☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
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Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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Long after the bottle of wine stood empty and Rose had fallen into blissful oblivion in her bed, Daphne remained rooted to the sofa, reading. The content for the following day's articles proved to be far more entertaining, and simultaneously less horrifying, in her semi-inebriated state. If only she could live in a perpetual haze of boozy complacency as she completed her writing and editing for the Post each day. But alas, her efficiency would take a nosedive into the abyss, and she would never receive the promotion she'd worked so hard to earn.
Daphne Lancaster, Senior Editor. That was the goal, and therefore she must remain vigilant. Now was not the time to allow her exhaustion or the seediness of local events get the better of her.
Setting the stack of papers aside, she rubbed her eyes and laid her head back on the arm of the sofa. The position was just uncomfortable enough to prevent her from falling asleep.
She yawned and stretched her legs across the cushions, her knee bumping into Rose's diary.
Chuckling, Daphne maneuvered around so that she could grab the hardcover volume. She flipped through the pages with a pang of nostalgia, admiring Rose's lovely penmanship. There were no salacious nor reputation-sullying secrets inside, that Daphne knew. This book contained poetic mental meanderings about the late August Appelbaum, Rose's resentment toward injustice and prejudice, and little else.
Her real secrets — those she would take to her grave if only she could stop her verbal outpourings — she told to Daphne, and Daphne alone. In return, Daphne shared her secrets with only Rose, and as a result, they'd been thick as thieves since their tender years.
Daphne smiled at the light fixture hanging from the ceiling above her, remembering with fondness the many times Rose had confided in her. The speakeasy pubs she'd visited while summering in the States, the illegal booze in which she'd indulged, the dark-skinned American jazz musician who had briefly swept her off her feet, even the middle-aged married solicitor who had popped her rebellious cherry. Rose had changed so much in the past few years. But then, so had Daphne. Their younger selves would scarce recognize them.
With a great deal of protest from her neck and shoulders, Daphne groaned and got to her feet.
Her eyes took a tour of the parlor, passing slowly over the large frames that covered the vast majority of the walls. Each time an article of Daphne's graced the front page of the Manchester Daily Post, Rose insisted on having the entire issue framed for posterity. Should Daphne's impressive track record continue, they would soon run out of wall space. Of course, there were four more perfectly adequate walls in her bedroom, begging to be decorated.
Daphne smiled, once again touched by her cousin's thoughtful nature. Lavender Lancaster, her exhaustingly orthodox mother, would never be proud of Daphne's accomplishments, but Rose more than made up for that source of disappointment.
Scanning the collection of framed articles, Daphne's gaze paused on the one of interest. The issue had been published a few months back, in early February, and it featured Daphne's story about the fledgling Gallagher Automotive Factory above the fold. The story had detailed the notably high productivity of the factory, in spite of its relatively short life in Manchester. New job opportunities, competitive wages, safer conditions, all manner of attractive qualities for working locals seeking employment. While the factory floor foreman had been quite forthcoming and amicable when she'd interviewed him, James Gallagher could not even be bothered for comment; a fact which Daphne had found quite odd. Still, even without a catchy quote from the factory's owner, the story had earned her a front page feature.
Yes, it had been a good article. One of her best.
At the moment, however, it was not Daphne's own story that interested her, but the one printed beneath it.
Ginovesi Textiles Merges with Mercer Industries, the headline read. Below the bold letters was a photograph that featured William Mercer, his two brothers, and Mr. Ginovesi standing in front of a large textile mill. February snow covered the ground around them. Daphne squinted at the tiny font beneath the photo. It read, “Pictured above: William Mercer, 35, Ransom Mercer, 33, Jackson Mercer, 30, and Salvatore Ginovesi, 57.”
Daphne appraised the grainy photograph, a bit miffed at herself for her lack of objectivity. It was undeniable that the Mercer brothers were quite handsome. All three of them. But the most dangerous things were often the most beautiful. Such was nature.
Leaning in close to the glass that preserved the delicate periodical, Daphne began to skim the article, slowing when she reached the paragraph of interest:
…ownership amalgamation of the Ginovesi Textile Mills, after years of both professional and personal rivalry between the two families. Along with the business merger of these two dominant Manchester names comes the announcement of another type of merger. As confirmed by company head William Mercer earlier today, Ransom Mercer is set to marry Luisa Ginovesi, the only child of Salvatore Ginovesi, the previous sole owner of the aforementioned textile mills. The pair will wed later this month in a joint affair after a surprisingly brief engagement...
Of course it was brief, Daphne thought. It wasn't an engagement at all. It was a clause in a business contract.
She turned away from the framed periodical, unease somersaulting in her belly. That was the trouble with families like the Mercers. They always found a way to get what they wanted. Buyouts, bribery, blackmail, even marriage...these things were just tools to people like them. Pawns on a chessboard.
Whether it was reflected via official documentation or not, William Mercer was the most powerful man in Manchester. The whole city knew it. Daphne knew it. He was ambitious and driven, and his empire was steadily growing.
Woe betide anyone who stands in his way, Daphne thought as she frowned at Rose's diary in her hands. After a moment's hazy contemplation, she expelled a breathy chuckle. Goodness, wine made her dramatic!
But wine or no wine, the fact remained: William Mercer was dangerous. Not to be trifled with. And Daphne didn't like the idea of her favorite cousin going to Warwick Hall. She hadn't said as much to Rose earlier, but the headiness created by the wine allowed Daphne to admit it to herself. The Mercer family and their godforsaken gang, the allegedly ‘retired’ Deansgate Streeters, tarnished and corrupted everything they touched. The proof was right here on her parlor walls, in newspaper black and white, for the entire city to see.
Everyone saw. And everyone looked the other way. Such was the way of things, since long before Daphne had arrived in Manchester.
But Rose was made of tougher stuff than most of the city's cast. Though kind and compassionate, she would not tolerate disrespect. And she was only going to Warwick Hall in order to check on her friend Dmitri. She'd likely be in and out before William Mercer was even aware she'd dropped by.
Crossing the parlor and opening Rose's bedroom door, Daphne stepped inside and set the forgotten diary on the bedside table. Whether or not the pages contained dark secrets, Rose would really have to learn not to leave her diary lying around. Private thoughts must be protected.
