Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

A cross the whist table, Mary stared at Agnes until she caught her eye. Then she glared and made a small gesture toward Mr. Bateman, who found every excuse to put his hands on her. Agnes, the instigator of Mary’s discomfort, should do something to remove the man’s attentions. Agnes smiled and laid down her cards.

Mary was partnered with Savage but could barely keep track of their tricks, with Mr. Bateman’s foul breath tickling her ear. It took everything she had to remain in her seat, to refrain from screaming in Mr. Bateman’s face to leave her alone. Good manners tethered her to her chair.

“Have I expressed the utter delight I find in your presence this evening?” Mr. Bateman elongated his “s,” sending uncomfortable chills down her spine.

Have I expressed the utter revulsion I find in yours? “My hearing is very good, you know,” she said. “You may speak to me in the customary way.”

“But I delight in your proximity, your lavender smell.”

I wear rosewater, you imbecile. And you smell of mothballs and sour milk.

He rested his hand on her wrist. “Your humility does you credit.”

It did not. Humility was an indoctrination that served only to make it near impossible for her to say what she really wanted to express. She opened her mouth, determined to put the man in his place, but good manners stopped her tongue. There must be a gracious way to discourage him.

Mr. Savage said, “Your turn, Mrs. Allen.”

Mr. Bateman snaked his arm around the back of her chair. “Do you need advice, my dear?”

“No, thank you. I do not need anything.” Including your disgusting arm around me. Have you no sense for when you’re not wanted? Propriety kept her silent.

He chuckled and patted her shoulder, his arm tightening around her. Being a genteel and proper lady meant she should signal her discomfort by moving away only slightly. Any other response would be frowned upon by the entire party, and she did not wish to cause a scene or jeopardize Louisa’s chances with Mr. Fletcher. But she longed to throw his arm away from her and smack his smug face.

He clutched her closer still, regardless of her stiffness, and she felt the dampness of his underarm penetrate her sleeve.

Her elbow kicked into his side. She turned on him. “Sir, you will refrain from touching me and whispering so intimately in my ear.” She clenched her teeth, pushing down the embarrassment at making such a speak. “You will move your chair from mine.” Her vast patience exhausted, she punctuated her command by slamming her fist on the table. Everyone must be looking at her indecorous exhibition. From her bodice to the top of her head, heat seared through her, punishing her for her outburst. But what else was she to do?

The last note of the pianoforte echoed into silence.

Mr. Bateman withdrew, but his spine lengthened, and he appeared far more intimidating than he had a moment before when hovering over his victim. “I say, such unladylike behavior.” Mr. Bateman grumbled the accusation into his cards and maintained a cool expression, his eyelids half-closed and his nose in the air.

Anger flashed like tinder to a flame. This was outside of enough. How dare he twist his bad behavior and make it her problem? She turned on him. “Pardon me?” She paused, proud of her calm but stern voice. “I endured your attentions with polite, repeated insistence that you give me space. If my conduct is unladylike, what do we call a man who ignores the wishes of a lady?”

Across the table Mrs. Eliot pressed her lips together but could not disguise her mirth. Mr. Savage shook with silent laughter. Mary darted a glance at Louisa, who stared at her as if she sprouted a horn. Beside her Daniel nodded. Censure or approval?

There was only one way to handle this level of humiliation. Lean into it. She flapped her elbows out to ensure she had enough space and placed the next trick. “Thank you, Mr. Bateman. The consideration you have shown me this evening is commendable.” Still simmering, she tried to smile at him, but feared it manifested more like a dog baring its teeth. Time to change the subject. “Mrs. Eliot, dinner was delicious. You possess great skill at selecting a menu.”

At this, the rest of the party, with the notable exception of Mr. Bateman, chimed in with their endorsement of the meal.

The card game soon broke up, and for the remainder of the evening Mr. Bateman bored Mrs. Eliot with long descriptions of his last harvest and the exact remuneration of his efforts.

Mary found a quiet corner wherein to hide with her knitting. Her embarrassment warred with triumph. It felt good to say just what she liked.

M ary was at her wit’s end. Despite the urgency, it did not seem Louisa took her plight seriously. Their time in Bath slid by, already two weeks passed since their arrival and no effort by Louisa to settle on a man.

“I cannot like Mr. Fletcher. He’s an old codger.”

“That is taking it too far. There is no comparison between him and the younger men. Their foolishness is not to be borne. Besides, you do not know Mr. Fletcher yet. He is handsome, is he not?” Mary said, utterly confused by Louisa’s lack of interest in the most superior gentleman in Bath.

Louisa’s look communicated both ennui and scorn, a withering expression that implied she thought her aunt the stupidest woman in the world. And perhaps she was, for she could not comprehend why Louisa’s heart did not beat for Mr. Fletcher. His attractive, solicitous nature put him above every other man, and he singled out Louisa by inviting her to ride in his carriage.

“What about Mr. Savage?” Though Mary herself did not particularly care for the man’s derisive expression, if Louisa liked him, so much the better. She would have performed her duty, for which she began to regret volunteering. It was also information Mary needed as Louisa’s chaperone. If her niece liked him, she would need to know Mr. Savage better.

“I have not seen a man in Bath who interests me. What would you have me do? Flirt with any stranger?” She wrapped her shoulders in a light shawl and draped herself over the settee in the limp manner peculiar to girls under the age of twenty.

“Yes! That is exactly what you do. Flirt a little and get to know them. You cannot judge Mr. Fletcher’s suitability as a husband until you are more familiar with him. It takes time.” Time was in short supply. Only six weeks remained until they must return home. “I am asking you to make an effort. Marriage to a stranger of your father’s choosing is a dreary prospect.”

Louisa groaned. “You needn’t remind me.”

Yet, Louisa did nothing to help herself. The eligible and amiable Mr. Fletcher provided an impeccable solution to Louisa’s quandary and seemed the answer to her future happiness.

Mary opened her mouth to encourage Louisa further, but the butler stepped in the room and informed them of Mr. Fletcher’s arrival. Louisa sat upright and pinched her cheeks in front of the wall of mirrors. Perhaps there was still hope.

In the carriage, Louisa sat by Mr. Fletcher, and Mary situated herself vis-à-vis. He asked Louisa if she preferred a tour of town or if the countryside was more to her taste.

“Take me to the trees. Since there is no ocean, the forest will do.” Near the outskirts of town, Louisa leaned back and took a deep breath. The bustle of Bath must be a strain on the girl’s nerves. “I miss the ocean air.” Louisa was homesick. How could Mary not have taken that into consideration? Young and away from everything familiar for the first time since her mother’s death, of course she missed home. She did not have the adventurous tendencies Mary suppressed in her own heart.

“Do you enjoy books, Miss Thorpe?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

“I adore novels. I’m reading the most fascinating story, A Woman Who Loves. I know gentlemen are generally wary of a romance, but I think everyone should read it.”

Mary’s heart jumped to her throat, while Mr. Fletcher beamed at Louisa as if she’d given him a gift. Louisa was reading her book. Mercy! Was it suitable for her?

“Odd you should ask. The bookseller recommended me that very title.”

Heat prickled up Mary’s spine to the base of her hair. If it weren’t impolite to scratch oneself in company, she would have attacked her neck.

“Oh, you will love it. Have you started yet?”

“I didn’t have a chance to make the purchase, but I look forward to it. I told your aunt that I thought I saw her through the bookshop window that day.”

Mary held her breath, her mind a scramble of thoughts, none of which sufficed to redirect this conversation.

“It is possible. She likes to gawk at that display. By the by, Aunt, what is your interest in it?”

“Mine? I was pleased with the color of the binding.”

“I do enjoy reading,” Mr. Fletcher said after an uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Pope, for example.”

Louisa scoffed. “Tedious. I don’t know how you endure reading a sermon when you could go speak with the vicar.”

Mary’s shoulders relaxed with the turn in conversation, though the comment did not show Louisa to advantage. “Louisa, I am sure you would appreciate ‘The Rape of the Lock.’ We shall read it together.” Louisa gave her aunt a look that might have shriveled an evergreen. At least Mr. Fletcher did not see her.

He laughed. “Alexander Pope was talented, but sadly, he wrote no novels. Did you enjoy Robinson Crusoe ?”

“My brother liked it so much that I determined to despise it,” Louisa said.

With a nudge at her niece’s shoe, Mary cut in. “It is a favorite of mine, except…” She caught herself, not liking to insert herself again, but what else could she do when Louisa behaved with so little decorum? She must lend her The Whole Duty of a Woman .

“Yes?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

She tried to be brief. “The scene where Crusoe is on the beach, and he sees footprints? It seems that having been alone for so long, he would have longed for human contact, even if he feared they were cannibals.”

“I had never thought of that. You believe a person starved of human interaction would put themselves at risk to have it?”

“We are not meant for solitude. I don’t know how anyone would retain their sanity when left alone for so long.” The carriage rolled over a rock, and Mary clutched the cushion beneath her. Were they still discussing the book?

“Mayhap he didn’t, with his imagining his dog to be his footman.” Mr. Fletcher smiled, showing strong white teeth, and she felt herself grinning back at him like a schoolgirl. Mr. Fletcher asked her opinion of Tom Jones , and the two of them slipped into comfortable conversation.

“I have always wished to be a member of a literary society.” Mr. Fletcher led the horses deftly along the path, which grew narrow as the trees thickened. “Not the sort for writers, but a place for readers to discuss books.”

“What a lovely idea.” Mary glanced at Louisa’s slack face. “Louisa, why don’t you select the first book, and we will begin this literary society.” She closed her lips to keep herself from speaking anymore. They could not fall in love if she kept prattling on.

“ A Woman Who Loves .” Louisa did not pause before stating her preference, and Mary could have swallowed her own thoughtless tongue. After encouraging Louisa to choose, she could not very well disagree.

“Mr. Fletcher, what are your thoughts?” She prayed he would suggest another book.

“I am in complete agreement. There is no reason why I should not enjoy a romance as well as anyone.”

The clomp of the horses faded to a hush, and the sharp rays of sun dampened as Mary sunk into her own thoughts, becoming only vaguely aware that Mr. Fletcher and Louisa debated possible meeting times and other members to invite for their society’s first gathering. To sit among a group while they analyzed her book…the idea stole her breath and veiled her senses.

“Would Pamela be a better choice?” Mary asked. Had she whispered? Neither of her companions glanced her way. A sudden swelling in her throat prevented a repeat of the suggestion. That and an awful wave of heat that prickled down her spine. An image of a group of educated people praising her book blossomed in her mind and carried her away from the present conversation. What would they say? How would she respond to their praise or criticism? Perhaps she would have a headache on the appointed day and stay in her room.

M ary, Louisa, and Agnes gathered in the drawing room to drink tea and finalize the list of literary society attendees. Mr. Fletcher would choose the men while Louisa, with the help of her aunt and Mrs. Eliot, would decide which women to invite.

Learning what people thought of her writing, hearing it discussed as a work of literature, was a gift Mary had not expected. It made her fingers itch to write. Thus far, the publisher, newspapers, and readers fawned over the book, but this literary society might as easily recognize it as dross. In that case, Mary would endure criticism without the benefit of explaining herself. Not that she would. Mary harbored no illusion that A Woman Who Loves was anything more than trivial nonsense.

Mary’s eyes did not close that night. Fear that someone would guess her identity based on a few autobiographical elements kept her awake. Not many knew her late husband had been a member of the peerage or that she held an estate in Ireland. Her misgivings were an overreaction, but that recognition did nothing to calm the fluttering in her chest or send her to sleep.

Agnes posed the greatest risk. As a dear and longtime friend, she could easily find the truth within the story, but Agnes would never suspect what Mary had done, being too self-centered to think anyone could do something she hadn’t.

With an extra biscuit on her plate for support, Mary forced herself to join in the conversation, despite her fatigue. Louisa and Agnes wrote the names of ten women and were deciding which to remove. They were only allowed seven, including themselves. A total of fourteen was the perfect number of participants. Few enough that all could voice their opinions, yet sufficient to keep the conversation fresh.

“Read the names aloud, please, Louisa. I may be able to help eliminate someone,” said Mary.

Louisa did.

Agnes cut in before Mary could remark. “Scratch Miss Park and Mrs. Thurston. I don’t expect they will add much, since Mrs. Thurston is more than half deaf, and judging from my last conversation with Miss Park, I question her literacy.”

Mary addressed Louisa. “And what a chance for you to become better acquainted with Mr. Fletcher—and six gentlemen besides.”

It was meant as encouragement, but Louisa slumped and announced she would retire to her room and reread A Woman Who Loves .

That very day, the invitations were sent and the menu set, and they selected Louisa, though still in her room, to moderate the conversation. That done, Mary had only to fret and anticipate the meeting, which would take place in one week. She would behave with such incontrovertible correctness that no one would suspect her. She would be everything that was appropriate and amiable. Even if Mr. Bateman encroached upon her, she would bear it with fortitude.

“By the by, Agnes, you did call off Mr. Bateman, did you not?”

“You did that all on your own.”

“I trust you will refrain from assaulting me with other men?”

“Why would I do that? Watching you take him down was great sport. I have not been so diverted in ages. But I do apologize. He was very gauche. I own my mistake.”

“It is a waste of time, putting men in my way.”

“Come, a man would do you good.”

Lord Allen had been the perfect husband. No one could exceed him in her affection, but it was a long time to be alone. Charlotte, Mary’s sister, a widow of less time, did not seem as forlorn as Mary sometimes felt. Charlotte had a granddaughter, a daughter, and a son-in-law living with her. In contrast, Agnes spent less and less time with her husband and never wanted for company.

The mere thought of marriage betrayed dear Lord Allen’s memory. He had been great in the way of the world, an affective speaker, a capable landlord, an amiable friend, but Mary treasured his soft words, spoken each night before she closed her eyes for sleep, when he told her he loved her. Each day when she awakened, he had been beside her. He kissed her cheek and bade her good morning. It seemed a small, a very small thing, but that had been a constancy she’d never had before or after. Upon his arrival home, he would find her first thing to tell her what he had been doing. He asked for her opinion—which in hindsight was laughable because she was so young and ill-informed—and then he listened, a powerful gift. The absence of his ear left her unmoored, even these twenty years later. Their love was a wonderful, astonishing gift; an honest, loyal, passionate love, equal on both sides. She loved him with all the strength of her being and felt his adoration in return.

A gentlewoman did not indulge in second marriages. She endured and allowed other women a first chance at happiness. With the shortage of good men, finding someone for Louisa was proving difficult enough.

Mary poured all her romantic fancies into her novels. That is one of the reasons it was so embarrassing. She’d written about a life no true lady would consider living. Yet, she, herself a model of ladylike behavior, had dreamt it. She’d not only fantasized about a love that would never be hers, but she’d also written it down for all of England to read.

“Are you feeling well? You are little flushed.” Agnes appeared as concerned as she ever had.

A wave of nausea rolled over her. “Just a flush of heat. I will soon recover.” She hoped it was true.