Jaguar Queen of Copal , livre ebook

The Jaguar Queen of Copal
Brenda W. Clough

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café edition March 16, 2021 ISBN: 978-1-61138-943-2 Copyright © 2021 Brenda W. Clough
Table of Contents
Book 1
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s account
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s account
From the collected papers and correspondence of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Book 2
Marian Hartright Camlet’s journal
Book 3
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet's journal
Walter Hartright's account
Marian Halcombe Camlet's journal
Walter Hartright's account
Marian Halcombe Camlet's journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 4
Walter Hartright’s account
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s account
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s account
Book 5
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s account
Letter fragment, from Lord Fulbeck to Sir Ambridge, a single sheet found by the maid, screwed into a ball and partly burnt in the guest-room fender
A handbill, from the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Read a sample from The Earl in the Shadows
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Dedication
Also by Brenda Clough
Copyrights & Credits
About Book View Café
Book 1
Walter Hartright’s narrative
In early 1863 Theophilus Camlet’s publishing empirewas housed in a Janus-faced building that took up the end of a block bounded byPrince’s Street, Lisle Street and Leicester Street in Piccadilly. To thepasserby it appeared to be two entirely separate concerns. On the bustlingPrince’s Street side a panelled door painted a sober grey conducted the visitorinto the reception room of Covenant Pamphlets and Printed Materials, theoriginal business dedicated to improving literature, informative pamphlets, andtracts.
A Quaker-like atmosphere pervaded there, apolished oak floor and gleaming woodwork. The walls above the rail were hungwith racks displaying available pamphlets, everything from “The Doctrine ofSubstitution According to the Church Fathers” to “Sailor Knots: An Introduction(With Diagrams)” to “The Propagation of Begonias and Other Tender Perennials,”this last penned by Camlet himself. Over the fireplace was an etching of theyouthful Jesus astounding the elders in the temple, flanked by dour mezzotint portraitsof the founders of the two businesses that had amalgamated to form Covenant.The mantelshelf was adorned with their best-seller, John Calvin in ten volumes,bound in brown calf. It was a respectable room, but quiet. Few visitors sat inthe plain wooden chairs.
If one pushed through the crowds on Lisle Streetto the less elegant Leicester Street side of the building, however, there wasanother panelled door, exactly similar except that it was painted a glossyblue. The crowded reception room of Sensational Books was twice as large as theCovenant side, and boasted a bright, figured carpet and a horsehair-upholsteredsuite of furniture. The walls above the wainscoting had never been painted, butthis was of no moment, since they were solidly covered with framed book-coverillustrations. Camlet pioneered the application of a printed illustration ontothe front cover of the cheaper book editions.
These images could charitably have been describedas vivid. In pride of place over the mantel was the cover from the best-sellingtwo-shilling edition of Daisy Darnell: The Most Dangerous Woman in Europe. ATitian-haired stunner wearing a low-cut, arsenic-green evening gown of the mostextreme fashion gripped a gold-mounted air pistol in her white satin,opera-gloved hands. Her rosy upper lip was lifted in what might have been asmile but was more probably a snarl. No books were offered for the visitor’sperusal. They had been purloined so often that Camlet displayed only the coversand, in a wall-mounted glass case, the very air pistol in the illustration.
There was always someone waiting there, nervousauthors balancing boxes of manuscript on their knees, impatient artists withbig, black portfolios, or occasionally an adventurer or reformed criminalhoping to peddle his life story.
A single receptionist presided over both theserooms, his kiosk being built into the party wall with a counter on either side.When I came in to the Sensational Books side in February, Mr. Totnes was justdissuading a trio of downcast schoolboys who had finished ogling the air pistol.“No, Miss Darnell does not reside here, young sirs. I am informed her currentresidence is Buenos Aires. I am afraid we do not have her direction. No, wecannot accept letters addressed to her.”
Mr. Totnes remembered me with cordiality. “Mr.Hartright, sir. Mr. Camlet mentioned you would be coming by before day’s end. Stepstraight on through, do. He’s nearly done with Mr. Flawne.” The schoolboys andwaiting authors gazed at me with envy as I obeyed.
The offices on the ground floor were the originalchambers dedicated to religious translation and pamphlets. Camlet’s own officewas at the far end, an oak-panelled chamber with wide windows. These looked outonto the stableyard at the back. Bookcases held copies of every publicationboth presses had ever issued.
This room was adorned with neither lurid bookcovers nor religious imagery, but simply a family portrait over the fireplace.It was a recent one, painted only last season. In a profusion of vivid fuchsiasilk skirts Marian stared boldly out, her brilliant dark eyes brighter than thediamonds at her throat. The children were grouped around her: lanky Micahstanding at the back, blonde Lottie nearly as tall on the other side, Lester inwhite ruffles on a footstool with her usual open book, and William WalterHalcombe Camlet at his mother’s knee, clutching her finger. A glorious goldring set with three square sapphires was just visible in his chubby baby grip.
The master of this little empire was amild-mannered fellow of almost extraordinary ordinariness, with round,steel-rimmed spectacles, high in the forehead, and getting a little prosperouspaunch under his grey suit. His faultlessly barbered fawn-brown hair had greythreads in it, and his side whiskers squared off his face by dipping down andthen up into a moustache.
“Ten minutes, no more, Hartright,” Camlet greetedme. “The shilling railway edition is due out this year. Give Flawne and me thebenefit of your artistic eye.”
“Art has nothing to do with it,” Sensational’smanaging editor declared. “How d’ye do, Mr. Hartright. A pleasure to see youagain. It is well known that purple does not display well on stands at thenewsagents. Loathsome hue!”
“But the book is titled The Purple Pasha ,”Camlet said. “We can’t escape it. And the young lady he’s rescuing does make afine contrast.”
I gazed at the sketch on the display easel. It wasexecuted in tempera on drawing board. The hero did indeed sport a purple turbanand billowing cloak, and also a scimitar, a revolver, and bandoliers. A youngwoman cowering at his feet was being menaced by a not very anatomically correctlion, jaws agape to display a fine set of white fangs. “You are aware,” I said,“that lions live only in Africa.”
“Do they, indeed?” Mr. Flawne exclaimed. “How dideditorial let that one slip by in serial publication, sir? We can make it aleopard if you like. The spots are quite fashionable.”
“The lion resides in the sultan’s zoologicalcollection,” Camlet said. “No, we must keep the lion. But what if the cloakwere, oh, green?”
“Scarlet,” Mr. Flawne suggested, scribbling anote. “And the lady in bright white, not grey, evening bodice on the gown insteadof a day one, as low-cut as possible. A large, shining jewel and green featherin turban. No, scarlet, to go with the cloak. We want this image to leap up andsmite the eye.”
“That it certainly will do,” I said. “Does anybodyin Arabia wear a scarlet cloak?”
Both men shot me a look of incomprehension.Evidently facts were unimportant. “And don’t neglect to have her more …”
“More,” Mr. Flawne agreed.
Camlet explained to me, “More abundant. Hair,cheeks, lips –”
“Charms,” Mr. Flawne summarised. “I’ll set him on thechanges. Next week?”
“That would be well,” Camlet agreed.
“My only advice to you,” I said, “is to have theartist take some sketches at the zoo. That animal’s legs clearly cannot bearits weight.”
Mr. Flawne heaved a sigh as he picked up thepanel, but Camlet grinned. “See to it, Flawne.”
When the managing editor was gone, Camlet stood upand shook my hand. “Your timing is impeccable, Hartright. I’m just finished forthe day. How long are you in town?”
“At least until the House adjourns at the end ofMarch.”
“So we shall see a good deal of you. I’m delighted.”He took his top hat and umbrella from the stand behind the door, and picked upa pasteboard box. “For Marian.”
“You have her reading manuscript?”
“She enjoys contributing to the work and has asterling track record. And it’s an easy task to fit in around the children.” Marianhad been the first person to read and grasp the potential of Daisy Darnell ,still far and away Sensation’s best-seller.
I followed Camlet out of the rear door into theyard, where his carriage waited for us. The coachman hastened to take mycarpetbag.
“Matson, how are you?” I greeted him.
“Thriving, Mr. Hartright, thriving. And I hopeMrs. Hartright and the boys are well?”
From much practice the lie tripped easily off mytongue. “They are, thank you.”
Camlet followed me up into the carriage. “Marianhas ordered a roast of beef for you, Hartright. And she’s invited a mutual friendshe says you will be happy to see again.”
“Indeed?” Since I am a junior MP from Cumberland inthe far north of England,