☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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“...‘And in remembrance of the magnanimous Clementine Mercer, the children who grow up at the Institute will be cared for, and loved, and won't be separated from their kin’,” Hattie read aloud from the front page of the Daily Post. “‘These impassioned words, spoken by Institute founder William Mercer, were the very lifeblood of Saturday evening's fundraising event. Rarely has the objective of a cause rang so true or inspired generosity in so many. The attendees were not only of the highest prestige and dressed to the nines, but likewise monetarily gracious through the last dance. It is the opinion of this journalist that the Clementine Mercer Institute is on the path toward a bright and essential expansion throughout the country. These children are our nation's future; let us all strive to protect and support them on their journey toward adulthood so that theirs may be England's greatest generation to date’.”
With a little sigh of content, Hattie folded the newspaper and set it on her desk. The other staff members of the Post who had gathered around to hear the article clapped their hands in enthusiastic applause.
“You've outdone yo'self, Daphne,” Hattie declared. “What an article. What a conclusion! I was nearly moved to tears!”
“I don't have a spare shilling to me name since the baby's been born,” Benji, a young male journalist, commented. “But if your words don't make me wanna dig through me pockets anyway!”
Daphne's face flushed in sheepish pride. The piece had turned out even better than she'd hoped, despite Mr. Mercer's distracting behavior. And despite her own ulterior motives for attending the benefit.
“Thank you all so much,” Daphne said, smiling at each of them in turn. “I'm so pleased you like it. Hopefully the readers will be of a like mind.”
“They will, mark my words,” Hattie stated. “We're gonna have donors ringin' day and night! Already had three this morning, and the new issue only came off the press a couple o' hours ago. Mr. Mercer's gonna be in your debt, Daphne, for the good words ya gave him!”
While the others grinned and nodded in agreement, Daphne felt a sickening twist and squeeze in her gut. She longed for her focus to be on the article and its subsequent success, but each time her mind wandered in even the most equivocal direction of William Mercer, she felt winded and ill from guilt. She'd given him words, alright. Words that were not hers to give.
“I suppose we should all be poised and ready to answer telephones, then,” Daphne said, forcing a lighthearted smile onto her face. “And in the meantime, I really ought to begin editing my piece for the next issue.”
“It's back to work, then, you lot!” Hattie commanded, clapping her hands sharply twice in her best impression of Mr. Hughes. “The news don't write itself!”
The other staffers chortled and retreated to their desks. Daphne followed suit, far less jovial. She hadn't managed a single earnest smile since William Mercer's visit to her flat the morning prior.
