Chapter 27
Isabel Beeton’s Book of Household Management
Juliet yawned heartily while she made her way to the Territorial Enterprise. She would have to take the day off; the nerve-racking events of the previous day and the sleepless night were finally taking their toll on her: she was dead on her feet, hungry, cold and generally cranky. Not the best conditions for a conference with Joe Goodman but it had to be done now; there was no time to waste.
The funeral had been depressing, to say the least. Mr. Proudfoot had delivered the plain softwood coffin and, with much effort and Reverend Billings’ reluctant help, manoeuvred it into the freshly dug grave. Reverend Billings’ sermon had been blessedly short—apparently it didn’t seem worth the effort to hurl fire and brimstone at a congregation that only consisted of a notoriously sinless undertaker, an already condemned dead gunslinger, and a woman whom he seemed to consider a lost cause anyway. They had spoken a short prayer for Langford Poole’s soul, and Juliet had thrown a tiny bunch of prairie-flowers into the grave. She had thanked the reverend and then watched Mr. Proudfoot and a gravedigger filling the hole with soil. She would return later, and plant some flowers. Marigolds, perhaps, or Mexican asters. Or lupines. Yes, lupines, definitely; Mr. Poole seemed the type for lupines.
Juliet had hurried home after the funeral, changed her rumpled house dress for a much more appropriate skirt and blouse, drank a cup of tea, and argued with Mrs. Hawkins who didn’t want to let her leave the house before she was better rested. But Juliet had been sure Goodman was already working the print machine, and she had to stop him before it was too late. So she pulled the Queen on Mrs. Hawkins and overrode any objections with a sharp “This is none of your business,” she would have to apologise for later.
Much to her surprise, when she entered the office Joe Goodman was not supervising the print of the latest issue of the Enterprise, but pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back and his head hanging low so that he was facing the floor. Juliet knew what this posture meant. Impatience. And she didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what Goodman was so impatiently waiting for.
“Stop pacing. I’m here already,” she greeted him.
“Well, you sure took your sweet time, Miss Heatherstone,” Goodman snorted and thrust a sheet of paper into her hand. “I want a full report of the duel, a bulletin on Adam Cartwright’s medical condition, an account of that funeral you arranged behind my back, and a commentary on the legal aspects of the whole situation.” He glared at her and then wrenched the paper back from her. “And I want it right now! You can dictate it to the typesetter, as you apparently are so very fond of doing.”
His tone was biting, and Juliet was far from not sympathising with him. He had the best story Virginia City had offered in the past three months to hand, and an eyewitness of all the events with very private insights of the surviving protagonist and star-to-be of this day’s edition; an eyewitness who, by a fortunate coincidence, was also the star-writer of Goodman’s newspaper. But as much as her journalist’s heart cried out to write the article, this time she had to do the right thing and to disappoint her boss.
“I won’t do any such a thing,” she said, looking him straight in the face. “This article will not be written, neither by me nor by any other writer.”
Well, she had always been impressed by the throbbing vein in Goodman’s temple, but never before had his anger made it look like it would come alive any minute, jump out of his head and strangle her. Don’t laugh. She stifled a giggle. You’re tired and you’re overreacting. This is not funny. She waited and watched Goodman’s face developing a shade of red that reminded her of the Gallica rose she cultivated in Mrs. Hawkins’ front garden. She knew her impassiveness would make him even angrier, but she also knew that once he had let off steam, he was more likely to listen.
“You…you…you…” Goodman finally found his words, albeit not too many, apparently. “You can’t…you cannot….you… you!”
“I can ignore your orders,” Juliet volunteered. “I can, and I will. If it gives you any relief you can always make me redundant and I will ignore that, too, but I’d rather skip that item on the common agenda and go in medias res straightaway.”
“Do you want to ruin me, Miss Heatherstone? Are you trying to put me into an early grave?”
She snorted. “Don’t be melodramatic, Mr. Goodman: this does not become you.”
“And it does not become you to let go the story of the century!”
“The story of the century would be that a man puts his foot on the surface of the moon.” Her voice rose in volume. “The story of the century would be that a black man was elected president by the votes of the women in this country. But the story of the century most certainly is not the tale of a duel between a mangy gunslinger and a harmless rancher.”
Goodman looked at her, off guard. “You don’t call Adam Cartwright harmless, do you?”
“What…?” She blinked at him. “What are you…? Really, Mr. Goodman—” She clapped a hand at her mouth to stifle a snort of laughter. “Dear God, no….”
He shrugged his shoulders and offered her a smile. “Well…” And then they shared a conspiratorial laugh.
Goodman’s facial colour had returned to his usual, much healthier pink. So, that’s the trick: make him laugh, Juliet thought, amazed.
“Well, be that as it may, this is not the story of the century, and it won’t do your newspaper any harm to not report it,” she tried her luck again.
“It is a great story, made even better by your insights, Miss Heatherstone, and you know that full well. What makes you think I could pass on that?”
“Because you are a good man, Mr…. Goodman.” She smiled amiably. “Because you want to do the right thing, Mr. Goodman. Because you don’t want cohorts of foolish young men making a pilgrimage to Virginia City in the hope of making themselves a name by killing the man who shot Langford Poole—until the day someone accomplishes his object.” She looked deeply into his eyes. “Because, good Mr. Goodman, you don’t want to be responsible for Adam Cartwright’s death.”
“You can’t know this would happen,” Mr. Goodman tried, even though he should have known he was beaten already. But he wasn’t a man who gave up easily, that much Juliet knew. “All the time Poole was in Virginia City, no one turned up to call him out, and he had killed a lot of gunslingers before.”
“Yes, they didn’t come because they knew they wouldn’t stand a chance. But with Adam,” she said, shaking her head, “it’s different. He’s not a gunfighter; people would assume he was lucky to get the better of Poole, and they would sniff a chance.” She made a step towards the editor and put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Goodman, I understand it’s a brilliant story, but we shouldn’t put the story above the people.”
Goodman crossed his arms, pondering. Finally he asked, “The people we care for, Miss Heatherstone?”
“All people, Mr. Goodman.”
Joe Goodman gazed at her, stroking his chin, and then turned and went to his desk. He sat down, took up a pencil and started to draw circles on a sheet of paper. From time to time he looked up at Juliet, then returned his gaze to the paper and continued to scribble. Eventually he tapped the pencil point on the desk, exactly six times in a fast rhythm, and then very cautiously laid the tool down.
“All right,” he said decisively. “Here’s the deal: you write a short note that Langford Poole was killed by someone and has been bestowed with a burial by a well-meaning citizen. No further names, no details.”
“This sounds rather feasible, Mr. Goodman. Thank you.” She let out a breath and allowed herself a relieved smile.
“Don’t thank me too early, Miss Heatherstone.” Goodman’s face was a picture of gleeful anticipation. “There is a…precondition.”
“A precondition.” Juliet heaved a sigh. This had gone too smoothly. “All right, out with it: what am I supposed to do?”
Joe Goodman grinned maliciously. “Not much…” He rummaged in the drawer of his desk, took a book out of it, and laid it on the tabletop. He turned it so the cover faced Juliet, and pushed it over to where she had positioned herself at the desk.
“Book of Household Management by Isabel Beeton,” Juliet read. She looked into Goodman’s smirking face and shook her head. “No…”
“Well,” Goodman ignored the warning cheerfully, “This book was just published, and I need a review of it. I’m sure all female readers in Virginia City would like a thorough evaluation of the quality of advice given in it. To accomplish that, I expect you will try out some random examples.”
Juliet glared at him. “You expect me to read and review a cookbook?” She breathed heavily. “You think this is funny, don’t you? Well, it is not!”
“Actually, I think it is funny, yes, Miss Heatherstone. And if you want to keep Mr. Cartwright out of the Enterprise you had better get used to the idea of doing exactly what I ask you to. Furthermore, I want you to write a weekly column where you present recipes taken from the book. Tested recipes.” His grin became even broader, impossible as it seemed. “Tested by you, just to be unambiguous.”
Juliet’s mind swirled. She felt the sudden urge to drop something heavy, to hear it hit the ground with a satisfying crack. But all that was in immediate proximity was that book, and even though the title alone was a major insult, it was a book all the same, and therefore sacrosanct. Instead, she balled her hands. This insolent, impertinent, brazen-faced man couldn’t possibly think…. Well, he could. And, Juliet had to admit grudgingly, he had every right to do so. He knew as well as she did that she had been defeated. Sneakily, cunningly, and hilariously defeated. Not that she would let Goodman know that, but she was, indeed, impressed.
“Very well, Mr. Goodman,” she granted him. “I will read that… book and do what is required.” Adam would pay for this. Or not. “You will talk to nobody about this arrangement, Mr. Goodman.”
“You will sign the articles with your name, Miss Heatherstone.” Goodman frowned. “Just as usual.”
“Why, yes, of course I will sign them. But no one has to know why I write them, is that understood?”
“If you prefer it that way, it may well be. Who am I to contradict you?” Really, did he have to be so smug?
“Oh, yes, who are you to contradict me,” she mumbled darkly.
Goodman grinned; she shook her head, and then announced, “Well, I will write the article now, and then I’ll go home and take a rest, if you don’t mind. I’ll need all my strength to survive Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, I suspect.”
“Do that, Miss Heatherstone,” Goodman said, a maddeningly joyous grin still in place. “I’m looking forward to foretastes of your cooking adventures later this week.”
“Don’t push your luck, Mr. Goodman,” she rebuked, wriggling her finger at him.
Goodman’s guttural chuckle still rang in her ear when she left the office after dictating the short article and headed home flipping through the pages of Mrs. Beeton’s book while she walked. “Of all those acquirements, which more particularly belong to the feminine character, there are none which take a higher rank, in our estimation, than such as enter into a knowledge of household duties,” she read. Dear God in heaven.
“Pursuing this picture, we may add, that to be a good housewife does not necessarily imply an abandonment of proper pleasures or amusing recreation…” Well, that’s a relief. She chuckled. This could become quite entertaining….
“My dear Juliet, shouldn’t you keep an eye on your way?”
Jarvis. Of all people, she had to run into Jarvis Raymond. Apparently there was no way to pass the International House without being held up by him. She groaned inwardly. Really, she was too tired to deal with him right now. But before she was able to compose a sharp rebuff, Jarvis took her arm, rather roughly, and steered her to the entrance of the hotel.
“You and I have to talk, Juliet. Now. I’ll leave on Saturday, and I want to take you with me,” he hissed into her ear. “I’ll make you an offer you cannot refuse.”
________________________________________________________________________
The sacrifice which causes sorrow to the doer of the sacrifice
is no sacrifice. Real sacrifice lightens the mind of the doer and
gives him a sense of peace and joy. ~ Mahatma Gandhi
Nothing lovelier can be found
In Woman, than to study household good. ~ John Milton
Enjoyed re-reading this. Thank you. I especially enjoy the way you put Adam’s thoughts into words. Please don’t forget to let us into the secret of what happened to Juliet in San Francisco!
I love your writing, will you write more stories, I have read them all over and over, and they always hold up.
I believe that Marlowr did what Poole is going to do! What a great subplot here!
How can a smart man be so stupid? “It’s not easy”, Adam would say. And “Because he is a *man*,” I would. 🙂
Juliet and San Francisco…that’s something I never revealed. Yet. I plan to do it, someday. Did forget about it, tbh. But I will come back to it. Cross my heart!
How can such a smart man be so stupid? What in the world did she do in SAN Francisco?