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It was her turn to feel like a lion in a cage as Mr. Darrow slid closer, staring down at the manuscript with one arched brow. "Your only conclusion was misadventure?"

Maggie nodded. "That was my opinion, yes."

"This is rather unusual, Miss Arden, and unforgivably rude."

"I know it's unorthodox, and I do apologize for any offense given, sir, but this novel is not just a passion for me, it's my life and I—"

Mr. Darrow plucked a few pages off the stack, perusing them. "Is that so? If it were as important as all that, then I would think you would take more care in how you present your life."

Maggie's mouth opened slightly, the air squeezing out of her. It didn't take him long to add, "I regret to inform you, Miss Arden, that I did receive your letter."

"You...you did?" Her heart sank.

"Indeed, I did. These pages are familiar to me, yes, I begin to recall them despite my best efforts. I'm interested in publishing a novel of substance, you see, not an overwrought examination of whose misplaced giggle at the ball made Mamma beside herself or some similar nonsense." His nose wrinkled as if the papers stank. They might, she thought, given where they had spent the last few hours.

Maggie refused to believe things were as he stated. "Oh, but...but that's really just the beginning, and it's completely intentional, for not long after the heroine—"

"The heroine could sprout wings and fly to America, for all I care, and it would still not interest me," he said with a sigh, dropping the pages back down to their mates. Maggie felt small and naive, wishing she could shrink behind the ferns. "The most I can say for your work is that it demonstrates a confident control of language, and there's clarity to the prose. I suppose your penmanship is to be commended also. Thanks you, Miss Arden, for making an already unpleasant event that much more disagreeable. Good evening and good luck with your"—he waved his hand dismissively—"with your life."

Stunned, she watched him stalk away. Never had her opinion of someone changed so rapidly. A moment ago, she would have carved him onto her dance card permanently, now she hoped never to see him again. His enviably handsome face be damned, it was skinned over an empty soul. The coldness. The audacity.

Winny was rushing toward her down the corridor, face awash with concern. Violet was probably still pretending to be collapsed by the fireplace. Maggie turned, facing the ferns, hateful of the tears that gathered in her eyes and began to spill down her cheeks. This was her life, and whatever Mr. Darrow said about it, she knew it was worth pursuing. It was just one in a long line of unkind responses. Written responses from other publishers had remarked that a young lady ought to concern herself with more high-minded things. Additionally, we find it troubling that a person of your gentle sex, should put their pen to describing scenes of violence, passion, and general indelicacy, wrote one mean little grump from the lofty height of her Paternoster Row office.

Maggie wiped her face dry and pulled back her shoulders. "I suppose good evening to you, too, Mr. Darrow," she murmured, covering the manuscript pages with the damp shawl. "I will tirelessly endeavor to prove you wrong."