Rumer Has It

By Suzanne G. Rogers

Jocelyn Rumer Conroy's newspaper column allows her to write gossip about the population of Charleston while avoiding scrutiny of her own family secrets. She's used to having her own way, but when arrogant and cosmopolitan Piers Wilde is brought into the newspaper, she chafes under his supervision. As they become writing partners in a new agony column, their relationship becomes fraught with tension...and an inconvenient attraction that cannot be denied.

Rumer Has It is a sweet historical romance set in 1910 Charleston.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Idunn Court Publishing
• Release date: May 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947463363

Suzanne G. Rogers

Originally from Southern California, Suzanne G. Rogers currently resides in beautiful Savannah, Georgia on an island populated by exotic birds, deer, turtles, otters, and gators. Tab is her beverage of choice but a cranberry vodka martini doesn’t go amiss.

Book preview

Chapter One

An End to the Rumers

Charleston, South Carolina

January 1910

WHEN PIERS WILDE WALKED through the front door of the ornate four-story Victorian residence, he felt almost as if he were entering a crypt with no means of escape.

Good morning, sir, and Happy New Year. The butler took his coat and hat. Welcome back to Charleston.

Piers forced a smile to his lips. Happy New Year, Leeds. He stepped to one side so the cab driver had room to carry in the first of his many trunks. Did Dr. Boggs come today?

Indeed, he left just a half hour ago. The butler’s expression was grim. He asked me to say that unless Mr. Wilde eats more, his health will deteriorate.

Has my father been refusing meals?

I’m afraid so.

I’ll have a word with him. Piers felt his neck and jaw tense up, and he forced himself to breathe. Ask the cook to prepare him a tray with eggs scrambled hard, some grits with butter, and a pitcher of hot tea and honey. Have a maid bring it to my father’s room as soon as possible and feed it to him, if necessary.

I’ll see to it, sir. Shall I ask the cook to prepare breakfast for you as well?

No, I had something on the train.

Piers mounted the stairs. Although he had no physical infirmity, he suddenly felt as if he had a body slung across his shoulders. Before entering his father’s bedroom, he stared at the paneled door for a long moment before reaching for the door handle and striding inside. A slender, middle-aged man with a head of salt and pepper hair and slightly darker Van Dyke beard lay in bed with his eyes closed, plucking at the bedsheets in a discontented fashion.

Piers cleared his throat. Hello, Winchester.

His father opened his eyes and scowled. Oh, it’s you. Don’t you ever knock?

I thought you might be sleeping. Piers gave his father a sidelong glance. Aren’t you going to welcome me home?

I didn’t ask you to come.

No, your physician did.

When Piers crossed over to the window to open it wide, Winchester pointed a bony, accusing finger at the window. Are you trying to freeze me to death? There’s no need to hasten my demise.

The stale air in here isn’t healthy. Piers took note of the grayish pallor to Winchester’s skin and the sunken hollows in his cheeks. I understand Dr. Boggs came around to see you earlier this morning.

Winchester made a sound of disgust. The man is a sadist! He won’t let me smoke.

You must be joking.

Ha! I couldn’t tell a joke if I tried.

Piers left the fresh air streaming through the window and sank down into the ladder-back chair positioned near the head of the bed. You have to eat. The kitchen is sending up a tray with breakfast and you’re to consume every bit of it.

I am, am I? Winchester gave him a level glance. You take quite a lot on yourself, lad. When did you become my keeper?

Since I returned to Charleston. Piers gestured toward him. And not a moment too soon, it seems. You’re wasting away.

A spark of anger lit the man’s countenance. I’m certain the situation suits you quite well.

Not at all, I assure you. I would have preferred you stay in robust health so I could remain in New York.

Yes, working like a common dust-man.

I’m a writer, not a laborer.

You’re a scribbler and a disgrace to the family.

Piers folded his arms. I’m aware of your disapproval, but outside these four walls, my work is well-regarded.

That just goes to show the sorry state of literacy in the world.

As usual, the conversation had quickly soured.

If you’ll excuse me, I must go. Piers rose from his chair. I’m starting a new job this morning and may work late, so don’t wait on me for dinner. He moved toward the door.

Winchester wasn’t through lobbing insults. Your arrogance knows no bounds. It’s little wonder your mother ran off.

Piers wheeled around. We both know why mother left, and it wasn’t due to a vexatious eleven-year-old boy. He shook his head. Eat your breakfast. I expect to hear you’ve eaten every last morsel on your plate.

You’re as much a sadist as Boggs.

The man closed his eyes and turned his head toward the wall. Piers left the room, squared his shoulders, and made his way downstairs. The staff had already removed his trunks from the entryway and was probably unpacking his things at that very moment. He was glad for their efficiency, since it removed whatever temptation he had to return to New York, forthwith.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Leeds appeared. I meant to tell you that your automobile was delivered two days ago. It’s in the carriage house.

Excellent. If you’ll bring me my coat and hat, I’ll be off to work.

JOCELYN RUMER CONROY leaned forward on the seat of her gig and clucked her tongue. Come on, Sweet Pea.

Since the mare was already frisky due to the chilly temperature, the horse needed little encouragement. As the gig surged forward, the red satin streamers on Jocelyn’s winter bonnet whipped around, making her feel as if she were Apollo driving his chariot. Driving too fast was incautious and probably not ladylike, but she was feeling somewhat reckless.

As she turned onto King Street, she took pleasure in the picturesque architecture of the residential neighborhood. Moments later, she reined in her horse to speak with the driver of an oncoming wagon—a neighbor.

Good morning, Mr. Parker! She beamed. How are you?

I’m doing well, Miss Conroy. The farmer doffed his straw hat. Have you had any word from your father?

It’s kind of you to inquire, sir. Jocelyn smiled. I had a letter from him just the other day, and I’m happy to report he is enjoying his travels greatly.

Glad to hear it. He paused. I have news for your column. My cocker spaniel, Lavinia, had a litter of pups a few weeks ago. Once the wee mites have been weaned, they can go to good homes.

I’ll be sure to include that delightful bit of information in RUMER HAS IT, Mr. Parker. She gave him a little wave in farewell. Have a lovely day.

As she continued into town, the sound of a motorcar roaring up from behind put a crimp in her good mood. Worse, when the driver employed his bulb horn and swerved around her gig, Sweet Pea shied away. Jocelyn reined in her mare, but it was all she could do to keep the horse from bolting.

The driver of the flashy red roadster stopped his vehicle and glanced back. Are you all right?

You spooked my horse! Jocelyn frowned. Those infernal contraptions should be banned from civilized society.

Civilized society? The man lifted his bowler to reveal a shock of brown hair. Shouldn’t you be at home, embroidering a cushion or something?

Her eyes narrowed, but before she could make a tart rejoinder, he gave her a broad grin and drove on. Sweet Pea’s ears flattened at the roar of his automobile engine and Jocelyn growled.

What a ungentlemanly lout!

Although she disapproved of automobiles, it seemed the gentlemen of Charleston were increasingly enamored of the contraptions. Hopefully, the fad would quickly pass and gentility would return to the neighborhood.

When she reached downtown, she parked her gig curbside and went about picking up advertisement copy from the shops and businesses nearby. As she reached for the door handle at Martin’s Music, however, a familiar figure emerged—too late for her to avoid him.

She fixed a polite smile on her lips. Good morning, Mr. Oldcastle.

His reply was curt. Miss Conroy. At first it seemed as if he would stride past without further conversation, but then he paused. "Rumor has it that The Review has hit rough waters financially."

She stiffened. You didn’t read that in my column, sir.

It was a figure of speech.

I see. Her laugh was mirthless. "Nevertheless, the rumor is unfounded. I suggest you check your source again before you print such nonsense in The Bee."

My source is impeccable, I assure you. He held the door open for her. Good day.

Good day.

Jocelyn proceeded into the shop, where several customers were thumbing through the sheet music stacked in the bins. When she approached the counter, the proprietor cleared his throat, and a red tinge began creeping up from his collar.

Oh...hello, Miss Conroy.

Although Jocelyn was puzzled at his obviously flustered demeanor, she kept her countenance. Good morning, Mr. Martin. I stopped by to pick up your advertisement copy for next week.

He cleared his throat. "I’m sorry, there won’t be any. No offense, but I’m placing my advertisements for the month at The Bee."

Her heart sank, but she gave him the sweetest smile she could muster. "No offense taken, of course, but I don’t want you to think The Review doesn’t value your business. We’ll be happy to match Mr. Oldcastle’s rate and give you an extra week besides, with our compliments."

The shopkeeper shook his head. "Thank you, Miss Conroy, but I’d like to give The Bee a try. I’m keen to learn how its subscribers might respond to our advertisement."

Actually, your decision is very intelligent. Would you think me overbearing if I check back with you next month, just to see how it’s going?

Not at all. Mr. Martin’s shoulders relaxed. You’re awfully gracious about this, I must say.

You’ve become more than a client, sir. I wish you the best of luck with the new campaign, and I’ll talk to you in February.

As soon as Jocelyn left the shop, her smile slipped. Mr. Martin was the third client in as many weeks that had defected to the fledgling rival newspaper, and she wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. Mr. Oldcastle was doing his level best to erode their advertising base and unless The Review could drum up some new accounts, its finances really would be in danger.

His impeccable source is himself, I warrant, she muttered. I’d love to prove him wrong.

She marched across the street to the hardware shop, approached the owner, and fluttered her eyelashes. "Mr. O’Neal, have you ever considered advertising with The Review?"

The fellow chuckled. We’re the largest hardware establishment in the county, Miss Conroy. We’ve no need to advertise.

I understand, but consider that Charleston is growing. The distinction of being the first and the best hardware store will discourage newcomers from opening up rival businesses. Furthermore, not everyone may be aware of all you have to offer. She gestured toward an impressive display of iron cookware. How many ladies know to come here for pots and pans, for example?

That’s true. Mr. O’Neal gave her a crooked grin. You’re persuasive, I’ll give you that much.

"I tell you what, why don’t you allow The Review to design a new advertisement for you? I’ll work on it from my end and bring in a few samples tomorrow. There would be no obligation, of course."

He shrugged. All right, then. I look forward to seeing what you have in mind.

Jocelyn beamed. I’ll be back tomorrow.

As she left the shop, she breathed a sigh of relief at the possibility of winning Mr. O’Neal’s business. Now if she could only drum up other new advertisers to replace the ones that had defected to The Bee. She would do whatever it took to ensure her position at The Review, despite the fact she vastly preferred writing articles and her gossip column to sales.

Speaking of which, she needed a little more material of substance for her column this week other than Mr. Parker’s litter of pups, so she made her way to the post office on the corner of Broad and Meeting Streets. A pair of ladies was leaving the establishment as she arrived, fortunately, so she was able to speak with the postmistress alone.

The middle-aged woman’s eyes lit up when Jocelyn appeared. Good morning, Miss Conroy! I was hoping to see you today.

Good morning, Mrs. Nelson. Jocelyn rested her valise on top of the marble counter. Do you have some interesting news for me?

The postmistress lowered her voice, even though nobody else was in the post office. Have you met the new English teacher at Ashley Hall?

I’ve not had the pleasure. Jocelyn cocked her head. Why?

Her name is Miss Rachel Scott and she’s a striking beauty. Nobody can discover why she is unmarried, but more than a few gentlemen would probably like a chance at catching her eye.

Newcomers are always exciting. Jocelyn gave the postmistress a sidelong glance. Perhaps I should interview her for the newspaper?

Mrs. Nelson giggled. You didn’t hear anything about Miss Scott from me.

I never hear anything from you. Jocelyn winked. "Speaking of newcomers, can you think of any fledgling businesses that might benefit from advertising with The Review?"

WHEN PIERS ENTERED Mr. Blaise’s office, the gray-haired man came around his desk to greet him.

I can’t tell you how glad I am you accepted my offer, Mr. Wilde. He shook Piers’ hand. I’m honored to have someone of your caliber as our new Senior Editor.

I’m quite grateful for the opportunity, sir. As it so happens, my father’s health has grown worse of late and I need to be closer to home in order to tend to him.

The newspaper owner closed the door and waved Piers toward a chair. As I mentioned in my letter, I’m positioning the newspaper to be sold. I would like to retire.

Piers nodded. Have you a buyer in the wings?

Mr. Oldcastle sent me a letter of inquiry, but he’s looking for a bargain. Mr. Blaise gave him a crooked smile. We are struggling at the moment, admittedly, however I have no wish to unload a distressed property for a song.

Understandable. Piers nodded. I presume I have wide latitude to deal with the staff?

Absolutely, but you mustn’t mention anything about any change of ownership. In all likelihood, Mr. Oldcastle will retain the current staff and I don’t want anyone to fret.

If he intends to merge two newspapers into one, don’t you imagine there would be some redundancies?

Mr. Blaise shrugged. I would make the sale contingent upon his keeping on my staff for a reasonable period of time.

I’m quite glad, since I don’t imagine there would be room for two Senior Editors in a newspaper this size.

We are in accord, then. Mr. Blaise sat back in his chair. I’m having one of the offices cleared out for you as we speak. I think you’ll like working here.

I’m sure I will. Piers lifted an eyebrow. When were you planning to sell?

April, if you can turn us around by then.

Consider it done. Piers stood. I need to look over several back issues of the newspaper, a list of the staff and their duties, and your account books for the last four quarters.

Mr. Blaise rose. I feel as if I’m in good hands already. He paused. Of course, I encourage you to contribute to the newspaper creatively.

Oh, I intend to do exactly that. Piers smiled. I have a great many ideas to increase our circulation.

Mr. Blaise crossed over to the door and opened it. We’ll talk about your ideas after I show you to your new office and introduce you to the staff.

Piers’ smile broadened. Excellent.

JOCELYN LEFT HER GIG at John McAlister’s Livery Stable on Horlbeck Alley and walked the short distance to work on foot. As she carried her valise toward The Review, she noticed a familiar sporty red roadster parked curbside. The sight of the beastly contraption sent a wave of righteous anger down her spine. She extracted a piece of paper and a pencil from her valise, scrawled You, sir, are a boor, and dropped the note onto the driver’s seat.

With her nose in the air, she continued on toward the slotted drop box—marked RUMERS—fastened on the outside of the building. After she had retrieved several letters nestled inside, she entered the waiting room of the premises. The wall displayed several framed special editions of the newspaper spanning the last quarter century.

The middle-aged clerk, who was perched on a tall stool behind a counter, raised his hand in a gesture of greeting. Good morning, Miss Conroy.

Good morning, Mr. Ingalls. She paused. What are our numbers?

The balding man offered her a weak smile. We’re up a half dozen subscriptions this week.

That’s not bad. She looked at him askance. How many did we lose?

Only four.

Her eyes widened. Four!

Mr. Ingalls shrugged. "The Bee is eroding our subscription base, I’m afraid."

Jocelyn sighed. And we lost Martin’s Music as an advertiser today.

The clerk grimaced. Oh, dear.

Her spine straightened. Never mind. I hope to get the account back next month. Furthermore, I’m going to ask Mr. Flair to work up a few sample ads for O’Neal’s Hardware. I’m trying to secure his business.

Mr. Ingalls nodded. I admire your energy and optimism, Miss Conroy.

Thank you!

Jocelyn pushed past the swinging half-door and hastened down the hallway. When she sailed into her office, however, she was brought up short. A brown-haired stranger was sitting at her desk with accounting books and newspapers spread out across the blotter.

He glanced up and got to his feet. Oh, hello. May I help you?

With a shaft of displeasure, she recognized the driver from the red roadster. Oh, it’s you.

Recognition dawned in his blue eyes. Why, if it isn’t Miss Civilized Society. So, we meet again.

Sadly. Her eyes narrowed. Why are you in this office?

I’m working. The man gave her a smile of pity, as if she might be half-witted. Are you lost?

Her spine straightened. You’re the one who is lost. This is my office and that is my desk.

Not any longer.

Jocelyn’s eyebrows rose. We’ll see about that.

The owner of The Review appeared at her elbow. There you are, Miss Conroy.

Good morning, Mr. Blaise. She gestured toward the smug interloper standing behind her desk. There seems to be some mistake.

There’s been no mistake. This is Mr. Piers Wilde.

The name rang a bell. Piers Wilde? She stared at the newcomer, taken aback. Why...you’re not the New York writer, are you?

His eyes crinkled at the edges. The very same.

I’ve read a great deal of your work.

Jocelyn realized, too late, her jaw was hanging open...as if she were an awe-struck rube. She shut it promptly, too late to escape his notice.

The dimples in his cheeks deepened. I hope my work met with your approval?

She ignored his comment and turned toward her employer instead. Mr. Blaise, may I have a word with you, sir?

Of course. Let’s talk in my office.

Mr. Blaise left. As Jocelyn moved to the door, Mr. Wilde cleared his throat. Miss Conroy?

She paused. Yes?

Shut my door on your way out, please.

Her lips flattened. Gladly.

Jocelyn pulled the door closed—perhaps with a little more force than was strictly necessary—and followed Mr. Blaise into his office.

The man gave her an apologetic glance. Forgive me for not informing you of all this before, but you weren’t in the office earlier.

I was out making sales calls.

I thought as much. Mr. Wilde is our new Senior Editor.

Oh. Jocelyn sank into a chair. I confess, this has come as a surprise, Mr. Blaise. Why didn’t you hire someone local?

"Actually, Mr. Wilde is from Charleston originally. All things considered, we are very fortunate to have such a distinguished writer on board. We need his talent to pull the newspaper out of its malaise."

She frowned. "So, it’s true, then. The Review is in difficulty."

Mr. Blaise nodded. "I’m afraid Mr. Oldcastle’s success has been to our detriment. By bringing Mr. Wilde on, I am convinced The Review will benefit from his experience and prestige."

No doubt you’re right, but my office—

Yes, thank you for your sacrifice, Miss Conroy. Be assured, I had the contents of your desk brought over to the great room and everything was handled with care. I thought, given Mr. Wilde’s managerial duties, he should have the only other office with a private, adjoining washroom.

Jocelyn realized any argument was futile. I understand. Her cheeks felt stiff as she smiled. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go settle in.

Crestfallen, she made her way to the great room, where she and seven other co-workers were sharing space. The clacking sound of Underwood typewriters slowed as she crossed over to the only unoccupied desk and deposited her valise next to a wooden crate filled with her personal belongings. The typewriter on the desk was not the one she was used to, and she gave it a scowl.

Had to make way for the knight-errant, eh? Mr. Randolph, the senior reporter, glanced at her over his shoulder. Bet that’s a bit of a blow.

Although Jocelyn felt the sting of her comeuppance, she was loathe to reveal her feelings to anyone. "Quite the contrary. In fact, I’m absolutely delighted to yield my office to Mr. Wilde. I’m certain his contributions to The Review will be inestimable."

As she hung her coat and hat on the coat tree in the corner, she noticed two copywriters exchange a surreptitious smile. At the same time, the senior draftsman snickered.

Jocelyn slid him a level glance. What has you so amused, Mr. Flair?

His eyes danced with amusement. It’s just that Mr. Wilde is going to be implementing changes. For example, he’s introducing an advice column.

An advice column? Jocelyn frowned. Advice about what?

Love and romance, apparently. The draftsman turned back to his work. I’m sure my wife will be mesmerized.

Dismayed, Jocelyn sank down into her chair. Not only had she lost her plum office, but she’d been supplanted by a man who was to write a column competing with hers. Why was such a preeminent writer wasting his time in Charleston, writing advice for the lovelorn?

She glanced around at her co-workers. I’ve read Mr. Wilde’s work before but does anyone know anything about his personal life?

Mr. Flair smirked. I don’t see a wedding ring, if that’s what you’re asking.

Blood rushed to her face. No, that’s not what I’m asking at all. I’m just wondering why he accepted Mr. Blaise’s offer of employment. Surely he could be earning far more back in New York.

Mr. Abernathy shrugged. Each of us is here for different reasons, Miss Conroy. One might wonder why a young lady wishes to work at a newspaper.

You know the answer to that. She tugged off her gloves. I needed something worthwhile to occupy my time while my father is traveling.

The copywriter shrugged. "Mr. Wilde may have some similar reason as to why he wants to work at The Review."

Mr. Randolph gave her a mischievous smile. Of course since we don’t engage in gossip here, we may never know.

Everyone except for Jocelyn laughed. As the staff returned to their duties, the noise level increased accordingly. She unpacked the crate and organized her belongings—discarding a withered holly decoration left over from the staff Christmas party several weeks prior. Once those tasks were done, she turned her attention toward reviewing the tips people had left for her in the RUMERS box. Most of them were rather dull, sadly, but she tried to make them sound engaging. After she finished, she made a notation on her calendar to visit The Citadel, to acquire a list of upcoming graduates. She also composed a story about a society party she’d attended at Mrs. Hastings’s home the night before last.

As she worked, her thoughts were repeatedly drawn to The Review’s newest hire. If Mr. Blaise had wanted a new advice column, he certainly could have asked her to take on the duty—yet he had not. She didn’t know the slightest thing about love and romance, admittedly, but since Mr. Wilde was unmarried, she suspected he was no expert either. What if Mr. Blaise felt Mr. Wilde was far more valuable to the newspaper’s success than she was and decided her services were no longer required? No, since she was largely responsible for sales, that was unlikely to happen...but she might be shifted away from writing altogether and assigned to dreary sales duties, full-time.

Just after noon, a handyman made his way through the great room with a drop box marked DEAR JOHN tucked under his arm. As the fellow disappeared down the hall, presumably to affix the box alongside hers, Jocelyn remembered the note she’d left in Mr. Wilde’s roadster. She shot to her feet in alarm and made her way out of the building. Unfortunately, the red automobile was gone.

Her shoulders slumped. I’m done for.

Mr. Wilde would have no trouble guessing who had left that note. Would he fire her right away or merely make her life miserable until she quit of her own accord? On the other hand, given his arrogant demeanor, perhaps he received notes like hers all the time and would think nothing of it.

When she turned to go back into the building, she noticed the handyman had removed the RUMERS box and was replacing it with the one marked DEAR JOHN.

She cleared her throat. Excuse me, Mr. Girard, but what are you doing?

He glanced over. Oh, hello, Miss Conroy. I was instructed to exchange these boxes. I don’t know anything more about it than that.

Her shoulders drooped. Had she already been discharged and hadn’t yet been informed? Disheartened, Jocelyn returned to the lobby, where Mr. Ingalls was sharpening his pencil.

He stopped grinding. If you were trying to catch Mr. Wilde, he left for lunch ten minutes ago.

No, I... her voice trailed off. What do you know about him?

Not much. The clerk shrugged. He’s the son of Winchester Wilde.

Oh? Her eyes widened. I hadn’t made the connection until now. The family is filthy rich!

Yes. Mr. Ingalls chuckled. In a town full of filthy rich families, the Wildes are one of the filthiest.

Jocelyn pictured the red roadster roaring down the road. Now Mr. Wilde’s arrogance made sense, given his wealth and privilege.

She shook her head. "What is he doing back in Charleston—besides working at The Review?"

The clerk shrugged again. I’ve heard his father is in failing health, so perhaps Mr. Wilde is looking after him. He paused. Don’t write that in your column.

No, I won’t.

Mr. Girard entered the building carrying the RUMERS box and made his way past the swinging door.

Jocelyn sighed. "In point of fact, I don’t think I have