Cometh the Hour: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

Deakins.
    “‘Did you ever see the picture of “We Three”?’” said Giles, appearing by Deakins’s side.
    “Which play?” demanded Harry.
    “Twelfth Night,” said Giles.
    “Not bad, but which character says the words and to whom?”
    “The Fool, to Sir Andrew Aguecheek.”
    “And who else?”
    “Sir Toby Belch.”
    “Impressive,” said Deakins, smiling at his old friend, “but for an alpha, which act and which scene?”
    Giles fell silent.
    “Act two, scene three,” said Harry. “But did you spot the one-word mistake?”
    “Did you never see,” said Maisie.
    This silenced the three of them, until Emma came across and said, “Stop showing off and circulate. This isn’t an old boys’ reunion.”
    “She always was a bossy little thing,” said Giles as the old school chums split up and began to mingle with the other guests.
    “When a woman shows some leadership,” said Maisie, “she’s immediately branded as bossy, but when a man does exactly the same thing, he’s described as decisive, and a born leader.”
    “’Twas ever thus,” said Emma. “Perhaps we should do something about it.”
    “You already have, my dear.”
    *   *   *
    After the last guest had departed, Harry and Emma accompanied Maisie back to her cottage.
    “Thank you for the second happiest day of my life,” said Maisie.
    “In your speech, mother,” Harry reminded her, “you said it was the happiest day of your life.”
    “No, not even close,” replied Maisie. “That will always be reserved for the day I discovered you were still alive.”

 
    5
    H ARRY ALWAYS ENJOYED visiting his New York publisher, but he wondered if anything would have changed now that Aaron Guinzburg had taken over from his father as chairman.
    He took the lift to the seventh floor, and when the doors slid open, he found Kirsty, Harold’s long-suffering former secretary, waiting for him. At least that hadn’t changed. Kirsty led him briskly down the corridor to the chairman’s office. A gentle tap on the door before she opened it, to allow Harry to enter another world.
    Aaron, like his father before him, considered it must have been a clerical error by the Almighty that he had not been born on the other side of the Atlantic. He wore a double-breasted, pin-striped suit, probably tailored in Savile Row, a white shirt with a starched collar and a Yale tie. Harry could have been forgiven for thinking Aaron’s father had been cloned. The publisher jumped up from behind his desk to greet his favorite author.
    Over the years the two of them had become close friends and, once Harry had sat down in the ancient leather armchair on the other side of the publisher’s large desk, he spent a few moments taking in the familiar surroundings. The oak-paneled walls were still covered in sepia photographs—Hemingway, Faulkner, Buchan, Fitzgerald, Greene and more recently Saul Bellow. Harry couldn’t help wondering if he would ever join them. He’d already outsold most of the authors on the wall, but the Guinzburgs didn’t measure success by sales alone.
    “Congratulations, Harry.” The same warm, sincere voice. “Number one again. William Warwick becomes more popular with every book, and having read Babakov’s revelations that Khrushchev had a hand in killing Stalin, I can’t wait to publish Uncle Joe . I’m confident that book is also heading for the top spot, albeit on the nonfiction list.”
    “It’s a truly amazing work,” replied Harry. “I only wish I’d written it.”
    “I suspect you did write a great deal of it,” said Aaron, “because I detect your hand on almost every page.” He looked questioningly at Harry.
    “Every word is Anatoly’s. I am nothing more than his faithful scribe.”
    “If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s fine by me. However, your most ardent fans just might notice your style and phraseology creeping in from time to time.”
    “Then we’ll both have to stick to the same hymn sheet, won’t