Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

W ith utmost anguish had Mary read Louisa’s parting letter and wondered at the boldness of the child. Louisa stated that her decision to leave was inspired not only by A Woman Who Loves but also by Mary herself. Mary’s courage in becoming an author. Mary’s unflinching treatment of Mr. Bateman. Even parrying comments to protected her identity as an author.

Rain fell softly against the carriage and trickled down the window, nature reflecting her suffering, even if she could not yet cry over it. Too sick for tears, her eyes ached and burned. Her stomach, though empty, felt like it carried a quarry full of rocks. How could she tell her brother that under her care, his only daughter had run away with a scoundrel? And that her action was inspired by Mary’s poor example.

This was what happened when one did not watch herself, when a woman cared too little for what others thought of her. She paid the price now. Under the presumption that no one would ever read her writing, and she’d written a salacious tale that indeed inspired an innocent to take an irredeemable step. Even if Louisa was found, her reputation lay in tatters. Not even the man Stephen planned to marry her off to would take her.

A groan escaped Mary’s lips. She swallowed it.

“What was that?” Daniel asked.

“What?”

“I thought you said something.”

Mary shook her head.

“Have you read anything by Eliza Haywood?” Daniel asked.

“Every word.” She was too tired to evade the truth but averted her head, watching rain slither down the window.

“Oh.” Daniel’s surprise expressed his opinions regarding her reading habits. “What do you think of her?”

Mary became intensely aware of their solitude, as it reminded her of a scene from a Ms. Haywood novel. The comparison brought heat to Mary’s cheeks. In truth, she had nothing to be ashamed of in her present action. The lenience given to widows did not extend to young ladies. Mary took a shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry. I only meant to distract you,” he said.

“I need to gather my thoughts. I suppose I admire her. There are no other women who write so boldly about women, their desires, and social impediments. Did you know she started her own printing press when her publisher didn’t pay enough?”

“I did not. An enterprising woman.”

“Yes, and though criticized by the likes of Mr. Pope, I am sure he wishes he sold as many books.”

“No doubt.”

“Have you read anything by her?”

“I cannot say that I have, but after reading A Woman Who Loves , I might.”

Another stone dropped into Mary’s stomach. She did not like the comparison, but it was inevitable. “Lady Mary is far tamer than Eliza Haywood.”

Beside her, Daniel shuddered, and she found he was laughing.

“What can possibly be funny?”

“I was thinking of Miss Barry accusing you of authoring A Woman Who Loves and the look on her face when you refuted her.”

She wanted to say that she did not find it amusing, but he might be offended, so she restrained herself. Instead, she said, “I am grateful you defended me.” Gratitude blossomed in her when he stood by her that night, but it had since dried up. She felt like a shriveled plant which no one expected to produce fruit.

Daniel sobered. “You know, Miss Thorpe practically memorized that book. It is no wonder she eloped like Penelope. Perhaps A Woman Who Loves is not a good influence for young minds after all.”

She turned as far away from him as possible in the small equipage. “You hardly need remind me of that.”

“Pardon me, I did not mean to suggest it is your fault. Did you introduce her to the book?”

“You might say that.”

“Even so, she is at liberty to make her own choices.”

Was she? Was anyone? Poor, stupid Louisa. This single foolish use of agency would lead her to harsher confines than ever. Saddled to a reckless gambler or abandoned by him, Louisa was ruined.

“Why not tell me one of Eliza Haywood’s stories to pass the time?”

In that moment, Mary could only think of Fantomina , wherein the heroine disguises herself several times to seduce the same man. One did not speak of such things. She put her hot cheek against the window and shook her head.

“You must forgive me. I lack presence of mind,” Mary said. She chanced a look at him and then could not tear her eyes from his. The gravel in her stomach turned molten, and she became aware of each place his body pressed against hers. The shoulders that overlapped; their elbows, hips, and knees pressed and jostled together in a sudden rush of heat. Rain poured faster, creating a curtain around them.

He leaned toward her. He parted his lips, licked his lower lip, closed his mouth. He was going to kiss her, but then he dropped his eyes to his lap. “Perhaps you should know…I overheard a conversation some weeks ago between Miss Thorpe and Mr. Savage, and I failed to tell you of it. I believed that speaking with Savage would be enough. I was mistaken. I…I am sorry for it.”

“What did they say?”

Daniel knitted his brow. “Some nonsense about Savage wanting to become a farmer, take a wife, and live quietly in the country.”

“That seems innocent enough.” She wiped her forehead, collecting herself from the assumption of his kiss.

“It does now that I say it, but at the time it seemed suggestive, as if he were on the verge of inviting her to join him. His estate neighbors mine, but I would hardly call it a farm. It’s expansive.” Daniel’s eyes lit. “Although, he does have a hunting box. He told me about it, spoke of it the same way he told Louisa about the farm, his place of refuge.”

“Do you think…”

“It’s a possibility. Either way, it is on the road to Scotland. If they are there, it will save us a journey.”

Air ballooned in her chest, and she swallowed the overflow that might become a sob. It wasn’t much, but it was more hope than she had two minutes ago. “I am very grateful. And that is not a strong enough word for what I feel. Thank you for your help.” She put her hand on his forearm and pressed her appreciation.

Thunder rumbled in the not distant clouds, and with it the rain fell in deafening droves. The carriage stopped, and the valet rapped the window before shouting that the roads were too muddy to proceed and they must stop at an inn. Mary nodded her assent to Daniel. If they were stopping, Louisa had also stopped. Until there was nothing left, Mary would choose optimism.

In a few minutes, they arrived at an inn and were dripping puddles on a clean floor.

“Good morning,” Mary greeted the innkeeper, noting that the clock on the wall marked the time. It was early, and disappointment at the meager distance they’d crossed fell heavy. “My little brother and I?—”

“Little brother?” Daniel scoffed close enough to Mary’s ear that she shivered.

“—would like refreshment by the fire, if you please.” She would pay for all the expenses of the travel and so had made a point of entering the inn first and putting herself in charge.

“We may need rooms if the rain continues,” Daniel said.

“Yes. For my brother and me,” Mary said. What a useless thing to reiterate. She pinched her lips together.

That seemed to catch the innkeeper’s attention, and he examined them with narrowed eyes.

“You’re not the first brother and sister to come here today,” the innkeeper said with a touch of incredulity.

“Aren’t we?” Daniel said.

“The first pair had no resemblance either.”

“We are following our siblings. Perhaps it was them. Do you recall their names?” Hope fluttered in Mary’s chest.

“No.”

“What did they look like? A fair-haired man and a young lady with blonde curls?” Mary asked.

“Perhaps. They wanted to change horses, but the pair they arrived with was badly treated. Run practically to death. I chastised the man and told him to go elsewhere. He’d not ruin my horses.”

Daniel leaned forward. “Is there another place nearby where they may have changed?”

“Only one. Down the road a half mile.”

With a meaningful look at Mary, Daniel said, “I’d best go and see if that pair is in the stables.”

Mary allowed Daniel to see her settled by the fire before he left. She lingered on the sight of his broad shoulders and confident gait until he disappeared. What was she thinking? She raised her palms over flaming cheeks. In the carriage, she imagined he would kiss her. She noticed his fine figure. She lamented his absence. Absurd. And under such circumstances!

These were the feelings of a younger inexperienced girl, not of a widow. More than twenty years ago, in her first bloom of youth, Daniel had been a child, an adolescent. The absurdity that she might fall in love with a man so much younger…well, the idea did not deserve thought. Highly improper.

Mary laughed at herself and clutched her locket. The light fluttering of the heart, the heavy yearning in the belly, were sensations she had buried with Lord Allen, except they unearthed themselves when Daniel Fletcher walked into the room. Her love for her first husband was a fortress, a shelter built by the two of them with struggles and disappointments. The kind of love that is strengthened over hardship is not replaceable.

Early in their marriage, Mary had received a letter from Agnes, inviting her to act as partner and treasurer for an orphanage, an idea that thrilled her. She could not wait to tell her husband about the project and hoped it was something the two of them could work on together. She’d spent the day making lists of all the things they could do, the people she would contact, the money she might raise, and the best way to keep a ledger.

At that time, they lived on Lord Allen’s estate outside of London with his younger sister and his mother. Mary had been bored with minimum responsibility to run the household since her mother-in-law found endless reasons to postpone her move to the dower house. Mary expected she would have a child and that would solve the problem, but it never happened, though they’d been married for nearly a year. This work with Agnes would close a gap in Mary’s life. When she sat in the morning room with a stack of beautiful stationary at her elbow, she would have a list of things to do, important letters to write, people to meet. A life.

When her husband came home, he kissed her forehead and took her hands with bright eyes, his manner indicating he had something to tell her as well. They had a light argument about who should tell their news first, each insisting the other begin. Mary prevailed, and her husband told her about an estate in Ireland that was neglected. He proposed they move, remove themselves from his overbearing family. The property had great potential and could increase the family’s income. With a sinking heart and a glance at Agnes’s letter, she agreed to a change that would remove her from family, friends, and country, as duty required.

“Now you can stop writing your silly stories and run a household.” He had said this with the assurance of one bestowing a long desired gift. With a beaming smile, he slid his arms around her and kissed her neck, twirling her around while tears pricked Mary’s eyes. He never knew that in five short minutes, he’d shattered her dreams and her confidence.

Months earlier when he discovered by accident that she was a writer, he seemed delighted. She shared her stories with him and believed he enjoyed her writing. But that day she learned that he thought writing a waste of time or of lesser importance than keeping a house. Through the passage of time, his words twisted her heart anew.

Perhaps she should have told him about the orphanage. A home as far as Ireland prohibited her from any meaningful impact she may have had on the orphanage. She did not want to leave, even when living with her mother-in-law galled. If she had protested, would he have honored her wishes and remained in England? Was her ambition important enough to impede her husband’s desires? She would never know. When he asked for her news, she said she had received a letter from Agnes. The conversation ended, and Lord Allen left to tell his mother their plans.

Months passed before she let go of bitterness and surrendered to the effort of building a beautiful life with her husband. She learned the power of forgiveness and saw that he matched her in loyalty and love. She opened her heart and gave him all her love. To give and receive that tenderness without inhibition transformed her. There could be nothing equal to it. She continued writing but was not prolific. Keeping house did require much of her time. Eventually, she shared her stories with him again but never with the same relish as in the beginning. Even with forgiveness, some slights are never forgotten.

The fire in the inn did its job. Mary’s clothing dried. She looked at her hands, and the black stain on her right finger seemed darker than ever. Despite many efforts, she could never stop writing. It was the one thing that belonged wholly to herself. To think, she was a published author. How would Lord Allen have responded to the circumstance that his wife’s silly words were popular beyond expectation?

Instead of ruminating on the past, Mary concentrated on eating. She slathered clotted cream onto a scone and took a bite, but it stuck to the roof of her mouth like paste and sawdust. She waited with little patience for Daniel’s return. Tea was the only thing that agreed with her, and she had consumed an entire pot by the time he strode into the room, a huge grin on his face.

“My horses are in the stables.” He sat down opposite her, bringing with him a chill of the outdoors that rushed over her too-warm face.

“You must sit closer to the fire and dry yourself,” Mary urged him. He did as she bid. “Now, tell me what this means for our search and in what condition you found your horses?”

He explained that the horses only needed rest. The man at the posting house told Savage that because the horses were exhausted, they must change in less than ten miles. Mary closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her hand. A decidedly unladylike posture, but she did not want Daniel to see the tears in her eyes. They knew their next stop and were headed in the right direction. If not for the weather, they might have found them already.

Daniel reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a small book bound in green cloth, no bigger than Mary’s hand. “I brought you something to distract you from your troubles.” He held the book out to her, their fingers brushing when she took it from him, smiling.

“Thank you.” Mary ran her finger along the soft broken spine. The book was well-worn, its binding loose. It crackled as she opened it, the well-read pages velvet soft, smelling sweet and musky. No one had given her so thoughtful a present in a very long time.

“There was not much to choose from, but I thought we might read to one another to pass the time.” His neck turned red as he spoke.

“I like Katherine Philips. Do you know her work?”

He shook his head, and they lapsed into silence.

“You seem thoughtful.” Daniel pulled the untouched platter of meat, cheese, and bread toward him.

Mary set the book aside but rested her fingers on the smooth cover while turning an eye to the window, where rain screened the view of the road. Since she was impotent to do more to find Louisa, she needed to cast away her worry. “I was thinking about how our past choices affect our present.”

Daniel’s eyes grew soft. He reached out, and for a moment, Mary thought he would touch her bare hand. Just before his fingers touched hers, he dropped his hand to the table.

“I understand you. Miss Thorpe and Mr. Savage have made a terrible decision that may affect the rest of their lives for ill.”

Mary swallowed. She hadn’t forgotten about them, but she was a little ashamed for thinking of herself.

“Yes. Louisa’s flight will not serve her well.” She paused. “And I was thinking about my own life. Just a silly old woman’s fancies.”

“Old?” he asked, stressing the word with incredulity.

“Compared to you, little brother.”

“Why do you think of yourself that way? There is nothing old or silly about you.” He tapped her hand with his forefinger. He was probably only trying to make a point, but something in her stomach flipped, and her hand stilled. Mary almost took hold of her locket. But if she drew her hand away, there was no chance he would touch her again. It was a long time since an attractive gentleman had touched her or noticed her at all.

“Well?” Daniel asked.

She couldn’t remember the question. All she knew was that she and Daniel sat across a table, leaning toward one another, and neither of them was breaking eye contact.

“I was thinking of my late husband.”

Daniel sat up and crossed his arms, the spell broken. Mary didn’t know how to reclaim the moment, so she plowed forward. “If we hadn’t moved to Ireland, my life may have been different.”

Daniel nodded. “I know how that feels. I don’t know where I would be if I had not gone into banking.”

“Do you wish you’d done something else?”

“No. But I regret leaving on poor terms with my father.”

He leaned forward again, his arms crossed over the table. She’d brought him close again. To hold him there, she began talking, not knowing what made her divulge her life to him. “I nursed a grudge against my mother, and she died before I could reconcile with her.”

Daniel’s eyes understood, and he gave her a tight half-smile.

“It’s a healed wound and doesn’t carry the sting it used to. In my heart I’ve come to peace with her.” It also helped that her mother didn’t know that she embarrassed Mary.