Chapter 3

Chapter Three

M ary enjoyed the ride to her brother’s insofar as the weather was agreeable and the exercise beneficial, but her mind would not settle. That morning in the London Evening Post she read a review of A Woman Who Loves , and the flattering words flowed through her mind in alternating waves of anxiety and—mortifyingly—pride. She cherished all praise for her work, and there was much to cherish, for included in that blasted package she received from Ireland were many letters from her devotees. Her bosom would swell and her eyes sting while reading those missives.

Humiliation tempered her pleasure. Ladies did not publish books, especially novels in which the heroine eloped to Gretna Green. One barely spoke of such things. And Mary strove to be ladylike. All happiness she’d found had been the result of her proper behavior, with the great exception of novel writing.

At sixteen she had eagerly anticipated romance and believed herself ready for marriage. As her study of comportment at a school in Bath drew to an end, she had prided herself on developing every skill required of a lady. Primed and primped, on a walk in the park, her handkerchief had blown from the sleeve of her dress. Her heart still fluttered when she recalled Lord Allen running toward her, a white strip of fabric fluttering in his hand.

“There is an MT very finely embroidered,” he said to her. “Is it a product of your own hand?”

“Yes, however the quality is due not to my talent, but to the competence of my instructors.” She remembered raising her chin but quickly lowered her eyes to compensate for that mistake.

“Pray, tell me, what does MT signify?”

She hesitated to give her name to a stranger. “I am Mary Thorpe.”

It worked. They met that evening at a musical sponsored by the school. After her passable performance of the only song she knew on the pianoforte, she overheard him tell his mother that Miss Thorpe was a perfect gentlewoman, a compliment Mary never thought she would hear. Cornwall was not exactly known for producing fine ladies, and her mother, too busy tending to her flowers, did not concern herself with genteel niceties.

This successful courtship taught her that she could, with the appropriate level of humility and clever assuaging, get what she wanted. With her husband, she had not considered this manipulative, rather a gentle method of making her will known. The skill served her well throughout her marriage and subsequently with all her relationships—in particular, with her brother, an inflexible, disagreeable man.

Mary approached her brother’s home. After dismounting, she headed toward the stable with her horse when her eye caught the outline of two people at the edge of the forest. There, where the tame garden met undisciplined wilderness, Louisa spoke with a young man. Mary squinted to see who it might be. Was it John Lawrence? His father owned a successful business, but a man in trade was inferior to the squire’s family. It surprised Mary to see her niece in conversation with him.

Too far away to hear what they said, Mary watched while Louisa leaned toward him, speaking earnestly. Mr. Lawrence looked away and took a step back. Louisa stomped her foot. He ran a hand through his hair and looked toward the forest. Louisa reached for his arm, but he shook his head and slipped away from her, turning and walking into the trees. Louisa looked after him for a moment before darting behind the house.

Was this a lover’s tryst? That child had better not involve herself with Mr. Lawrence. Yet another reason for the trip to Bath.

Mary entered her childhood home through the kitchen, inhaled the delicious smell of baking bread, and nodded to Cook. She mounted the few stone steps into the back hall and made her way through the house over the worn parquet floor. Everything remained as it had in her childhood, not a portrait out of place, every heavy damask curtain the same, if a little worse for wear. She found her brother in the study at his desk, just as she had expected he would be.

“Good afternoon, Brother. Charlotte told me all that is happening with Louisa. Daughters can be troublesome.” To arrange a marriage for your daughter is beyond foolish! Think of how Annie would berate you for your tyrannical behavior. Instead, she said, “Are you certain your dear wife would approve?”

“I’ll act as I see fit with my daughter.” Stephen had not stood when Mary entered. He barely looked at her as he spoke, and now his attention had gone back to whatever papers lay before him. He had lost weight since his wife’s passing, and the skin on his face sagged, especially around his eyes, giving him the look of a worn rag, thin with use. Though Stephen had his faults, Mary’s heart ached for him. She’d been unable to get out of bed for months when her husband died.

Mary softened her voice. “She misses her mother, just as you miss your wife. Give the girl time.”

He grunted and turned over a page.

“I’ve just hit upon an idea. I am going to Bath soon. What do you think of her accompanying me?”

His hand paused. Her idea caught his attention, it seemed. Perhaps he needed time alone.

“You are overburdened. Let me help?” She knew her brother’s foibles and used a saccharine voice that had served her in the past.

“Perhaps you’re right. Things have not felt quite right since…” His chin quivered.

“No one can expect you to worry about a young daughter’s marriage so close to your wife’s passing. I, for one, suffer at seeing your distress. I will take Louisa to Bath, and you shall rest.” It was only six months since the funeral, and time was a slow healer.

Stephen said nothing.

Mary tried again. “Brother?”

With a heavy sigh, Stephen lifted his head. “All right. Perhaps when she returns, she will look more favorably on the marriage I propose.”

That would not do. Louisa could not come home to some unknown, unwanted fiancé. “Of course, you are too doting a father to deny her, should she find a suitable alternative in Bath?”

“Things are not settled with the match I’ve planned, but soon all will be arranged.”

No, no, no. “But should she find love, Annie would be so pleased.”

He harrumphed and stared at his wife’s portrait, rubbing his quivering mouth. “I will give her eight weeks, after which time I will announce the engagement.”

Hah! She had him. But just to be certain, “And you will accept a different arrangement should she fall in love while in Bath?”

Stephen rubbed his eyes. “Yes. Of course. Her mother would prefer it your way, though I doubt your little venture will come to anything. Thank you, Sister.” Stephen drooped with every word. Grief took its toll, and Mary guessed her brother’s fatigue caused him to care less than he should about his daughter’s future. She went to him and kissed his forehead in an unusual gesture of affection. She placed her hand on his shoulder and bid him goodbye, remembering how she’d missed physical touch after her husband’s death. She missed it still.

Mary stepped across the hall to find Louisa reading in the morning room. She explained her plan with genuine enthusiasm, but her niece’s visage faded with each zealous word uttered.

“Bath? Why? Is this a punishment? Am I to be banished?” Louisa crossed her arms like a defiant child. They sat in the window seat, where the sun pushed afternoon warmth onto their backs.

“Darling, of course not.” Used to Louisa’s dramatic temperament, Mary said, “I only wish to see you dancing at the assembly rooms, meeting new people, perhaps finding love.”

“Love?” Louisa sniffed and slammed a fist on a small side table, upsetting a candelabra.

“You are angry at your father for trying to force an engagement. Of course you are. But in Bath you may find a suitable man before your father saddles you with a stranger. You want a man of your own choosing, do you not?”

Louisa’s lip trembled. “I would like a man of my own choosing.” With that, she marched across the room and threw herself into an overstuffed chair. She had lost her mother and now faced the possibility of marriage to an unknown man. It was little wonder the girl was out of countenance and required a moment to compose herself. Louisa wanted her mother, a kind, shy woman, whom Mary had liked but never known well. A spectrum of emotion passed over the girl. She changed position in her chair, flopping this way and that, as if comfort were not to be found. She pursed her lips, knit her brow, set her jaw, and finally looked up at Mary.

“When can we leave? I am ready this moment.” Louisa stood as if they could jump into a carriage and depart immediately.

“What about your clothes? And I need to arrange for lodgings. Preparations by the servants…” Mary’s voice trailed as Louisa’s face fell.

“All of that will take weeks. We will never be off.”

If it weren’t for Louisa’s trying circumstances, Mary would have chided her ingratitude, but considering the situation, she kept her voice soft. “Perhaps we can stay at an inn for a few days while finding a suitable place to stay.”

“I loathe an inn.” Louisa’s lower lip protruded in a pout that rivaled any toddler. Before Mary could think of a way to coax her niece into greater civility, Louisa turned toward her aunt. “I want to leave as soon as may be. We can have gowns made up there, can we not? What about that friend of yours? Mr. Eliot’s mother. Doesn’t she have a townhome in Bath?”

She did. More than that, Mary knew Agnes resided there, at this moment, and would delight in having company. But Mary would rather not stay with her friend. Though she planned to use Agnes to introduce them into Bath society, she preferred Agnes in small quantities. Living with Agnes would be a strain at the very least.

“Yes.” Mary spoke with care. “But wouldn’t you rather have a place to ourselves?”

“Whatever for? Mrs. Eliot is pleasant enough. I am sure she has a grand place, rich as she is.”

If Louisa had not been at school during her cousin Sophia’s courtship, she may not have used the word pleasant to describe Agnes Eliot. Mary loved her friend. Their attachment extended back to their school days, and since then, they shared the joys and hardships of life. But Agnes meddled. When her son Philip had fallen in love with Mary’s niece, Sophia, Agnes tried to separate them, not believing anyone worthy of her son. Philip had chosen Sophia over his mother, and Agnes, bereft at the loss of her son, persuaded Mary to help her reverse the damage to their relationship. Now, as Sophia’s mother-in-law, Agnes strove for congeniality, and that amiability formed Louisa’s opinion of the woman. If they stayed with her in Bath, everything Mary envisioned for the trip would change. She looked forward to planning and arranging and did not want Agnes to take over, for she certainly would.

Louisa sniffled, drawing Mary’s attention. The girl’s eyes were red-rimmed, and her face was blotched. The poor child. “I will send an express to Bath, asking Mrs. Eliot if we may stay with her.”

Louisa sprang to her feet and kissed her aunt. “Oh, Aunt. Thank you. Leaving home is just what I need. I’ll begin packing now. When may we depart?”

Agnes liked to appear on one’s doorstep without an invitation and on short notice. Since that was the case, Mary would inform her friend of their impending arrival and leave as soon as possible. “I think we can go in three days, if we are very quick in arranging our affairs.”

“I will be ready in two.” Louisa flew toward the door.

“Oh, Louisa. What did you and that young man speak of earlier? I saw you in the garden when I arrived. Mr. Lawrence, was it?”

Louisa froze. Without turning around, she said, “Nothing at all. He merely stopped by on his way to town to give me news of his sister. She is ill.”

“I hope she is recovered. You seemed upset.” But Louisa disappeared before the sentence concluded. Yes, Bath suited them very well. The companionship of superior men would draw Louisa’s thoughts from John Lawrence.

Mary said her goodbyes to Stephen and departed for home. Her heart lightened with hope, despite the tug in her chest that yearned for the same excitement Louisa was about to experience. To be young and falling in love! Mary’s pleasure would be found in observing it all and encouraging where needed.