Chapter 2

Chapter Two

August 1820

C ora wished she were still a virgin. Her poetry readings had felt so much more dramatic then, so much more dangerous. An unmarried lady standing before a room of women and reciting tragic love poetry, describing the hero's glistening muscles and the heroine's heaving bosom while her own bosom heaved with emotion? Exciting, that. Scandalous. She'd draped her every word in her own expectations—romance and heartbreak. And soul-shattering pleasure in between.

Reality had proved a different beast. Dull. Dutiful. Dreary.

Silence settled around the dark room, a fitting companion to the flickering candlelight in the crowded space. The audience waited for her next words, the final lines of the poem she'd written on the night of her husband's desertion. She needed to give those words to them because until she did, loneliness would shroud her like the cloak covering her from head to toe. Until she made them love her, she was in a dark room, alone.

She sighed, and they thought it because of the poem's tragic ending. But she sighed for her own tragic ending. Marriage. Separation.

She parted her lips to finish the poem, to give the audience their final moment of tragic delight, then bask in oh-so-fleeting moment during their applause when she would feel… connected. A part of. Wanted.

But parted lips did not bring sound, and good intentions did not produce words.

Tonight, she would fail them.

With numb fingers, she found the candle snuffer in her cloak pocket and extinguished the only candle placed near her. The light barely illuminating her hooded face flashed into a quick death, and after a pause of, no doubt, confusion, a smattering of soft applause filled the air.

The applause had always been soft. By necessity. The poetry recitations were secret and, due to the scandalous subject of her poems, must remain so. Even at these house parties where the hostess could organize them with great caution, inviting some guests, keeping others in the dark. But tonight, fewer women clapped. Instead, they leaned over and whispered near their friends' ears. Complaints. Because she had not finished the poem. Because the poem had been one she'd recited several times in the last month. Because she'd offered no new material for her followers during that time. Their applause spoke more of their disappointment than of their admiration.

Cora remained still, the folds of her cloak like marble, until every woman but one had slunk quietly from the room, heading off to the ballroom in another part of the house where those uninitiated in the delights of secret and scandalous poetry readings made merry. When the room buzzed with empty silence for several seconds, Cora finally moved, stepping into the hallway.

Her hostess, Lady Templeton, stood tall just outside the door, the single candle in the hallway wall sconce casting shadows on her face and glinting off the silver streaks in her brown hair. Her usually soft, round face had become a plane of unreadable emotion in the dark. Her blue eyes though… They held the beginnings of a lecture. Cora would take the lecture, whatever it was about. Though Lady Templeton was Cora's mother's age, she'd always been a good friend, a supporter of Cora's poetry, and a member of the lending library Cora and Prudence organized.

The secret, naughty lending library.

"Cora," Lady Templeton said, "you are blocked."

"I am." She'd had one bout of inspiration right after she'd discovered her husband's perfidy, his betrayal. The words had flowed like a raging, flooded river, and she'd denied sleep and food to master the torrent. In a frenzy, she'd performed the poem as soon as possible. And after the buzz from the applause drained away, she'd been left with nothing. Not a single word.

"Have you tried reading? Surely being swept away in an excellent story will help you write your own."

"I can't focus on words," Cora admitted.

"None of them?"

"Not a single one. It's no matter. I've other diversions to occupy my time."

"I'm aware. Bouncing from house party to house party, like you're a young buck with nothing to occupy your time, chasing frivolity." Lady Templeton did not sound pleased. "Have you spoken to your husband of late?"

"Naturally not."

"Nothing natural about it. Cora"—Lady Templeton put a hand on Cora's wrist, squeezed—"I feel partially responsible for this separation between you and Norton. I thought he knew about the books, that you'd told him."

"You have apologized before, my lady. No need to do so again."

"There is every need. As a woman lucky enough to possess a doting husband, I want nothing more than for my young friends to have the same. Lottie, Andromeda, Prudence—they've all found their happy endings. I would like you to have one as well."

Lottie, Andromeda, and Prudence, the Duke of Clearford's sisters. They had introduced Cora to Lady Templeton and her like, married women who preferred books of an illicit nature. Before she'd become friends with Clearford's sisters, she'd been alone in London society, leading a handful of women to secret poetry readings, the darkness of the rooms she read in separating her from the others, always. Now the eldest Merriweather sisters were married. But unlike Cora, they were happy in their marriages.

"Not every woman is destined for the sort of union you and Lord Templeton share."

"But in the early days of your marriage, you seemed to have hope. And it is only my loose lips that ruined it all."

"Not at all. It was Norton's actions. You did not force him to run off to a brothel."

"Foolish man."

"Ridiculous man," Cora mumbled because she knew why he'd run off. Not to make merry with another woman but to learn how to please his wife. A thrill tripped though her, and she cut it off like slamming a door shut against a strong summer wind. "I'm ridiculous, too." She swerved around Lady Templeton and into the hallway.

Lady Templeton followed closely behind, her light footsteps echoing. "You should at least spend time with Lord Norton. To explore if what you have is worth saving."

"I'm too busy."

"Jumping from house party to house party."

The best way to keep busy. And to avoid her husband who, when she'd remained in London, made the walk from Hotel Hestia where he currently resided to their townhome daily to see her. Who had sent letters when she refused to see him. He could not pin her down if she remained in constant motion.

"House parties," Cora said, "are the best way to perform my poetry without getting caught. Much easier to organize with fewer people to manage. Besides, no one minds a bit of a scandal in the country. And my scandal is bound to be less interesting than some others a few bedchambers down from mine."

"Oh?" Bright interest in that one sound. "And who sleeps a few bedchambers down? I can't remember where I put—" Lady Templeton shook her head. "No, no. You will not distract me with gossip. I have more than lectures to share with you today."

"And that is?"

"There is someone I would like you to meet, and they are leaving now with all the other guests. You must hurry."

Today, the last of Lady Templeton's house party. Both she and Cora would travel to Bluevale, Viscount Noble's estate, on the morrow and remain there for some weeks, months perhaps. However long Andromeda needed them once her babe decided to make an appearance.

"Who wishes to meet me?" She'd not been particularly sociable at the house parties she'd attended, choosing to keep to herself or stay close to the ladies she already knew.

"Have you heard of Viscountess Escher?"

"Her name is familiar."

"She is, secretly, an authoress. Do you know the children's books, Pollyanna's Adventures or something of the like?"

Cora gasped. "Of course I do."

Lady Templeton chuckled. "Well, the authoress of those tales wishes to speak with you. I've arranged a meeting. In my private drawing room. She awaits you there. Go now, quick. Before she tires of waiting." She waved her hands down the hallway.

But Cora hesitated. "Why would she wish to speak with me? Even if she's heard me recite, I cannot publish my poems. They are too risqué." She scrunched her nose. "And she's a children's author."

"You won't know unless you speak with her. Sate your curiosity, Cora. And go!" More shooing motions down the hallway.

Cora went, but slowly, down the stairs and out of the servants' quarters. Perhaps the viscountess merely wished to talk craft. Or art. Making a new acquaintance would not hurt. Nor would hearing admiration for her work. She walked with greater speed down the hall and stopped briefly before the correct door to rip her veil off and smooth back her hair. She took a deep breath and pushed through.

A woman stood before a looking glass, her head tilted as she studied her own reflection. She was rather plain with dark-blonde hair and gray eyes. She dressed simply, elegantly, and moved with a confidence that turned her plain looks striking.

"Lady Escher," Cora said, proud to hear not a single waver or crack in her voice. She never used the deep rhythmic cadence she used to recite her poetry in her daytime life, but now she did to pronounce this woman's name.

Lady Escher met Cora's gaze in the looking glass. "Do I know you? Your voice is familiar." Of course, the woman wouldn't recognize her. Cora only ever recited her poetry from behind a deep, black cloak in rooms dimly lit.

"I am Viscountess Norton. I have heard you are looking for me."

Lady Escher smiled as she faced Cora. "Do you, by any chance, possess a fondness for poetry?"

"I do." A library couch graced a wall near the looking glass, and Cora perched on one end of it, sat tall, and found her voice.

They hear the warring elements no more:

While I am doomed—by life's long storm oppressed,

To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest.

Lady Escher sat on the other end of the couch. "Charlotte Smith. An influence?" She peeked at Cora. They were conducting an entire, second conversation beneath the conversation.

"She is… quite influential. To many poets."

Lady Escher folded her hands in her lap and whispered, "You are brave, quite daring. Or foolish." A little laugh. "They tend to go hand in hand."

"You were asking for me?"

"I had the pleasure of"—Lady Escher glanced at the door as if expecting someone to burst through it at any moment, then leaned closer, still watching the exit—"hearing you. At your last reading in London. And today. I am astonished you are so young. Your poetry is exquisite. And so brimming with emotion."

"Thank you, my lady."

"Does your husband know of your poetry? Does he care?"

"Does it matter?" No keeping the winter wind from Cora's voice.

"It may. Husbands are not always accepting of a wife's ambitions. Mine is quite accommodating."

"Mine does not care. We live separate lives."

Lady Escher lifted a single brow. "Do you know who I am?"

"I've heard rumors. Some say that if the identity of a certain popular authoress of charming children's tales were to be discovered, she might look a bit like you."

"Indeed. Your work is good. And I have the means to put it in print." Another furtive glance at the door. "Tell me, have you ever considered publishing your work?"

Heavens. There it was—the one thing she could not do. "Never. If you have heard it, you are aware of why it can never be published. I do not wish to incite the censure of the general public. It is better if my audience remains… intimate. And approving." She had enough censure from her father and her mother. She did not need it on a national level.

Lady Escher nodded. "It's true. You cannot publish what you currently write, but… have you perhaps considered writing other types of literature?"

"I do not write for children, my lady, and I would not care to."

"Then do not. There is a world between that and your poetry." Lady Escher chuckled. "Consider Miss Austen. Consider Mrs. Radcliffe. Consider Charlotte Smith. None of these ladies include scenes of a scandalous nature as you do, but they keep the high feeling. They write, still of life, and in a way that allows their words access to a larger number of readers. You are talented. I should hate to see you fade into obscurity. Your words should be beloved by many, as you, and I, love the words of Mrs. Smith."

Cora's breath caught. Loved by many. Her soul ached for it. And this woman could make it happen. "I would, indeed, be interested, Lady Escher."

"Even if you must modify a few elements, change your usual style?"

"Elements? More than one? More than the love making scenes?"

Lady Escher sighed. "Those scenes are lovely. Truly. I particularly enjoy your use of metaphor. But if you don't wish to be shunned from society…"

"I do not, my lady."

"Then they'll have to go." Lady Escher scowled into the air and tapped her toe. "There is an Ann Radcliffe quality to your work, and I can see the influence of Smith. A melancholy that charges the atmosphere."

Cora's indignation faded fast. To be compared to such greats! "Thank you."

"But your endings…"

When Lady Escher provided no more information, Cora barked, "What of them?"

"Do they all end so tragically?"

"Ah… yes. I'm… afraid so." Cora bit the side of her tongue, better her pain and a bit of copper blood than insult Lady Escher by stomping out of the room. After tossing something nearby—a paperweight?—at the lady's head. "Is it a problem?"

"It is only that I am an author of happy endings. I had hoped you might be able to provide one as well, but in your own style. A dark, tragic middle and a happy end." She beamed brightly as if she hadn't asked Cora to strip her work of its two most crucial elements.

"A happy ending. Is that a necessity?"

"Yes, I'm afraid. Even Mrs. Radcliffe…" She shrugged, knowing Cora knew Mrs. Radcliffe's novels inevitably ended in marriage. "It has been a pleasure to meet you. I do hope you'll consider my offer. Think of how many you could please with your stories." Then she left.

"A happy ending," Cora muttered, falling into a nearby chair. "How… unlikely." Romance rarely ended happily in real life. Why should it end happily in fiction?

The door swung open, and Lady Templeton appeared. "Well?"

"She wishes to help me publish something."

"Oh!" Lady Templeton leaped at Cora, tugging her to her feet and gathering her into a warm hug. "Oh, brilliant girl, I am delighted."

"Me as well." And, truly, she grew more pleased by the moment. Her poems—out of the darkness and into the light, loved not by a handful of women in secret, but adored openly in drawing rooms, settled onto shelves with other beloved books.

Perhaps then she might not feel so damn alone. Perhaps then she might feel wanted. Because she would be.

"But," Cora said, her voice sounding far away, "I cannot write love scenes. And the ending must be happy."

"Hm. A disappointment to be sure, but it is bearable, isn't it? For such an opportunity?"

"Yes." It must be bearable. She'd bear it no matter what.

Lady Templeton wrapped an arm around Cora's shoulders and guided her toward the guest rooms. "And the Merriweather sisters will be pleased, too." She stopped before Cora's bedchamber door. "Prepare to travel. Rest. I must make sure the other guests have everything they need upon leaving. And I… have correspondence to write." With a turn on her toe, Lady Templeton sailed away.

Cora retired to her bedchamber, sat at the small writing desk there, and stared at its blank surface. Scratched and nicked and faded in spots. It had survived, perhaps, decades. Centuries? But still it stood, making itself useful despite its history.

She collapsed against it, folding her arms under her head. She could cut out the love scene. No difficulty there. She'd only have to fight against her own dissatisfaction. But… writing a happy ending? She could imagine a thousand things she'd never done before—most of a salacious nature. But two people living happily ever after—that was one fantasy her imagination could never conjure.