Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

M ary stood before her maid, Nellie, who pinned a cerulean silk gown onto a tufted and gathered stomacher in preparation for the evening’s ball. Lace spilled from bell-shaped cuffs, and the blue, less austere than lavender, reminded her of Mr. Fletcher’s eyes. The thought brought a rush of color to her cheeks. The blush suited her, but she would not think of him.

“There you are, ma’am. A splendid gown,” Nellie said.

Mary turned in the mirror. This change in style connected her to her younger, more hopeful self and brought her out of mourning and into this new facet she inhabited as an author and one willing to explore new avenues of happiness. Though she traveled a precarious path, she might become comfortable within her own paradoxical identity. She could remain stable on the precipice she walked and never allow the truth to emerge.

“Thank you, Nellie. Will you see if Louisa needs your attention?”

When Nellie was gone, she pushed the button on her locket and beheld her husband’s likeness. “Is what I do so very wicked?” she asked him. Sweetness swelled in her chest. He had liked her tales. Upon his discovery of her writing habit, she read him her work in the evenings after dinner. While Charlotte sighed over Mary’s stories, he found their humor. His laughter had been like a swallow of warm honey that filled her completely.

Inside the assembly hall, the evening advanced in its predictable procession. Mary peeked through the crowd to watch Louisa dance with a foppish young gentleman whose skip was entirely too enthusiastic. The floor flashed in a dizzying parade of embroidery and chintz, ribbons and lace, fringes and tassels. Candlelight flickered over young faces bright in anticipation of finding a partner for a dance or even for life. They glowed with the hopefulness of youth. And why shouldn’t they? Life’s sorrows would come. Let them find joy.

Mary tapped her toe to the rhythm of the dance but did not need to dance to take pleasure in the ball. Since arriving in Bath, the sorrow that followed her through widowhood slipped away. Instead of believing her grief too dense for future happiness, she was grateful for the wisdom her experience lent her. She retained no envy for the young ladies whose lives had not yet taught them sorrow reigned supreme. She felt light, fresh, and—dare she admit—beautiful.

A hand slid onto the small of her back, and she turned.

“Mr. Bateman.” Mary almost told him it was a pleasure to see him, but she bit back the falsehood.

“I wanted to express my sincere regrets for my enthusiastic admiration of you at dinner. You must understand I am not quite myself in your company.”

Mary nodded in reply, moving away from him so she could not smell his sour breath. He followed her.

“Please accept my apology and honor me with a dance.” He had already tucked her arm beneath his and was leading her into the group of dancers. She was too stunned to object.

When he leaned too close or held her too tight, she stiffened her arm and pushed him back. The delight of dancing was worth the discomfort so long as she kept her partner in check. Though he lacked both elegance and finesse, Mary’s nimble feet missed nothing. With delicacy and grace, she slid down the line of dancers, like a swan over smooth water. Her arm arched over her head to touch Mr. Bateman’s, and she was vaguely glad they both wore gloves. She was certain he was the sort of man whose palms were perpetually damp.

She could not but compare this experience to what she’d felt years earlier when her worth rested on the number of dances she performed and the quality of the gentlemen who stood opposite her. The emotions of her sixteen-year-old self endured the passage of time. She had waited for a partner among a throng of other young ladies, all of whom she was certain were prettier, more accomplished, and cleverer than she. With determined fortitude, she kept a hopeful smile pinned to her face. But when Lord Allen had taken her in his arms, her confidence blossomed.

On this night, her enjoyment had nothing to do with her partner. She sensed the floor beneath her slippers, heard the swish of her dress, which added to the allure of the music. Forty trumped sixteen. At her current age, she no longer fluttered with hope and distress at the approach of a man. Though her figure was soft and full rather than light and willowy, confidence in her splendor banished anxiety. She was free to revel in the evening.

When the dance ended, Mr. Bateman tugged her close. “Is it true? Are you Lady Mary?”

Her elbow shot out to remind him he was too close. “Look at me, sir. Do I look like a woman who would do so base a thing?”

His eyes reduced to slits. “No. I must admit you do not. But your life parallels the story and?—”

“A mere coincidence.” She lowered her chin and put on a show of humility. “Tell me, should I be flattered by your outlandish assumption?”

“Well, I…” He knitted his brow, seeming to consider, and opened his mouth as if ready to speak, but Agnes appeared at her side, followed by Mr. Fletcher, who edged Mr. Bateman out of the circle and offered the ladies a lemonade.

Mary thanked Mr. Fletcher and inwardly sighed over his thoughtfulness. He would make a fine husband for Louisa, who appeared, flushed and smiling.

“Mr. Fletcher, my niece looks lovely tonight, does she not?” Mary nodded at the two of them in turn, but Mr. Fletcher’s smile fell.

“She does indeed. Mrs. Allen, would you care?—”

“And the two of you look so well together.” Mary ignored Louisa’s glare and smiled when Mr. Fletcher took the hint and asked Louisa to dance.

Louisa’s hand curled over Mr. Fletcher’s arm as if it belonged there.

“See, Agnes. How well they suit.” He was in every way a gentleman.

At that moment, Mr. Fletcher looked back at Mary, who nodded her approval, but her traitorous heart fell at not being the one on his arm.

“The only thing I saw was a man wishing to ask one woman to dance and then being obliged to ask another.” Agnes sniffed.

Mary would have liked to dance with him, to feel his hand on her back and to stand close enough to look into his eyes, just as he did with Louisa at that very moment. “Don’t be silly,” Mary whispered.

Agnes nodded toward the door. “Miss Barry has arrived.”

Wearing an immense feather in her hair, Miss Barry greeted everyone she passed, drawing the attention of the room. Mr. Nash, the master of ceremonies, was at her elbow, and they walked together like the king and queen of the assembly. The lightness that filled Mary’s chest seeped out as she watched her former schoolmate approach.

“Mrs. Allen, or shall I call you Lady Mary? How do you do? And you, Mrs. Eliot. I hope both of you have recovered from the literary discussion of the other day?”

While Mary felt herself shrink, Agnes grew until she towered over the pudgy Mr. Beau Nash, showing them both she was the real sovereign. “How do you do, Miss Barry? Mr. Nash? Lovely evening.” She sipped her punch, her eyes trailing away from them.

“I am hosting a rout the day after tomorrow and hoped the two of you would come. Miss Thorpe is, of course, invited,” Miss Barry said.

“Oh, dear. We are having our own evening affair that night. I don’t suppose you would care to join our party.”

“I’m afraid I’ve already issued a number of invitations.”

“A pity.” Agnes did not appear to have any regrets.

Miss Barry walked away.

Mary nudged Agnes. “But we have no plans.”

“We do now, and we must invent a gathering no one will want to miss.”

“You are childish.”

Agnes beamed and departed to make her invitations.

Mary turned her attention to the dance floor, noting the grace with which Mr. Fletcher turned. He bent his head near Louisa’s and said something near her ear. Louisa laughed up at him. An ache compressed Mary’s heart. Perhaps youth had its advantages. Mr. Fletcher smiled back at Louisa, his arm wrapped around her back, and their fingers mingled.

Mary’s mood soured. She walked demurely to the refreshment table and took a measured sip of punch, a practiced show of elegance.

“Mrs. Allen, how do you do?” Miss Rowe, a member of the literary society, appeared at her side with several other young ladies.

Mary nodded, but her cordiality faded when she recognized the petition in their too eager eyes. Since Miss Barry’s accusation, a few curious people had approached her with speculative expressions and leading questions. “Good evening,” she said.

“We wondered if you would sign our copies of your book.”

This, she was not prepared for. She glanced around the room. Several groups of people looked back at her. Did everyone suspect? Had Miss Barry been so convincing or her gossip so pervasive and enduring? Impossible. A fortnight passed since that grand revelation, and though there were whispers, these were the first overt questions from mere acquaintances. Besides, if at first one suspected she had authored the book, her genteel behavior was beyond reproach. Surely her refined comportment was enough to convince the world of her innocence. In fact, how dare they believe it of her?

She forced a tittering laugh. “You are darlings to imagine I could do such a thing. Lemonade?” She held a cup to Miss Rowe, pleased with herself for dodging their entreaty so gracefully.

Hours later, Mary’s feet ached. She danced several times and had a lovely evening, but the whispered remarks about her authorship sunk her spirits. At the edge of the dance floor, her heart began to flutter and press inside her. Do not allow those thoughts space . She was hot and needed air. She slipped out the door to the balcony where, as expected, several couples lingered. She inhaled cooler night air, gripping the rail of the balcony and watching a sequence of carriages stopping to collect the attendees of the ball and take them off to their beds.

She sensed someone at her side and looked up, brushing against Mr. Fletcher. His breath caught just as her own chest hitched. They stood very close, their arms touching. She was powerless to pull away.

“You seemed to enjoy the evening,” he said, his gaze intense, blue eyes sparking black in the darkness.

“I did, thank you, but I am grateful the balls in Bath end at eleven rather than going on and on into the early hours of the morning as they do in London.”

“I cannot endure endless parties.” They shared a smile.

As Louisa’s chaperone, it was her responsibility to become better acquainted with him. “What brought you to Bath? If you wished for a diversion, London is far closer to Chesterfield.”

After a moment of hesitation, he said, “My father wishes me to marry. Since I do not enjoy the bustle of London, I came here.”

His admitted search for a wife suggested an understanding beyond her knowledge. Was he about to ask for Louisa’s hand? His father wished him to marry. Did he not want that for himself? She faced him, her back resting against the rail, but she lacked the courage to ask her questions.

“Tell me about Ireland.” His look intensified, and she could not tear her eyes from his.

The answer twisted with complications, and Mary considered telling him what she told everyone else. But somehow, he did not feel like everyone else. “My late husband and I relocated to one of his holdings in Ireland following the first anniversary of our marriage. He dreamed of revitalizing the place.” She examined his expression. He was interested. Still, she wondered if she should go on. His slight nod persuaded her. “I did not want to go, though living with his mother was uncomfortable at best. I thought it absurd for a man with so much to go so far away. I suppose he wanted to prove himself.” She waved a hand, brushing away the notion. “I was angry with him and shut a part of myself away in a foolish attempt at revenge.” She pressed her fingers into his arm, urgently and inexplicably wanting him to understand this part. Perhaps her wisdom would help him with Louisa. “We worked through it. I changed my attitude, and he worked to understand me. It was painful and took some time, but we were so happy. Then he got sick and died with his dream only half realized.” She became wistful, tired guilt resurfacing, regret spilling into her voice. “Imagine if I had held on to my grudge.”

“You stayed in Ireland alone?”

His legs pressed against her skirt, a distraction she breathed through. “I did for nearly twenty years, to finish what my husband started. It eased my grief.” With as much lightness as she could muster, she said, “The estate is thriving now, and under excellent management.”

“But you didn’t stay.”

“No. I missed my family and England. The occasional excursions home always felt too short.” The conversation shifted from her control as his questions became almost impertinent. He was not one for small talk, never commenting on the weather or sharing gossip. A serious man who appreciated thoughtful conversation. She’d said enough and wished to understand his past. “Your father wishes you to marry. You do not?”

His eyes grew flat. “No…I mean, yes. But I will not marry for love.”

“Why ever not?” The words were out before she considered them.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It feels impossible that I should find one whom I trust well enough to share my heart. Most marriages are of a practical nature. Perhaps love is a complication.” His words were slow and deliberate, as if giving voice to an insecurity that sat unexplored.

Mary’s traitorous heart fluttered in her throat. The man was an idealist. No one ever said share my heart who was not a true passionate, but what made him hesitate? “And yet, here you are, dancing, dining, making calls. Sowing seeds of love.”

He smiled, a wry, half-effort that was no smile at all. “I…well, there was a lady whom I believed would be my wife, but…” His voice cracked. It was clear someone had broken his heart.

“I am sure she did not deserve you.” She slid her hand over his and squeezed. “There is a better lady for you.”

His eyes cut to hers and stayed. There was a deep sadness in them that begged her to be right.

“Perhaps. Well, I begin to believe there is a prospect,” he spoke haltingly, “for an understanding or that two people might understand one another…here…or at home, I meant to say.”

Was it Mary’s imagination, or did he shift toward her? They were already standing close enough that an observer might assume they were lovers. No bystander could know they were speaking of his future with Louisa.

“I am happy to hear that.” Ashamed that her words came out in a breathy sigh, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. “My niece is a dear girl.”

Mr. Fletcher blinked twice then turned away from her. When he said nothing in reply, Mary, feeling uncomfortable with the alteration in mood, searched for another topic of conversation. “Have you and Miss Thorpe decided on the next book for the literary society?”

“Poetry. We decided on something more sober, Thomas Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in Country Churchyard.’”

Mary laughed. “Rather morbid. Surely that was not Louisa’s idea.”

He smiled back at her. “No. But I persuaded her it would be less controversial than Ms. Haywood’s Love in Excess .”

“Dear me. I must thank you for saving us from that disaster.” Mary was both appalled that Louisa would make the suggestion and grateful for Mr. Fletcher’s interference. The discussion might include a comparison of her own book to Ms. Haywood’s, and she did not wish to be likened to an author of questionable morals. People already suspected her, and she did not believe she could maintain her countenance should someone compare the two books.

“Would you care to dance? I believe this is the last set.”

Mary nodded and linked her arm in his, ready to savor the delights of the dance floor and this transient joie de vivre . They navigated the crowded room, her arm linked through his, pressing against his rib. She felt the rise and fall of his breath, and it sent a jolt straight to her belly, liquefying her insides. The orchestra began, and she remained steady, light as a dandelion seed taking flight in his arms. His hand splayed against her back and pulled her to him. They stepped apart, palms sparking together, and turned, never allowing their eyes to stray. The room dimmed and sparkled, the music intensified and vibrated more harmoniously, and the moment became ethereal. She felt grounded, present, and calm while hummingbirds fluttered an unyielding rhythm in her chest.

This dance held danger. His proximity, his mere existence, frightened and tempted and allured her. She did not mean to step so close or to show longing in each brush of the hand. Her body exiled prudish manners, and they danced as lovers might. When the song ended, they would part ways, the heat would dissipate, their moment deteriorating into tepid friendship.

L ouisa’s low spirits lifted when Mr. Savage asked her for the final dance of the evening. A shiver chased up her arm when he took her hand in his and looked at her as if he could read her soul. The music began, and Mr. Savage’s cool eyes did not leave hers. He wore an expression new to Louisa. A word from Aunt Mary’s book put a name to it. Sultry . His eyes pulled away and slid down her neck to her bodice. When the dance brought them close, she felt his breath, hot on her cheek and through her hair. She liked it.

“We are good friends. You must call me Tobias.”

Louisa nodded at the acknowledgement. It felt good to have a confidant, and she needed one, for John had not come. He had not written or even acknowledged the letters she sent him weeks ago, though she knew he had received them. Aunt Charlotte had written saying she had run into Mr. Lawrence in town. He told Aunt Charlotte Louisa had written, inquiring after the health of his sister, and asked her to please inform Louisa there was no longer any need to write to him. His sister was fully recovered.

A rejection.

“And you must call me Louisa.”

In step with the dance, he kissed her hand as if they were being introduced for the first time, his lips lingering a moment longer than she expected. Heat crept up her neck. He admired her. That much was clear.

“Let’s get some air.” When they progressed to the end of the line, they slipped out of the dance through the crowd and onto the balcony.

Louisa breathed. “This is nice. The ballroom is stifling.” Feeling bold, she squeezed his arm.

“You and I are through being stifled.” Over the past few weeks, each time she and Tobias met, they spoke for a few minutes on this theme. Now that there was no longer any hope of marriage with John, these conversations were precious.

He held her hand between both of his and brought it to his chest as if it were a fragile treasure. “My estate includes a bit of land near Chesterfield. It has been mismanaged and is rundown, but the more I think of it, the more I believe I would enjoy the challenge of farming. And it would benefit my mother and sister.”

“Tell me what it looks like, Tobias.” Louisa tried his name on her tongue and found it sweet.

“Louisa.” His handsome face stretched into a smile that felt like an embrace. “There is a little cottage with green rolling hills, perfect for sheep or whatever livestock you like. A little river runs through the back and there are trees for climbing and paths for exploring.” He continued describing a serene paradise, a place of freedom and peace. His narrative took hold of her and grew in her mind. She saw herself in emerald hills, carrying baskets to the villagers, her children swinging from the trees and rushing into a warm kitchen with a scraped knee, a line of trout, or an empty belly.

The tenderness of her thoughts settled like mulled wine in her stomach. While there was no Tobias Savage in her imaginings, he existed in the peripheries.

“Come with me, Louisa?” His eyes were dark and earnest.

“Where?”

“Come home with me. Start a new life. You and I are the same. Restless.” He was close to her, and his body warmed her from her shoulder to her knee. She had never been so close to a man. His scent was alluring, spicy and warm, an almost intoxicating smell that made her think of putting her face to his neck to inhale.

“Is this an offer of marriage?” She breathed the question, leaning closer to him.

He was moving to take hold of her other hand, but his motion stopped. He did not respond for a moment. “Yes. But let’s not do it the conventional way. We can travel north, to Gretna Green.”

“Like Penelope and Richard.” Her breath came fast. Could she? Dare she?

“Exactly so.” His lips covered hers, and she melted into him. He wanted her, understood and accepted her. She would agree to anything he asked of her.

His mouth slid from hers. “Let’s go tonight.”

Louisa’s heart set off in a gallop. To leave so soon. Her time in Bath was drawing to a close with a week remaining of the eight her father had given her. While Aunt Mary persisted in her belief that she would become engaged to Mr. Fletcher, Louisa never would accept him. He was far too old, they had nothing in common, and there was no passion, no spark, no yearning between them. She knew he had no feelings for her, but Tobias loved her. “I have arrangements to make. I must think it through.”

Tobias lifted the corner of his upper lip in an almost sneer, but she understood that his expressions were often misunderstood. “No, darling. We mustn’t wait for our courage to wane. Your maid is loyal to you, is she not? She can pack your things, and you will be ready in a few hours.”

“She can serve as chaperone.” Louisa was not certain Nellie would come. Mary employed her, but there was a chance, and her company would make all the difference.

He scratched his chin and explained that since they were to be married, they required no chaperone. But Louisa was not some silly girl. She read plenty of novels and knew better than to do anything without a chaperone.

She lowered her head and looked up at him through her lashes in an attitude that showed her to advantage. “I must insist on bringing Nellie. She is indispensable.”

Tobias started to say something, and Louisa was sure he would argue against bringing the maid. Louisa put her finger on his lips, a gesture she had fantasized trying on John, and said, “I insist. I will come with Nellie or not at all.”

Tobias agreed, and it was settled between them to meet at three that morning and set off to Gretna Green.

O n the carriage ride home, Louisa’s nerves were in shreds. Surely her secret was stamped on her face. Aunt Mary and Mrs. Eliot would pepper her with questions about the evening, but she kept her answers short, and her face averted.

Once inside, she kissed her aunt on the cheek and bid a hasty goodnight. Halfway up the stairs, she remembered that the next morning, she would be gone. Turning around, she descended the stairs and took Aunt Mary by both hands.

“Thank you, Aunt. You are very good to bring me here.”

“Well, I…” Aunt Mary seemed too shocked to say more.

“I know you were thinking of my mother when making this plan, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”

Her aunt flinched a little. Strange. Perhaps her motives were not so pure, though Louisa could not imagine what they were. “I do love you very much, Louisa.” Aunt Mary pressed a soft hand to Louisa’s cheek. The touch was almost Louisa’s undoing, but she excelled at swallowing her tears.

“Goodnight, Aunt. Thank you for everything.” And she meant it. Without the inspiration of her brave aunt, she would never dare leave with Mr. Savage. “And thank you, Mrs. Eliot, for hosting us. You’ve been wonderful.” She rushed up the stairs and sat on the bed to wait for Nellie.

The whole scheme depended on the maid’s acquiescence, the final piece that would give Louisa freedom. At last, Nellie entered with a cheerful “good evening” and began unpinning Louisa’s gown. While each removed pin freed her from the shell of her clothing, Louisa’s insides tightened, and her presence of mind devolved into agitation, the rehearsed plea for help elusive. Where to begin?

“I am eloping, and I hope you will come with me?” Her words came out in a tense rush, and she held her breath.

Nellie stilled and stared into her face. The eye contact stung Louisa’s eyes. “I will not betray my mistress.”

This plan must work. She was ready to beg. “It would be a betrayal not to come, for I go with or without you. If Aunt Mary discovers I am gone alone, think of her distress!”

“I will tell her now.”

“It will do no good. If I do not leave tonight, I will leave tomorrow. If they return me to my father, I will run from him. They will have to cage me to keep me. There is no stopping me, so you must come with me. For Aunt Mary.”

“Tell me all.” Nellie did not have a husband, and though several years older than Louisa, not so old that she would not understand Louisa’s predicament. At least, Louisa hoped so.

She explained about her father and his arranging a match. “I am out of time.”

“But why rush off? If you tell your father, he will accept Mr. Savage.”

Louisa sighed. How to explain? “I want to do something else, something no one expects. Take action all on my own, like a heroine in a story. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

Nellie shook her head. “There’s a purpose to following tradition.”

“That is why I need you. Your presence lends credence to the marriage. We will have a chaperone.”

“If I may speak boldly, miss, it is foolishness. Do you know him?”

“Enough to recognize that we are of one mind. We understand each other. We are both trapped. Don’t you see? This is my only escape.”

Nellie’s shoulders dropped. She was coming around.

“I need you with me.” Louisa took her by the shoulders. “Please. It is the right thing to do. Aunt Mary would wish it.”

“If anything is not right, you will come back with me.”

“I promise.” Louisa laid her hand over her heart to show sincerity.

While they swept the room clear of Louisa’s belongings, she imagined John’s disappointed face when he learned she was a married woman, settled comfortably in a cottage far away from Cornwall. She would never see him again, but she would write to his sister, tell of her marriage. When she expected her first child, she would inform the Lawrence family. John would be sorry.

At last, she made a choice for herself—and what a decision. Romance and adventure waited for her in only a few turns of the clock’s hand. Would Father miss her, be disappointed, or even care that she was gone?

Love was not exactly what she felt for Tobias, but she sympathized with him, which seemed far more important. Their singleness of heart would blossom into love. With her help, he would overcome the regrets of his past and bring her the happiness and contentment she had not found since her mother’s death.

Her trunk was packed, and her maid was ready to accompany her. A letter of farewell lay on her pillow, and she had only to wait for the clock to strike three in the morning.

“I have a pair of fast horses,” Tobias had said. “We will be out of reach by sunrise.”

Out of reach. The words were a balm to Louisa. No more waiting for John. No more futile attempts to find a match. No more acting as pawn for her father. No more hurt or struggle. Louisa would soon be free.