A month had gone by. It was the beginning of February in 1916. Gilbert and I had left Charlotte with a nanny at the house, took the triplets to school, and were at Winfield Publishing House with the hopes of getting my manuscript that I wrote the entire month after giving birth to Charlotte published after getting rejected by several other publishing houses all in this same week.
"Well, this is it, Winfield Publishing. Don't be nervous. You'll be fine," Gilbert assured me before kissing me.
"It's unbearable to have insignificance ingrained into your very soul. No...Mr. Winfield, he's likely to reject my manuscript like every other publisher I've been to this week," I said glumly.
"This is a much smaller company, and I doubt he'd have brought you in for a meeting just to say no...," Gilbert began before I cut him off.
"I've made up my mind to go to my grave unwept, unhonored, and unsung," I said softly to my husband.
"But not unpublished," Gilbert said before quickly kissing me.
Then, my husband briefly turned away from me and faced a familiar-looking man.
"Morning, sir. I'd like you to meet my wife, Abigail Blythe. Abby, my boss, Dr. Powell," Gilbert said after he shook the man's hand.
"An honor, Mrs. Blythe," Dr. Powell said as he shook my hand.
"I very much appreciate the opportunity here, sir," I said politely.
"Your book is marvelous. I've just seen old Winfield. He assures me he'll consider it. It's the least I can do for the wife of our most important young surgeon, eh? Don't settle for anything less than 10% royalty from the old tyrant," Dr. Powell told me.
"I'll see you this evening with the children. I love you, and you will do splendidly. Just be yourself," Gilbert said before kissing me and heading into a cab with Dr. Powell.
"I love you too, Gil," I said as he and Dr. Powell left.
I then headed inside the Winfield Publishing House building and met a receptionist.
"Hello. How may I help you," the receptionist asked.
"Excuse me. I have an appointment to see, uh, Mr. Palmer Winfield," I answered.
"Name," the receptionist asked.
"Mrs. Abigail Blythe," I replied.
Then, the receptionist picked up the telephone in front of her and dialed a number.
"There's a Mrs. Blythe to see Mr. Winfield," the receptionist said into the telephone.
The receptionist then hung up the phone before turning her attention back to me.
"Those stairs to the 6th," the receptionist said.
"Thank you," I said politely before following the receptionist's instructions.
Soon, I was in Mr. Winfield's office.
"Ah, Mrs. Blythe. Hello. Sit down...If you will. It's a lot of stairs," Mr. Winfield said.
"How do you do, sir," I asked politely.
"Oh, miserably. Book sales are in a detestable slump. The overhead of this organization is a can of worms. This is Mr. Owen...in charge of our fiction department," Mr. Winfield replied.
"Well, thank you both so much for taking the time to meet with me...," I began before being cut off.
"Thank Dr. Powell. He cut a tumor out of me once, thereby prolonging my unfortunate existence. Perhaps we should get down to the short strokes, hmm, Mrs. Blythe? We read the manuscript Dr. Powell submitted. Lively and engaging, I suppose. Yes, uh, you have some promise as a writer... But not here. I run a business, not a charity. We've never published stories for young women. Our specialty is adventure, detective novels, and all manner, of books for a man's man. However, since men are not buying so many books now with the war on, we really would like to develop women's adventures...wanted to for years...we need someone to apprehend writers and stories that will appeal to women," Mr. Winfield said.
"I can guarantee you I can smell a good book before I even open the cover," I said.
"Yes, well now, Mr. Owen is prepared to train you in the position of a junior editor. The process of finding material, however, is very subjective," Mr. Winfield said.
"Oh, I can find writers that women will want to read, as long as it doesn't preclude me from submitting my own manuscripts amongst them," I insisted with a polite smile.
"Well, Mrs. Blythe, they would have to meet our criteria," Mr. Winfield said.
"And what is that," I asked.
"I've never published anything I didn't like. That's served me well for forty years," Mr. Winfield responded.
"Oh, you'll like what I find, sir, as much as you'll grow to have faith in me," I said confidently.
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𝓟𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓼 (a Gilbert Blythe x OC story)
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