Chapter 1

Chapter One

A soft click behind Rosamond startled her. Turning, she beheld Baron Heifleton wearing only shirtsleeves, unbuttoned, opened to his firmly contoured chest. She gasped, dropped her brush, hands fumbling to close her dressing gown. “My lord, we cannot…”

Candlelight flickered over the words, adding requisite heat to the story. The quill, pressed urgently between Mary Allen’s fingers, flew across the paper.

“Mrs. Allen, the—” A servant’s voice broke the silence of the room.

Mary swallowed her irritation. The pinnacle moment of the romance held vivid in her mind, so clear she was practically in the room with Rosamond and Heifleton. Any interruption and she would have to find her muse later. “No, no. Just a moment.”

She plunged the nib into ink and scribbled on until the scene disappeared from her mind and reemerged in written form. As her characters grew closer, in every sense, Mary felt a familiar yearning in her own heart. To be loved and cherished again—it was a foolish dream. But in fiction, in her stories, anything was possible.

She relished the shush of sand falling onto the completed page, drying the ink, signaling the end of the day’s work and of a rather long novel, which she would tie together and place in the trunk with the others.

“There.” Her neck tingled and ached. She sat back and rotated her head, then looked around. How long had that scene taken? Possibly hours had passed since the maid’s intrusion. She rang the bell. When her servant appeared, she said, “Open the curtains, Nellie. Bring me tea and something with a lot of sugar.”

At the swish of the drawn window, afternoon sun illuminated the room and stabbed Mary’s eyes. She rubbed them, stretched, and organized her writing implements. Even if it were only for herself, the generous stack of ink-covered sheets brought a comfortable expanse to her chest. The feeling was as much relief as joy, for the stories plagued her until she released them. Yet, Mary had no intention of letting anyone read them. Perhaps after she died, her great nieces and nephews would find her love stories bound together in a trunk and wonder about their aunt. Let them make their conjectures—so long as she was not alive to witness their inevitable dismay. Female authors of romances were not respectable, and society often mocked, ridiculed, and shunned them. Mary would not suffer that humiliation.

“Quite a bundle from the estate.” Nellie dropped a package in front of Mary. “Heavy, too. I’ll be back with your tea.” Mary’s late husband had left her with an estate in Ireland, but it had never felt like home. Living there had been her late husband Lord Allen’s dream, not hers, and she’d not visited in nearly two years.

Mary cut the twine and pulled out the first letter. It was from the housekeeper, apologizing for the delayed mail. While cleaning the butler’s pantry, she had found a pile of letters stashed on a shelf.

Penned in a sharp, slanted hand, the return address on the second letter read: Golden Buck Publishing , Fleet Street, London.

Her heart dove into the depths of her stomach, and hot pricks of sweat erupted on her face. She fanned herself with the sealed letter, which must be a response to a long-forgotten accident. Two years past, while still in Ireland, she finished writing a novel, and to express her exuberance at the accomplishment, she pretended that publication was a possibility—was even something she wanted. She had tied the manuscript in twine and addressed it to the Golden Buck. The preparation, however false, felt like an exclamation mark to her secret accomplishment.

Shortly thereafter, she left Ireland for Cornwall at the bequest of an old friend, Agnes, who begged Mary’s aid in a match-making scheme involving Agnes’s son and Mary’s niece. It had ended well, but afterward, she could not bear to leave her sister Charlotte or the home of her youth. Instead of returning to her Ireland property, she used the income from the estate to rent a cottage near her sister. Mary sent word to Nellie, charging her with packing the estate and preparing it for a tenant. When Nellie beheld the manuscript on Mary’s desk, tied and addressed as it was, she’d assumed her mistress intended the bundle for the post, so off it went.

For a full eight months after learning this, Mary’s stomach churned anytime she thought of having her words read by another. And that was one person. Imagine if the whole world had access to the book, to wonder about the author, to speculate upon whatever experiences influenced her writing—the humiliation could not to be borne. Over the course of time and after prolonged silence from the publisher, she was comforted, knowing it an impossibility that her silly manuscript would ever manifest as printed words. Yet, here lay the answer to that prospect. It would change her—either nurture her pride with acceptance or quash her confidence with rejection. Some things were better left unknown. She held it to the still-lit candle until the edge fluttered into flame.

But it would not stand. She had to know.

She yanked it away, smothered the fire with an ink blotter, cracked the seal, and read.

25 April 1754

Dear Lady Mary,

With great pleasure we accept the submission of your manuscript, A Woman Who Loves…

Her heart pounded in slow notes of victory. They liked it! They wanted it. She could be an author. The paper quivered, making it impossible to read. No amount of blinking cleared the blur from her eyes, so she placed the page on her desk and found focus on the sharp discomfort of fingernails cutting into her palms. She read on.

Our apologies for allowing your manuscript to go unread for so many months. We anxiously await your response…

They would be waiting forever. She would never consent to publication. Though she loved that her words were deemed good enough to be bound between canvas and leather, the fear of being known as an author was too great. She would tuck this letter of acceptance into the trunk with her other manuscripts for the next generation to discover upon her death.

…but proceed, with many thanks for your preexisting approval and under the conviction that this provocative novel will be the talk of the country. Even now, our typesetter is fast at work preparing the press. Your romance is set for publication on June 18…

Heavy pressure forced her to swallow her breath, as if a building had toppled over her. This must be what it felt like to die. Mary grasped the locket containing her late husband’s portrait, closed her eyes, and waited for the pain to ease and the tremor in her limbs to subside. Holding the talisman did not have its usual calming effect. Preexisting approval? Publication in June? That was nearly a year ago. How, how, how could this have happened?

“Nellie!” She sprang from her chair and yanked the bell pull repeatedly, calling her lady’s maid, the person responsible for this…this…what was it? A disaster, or a gift?

Nellie burst into the room. “Are you hurt?” Her pink face gleamed with a sheen of sweat.

Wait! There could be no confrontation with Nellie. No one could ever know, except perhaps Charlotte. Mary tossed the letter onto the desk, blocking it from view. Her legs were jelly and would not hold her. She clutched the chair and tried to inhale. “I am fine.” She attempted a laugh. “I am simply desperate for tea.” She was as breathless as Nellie, and the room was spinning. This fantasy, this dream of being published, had become a nightmarish, haunting fact. She, alongside every other writer of her sex, was available for public censure. She would be scorned.

“You look peaked.” Nellie took a step toward Mary.

“No!”

Nellie froze. “You’re certain you don’t need a doctor?”

“Please get the tea.”

When the maid disappeared out the door, Mary collapsed into the chair and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, trying to force the fabric to generate comfort. Publishing a novel, a love story no less, was not what a lady would do. The vulgarity! And especially for the respectable widow of a lord. She found consolation in the fact that no one remembered her brief years as Lady Mary Allen.

The book, her book, already circulated. Among the many letters the package still contained was a book-sized item wrapped in brown paper. Heat crawled up her spine, and the tiny hairs on her arms stood in curious attention. She reached in, took a corner of paper, and pulled a long strip. Pink canvas peeked out at her. Paper razored over her skin as she slid both hands into the opening and drew the wrapping away. In gold lettering, the words A Woman Who Loves by Lady Mary glinted in a ray of sunshine. She picked up the book and pressed it to her chest.

What was she to do?

O ver there course of a few weeks, when no one mentioned A Woman Who Loves, Mary began to feel comfortable again. The distance from London made it unlikely for the book to appear on shelves in Cornwall, so she went about her life with increasing confidence that her secret was safe.

She pinned a grey-trimmed bergère hat to her head. “You have done it again, Miss Taylor.” It was a masterpiece, just as Mary had imagined it would be.

The milliner made an adjustment and added a pin. “It is odd, but while trimming this confection, I could not but think of a book I just finished. The protagonist wears a very similar hat.”

Mary’s breath caught, dragging the air from her lungs. She knew the hat, had invented that hat, had described every detail in her book and then to Miss Taylor when placing the order. She pushed on her stomach, trying to draw air. “Of what book do you speak?” her voice squeaked.

“ A Woman Who Loves . It’s the novel everyone is reading. If you like, I will lend you my copy but not to keep. It’s a favorite.” She squeezed Mary’s shoulder. “You look lovely.”

Mary pulled away, unpinned the hat, and returned it to Miss Taylor for boxing. She gathered her things, took the hatbox from the milliner, and headed for the door. Halfway out, she remembered to thank Miss Taylor. Turning around, she found the milliner with her arm outstretched as if to stop her.

“If you wait a moment, I will fetch the book.”

“Thank you, dear, but I fear we have very different tastes in literature.”

She closed the door on Miss Taylor’s incredulous stare and stood outside, appalled by her falsehood. So it began, the start of a double life in which lies rolled off her tongue, an existence wherein her priority was to protect Lady Mary, authoress, from discovery and subsequent ruin. Laughter, traitorous laughter, bubbled inside her chest and erupted. She covered her mouth. At home she would sink into the bathtub, where no one would interrupt, and soak away her quaking insides and think if anything could be done.

Across the street, the bookshop tempted, beckoned. Cornwall was not the first county to receive the latest publications, but if Miss Taylor possessed a copy, then A Woman Who Loves must be in the shop. Vanity enticed, snagged, and pulled her across the road to peek in the window.

In the center of the display, a book covered in rose canvas reigned in glorious distinction, the gold lettering of its title sparkling. Mary’s breath fogged the glass, and she turned her back to the window, her fingers closing around her locket.

What would Lord Allen think of this? He used to call her his perfect gentlewoman, even to his mother who had wished for a superior match for her son. And Mary was a gentlewoman, or she had been. She’d married at sixteen and been widowed at eighteen, over twenty years ago. Those short years with him were halcyon, warm with love that multiplied by the day, and they solidified her into the lady she was. To be a published author tarnished the genteel reputation she had garnered, and mocked Lord Allen’s memory.

Regardless of the sky that threatened rain, Mary would not go home. She must see Charlotte. She mounted her horse and sped away from the tiny block letters at the bottom of the pink book: LADY MARY. Oh! That her horse could take her far away, back to Ireland, back in time, or to a place where her actions were so irreproachable that her identity as author would ever be concealed.

Chill wind twisted her artfully powdered hair out of its pins and sent it flying, whipping her face, but she pressed on at an impressive gallop and arrived at Charlotte’s home in record time—a little proud of her speedy arrival, considering she’d just turned forty. She threw open the door with a reverberating thwack.

“Charlotte?” She made her way to the sitting room.

Her sister smiled and stood in greeting. “I did not expect to see you until later today.” They were meant to garden that afternoon, a pastime Mary participated in somewhat grudgingly. “What is the matter?” She kissed Mary’s cheek. “Sit down and tell me.”

In the comfort of her elder sister’s nearness, Mary repeated her conversation with Miss Taylor.

“Oh-hoo! Just this morning, Mrs. Vincent visited. She mentioned the book as well. With high praise, I might add. What did you expect? You are a published author.”

“Hush! Sophia may hear you.” Mary did not even want her trusted niece Sophia or Philip, her husband, to know of what she’d done.

“Sophia is with Philip in his studio, so I have Rachel this morning.” She nodded toward a crib in the corner of the room.

Three weeks passed since Mary received the letter from Golden Buck. Three weeks of conversation with her sister, each containing less and less anxiety until she believed none of her acquaintances would ever hear of the novel. But the day had come.

“It was enough for the story to be printed,” Mary said, “but if someone were to guess…can you imagine? Disgrace!”

Charlotte tsked. “I see what you mean. But no one remembers you as Lady Allen, so you can remain anonymous. You have a nom de plume.” She said nom de plume the same way one might say twenty thousand pounds .

Mary had signed the book Lady Mary , though she’d dropped the title of “lady” upon the death of her husband. They’d been married so short a time, and the appellation never sat easily with her as a daughter of a mere country squire. Without any children, she was all but forgotten by her husband’s family. The estate in Ireland took care of her financial needs, so they had little reason to think of her. Insisting upon a title seemed pretentious.

“It does not matter if no one knows. I know, and I am deeply ashamed.” She covered her face with her shawl. What she did not admit, could never admit, even to her sister, was that a tiny part of her loved it. Loved the praise her novel was gaining. But she couldn’t give in to those emotions, couldn’t let herself fall prey to ego and vanity. A gentlewoman had neither. She did nothing to draw attention to herself and lived in the shadows, serving others. She needed to get away, travel to a place where no one knew about A Woman Who Loves . “I would do anything to be away from here. If my home were not let, I would go to Ireland now.”

A piercing cry erupted from the crib. “She should still be napping. Sophia will not be pleased.” Charlotte rushed to pick her up and began bouncing around the room. “I have news that may distract you from your troubles.” She shouted over the baby’s cry, her hand over Rachel’s ear. “We dined with Stephen last night, and he insists that Louisa marry. There was an uproar such as I’ve never seen. Though I am very sorry for him, widower that he is, I do not agree…”

“Charlotte, sit down and let me hold Rachel. You’re making me dizzy.” She wasn’t, but she ached to hold the child. “You can tell me what happened once you are settled.” Mary took the baby and sat in a rocking chair, the tiny bundle warm and perfect against her chest. In a few moments, Rachel was calm, and her eyes began to droop.

“What was I saying? Oh, yes. Even if our poor brother is a widower, I do not believe he should force his daughter into marriage.” Charlotte settled into a settee.

Love was essential, and all young people deserved a felicitous marriage. Most of all, Louisa, a girl of deep feeling, required the happiness an affectionate match promised, though Mary doubted the girl was prepared for marriage.

Rachel’s little head against Mary’s chest caused a familiar heaviness to tug Mary’s insides. This joy, the enduring pleasure of children and grandchildren, was never to be hers. She was the center of one person’s world only, and she’d buried him.

“To whom is Louisa engaged?”

“I don’t know. Stephen only said he had no patience for a coming out and that an arranged marriage accomplished the purpose as well or better than any other method of finding a husband. He’s already chosen the man. It seems he’s corresponded about it for some time. A son of an old acquaintance.”

Heaven, in her divine goodness, had sent Mary an escape. Louisa’s problem offered a solution for her own predicament. Helping her niece find a match was an impeccable enterprise for a widowed aunt. “Well, I shall intervene.”

“How?”

“I want a holiday, and Louisa needs to find a husband. Bath is the perfect place for us. I have not been there since I was sixteen. Surely in Bath they have better things to do than read A Woman Who Loves, and they certainly won’t associate me with the author. Louisa will fall in love, and I will be saved. By the time we return, everyone will have forgotten about the book, and life can go back to normal.”

Charlotte furrowed her brow. “If our brother can be persuaded.”

“I will coax Stephen into agreement. Leave everything to me.”