Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

G iddy with this true engagement, Mary tried to suppress her smiles by squinting seriously across a vast dining room table at Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, Daniel’s sister and brother-in-law. Daniel wanted to make the announcement before Louisa arrived, since Mary would be obliged to return the girl home. He was, of course, correct. There would be little time to think of dinner parties once Louisa arrived.

She felt Daniel’s gaze and turned to him. His smile reassured but did not calm the bees that darted around inside her chest. Roses and candelabras filled the room with warm light and a sweet scent, but there was something disquieting about the ghoulish shadows they threw around the room. On the table, between vases of roses, were extravagant towers of fruit, jellies, and relishes. The party waited in silence for the host and hostess to appear.

“Perhaps we should help Papa?” Mrs. Chapman, Daniel’s sister, asked from the other side of the table, loud and echoing.

“He will refuse,” Daniel said. “He only allows Mother’s help.”

How had Mary arrived at this juncture, about to announce an engagement, a true engagement? A second marriage. Who was she to take so splendid a man from a young, deserving female? Mary seized her locket and held it to calm her buzzing heart. She released it and rested hand onto Daniel’s leg, a forward move she’d never dreamed of during her courtship with Lord Allen. Daniel’s warm hand enveloped hers, and all at once, her humming insides sighed and stilled.

“Brother, how did you meet Mrs. Allen?” Mrs. Chapman asked.

“At a ball. She immediately charmed me.”

This was news to Mary. “Did I? I felt the same for you.”

He turned toward her and trapped her gaze. She could look at him forever, lose herself in his pale blue eyes that returned her look with so much warmth.

“Really?” His question was only for her.

“Of course, but you are so much like a younger brother?—”

“Don’t say it!” His eyes crinkled, and he threw his head back, laughing.

She liquefied as his laugher warmed her chest and dripped hot into her middle. She tilted her head him toward him, and he met her halfway, foreheads pressed together. Surely, his sister could not see over the large bouquet between them. “I cannot resist your smile. Your laughter has me in a passion.” How dare she say these words aloud? They were the sentiments of a heroine from one of her novels. But they were true. She was those women and felt more authentic than ever before.

“Then I shall try my best to smile and laugh all the day long.”

“The vicar says public affection is in poor taste.” Mrs. Chapman blinked at them over a mountain of roses. The vicar, her husband, startled at the assertion, as if drawn from thought, and nodded.

“So it is. You will excuse us.” Daniel nudged Mary’s rib, and she bent her head into his shoulder to hide her laughter.

Unsteady steps sounded from the doorway. Mr. Fletcher hobbled forward, one arm around his wife and his other hand on a walking stick. Even in the dim light, he was pale, and his forehead glistened. He sat at the head of the table, an absurd distance from where the others were. Daniel would have to shout their announcement. Mrs. Fletcher took her place on the other end of the table. Considering all the décor, the husband and wife had little chance of seeing one another during the meal.

“Before we begin,” Mr. Fletcher hollered in a strained, gravelly voice, “I believe Daniel has an announcement to make. We shall hear him first, as I do not know how long I’ll be fit to sit at the table.”

Daniel stood. “Mary has accepted my proposal, and we are to be married as soon as may be.”

Half-hearted expressions of congratulations echoed through the hall, and Mary nodded in acceptance. Some little thrill zipped up her spine. This man, standing beside her, loved her. They were to marry despite any censure from his parents or anyone else.

Spoons scraped the bottoms of soup bowls, which were replaced by knives carving veal. Through dinner, Daniel’s touch anchored Mary. He rested his leg against hers under the table, and when her hand was available, she reached for his knee. Mrs. Chapman coughed any time Mary and Daniel brushed shoulders.

“Have you been to your reflector lately?” the vicar directed his question at Mr. Fletcher, using a booming voice more appropriate for the pulpit but necessary considering the cosmic length of the table.

“Not in my state of health, I haven’t,” Mr. Fletcher shouted back.

Mrs. Fletcher said something, a mere garbled hum to Mary’s ears.

“What was that, my dear?” Mr. Fletcher asked. “What did she say?”

She said something again, but it dissipated in echo.

The effort to speak was too great, and the clank of silverware replaced conversation. When dessert arrived with champagne, Mary sank her teeth into a crisp, light ratafia cake and wished to escape into the rose garden with Daniel. It meant something that she would rather be alone with him than eating sweets.

Mr. Fletcher stood, indicating the conclusion of a suffocating meal. Cane in hand, he wobbled toward his wife, who rushed to his side.

“Is this too much for you, darling? Shall we return you to your room?”

“Take me to the drawing room. We shall all sit a while. No need to linger over port tonight, gentlemen. We’ve had our champagne, and I would like to converse with my future daughter.” He waved away Daniel and Emma, who tried to help him cross the room.

A great fire stifled the drawing room, and Mary pulled Daniel in the direction of the settee near the window where the heat was not so consuming.

“Come sit over here, Mrs. Allen,” Mr. Fletcher said.

Unwillingly, she moved to the chair next to Mr. Fletcher, adjacent to the fire. Daniel sat beside her, an apology in his eyes.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Fletcher. “What do you bring to the marriage? You have some property, I understand?”

“Father, really…” Daniel said, but Mary put a steadying hand on his arm. They would work this out together. All she had would belong to her husband, unless she arranged it otherwise, and that was not so easily done. There was also the question of her royalties. It was no small sum. What was her duty in this case? Need she be forthright with Mr. Fletcher? Need she disclose all her assets? Dinner congealed in her stomach.

“I have an estate in Ireland, cared for by capable tenants.”

“Ireland tends to be cloudy, does it not?” he asked, his eyes narrowed and fingers steepled under his chin.

“Mine is primarily a livestock farm, located in the west. It rains, but not as much as in the east or south of Ireland. Why do you ask?” Her stomach tightened further. What was he after?

Daniel tensed beside her, leaned forward, and began to speak.

His father spoke louder. “We will sell it and buy something in the south where the sky is more visible.”

“Or nearby,” said his mother, “so we can be near Emma’s children. I don’t believe Mary can have?—”

“When we make arrangements for the wedding, draw up the papers, you will deed us your land in Ireland.”

“Father!” Daniel stood. “Absolutely out of the question.”

Mrs. Chapman and her husband sat on the periphery of the gathering but were not feigning disinterest in the conversation. “The vicar believes,” she said, “that a woman must yield all to husband, and a son must be filial.”

Daniel stood and began pacing before the fire. “I begin to understand why my marriage is so important to you.” His diamond-sharp voice did not ruffle his father.

Mr. Fletcher turned a placid eye to his son. “If you’d done as I’d asked and married that other girl, your mother and I were to move into her estate.”

Mary stilled. There was another woman? Young, no doubt, whose property they had planned to seize for themselves. Well, it was small wonder she disappointed them. They could live on her estate, but she would not allow them to sell. It must come back to her upon their deaths.

“We are tired of this old castle,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “It is over one hundred perilous steps to our rooms. We need a cottage without endless, narrow stairs; we’ve not the means to get it ourselves. While Grandmother did not entail the castle, she made it impossible to sell, else we certainly would.”

A pounding on the door interrupted the conversation. The prickly discussion yielded to the ticking of the clock and Mr. Fletcher’s labored breath. One of the maids entered the room. “Mr. Porter is here to see Mrs. Allen.”

It could not be. “Who did you say was at the door?” asked Mary.

“A Mr. Porter, ma’am.”

The room spun, and her heart pounded in sharp wallops. Mr. Porter, her publisher! Here. She rose to her feet and rushed toward the entrance hall. If she intercepted him before he introduced himself?—

“I am Lady Mary’s publisher, Mr. Porter.” Mary skidded to a stop in front of him. “Mrs. Eliot informed me of your whereabouts.” He took her hand and kissed it.

“There must be some mistake,” Daniel said. “This woman is not Lady Mary.”

“Mr. Porter,” Mary said. “This is a surprise.” Her ears were ringing, and she knew she spoke too loudly. “Let’s go into the library.” She took his arm.

“Lady Mary!” Mrs. Chapman said. “Really? Mama, do you know who this is? Her advanced age is benign by comparison. You have no idea what trouble we’ve had extricating that…that…refuse from the parish.”

Daniel collapsed against a wall; his face tightened into a grimace. Was it astonishment or revulsion?

“I am not surprised,” said Mr. Porter, who resisted Mary’s attempts to pull him out of the room. “She sold more books for Golden Buck Publishing than any release this decade. You should be proud to know her.” He beamed, clearly glad to know her himself. But Mary could not enjoy his enthusiasm with Daniel shaking his head. She shot him an imploring look, but he put his hand up and looked away. Did he find it so disgusting that she should write a book? A book he enjoyed, no less.

Mrs. Chapman continued, “It is an unholy novel. Isn’t it, Mr. Chapman?” Her husband nodded but continued looking out the window, probably at the full moon.

“I knew it was not meant to be.” Mrs. Fletcher clapped her hands, but Mr. Fletcher leaned over and whispered something to his wife. She patted his leg. “Of course, you are right dear, but without another prospect, it does ruin our plans. We must figure out something else. Besides, Mrs. Allen is so very old . We may never get a grandchild out of her.”

The maid appeared in the doorway. “Two more guest for you: Mrs. Eliot and Miss Thorpe.”

Mary spun toward the door. “Louisa!” She embraced her niece, who trembled in her arms. “All will be well, now. I will make sure of it.” Mary squeezed her, trying to imbue all her affection, all hope for Louisa’s future into the embrace, while stabilizing her own ragged breath.

“Louisa Thorpe?” Mr. Fletcher wobbled to his feet unaided.

Louisa stepped forward and nodded.

Mrs. Fletcher’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Are your affections engaged?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

Louisa shook her head.

“Mercy! We have been spared. Miss Thorpe, your father and I are old friends and have arranged a match between you and my son.”

Mary watched his mouth continue to move but heard nothing past the ringing in her head. Daniel and Louisa’s marriage was arranged. He still leaned against the wall, but as her eyes landed on his, he turned toward her, his face closed.

Through the commotion, Mary asked, “Daniel, did you know?”

He nodded and leaned forward, covering his face with his hands.

The world fell from beneath her. She could barely stand. Couldn’t breathe. Had it all been a lie? Was she merely a necessity to get the castle? Could she trust any part of their relationship?

There was no time to wander through the tangle of questions she had for him. As Louisa’s guardian and advocate, she would do right by her to the exclusion of all else. Louisa was pale, her clothes sagged over her frame, and her face blotched red. Mary did not know exactly what her niece had been through, but she looked like a kitten pulled half-drowned from a stream. The poor darling. She wrapped an arm around her waist. “Are you all right?” she asked in a voice so low the others would not hear.

“Oh, Aunt. I am so sorry.”

“Say nothing of it. I am only happy you are well. Are you well?”

“Well enough.” She bent her head and then rested it on Mary’s shoulder.

The room continued to fuss and squawk, and the volume rose in equal measure to the heat gathering in Mary’s body and the expanding knot in her stomach. What could be done? Daniel would no longer meet her eye. The Fletchers believed Louisa would resolve their problems. Most of all, Louisa, Mary’s responsibility, was hurting. The girl’s permanent disgrace was partially her fault. Any hopes Louisa may have had of a suitable marriage were sunk. And here were the Fletchers, offering her Daniel. A tidy fix to many difficulties, but not one she could address in that moment.

“Agnes, I must speak with Mr. Porter. Take Louisa to my room and wait for me. The maid will show you the way.” She nudged them out the door and then clapped her hands. “Let us retire to our beds. We will continue the discussion tomorrow when we are well rested.” It was not her place to take charge, but now that they knew she wasn’t a gentlewoman, it didn’t matter. She could not abide the family discussing her all night. “Come along, then.” She clapped her hands and shooed them out of the room like some harried nursemaid. To Mr. Porter she said, “We shall go to the library.”

With the door open for propriety’s sake, Mary tried to settle her thoughts by pacing in front of Mr. Porter, who sat in a chair.

“Why have you come, Mr. Porter? I admit to being more than a little surprised by your presence.”

“You are a poor correspondent, and I want your next novel.” He adjusted his position, leaning toward Mary with a look of earnest admiration. “You have no idea. We cannot print enough of your novel. We need another book, and fast. Do you have anything ready?”

She spun on her heel and faced him. “By the by, why did you publish my book without my permission?”

He emitted a sound that was something between a scoff and a snort. “You don’t remember…the letter you included with the manuscript?”

She searched her brain. What had she written? It was years ago. She only remembered swelling with accomplishment while tying the twine around the thick stack of papers, like she’d climbed a mountain or conquered the world. “I do not, in fact, recall. The manuscript was sent by accident.”

“Your letter was the most amusing and audacious the office had ever seen. I passed it to all my colleagues, and we all laughed at you. It stopped being so droll when I read the manuscript and saw that you were right. At that point, we did as you commanded in your letter and began setting the press immediately.”

“I told you in my letter to commence production?”

“You said we were holding the book of the century, and if we knew what was good for us, we would not wait a moment before setting the press. We had your permission.”

“I wrote that?” The memory was vague, but she could imagine herself composing the message, a triumphant moment when she had let go of all scruples and written a letter that had never been intended for reading.

“And you were right.”

Was she? Mary settled in front of the window, scanning the landscape. Evening light reflected pink off the garden wall where roses climbed so high that their limbs sprawled over the edge. They were disorderly, untamed, lived by no rules, beyond the aptitude nature gave them to grow and blossom. Was not she the same, born with such desires and abilities? Even if her path was gnarled and a bit wild, it was her own, something within her control that could not be relinquished.

The refined fa?ade behind which she hid exhausted her. Gentility had never been in her nature. She liked large slices of cake and to run outside. She liked to stay in bed and read a love story from cover to cover while her maid brought her meals. When she laughed, she liked to do it with her head thrown back and until her side ached. It was time she cut free. Mary was not a lady. She was an author.

Propriety be damned.

Her cheeks warmed at the curse spoken only in her head. Some decency must remain.

“I have a few novels and several stories, but they are in Cornwall, and I need to copy them. I am not certain they are fit for publication, but I am almost finished with my current work.” If she sequestered herself for a day or two, she could finish. Right now, her heart needed time alone with paper, pen, and her own imaginary world of happily-ever-afters. She would see to Louisa and then go to an inn alone. “I will have it to you in five days, a week at most.”

Mr. Porter slapped his thighs and stood. “The Golden Buck will be pleased.”

Of course they would. Mary recalled Eliza Haywood, who opened her own print shop when her publisher was stingy with profits. “Before you go, let’s discuss the payment contract. Since A Woman Who Loves is such a success, I expect a greater advance and higher royalties.” Her heart pounded at her own boldness.

He hemmed and coughed and spewed some numbers that were well below Mary’s expectation.

“If that is the best you can do, I will find another publisher.” It was unladylike to discuss money, even more so to make pecuniary demands. It felt good.

After more blustering, Mr. Porter agreed to her terms, and she signed an amended contract.

When they finished, Mary saw no reason to keep him around. No one needed a reminder of her vocation. “I am quite certain my friend, Mrs. Eliot, will not mind if you take her carriage to the inn,” Mary assured him, while escorting him out of the room to the front door.

“Quite right. I know Mrs. Eliot quite well, having traveled together.”

“But you arrived in advance of her and Louisa?”

“After we found Miss Thorpe, I traveled post ahead of them. The carriage became crowded, you know.”

Mrs. Eliot’s capacious carriage accommodated four passengers, but she comprehended his meaning. The prospect of traveling with two fretting females had disturbed him, as well it might. Gracious! How they’d all met and arrived at Almery confounded her, but she wished him gone. Agnes would tell it better.

“Goodbye, Mr. Porter.”

When the door clicked shut, Mary rested her back against it to regain her composure. She closed her eyes, dreading the next minutes that would take her to Louisa and then to Daniel.

Clipped footsteps brought her eyes fluttering open. Daniel stood not five feet away.

She stepped toward him, and he met her halfway, his jaw clenching and working. His tense eyes bored into hers.

“You lied to me!” they said in unison.