maggie whispered back, “but oh em gee, you are going to freak.”
Soon, James was parking on Liberty Street in the heart of Savannah’s historic district. Eleanor and Maggie launched from the back- seat and rushed to the covered front door of The Book Lady, James on their heels. Beneath a small green awning was an unassuming red door, behind which lay a veritable treasure trove of books. As they stepped over the threshold, Eleanor and Maggie gaped at the sight. In every nook and cranny, stacked from floor to ceiling, were books upon books upon books. They covered the entire staircase to the second floor, now inaccessible to the public due to the hundreds of printed volumes that covered every inch. It was a small shop, made even smaller by the dark green walls and the sheer quantity of books it held, but that only added to its charm. In one quiet corner sat a velvet wingback chair the color of mustard tucked beneath a half-uncovered brick archway. Eleanor wanted to cozy up there with a blanket and a latte and read until she couldn’t keep her eyes open.
No, scratch that. She wanted to die there because this place was absolute heaven.
James bumped his daughter’s shoulder. “I told you it was a great shop.”
“You lied,” Maggie said, swiveling on her toes. “This is the best bookstore in the world.”
James snorted. “Lovely to hear, as a fellow bookseller.”
Maggie blinked back to reality. “I mean, next to Bluestocking, of course.” Eleanor giggled.
“I have a few Christmas gifts to pick up, and I’ll grab us some lunch while I’m out,” James said, eyeing both girls. “Can I trust you to stay in the store until I get back?”
Maggie saluted him, and Eleanor nodded primly. “Don’t worry. We aren’t going anywhere.”
“Then I’m off,” James said, planting a quick kiss on Eleanor’s forehead. “Call me if you need me.”
When he was gone, Eleanor turned to Maggie. “Okay, spill.”
Maggie clutched Eleanor’s hand and pulled her into a quiet corner, where she then proceeded to tell Eleanor the most insane story she had ever heard. With every word, Eleanor’s nerves coiled tight. Alice Hurst had literally disappeared all those years ago? What was it with this town and vanishing women? The eerie similarity between Ruby’s mother and her own turned Eleanor’s stomach. Lunch seemed like a terrible idea now.
“This is bonkers. Why does your aunt want to talk to me?” she asked, pulling on the drawstring of her hoodie.
“Probably because you’re the only other person she knows whose mother just up and—” Maggie snapped her fingers. “And you live in the same town! Maybe Aunt Ruby has a theory about all of this.”
“Well, unless her theory includes actual information about where my mother is right now, I don’t want to hear it,” Eleanor replied sharply.
Maggie pulled back. “You don’t?”
Eleanor had no more patience for people who wanted to dissect her mother’s disappearance. She’d spent years fending off curious stares or well-meaning commentary from people like Agatha, and if Ruby Hurst thought she could simply demand an audience with Eleanor to talk about their shared losses just because she was a wealthy old woman, well, she had another thing coming.
“No, I don’t,” she answered, staring at her sneakers.
“But why, Eleanor? You and I both know Aunt Ruby isn’t one to exaggerate or tell lies. If she says Alice vanished, then maybe that’s what happened to your mother, too! Maybe she has an idea about how to bring her back.”
Eleanor swiveled away from the bookcase and gritted her teeth. “If that were the case, then your aunt would have brought Alice home a long time ago. She’s not coming back, Maggie,” Eleanor’s voice cracked, tears welling. “My mother didn’t vanish. She left me. She’s gone, and I will never, ever see her again.”
Maggie stared at her for a beat, the silence reverberating with the clang of Eleanor’s words, and then she yanked Eleanor in for a hug. The tears fell freely now, soaking Maggie’s shoulder as Eleanor clutched her friend and cried. God, she missed her mom. It wasn’t fair. None of this would ever be fair.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said into Eleanor’s ponytail. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Eleanor sucked in a lungful of air and pulled away, swiping at her cheeks. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s a crazy story. I would have wanted to tell you, too. But I just can’t do it, Maggie. I can’t go looking for hope where it doesn’t exist.”
Maggie peered around the shop. “But isn’t that why we’re here? To look for something that doesn’t make sense because it might just be worth it?”
At that, Eleanor slumped into the nearest chair, defeated. Maggie was right, of course. But searching for Alma’s book was a fun adventure, not a perilous journey that might break Eleanor’s heart so badly it would never heal. The Woman of Valbrooke Hall—and the woman who inspired her—was a distraction of the best kind. She was a mystery that Eleanor didn’t have to solve, and so the effort would never wound her. Alma was a safe bet, even if they never actually found out the truth.
Eleanor looked up at Maggie. “Let’s just find the book, okay?”
Maggie huffed but didn’t protest. “Okay.”
The man at the counter listened to their plea and directed them to a large section of local books. “We have quite a few popular authors from this area, as you can see,” he said, shuffling them forward, “as well as a whole slew of authors who love to write about Savannah. This place holds a lot of history.”
Eleanor faced the bookshelf, hands on her hips, and surveyed the author names in alphabetical order. On the third shelf, near the end of the row, she spied a familiar title. “There it is!” she exclaimed, snatching the book and holding it up for Maggie, who squealed. The man closed one eye with a grimace.
“I’ll just be over there if y’all need me,” he said with a chuckle and wandered away.
The book was a dusty, faded red labeled with a simple black font. But it was Alma’s book, no doubt about it. Her name was printed right there on the spine. The front matter confirmed The Woman at Valbrooke Hall was printed in 1950 by Hurst Publishing Co. Eleanor dug around in her bag for the journal and then held them up side by side. Both girls sat on the rug and leaned over to examine their finds.
It was surreal to see both the draft and the finished product together. Who knew how long it had been since that happened last? Eleanor ran her palm over the journal, then flipped to the beginning of chapter six. Maggie read the excerpt and gasped.
“Ugh, what a jerk,” she declared, pouting. “Even if he is supposed to be my great-grandfather."
“I wonder if the published version is different,” Eleanor replied.
The red volume was significantly longer than the journal draft, just as the girls suspected it would be. The scene in which Louise overheard Silas and Andrew was included, barely altered from its original draft, and the chapter went on to describe how Louise, dejected and embarrassed, fled the house with Silas hot on her heels, begging her to come back.
“Skip to the end,” Maggie said, taking the volume from Eleanor’s hand, who swatted at her playfully. “Do they end up together or what?”
They quickly scanned the last handful of chapters. Eleanor couldn’t help but notice how the narrator’s voice became more stilted in the latter half of the book. “This doesn’t read the same as the draft,” she commented, two lines appearing between her brows as she skimmed the final chapter. “It’s just so...dry, ya know? The voice is different, like Alma had a ghostwriter for the rest of the book.”
“At least they get together at the end,” Maggie said with a swoon. “But what happens in the draft after Louise overhears the guys talking?”
Eleanor shook her head, flipping the journal to chapter six. “That’s where I stopped.”
Only two pages remained in the draft, the rest of the journal filled with empty pages, yellowed with age. The girls leaned back against the bookshelf and read quietly, the silence punctuated only by soft classical music playing overhead and Maggie’s occasional “hmm”s.
Louise’s heart split in two. Stunned by Silas’ cold declaration, she could hardly move for the grief of it. Her thoughts raced, then slowed to a numbing halt as she tried to process what she’d just heard. Andrew Gelding was no honorable gentleman, but Silas Valbrooke had seemed to Louise the sort of fellow who might be charmed by her quirks, her restless enthusiasm for stories where others saw only an odd little bluestocking, far from home.
After reading that line, Maggie and Eleanor made eye contact. “Bluestocking,” Maggie said with wonder in her voice.
Eleanor shook her head. “We didn’t make it up. Lots of people used to call girls that.” Still, her pulse quickened as they turned their attention back to the page.
Regret had always seemed a waste to Louise, but at that moment, she felt completely overwhelmed by it, suffocated by the breath in her lungs.
Footsteps shuffled behind the library door, and Louise snapped to attention. Head pounding, she slipped quietly out the front door and down the porch steps where she had once stood with such excitement and hope, eager to make a living as a writer and to prove herself worthy. Louise made it down the meandering tree-lined drive before her tears claimed their due.
It was a classic mistake, and Louise, who’d read enough stories to know a witless heroine when she saw one, had been blind to her own self-deception. No man could ever, or would ever, make her worthy. Not in her profession or in love. She’d been a fool to believe otherwise, just like all the women in her family before her.
With a sob in her throat, Louise recounted all the ways her grandmother had warned against a woman losing her stories for love. Then, she prayed to be anywhere else in the world.
Anywhere but here. Anywhere but now.
A nagging discomfort made Eleanor shift on the floor. Maggie dropped the journal with a thud. “Okay, that was depressing AF,” she said with a purse of her lips. “Not a fan. I like the published version better.”
“I’m guessing you’re not the only one,” Eleanor replied, pointing to the hardback in front of them. “But something else is off, too.” She sat forward and scanned the last page of Alma’s draft, searching. For what exactly, she wasn’t sure. Then, rubbing her mother’s locket between her fingertips, it hit Eleanor with the force of a careening Mack truck. Suddenly, the persistent nagging in her chest made horrible, awful sense.
“Maggie,” she breathed, unable to utter another sound.
“What?” Maggie asked. Seeing the look on Eleanor’s face, she sat up sharply and pressed a hand to her shoulder. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Eyes glued to the last sentence on the page, Eleanor fumbled with the brass locket and withdrew the folded paper inside with shaking hands. “Read this,” she whispered and held the tiny message out to Maggie.
“You’re still my favorite story,” Maggie read and waved her hands in front of Eleanor’s face. “Okay. What am I looking at, Elle?”
Without a word, Eleanor placed her mother’s note down on the draft page, just beneath the final sentence. The handwriting was a perfect match.
“My mother,” Eleanor said, turning to Maggie with wide eyes. “You’re looking at my mother.”
