Chapter 1

February 1818

London was colder and damper than Imelda remembered. A fact that she hadn't been able to escape ever since having arrived. She had tried being optimistic. After all, she quite regularly felt the same way about Lancashire after returning from one of her travels, but that was different. It was more marked, probably, because she wasn't arriving in London from some far-off tropical destination, but Lancashire itself.

"Oh, stop slouching, Spencer!" Lady Merrit cried, pulling Imelda's attention off of the drab streets of London, passing by the window of their carriage and back to the company within it.

"I'm not slouching," Spencer argued glibly, pulling at the lapels of his coat with a pointed eye-roll in the direction of their aunt.

"You were definitely slouching," Sir John snorted in clear amusement.

The trio, despite their argument, all worse smiles as they bickered, their evening finery shadowed by the buildings their carriage passed under.

"Imelda, dearest, tell your brother that he was slouching," Lady Merrit commanded as she twitched the skirts of her dress to better face everyone at once. She was a fine woman, with or without the lovely dress that she wore. At an age she wouldn't allow anyone to announce, she was only just beginning to show the regal streaks of silver throughout her auburn hair, her blue eyes even brighter and more rapt than they had been in her youth.

Imelda adored her. It was why she didn't hesitate to smile at the way she was being ordered about.

"I can hardly say that I saw him doing so," Imelda teased. "Though I can also hardly say that I doubt he was doing such a thing."

"Imelda!" Spencer chimed, the faux-hurt in his voice almost unbearable. He widened his hazel eyes, so similar to her own but just a shade more gray than green, and leaned forward. "As your older brother—"

"By two minutes and forty-seven seconds," Imelda reminded him dryly.

"As your older brother!" Spencer raised his voice slightly to speak over her. "I think you should show a bit more deference—"

"What do either of you know about deference?" Sir John boomed, laughing through the words. "The two of you could have given Castor and Pollux a run for their money, you know. And I say that with all due deference to their very references in our newest play—"

"Oh, your play!" Lady Merrit fanned herself with a fond smile toward her husband. "God save us from another lecture on your newest play, my love. Everyone within this carriage knows that you are a playwright. Everyone within this carriage has listened thrice over to the premise of your newest production! We are on our way to drop Imelda at her first meeting of the Woman's Word, my darling. Shouldn't we be talking about that instead?"

Imelda's cheeks warmed as her aunt sent her a jaunty wink, the reminder of the favor her uncle had done her, sending her once more into a frenzy of nerves and excitement.

The Woman's Word was one of the foremost collectives of feminine power in the literary world, one she had always aspired to join. To have been accepted…

"Maybe I ought to join you this evening," Spencer mused aloud. "Instead of whatever nonsense musical our dearest aunt is dragging me to. I dare say a collective of all women will have need of my presence…"

"Thank you," Imelda said primly, "but no thank you."

"It's not a musical, Spencer," Lady Merrit sighed for what had to be the eighteenth time. "It's a musical performance. A social gathering. The Thiebalds have so graciously invited us."

"To listen to their youngest two daughters who can't string a violin," Spencer grumbled.

Imelda tried not to laugh. She had been delighted with the change in her plans. As much as Spencer complained about social engagements, he wasn't wrong in his summarization of the Thibealds' talents.

"As opposed to listening to short stories and the like that have recently been published," Imelda reminded him.

"One of them at least is sure to be good," Spencer shrugged. "I do like the one that they chose to publish of yours this week. Especially the bit about the bosomy lady."

"There is no bosomy lady." Imelda dug her elbow into his side as she spoke. "Only bosom friends, remember? Do you even read what I send you, or do you just skim the pages?"

Spencer grinned unapologetically, his dimples carving out caverns on either side of his face as the carriage slowed to a stop. "It depends," he teased, "on what my week holds and just how bored I am."

"Stop teasing your sister." Sir John chuckled as the sound of the footman scurrying about carried through the walls of the carriage. "This is her stop. You're sure you're happy to go on your own?"

"She won't be on her own, Lydia promised she would look out for her tonight," Lady Merrit cut in, winking at Imelda again.

Lady Lydia de Trafford, Countess of Waddeson was a bosom friend of hers and one that Imelda had only very briefly been introduced to upon her arrival a few days before. All she could really remember of the woman was her shocking silver hair and the fact that she was the hostess of the literary salon: The Woman's Word.

"I'll be fine," Imelda assured the both of them with a smile. With or without Lady Waddeson. "I'll enjoy my words being discussed much more than listening to any musical stylings by the Thiebald sisters." She couldn't resist the last jab at her twin as the carriage door opened, and the footman appeared to help her step down.

Spencer groaned, but her aunt and uncle laughed as they waved her off, Spencer's grumbling the backdrop to it all as she stepped off the step and down onto the driveway of what had to be the largest house she had ever stood in front of in London.

"Oh, my."

She joined the queue of women bustling from the drive into the house, her eyes roving over the expansive estate—or at least as much of it as she could see from the front door—and all of the yellow lilies that were placed decoratively about the entryway as she was ushered in.

"Miss Merrit!"

From the familiar chatter of her family into the parlor of a home she had never visited, the gentle hum of laughter and conversation filling it even as Imelda fought to see every aspect of it at once. Imelda had no problem socializing, she enjoyed it, really—but her name being called out like it was still served as a shock, her eyes widening slightly as she spun on her heel to face the one calling her.

"Lady Waddeson," Imelda greeted back as she caught sight of the only semi-familiar woman with silver hair.

Lady Waddeson, upon closer inspection, should have been far more memorable.

She was a tall woman, five foot eight or nine at the very least, with her hair so silver it defied her barely creased skin and still-young brown eyes. Her hair was piled fashionably on her head, and the green dress that she wore had been obviously and expensively tailored just to her frame that it was impossible to miss the money behind it.

"I was so glad to hear that you were joining us tonight," Lady Waddeson grinned as she pulled Imelda into the small group that she stood amongst. "I told your aunt we would be overjoyed—that I would be overjoyed. Come and meet my daughter, Lady Charlotte—and our dear friend Miss Tuberville. She's also an aspiring writer. Girls, I'd like you to meet Lady Merrit, although tonight, we might be more comfortable referring to her as Ellar Dance."

Lady Charlotte looked much like her mother, though a fairer and more slender version. Her brown eyes lacked the same confidence, though they made up for it with a warmth and kindness that couldn't be missed. Miss Tuberville looked equally friendly, though somewhat less finely dressed than the two women that she stood with.

"Ellar Dance!" Lady Charlotte exclaimed excitedly. "Not the Ellar Dance who wrote With Changing Winds!"

Imelda's chest tightened, her whole face warming as she nodded. Despite her embarrassment, she could feel her lips twitching, the reminder of her accomplishment warming her in a way that little else could.

"I enjoyed that story immensely," Miss Tuberville said softly. "Especially the parallels between Caroline and Sarah, it was very finely crafted, Miss Merrit. I've seen quite a bit of praise in the papers for it already."

Imelda's eyebrows rose slightly as she looked down at the bundled papers that Miss Tuberville held, her surprise genuine.

"I'll confess I haven't read the critique on it yet," she admitted softly. "I was hoping to wait until tonight…"

Musical chimes cut off whatever else she might have said after trailing off, Lady Waddeson's eyes brightening as she clapped her hands together. "That is just the time for it!" she encouraged happily. "Although, before duty calls, I would like to extend a dinner invitation to you for later this week, Miss Merrit. And I won't hear no for an answer. However, that is the sound of duty calling. I need to get this meeting started, if the three of you will excuse me."

She didn't wait for an answer, from Imelda or from the other two either, before bustling off, pulling a wave of admirers in her wake. It was clear to see that she was a highly favored companion.

"My mother means well," Lady Charlotte murmured, leaning in conspiratorially. "She just doesn't know how not to manage everything around her."

"Everyone around her," Miss Tuberville giggled. "It isn't like anyone has the wherewithal to dare to tell her no."

"I wouldn't have wanted to," Imelda assured them both, smiling and feeling more welcomed than she had anticipated.

"Good. And hopefully, you'll understand our wanting to take our seats before she starts barking out orders," Lady Charlotte said with a grin. She took Imelda's arm, tucking her own through it as the two of them flanked her. "I do prefer to sit on the right side of the room. I know the best couches, you know."

Imelda grinned, allowing herself to be toted along between the two of them as Lady Wadderson's voice rose in the background to address the rest of the room.

"Here," Miss Tuberville handed the papers to Imelda with a wink. "You can read over them before we start."

"Are these—" Imelda cut off as she looked down to see the critic's section, her heart freezing in her chest along with the smile on her face. She had been brave before, talking about it, but the truth was that she had avoided looking yet for more than just the one reason.

She'd heard feedback for years on her stories…but there was something different and altogether more terrifying about reading what the London papers had to say.

Miss Tuberville and Lady Charlotte continued talking around her as they ushered her into a seat, but Imelda's eyes were already devouring the reactions to her piece.

Immersive…fantastic…lovely, the words jumped off of the page and reinforced the pride that Imelda had already been feeling.

At least until the headline from one column caught her attention.

A Story Even Older in its Retelling:

I turn my discerning eye this week to a recent addition to the literary landscape. This critic hates to shame one for trying but there was nothing changed about the winds of this story. If anything, it was long-winded and dull, full of unnecessary prose and with a plot that we've seen too many times before. While the focus on friendship over romance is a break from the recent influx of the latter, I cannot fully sign off on this piece.

The author uses a delicate hand to paint the conflict, but the conflict itself remains overdone and trite. One cannot deny the author's skillful use of language; however, beneath that veneer of well-crafted word lies a narrative that struggles to transcend the conventions of its genre.

The characters, though finely drawn, adhere too closely to archetypal tropes, failing to elicit the depth of emotion necessary to truly engage the reader.

Furthermore, the pacing of the story leaves much to be desired. The central conflict is rushed, undermining the emotional impact and leaving this reader feeling somewhat unsatisfied. Additionally, certain plot points are left unexplored, robbing the narrative of the complexity it so desperately needs to resonate with a discerning audience.

In short, while a commendable effort, With Changing Winds falls short of greatness. While the author demonstrates ability, the story ultimately lacks the depth and originality necessary to leave a lasting impression.

As always, I eagerly await the next installment in our literary journey, hoping to encounter a work that does transcend the boundaries of its genre.

-Prospero

"Prospero?" Imelda found herself testing his name aloud, her brows furrowing with frustration as she looked back up at the shreds he had made of her work.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about him," Miss Tuberville comforted her in a quiet undertone as more and more ladies gathered around to find seats. "He's very difficult to please."

"Who is he?" Imelda asked, trying to bury the sharpness of her words. Prospero. That wasn't even a real name, she was sure of it. She wanted to know exactly who had ripped apart her work so fully. Not some penname that he hid behind.

"Well—" Lady Charlotte looked decidedly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat as she looked to Imelda with wide eyes full of apology.

But whatever she had been about to say was cut off by the musical chimes ringing through the room again, and her mother standing at the head of the room with a wide smile as everyone fell silent.

Imelda didn't think it should have been at all possible for her to be disappointed that the Woman's Word was starting. But she was, the question of Prospero and his cutting critique still indenting itself behind her lashes as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying desperately to focus on Lady Waddeson's opening words.

Prospero…Who did he think he was?