Part 12 (1/2)
”Really? That's quite an accomplishment for one so young.”
The compliment filled Libby with pleasure. ”Thank you.”
”I a.s.sume you're referring to fictional stories involving love affairs between unlikely partners?”
Libby, recalling the t.i.tle of her first story, nearly gasped at the woman's astute a.s.sessment. She nodded in reply.
Miss Whitford examined Libby by inches, her deep-set brown eyes drifting from Libby's hair all the way to her toes and then up again. ”And have you drawn from your own experiences to aid you in the construction of these stories?”
”W-what do you mean?”
The woman laughed. ”Oh, come now, Miss Conley. A young woman as beautiful as yourself must have been the recipient of male attention. They say to write what one knows. Do you know of love affairs . . . personally?”
Libby thought her nose might catch fire, her face burned so hot. ”No, ma'am! I've used my imagination . . . honestly.”
Another laugh trickled. ”Now, don't be offended. Writers are an obnoxious lot, as you'll discover if you continue in this ridiculous occupation.” She smoothed the ruffles that fluttered across her bodice and arched one spa.r.s.e eyebrow. ”So tell me, Miss Conley, do you intend to continue writing love stories for magazines, or do you aspire to novels one day?”
”Actually . . .” Libby paused, half afraid of what the woman would say. ”I hope to become a journalist. I'd like to record world events rather than make up stories. I'm using the magazine stories to establish my name as a writer.”
Miss Whitford flipped her hand outward and made a little pffft pffft sound with her lips. ”Journalism . . . a complete waste of time.” sound with her lips. ”Journalism . . . a complete waste of time.”
Libby jerked backward. ”Excuse me?”
”Can you recall for me, Miss Conley, the name of a popular author?”
Although Libby believed she might be walking into a trap, she swallowed and offered a short list of authors. ”Frances Hodgson Burnett, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Zane Grey . . .” Petey was particularly fond of Zane Grey. She pushed that errant thought aside.
A smile curved Miss Whitford's thin lips. ”Excellent choices. And I'm quite positive those names will be recognized by readers twenty, thirty, even fifty years from now.” The smile turned conniving. ”Now give me the name of the writer of the headline story for today's edition of the Missouri Courier Missouri Courier.”
Libby stared at the woman in silence.
Miss Whitford nodded, her expression smug. ”Precisely what I presumed.”
Libby surprised herself by arguing with the author. ”I might not know the man who wrote today's headline, but I do know the names of several renowned journalists. William Stead, for example.”
”Yes, and look what happened to him,” Miss Whitford countered evenly. ”I won't deny he was a more-than-decent reporter, but part of the reason he's well-known is because of his untimely demise in such an unusual manner. How many s.h.i.+ps sink on their maiden voyage? The situation lent itself to infamy.”
Libby was beginning to feel like a pa.s.senger on the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic, going down with no hope of survival. ”But-”
”Miss Conley, if you want to make a name for yourself, you need to become a novelist. Considering the success you've already experienced, I would say your chances are quite good.”
Libby held out her hands in supplication. ”But I want to write serious stories. Real Real stories.” She'd already had to give up her dream of becoming the daughter of Maelle Watts Harders. She wouldn't allow her dream of becoming a journalist to die without a fight. ”I want to change the world!” stories.” She'd already had to give up her dream of becoming the daughter of Maelle Watts Harders. She wouldn't allow her dream of becoming a journalist to die without a fight. ”I want to change the world!”
Libby nearly cringed at her own emotional outburst, but to Miss Whitford's credit, she didn't even blink. Instead, she leaned forward slightly and took Libby's hand. ”My dear, if you want to discover your place in the writing world, then you must explore. You're a college student?”
She nodded. ”At the University of Southern Missouri.”
”In the journalism program, I presume?”
She nodded again.
”And you're finding it agreeable?”
Libby held her breath. Very slowly, she shook her head from side to side.
Miss Whitford's lips twitched. ”And why is it not agreeable?”
”Because I'm rolling over and crawling instead of running.” The author's forehead furrowed, and Libby rushed to explain her cryptic answer. ”So far, the articles I've written aren't terribly important on a large scale. I want to write something bigger, something important. But I haven't yet had the chance.”
”Then seize the chance!” Miss Whitford's eyes sparkled with intensity, her plain face taking on a liveliness that made her look more attractive. ”You're writing love stories on your own. So write an article on your own. Continue in your coursework-you've paid for it, and the instructors will provide important guidance. But don't limit yourself to their instruction. Do more. Choose a topic that interests you or adopt a cause that makes your blood boil. Write something of meaning meaning. It's the only way you'll know for sure that this dream you're harboring is worth pursuing.”
She leaned so close, her breath brushed Libby's face. ”Writers must write. You've discovered that by venturing outside the bounds of journalism to create fictional stories. But where does your true pa.s.sion lie? Do some seeking, Elisabet Conley, and discover your pa.s.sion-fictional stories or real-life events?” She sat upright, her face relaxing into the unperturbed, almost bored expression she'd been wearing before Libby came to sit beside her. ”Some dreams are meant to be that-only dreams, dissipating with the morning light. But you won't know for sure until you've tasted them.”
Libby nodded thoughtfully. She started to thank Miss Whit-ford for her advice, but Mrs. Daley bustled over and caught Libby's hand. ”Elisabet, go sit with Alice-Marie now. The program is about to begin.”
Libby rose and scurried to the far side of the room, where Alice-Marie had pulled two chairs close together near the parlor doorway. She listened to the author's presentation, but nothing the woman said during her prepared talk on the world of publis.h.i.+ng held as much intrigue as what she had shared privately.
The moment Miss Whitford finished, Libby slipped out of the parlor and headed for the study, where she'd seen the Daleys' maid lay the morning paper for Alice-Marie's father's use. Eagerness to put the author's advice into action propelled her down the hallway.
Closing the raised-panel pocket doors behind her, she bustled to the carved oak desk in front of the heavily draped windows on the far side of the study. Feeling like an intruder, she sat at the desk and opened the newspaper. She scanned the headings, exploring, as Miss Whitford had recommended, waiting for something to capture her attention so thoroughly it made her blood boil.
And on the seventh page-nearly the very end of the newspaper- a tiny block of print on the lower right-hand side sent her pulse racing.
Sixteen-year-old convicted of robbery and murder of drugstore clerk. Sentencing took place October 16, 1914, by the honorable Judge Merlin Simmons. The youth will be hanged by the neck on the 18th of December in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the courthouse. The judge said, ”Perhaps his death will serve as an example to other street ruffians to abandon their lives of crime.” of December in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the courthouse. The judge said, ”Perhaps his death will serve as an example to other street ruffians to abandon their lives of crime.”
Libby dropped the paper and stared straight ahead, her heart beating so hard and fast her ears rang. Sentenced to hang-and only sixteen years old. What kind of boy committed murder? Suddenly she had to know more. These simple lines couldn't possibly tell the entire story.
On tiptoe, she left the study, then dashed up the stairs to Alice-Marie's room. She retrieved her coat and then crept back down, holding her breath as she pa.s.sed the parlor doorway. But she needn't have worried. A question-and-answer session, with Miss Whitford at the center, held everyone's attention. No one even looked up as she unlatched the front door and slipped outside.
She intended to visit the office of the newspaper that had printed the brief article and discover where this youth was being held. Then she would find a way to visit him. She would uncover his story and tell it in its entirety. Once she'd written a real story, she'd know where her pa.s.sions lay-in the telling of imaginary tales or in reporting real-life events.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
Bennett paced his small room, his hands balled into fists and his shoulders tense. Would this rain never cease? It had started early that morning, right after Alice-Marie and Libby left for Alice-Marie's house, and continued all day. He'd planned to spend the morning working on the grounds-earning a little pocket money-and then get several guys together for a baseball game in the afternoon before it got too cold to play. But now evening neared, and he'd spent the entire day cooped up in his room with a roommate who never took his nose out of his books.
Bennett slammed his fist against the window frame and growled. ”Dry up, huh?”
His roommate-a short, bespectacled kid named Winston- looked up from his book and frowned. ”Are you speaking to me?”
”Talking to the rain.”
Winston sat in thoughtful silence for several seconds. Then he said, ”I think that would be a singularly dissatisfying pastime, considering the rain is incapable of response.”
Bennett had no answer for a comment like that, so he turned back to the window and tried counting the raindrops that ran down the square panes. If Alice-Marie were here, he'd go over and sit with her in Rhodes Hall's common room. The house matron was always right there, keeping an eye on everything they did, but if they held a magazine high enough, he could sneak a kiss before the nosy old woman cleared her throat and they were forced to lower the cover. So far Alice-Marie had let him kiss her three times. And the kisses had left him hungering for more.
Alice-Marie had invited him to go home with her this weekend, along with Libby. He'd been tempted, but he feared acceptance would give Alice-Marie the wrong idea. He didn't want her around forever. He just wanted to have some fun with her right now.