Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

M ary tried a second time to swallow a bite of bread. Though thoroughly buttered, it scratched its way down, leaving a residual lump in her throat. Each bite sat like a ball of yarn in her stomach. In only a few hours, the first meeting of the literary society would begin.

For Agnes and Louisa, the novel was a favorite topic at breakfast, at tea, at dinner, or any other time the two were in the same room together, so Mary had a sense of what lay ahead. Before A Woman Who Loves became a part of their lives, the two women had very little in common, but over the past week, Agnes and Louisa found innumerable topics of discussion.

Agnes smarted over the disobedience of the main characters, Penelope and Richard, who deliberately cast aside respectability and parental authority. Louisa sympathized with the lovers and claimed that their over-managing families pushed them into unscrupulous action. She insisted that the couple found happiness in the only way left to them. Agnes and Louisa pulled interminable support for their arguments from within the pages of the book.

On this evening, dinner was a casual affair. Mary and Agnes began eating without Louisa. Agnes, engrossed in marking passages of A Woman Who Loves by stuffing scraps of paper into her copy, did not heed Mary or the way she pushed her food about her plate.

Louisa rushed into the room. “Mrs. Eliot, listen to this passage. ‘ Richard’s father lived a life of selfish debauchery, caring for others only insofar as they served his own wicked purposes. A purse full of money, a belly full of port, and an evening full of women: that was the life Richard could expect if he remained in his father’s pocket. ’” Louisa looked up, brilliant with conviction.

“Nonsense,” Agnes said. “Richard could have refrained from greed, drink, and women while pursuing a lucrative position in his father’s line of business.”

“But to drag Penelope into the situation, to have her saddled with a reprobate father-in-law. They could not marry if Richard did not escape his father.”

“Precisely. Penelope should have married the earl,” Mrs. Eliot said.

Louisa’s book snapped shut. “You do not remember what it feels like to be in love. Or to have never loved at all.” She mumbled the second sentence through a mouthful of cheese she had plucked from the sideboard.

“Louisa,” Mary interjected. “That is quite enough. You will not speak to your hostess in such a way.” Agnes waved away the insult.

Louisa turned to Mary. “You understand. You are like the aunt in the story who believes in true love.”

Mary’s stomach plummeted to the floor, a now familiar sensation whenever conversation turned to her book. “Yes, well. I see both your points.” She was precisely like the aunt in the story.

“You never say what you think.” Louisa carried her plate to the table and swooped into a chair next to Mary.

“You have barely taken a bite, Mary. Are you well?” Agnes set her book aside.

Mary assured her friend by taking a mouthful of quail, gulping water to work it down.

The housekeeper entered with a stack of mail on a silver salver. “Mrs. Eliot, pardon the disruption. I brought the post. With all the preparations for this evening, it was forgotten.”

“I need a new butler. In no establishment should the housekeeper bring mail. My butler is likely inebriated in the pantry.” She thumbed through the correspondence. “Something for you, Mary.” She squinted at the address. “What’s this? Golden Buck Publishing?”

Mary’s heart stopped. Sending her publisher the Bath address had proven foolish. The game was up. She was found out.

“An investment?” Agnes handed over the letter with a raised brow.

“Yes, precisely.” Mary sank back in her chair, marveling, and not for the first time, that Agnes did not see the glaring truth. In preparation for today’s meeting, Mary revisited the pages of her novel, wherein she discovered countless hints to her identity. The most damning of which was that the kind aunt rescued the impoverished couple after their elopement and took them to her estate in Ireland. That estate lay in the same county as Mary’s property. In addition, the girl had come of age in Bath and gone to school there. Just as Mary had. But the aunt was hardly the main character. Perhaps no one would notice her history.

With the letter stuffed into her pocket, she mentally composed her reply. Dear Sir, In future when addressing your correspondence, please be more discreet …

“Look, here, Mary.” Agnes waved a letter at her. “From the orphanage. They’ve received the donation of the woolen blankets, though a little late for winter use.” She perused the letter. “They are very grateful.”

Mary helped Agnes with her philanthropic work at an orphanage in London. Once begun, the two of them might discuss for hours the endless needs of the foundling hospital, but Mary didn’t have the patience for the debate. “I am delighted to hear it. And would love nothing more than to discuss the next project, but I am tired. I will retire to my room and rest before tonight’s meeting.” Agnes glanced between Mary and her plate of untouched food—she did not ordinarily skip meals. Mary pushed in her chair and hurried upstairs, eager to know what her publisher had to say.

With the door bolted, she sat on a chair near the window and read.

Dear Lady Mary,

As you are aware, A Woman Who Loves is a great success, outperforming our greatest expectations. We are eager for news of your next romance. Kindly inform us of your progress.

Progress? Next romance?

However tempting to her pride, there would be no future novels from her. At least none for a publisher. She would continue to write in obscurity, keep the novels already completed locked away in their special trunk, and hope that A Woman Who Loves would not send her into a nervous fit or to an early grave. It might, given the affect it had on her heart each time she heard it mentioned. She moved to the dressing table and readied a quill to write the letter informing her publisher of that fact.

Dear Mr. Porter,

Her pen hovered over the page until ink pooled at the tip of the quill and splattered over the words. Keeping Louisa occupied robbed her of writing time, and weeks passed since she last held her pen. The weightless writing implement righted something inside her. She slid the ruined letter aside and, on a fresh sheet of paper, began a new story.

In the middle of the ballroom and in the arms of a respectable, if undistinguished gentleman, Lady Ashley caught sight of her future husband. Though she had never seen him before, she knew as certainly as her heart beat in her chest that her destiny lay with the tall, chestnut-haired man …

N ot wishing to draw attention to herself, Mary took exceptional care with her appearance, choosing a deep blue, almost black gown, few ornaments, and no rouge. Her hair was coiffed in a demure style. She would not bring along a knitting basket, however tempting. Inane comments would do well enough.

Only old women knitted in public, and she did not feel old. At forty, perhaps she should, but that birthday had brought with it the liberating sensation that she may wear what she wanted. She put aside her wigs and changed her hooped gowns for more comfortable options. It almost made her brave enough to voice her true opinions on occasion. But she never expected her work to become the subject of a literary meeting, where anyone reading her ridiculous fabrication could judge her. All the self-consciousness of a girl in her first season descended upon her, and her only defense was to hide behind a mountain of decorum and respectability.

If she never published another book, what did she have? She was never the first person her loved ones thought of when they needed company or help. If her niece Sophia wanted to throw a dinner party or someone to hold her daughter, Sophia called on her mother. Agnes had her husband and son. And, despite Mary’s efforts, Louisa wasn’t exactly grateful for her aunt’s intervention. Their volunteer work for the charity had been Agnes’s idea, and Agnes did most of the work.

Mary was superfluous—except in novel writing.

Only uncivilized females like Eliza Haywood wrote novels, and she was an actress and a woman of ill-repute. Mary owned that Haywood’s Love in Excess inspired her own writing but would never admit to having read the novel. She did not wish to be thought unladylike and strove to avoid the censure her mother had suffered. Was she becoming too uninhibited, more like her mother? Her sense of independence sometimes led her astray and into the grey area where women behaved outside the realm of delicate femininity.

The clock in the hall struck quarter to eight. It was not too late to feign a headache, but sitting in her room listening to the muted buzz of the conversation would kill her. Curiosity overcame her discomfiture, and she descended the stairs. With a copy of her novel in hand, she made her way into the drawing room and placed herself in an out-of-the-way corner. Guests trickled in, and Mary greeted each with the demure attitude befitting a woman of her station and tried not to feel giddy at the sight of her book in so many hands.

Before sitting, Mr. Fletcher approached Mary. “I, uh, must warn you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Mr. Bateman heard of the meeting and insisted on coming. My apologies.”

No further communication was necessary. His eyes spoke deep regret, and Mary appreciated it. “I will keep myself apart. Do not concern yourself.”

So perfect a gentleman, so attentive. With dawning clarity, she realized he was the hero of the novel begun the evening before. The awareness made it impossible to meet his gaze. He squeezed her arm, and the warm touch drew her to his mesmerizing eyes. Her hand hovered near his arm, and she almost took hold of his sleeve and pulled him into the chair next to her. She must not forget herself. She nodded at him in dismissal and watched him sit next to Louisa, as was proper, as Mary hoped he would.

A familiar woman entered the room. Miss Barry? Mary had not paid close enough attention to the guest list, or she would have protested the invitation to her former schoolmate, now a decided spinster. Miss Barry was mean. She kept a list of girls she considered “unbefitting” and tormented them. As a result, the younger students were forever trying to garner her favor, a challenge Mary had lost. Miss Barry labeled Mary unbefitting, a persecution that still stung. Perhaps it would prove a distraction from the churning anticipation that coursed through her.

Once the party assembled, Mr. Fletcher stood and thanked Louisa for inspiring the meeting. He was everything genial and solicitous. How did Louisa prevent herself from swooning for him right then? Were Mary in Louisa’s shoes, she would be half in love with him. The party settled, and Mr. Fletcher announced that Louisa would moderate the discussion.

“Mrs. Eliot and I have engaged in continuous debate between duty and happiness,” Louisa began. “In the story, Penelope and Richard place their happiness above the expectations of their families and society. Is this a formula we should adopt in our own lives?”

Louisa’s ability to articulate the argument so clearly was impressive. Everyone began speaking at once, some holding fast to tradition, others applauding Penelope for taking her desires into her own hands and proposing the elopement.

“How can you approve of such behavior? The scandal would tarnish their reputations and their children’s and their children’s children. The respectability of their familial line ruined,” said Miss Barry, whose stays were strung so tight that her bosom ballooned out of her gown.

“But they found happiness,” Louisa said.

“In the backwards place of Ireland, they could be as respectable as they pleased. No one would know of the scandal that far off.” Agnes sent Mary an apologetic look. “No offense to those who may own property there.”

Mary shoved a cream filbert into her mouth and chewed.

“There is no escaping it. God would know and punish them for it,” said a gentleman who spoke through his nose. Mary did not remember his name.

“Too true, too true.” This from Mr. Bateman who was, as Mr. Fletcher promised, on the other side of the room from Mary.

Mary sat forward, absorbing each delightful word. To think that her fanciful words were being taken so seriously. Her lips stretched into a smile. She pinned them between her teeth. None of that.

“I only wonder who wrote this rubbish.” Miss Barry punctuated her curiosity by clattering her empty plate onto a side table. “This Lady Mary must have been familiar with Bath, as half the novel takes place right here.”

Agnes speared Mary with a quick but meaningful glance. Did Agnes suspect? Did Miss Barry know? A hush fell, and everyone in the room looked with suspicion at everyone else. Mary’s face burned so hot the heat might have consumed her. She wanted it to. Why hadn’t she brought her knitting? Mary lifted her teacup and downed its contents in slow, silent gulps. If understanding dawned on someone’s face, she did not wish to see it. She chewed another filbert but didn’t taste it.

“It is unlikely that anyone we know wrote the book. It is so well-done. Why would she hide her identity?” said Agnes.

Mr. Fletcher said, “If it was rubbish, we could not have this rousing conversation.” Mary wanted to hug him for the reassuring glance he gave Louisa.

“I quite agree.” Louisa spoke with a boldness Mary rarely saw from the girl. “It is a lovely, romantic tale. Their sacrifice was nothing compared to what they gained.”

“Ostracized from worthy society? That is the prize for people who behave in so atrocious a manner.” Miss Barry seemed determined to have her point. “And that is why I call it drivel. It will influence the minds of those too young to make proper choices. The author should be denied ink.”

“You are too hard, Miss Barry. It is a lot of fluff, but hardly dangerous.” This from Miss Rowe, a new friend of Louisa’s.

Several voiced their opinion on Miss Barry’s side, calling the book and its author a disgrace. Mary listened to the criticism as one awaiting trial. With every hard word, the noose tightened around her neck. The first chapters of Mary’s latest novel lay on her writing desk filled with more fluff, drivel, and rubbish. More completed novels and short stories filled the dark trunk hidden under her bed in Cornwall. Her heart thumped slow in her belly.

Mary could hold back no longer. “Certainly, the author meant the story as a diversion rather than a book of instruction.”

“That is just it.” The man with the nasal voice leaned forward. “A novel is for casual entertainment, but it will permeate the minds of the young, dissuade them from obedience to their parents, and convince them to disregard convention.”

“Penelope is active in forming her own future,” Louisa said. “In a world where women have so little freedoms, I admire her for pursuing her happiness.”

“But you would not do such a thing yourself. No well-bred young lady would,” said Miss Barry.

“Perhaps you would not be so bitter a spinster had you taken a risk in your youth.” Louisa’s tone was so blasé that it took a moment for the insult to hit.

Mary held her breath and watched Miss Barry’s face turn as red as the paint on her cheeks. Her hand fluttered to her overwhelming décolletage while Louisa brushed her skirt with commendable nonchalance. Agnes grinned wide enough to split her face. It seemed she had a protégée.

Mary leaned back in her chair, away from the discomfort of the room, catching Mr. Fletcher’s eye as she did so. He lifted a shoulder at her and smiled. His communication, so private, so intimate, fell upon her like a caress. He withdrew his gaze, shifted in his seat, and opened his mouth a time or two, before clenching his jaw together.

“I say, this is a much better party than I expected.” All eyes turned toward Mr. Savage, who had hitherto contributed nothing to the discussion. “I’ve not yet had a chance to finish the book, but I will certainly do so now.”

Mary stared hard at Agnes until she caught her attention. With meaningful eyes, Mary urged Agnes to lead the conversation into a less charged territory. Agnes had a gift for such things, but in that moment, she seemed inclined to allow the tension to marinate.

Instead of helping, Agnes said, “You have spoken few words today, Mrs. Allen. What do you think of this Lady Mary who writes of Bath and has estate in Ireland?”

With a start, Mary understood. Agnes knew the truth, and she wished Mary to confess.