Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

M ary reached for her tea. Empty. She felt naked, and without even a porcelain cup to cover her face. And her filberts were gone. Nothing remained to shield her from impending mortification.

“How am I to guess? I suppose she could be anyone.” Her undisciplined eyes darted to Mr. Fletcher. Of those in the room, she held an illogical dread of his knowing the truth. “There can be no wrong opinion about a work of fiction.” Pleased with her composure, Mary smiled, confident she appeared collected.

With the narrowed eyes of a hunter cornering her prey, Miss Barry pressed further. “The author, Lady Mary, shares your name.”

“Yes.” Mary waved a hand in the air in a flippant gesture. “It is a common name.”

“Come, Miss Barry, the name of the author is hardly interesting. Let’s go back to the previous question,” said Louisa.

Mary sighed as the conversation escalated, passionate comments flying across the room. Despite there being no more set-downs, her shoulders tightened with every word. An hour later, when the last guest departed, she turned to Louisa. “Your treatment of Miss Barry was inexcusable.”

“She is a pig.” Louisa batted her lashes. “I was inspired by your handling of Mr. Bateman.”

Mary groaned and, too exhausted to argue, excused herself, leaving Agnes and Louisa to rehash the event while she ensconced herself in the bedroom. In the dark of night, with her head on her pillow, Mary did her best thinking.

The first meeting of the Literary Society was perhaps its last. Feelings were hurt and divisions made among the attendees. She never supposed her little book would arouse such controversy. If asked before the meeting who would station themselves in which camp, Mary could have guessed. Agnes emerged as the only surprise, debating on Louisa’s side in favor of love conquering all. Her change of opinion was likely made only to give herself an opportunity to argue with Miss Barry. Though no further hints were made that Mary Allen authored the book, the insinuation rattled Mary and she could not help but envision her ruin should everything come to light.

Throughout the whole of the soirée, despite her discomfort, Mary was aware of Mr. Fletcher. Every encounter she had with him reinforced his suitability. He spoke thoughtfully, criticized no opinions, and interjected in support of Louisa as much as correct behavior allowed. To see Louisa settled with Mr. Fletcher was her one wish. Then she could return home having done her duty and explore the possibility of writing anonymously.

Her pen called to her. Though her fingers itched to create a villain of Miss Barry’s stamp, she remained in bed, candles out, attention refocused on Mr. Fletcher and the methods she might use to convince Louisa there could be no better match than he.

In all things, Louisa proved difficult to manage. She would not admit Mr. Fletcher’s charms or that she’d been abominable to Miss Barry. Despite Mary’s best efforts to be a flawless gentlewoman, she was a bad influence on her niece, as demonstrated by Louisa’s near obsession with A Woman Who Loves . Though Mary was not wholly opposed to the romantic notion that one might sacrifice for the beauty of love, she would never wish Louisa to behave as Penelope had. Mary’s fictional characters had fallen into a ruin so deep that not even the generous aunt could save their social standing. In real life, such altruism did not exist. Few in the world were princely enough to turn over wealth to an impoverished, disgraced pair of lovers.

With these thoughts swirling in her head, Mary fell asleep to a dream of dancing daringly close to Mr. Fletcher. His hands wrapped around her, moved to her back, then slid up to her neck. In his arms she became whole, safe, and wanted. The woman in Mr. Fletcher’s arms turned again. Louisa smiled up at him.

O ver breakfast, Mary expressed her concern that she and Agnes were guiding Louisa astray. Mary tried to persuade Agnes to join her in an effort to behave more properly. Agnes opposed and called it fraudulent.

“Fraudulent?” Mary did not understand.

“Yes. If we behaved, we would not be representing our true selves. You like to pretend you are a well-behaved woman, but you’ve a rebellious heart.”

Mary snorted but decided it wise not to debate over her own character. “You heard what she said to Miss Barry. I didn’t know she was capable of such insolence. With Louisa trying to make a match, it would not be well to have an enemy in Miss Barry. You said yourself that she and Mr. Nash are great friends.” Beau Nash was Bath’s powerful, if unofficial, master of ceremonies, who created social rules, approved or dismissed those wishing to attend the assemblies, and even brokered marriages.

Agnes put down her fork and leaned back, a nearly imperceptible smile on her lips. Mary’s stomach tightened at the familiar expression. “You are worried she will out you as the author of that book.”

Mary inhaled a bit of toast and lost herself in a fit of coughing. When she righted, wheezing with watery eyes, she asked, “How long have you known?”

“From the first chapter. It is a good book. I’m proud of you, but you did little to hide your identity. I thought you were waiting for the world to discover your secret. You chose the book, after all.”

“I would never! Do you really think me so vain? It was Louisa’s choice.” Mary looked round the room to be sure no servant had caught wind of her confession, or worse still that Louisa should walk in. “An accident, never meant for publication. My housekeeper posted it.”

Agnes grinned. “Good for her. If you don’t find a husband, perhaps your novels will sustain you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You are a romantic, Mary. And you need something to do. You can’t spend your life in your sister’s garden and your niece’s nursery.”

This declaration made Mary feel like a child, helpless and somehow trapped. “I don’t wish anyone to know.”

“No one will. People are very stupid. They need mounds of evidence before drawing conclusions. Take Louisa. She has no idea, though she’s known you for her whole life.”

The words did little to quiet Mary’s anxiety. She dreaded the moment society called her mercenary or indecorous. Mary’s mother had been a bit of a businesswoman. She’d loved flowers. Perhaps that is why Mary had little use for gardening. Masses of flowers grew in her mother’s garden, and the parlor was often replete with heaps of greenery, making it off limits to Mary and her siblings. Their mother arranged the abundance into garlands, wreaths, swags, and any number of huge displays. For a fee, she’d delivered them to wealthier members of the community. At school, with teachers and students citing beliefs about propriety as if it were a religion, she’d become embarrassed by her mother’s enterprise. No other mothers did anything so gauche.

And now she was an authoress. Earning money just as her mother. She could almost hear Lord Allen rolling in his grave. And his mother, still alive and ruling the estates… it did not bear consideration.

The clatter of Agnes’s teacup landing in its saucer roused Mary from her reveries. “You need a husband. I see how you watch Mr. Fletcher, and he will be pleased to protect you from any censure you may receive from being an author.”

For a moment Mary was dumbstruck. She lived according to An Infallible Guide to the Fairer Sex , in which second marriages were discouraged. Having already experienced the felicities of marriage, propriety necessitated she leave the bachelors to the young ladies who had not yet experienced that joy.

“Mr. Fletcher?” Her heart fluttered. “If my eyes follow him, it is for Louisa’s sake. Besides, he is young enough to be my…”

“Your brother?”

“Well, yes. We have an amicable relationship, one I hope will continue when he marries Louisa.” Mary blinked away the image of herself standing before the church altar, swearing her loyalty to Mr. Fletcher, his blue eyes looking back at her in adoration. An outrageous fantasy. She would have to alter her book to less accurately portray Mr. Fletcher. “Agnes, do not speak of such a thing when you know very well I do not want a husband.”

“I know nothing of the sort, but I do know that Louisa and Mr. Fletcher will never marry.”

Mary sighed and looked to her tea for comfort. She poured a generous dollop of cream and watched it swirl and tangle through the liquid before stirring in two teaspoons of sugar. She swallowed half the cup, concentrating on the heat that scorched the back of her throat and the creamy sweetness coating her tongue. Ignoring Agnes served best when a confrontation arose between them. Pushing away her own thoughts of Mr. Fletcher remained the true problem, one that would take more than a few swallows of tea to quiet. Her preference for him was nothing more than a fancy born from a return to Bath, where she had fallen in love with her late husband. It resurrected a wish for love and believed-in romance. But she lived all that in her mind and on written pages, though it was mere play. Romance was not for her, not anymore.

During calling hours, they received Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Savage. Agnes stayed in the room but excused herself to her writing desk, claiming she had correspondence that could not wait. It was abominably rude, to Mary’s thinking.

Mr. Fletcher rested on a settee next to Louisa while Mary and Mr. Savage took the chairs across from them. Though speaking to Mr. Savage, Mary lent half an ear to Louisa and Mr. Fletcher. However, their heads were bent toward each other, and they spoke in so intimate a manner that Mary could not hear what was said. Mr. Fletcher touched Louisa’s arm, a familiarity that reverberated through Mary’s own arm. Though pleased by the development, it gave her the sensation of standing alone on a beach while watching a ship take sail.

Louisa turned to Mary. “It is decided. We will hold another meeting of the Literary Society. One sour apple in Miss Barry will not deter us.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased.” Mary lied. “Will you invite Miss Barry?”

“It would seem strange if we did not,” said Mr. Fletcher. “Though I rather hope she doesn’t accept the invitation.”

“Agnes, what do you think?” Mary asked, hoping Agnes would not use this as an opportunity to wage war on Miss Barry.

Agnes looked up from her letter. “I enjoyed Miss Barry’s comments. It is no fun to belong to a literary society if everyone agrees. Conflict is necessary.”

So long as A Woman Who Loves was never mentioned again, Mary tried not to care who would attend.

L ouisa wished only for solitude. While Mr. Fletcher applauded her behavior in asserting her opinion, she felt her aunt’s disapproval, and it reminded her how much she suffered. No one was happy with her. Not her father, who wanted nothing to do with her. Not her aunt, who wanted her to like old Mr. Fletcher. She could not please them any more than she could pretend contentment with their plans for her. They expected her delight when they schemed on her behalf. She knew what she wanted, but no one ever asked. Not that it would help, since she desired Mr. Lawrence, who ignored her plight and did not offer for her, though he knew she would accept a proposal. She sighed. Oh, mama. If you were here, all would be set to rights.

That was not quite true, for while Mother could soothe and advocate for her, she could not turn Mr. Lawrence’s head or gain his affection. If Mr. Lawrence loved her, he would have written. She did not comprehend what more he required, but if she figured it out, she would do it, cast aside Aunt Mary’s plans, and run to him.

Mr. Fletcher still spoke to her, but her eyes stung, and she could not attend him when her own thoughts were so pressing. She nodded and hummed in agreement.

Because of her rudeness to Miss Barry, Louisa endured even more condemnation, even though Aunt Mary’s insolent words to Mr. Bateman the other night far exceeded her own.

Mrs. Eliot called to Mr. Fletcher, and he moved to the other side of the room to speak with her and Aunt Mary.

“You look rather glum.” Mr. Savage approached, his frank observationcatching Louisa off guard.

“Please, sit down.” He did, and she examined his features. Though they’d spoken before, this was the first time she scrutinized him with interest. He was handsome in the way one might imagine the great hero of a story. Too handsome for her taste and with none of the softness Mr. Lawrence held in his eyes and at the edge of his mouth. Mr. Savage had steel grey eyes and a slight sneer that never quite went away, even when he smiled. He looked the way Louisa felt. Dissatisfied and confined.

She experimented with honesty. “I am. I feel as if my life has been laid out and decided, not by myself or even by providence, but by my father.” Here she hesitated. “And by other meddling family members, though I love them dearly.” Mr. Savage nodded but said nothing. “This is perhaps a problem unique to my sex.” She bit her lip, hoping her sincerity would not drive him away.

“I think not. My experience is much the same. We are ruled by our relations and by circumstances.”

“Circumstances of our family’s making.”

His lips curled. “Yes. And we are left feeling as if we have no power at all.”

A warm shiver crept down Louisa’s arms. He echoed the thoughts of her heart. “I feel trapped.”

“Trapped,” said Mr. Savage at the same time Louisa said it herself. “In my wildest fantasy, I ride away to a place where I can do better for myself, much like Richard in A Woman Who Loves .”

“Where would you go? What would you do?” Louisa was intrigued, his admission mirroring her own fantasies.

“I’ve always been one to do my duty. I came home from Cambridge early to take care of my ailing father. Since then, I’ve been strapped to my family, ensuring my sister finds a husband, looking after my mother.”

“I am sorry. Is your father gone, then?”

“Yes, he died two years ago.”

He understood. His experience paralleled her own. “I recently lost my mother, and now I am nothing but a burden to my father. He wants to dispose of me.”

Mr. Savage’s eyes, which had seemed cold only moments before, were full of sympathy. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“As am I. We are not so different, are we?”

“It seems not.”

Their eyes locked in understanding.

From across the room, Mr. Fletcher stood, and Mr. Savage followed. The visit ended, but Louisa’s exchange with Mr. Savage lightened her heart. She was not alone. If nothing else, one person understood. It wasn’t much, but it stitched together a tiny bit of the wound that grew within her since her mother became ill. This new friendship felt important.

Her mother’s affliction had been of some duration. The pain of watching her mother grow less capable of performing the requisite tasks of daily life left Louisa ragged. By the end, she had been her mother’s nurse and maid in every way.

“Darling, will you put my hair up? I want to dine with the family today.” This and other requests had made up the final year of her mother’s life. She asked Louisa to care for her appearance as well as administer medicines and remind her to eat. So, Louisa learned how. At the time, she wondered why her mother did not engage the maid or the doctor. Now, the memories were precious. While Louisa pulled a brush through her mother’s hair or tightened her stays, they chattered and gossiped, and Louisa had received all the motherly advice she would miss in the years to come. It was the greatest gift her mother had left her.

Despite all those wise words, Louisa found herself in her current predicament, pressured to form an attachment with someone for whom she had no feelings. Since Mr. Lawrence was not in Bath, she could not chance upon him in town to remind him of her existence or hint at the expectation of a proposal.

Louisa watched out the window as Mr. Savage mounted the landau. His lithe figure looked well inside the carriage. A small smile tickled the edge of her mouth. She’d gained a true friend that day.