Chapter One
One Literary Society, Two Young Ladies
October 22, 1816, Kingston House, Westminster, London, England
Watching the paradeof town coaches and hackneys deposit their fares in front of Kingston House from her frost-rimmed bedchamber window, Catherine Kingston took a steadying breath and let it out in a long sigh. A white cloud formed on the glass pane the second before the clock on the fireplace mantel chimed three times.
The female members of the Bluestocking Literary Society were always prompt. The men, not so much, but then, there weren’t as many of them.
Having told the butler to escort her guests to the parlor, Catherine made her way there directly to discover the tea service and several plates of biscuits already in place.
“Why, Cathy, you look especially fetching in that frock,” Eliza Buxton said, first to join her in the parlor. “The apple green is perfect with your hair.” For a moment, it looked as if the petite woman would reach up and pull on one of the red curls so she could delight it seeing it bounce back. She had done so when they were younger, claiming jealousy because her brunette hair was so straight, she could hardly keep it in a bun atop her head.
Since Catherine’s return from finishing school on the Continent, Eliza had been her best friend. She no longer worethe black crepe gowns expected of a war widow, but then it had been two years since her husband’s death.
“Pink becomes you, Eliza,” Catherine said, referring to the pale-pink sprigged muslin gown and darker-pink spencer the petite young widow wore. “Do stay for dinner this evening,” she added. She embraced her friend before several more women filed into the parlor. Most were older, but there was a younger woman, Miss Tuttle, who had joined their group in the last year.
Given the chill in the air, Catherine had had the chairs and settee arranged in a semicircle in front of the fireplace. Despite the date on the calendar, the day was unseasonably cold. Her guests’ red noses and cheeks were evidence of it.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Catherine said, motioning for the ladies to take their seats. “I’m so glad to see so many of you made the trip here given this awful weather.”
“I simply could not stay inside another day,” Miss Tuttle remarked. “My father is in poor spirits, and it’s affecting my mother and all the servants.”
While the others put voice to their sympathies, Catherine saw to preparing cups of tea. Before she had the drinks distributed, the women began sharing the gossip they had heard since their last meeting, most of it centered around aristocrats. Three more members entered, the gentlemen, apologizing for their tardiness and complaining of the awful weather.
“There had better be some excellent books being written at this very moment,” Mr. Johnson commented. “No authors in all of England have the excuse of good weather to keep them from their writing desks.”
The others tittered and agreed as they settled in for a discussion of what they had been reading during the past fortnight.
“I’m findingHeadlong Hallby Anonymous quite engaging,” Mrs. Waddington offered. “Very witty. The characters are rathereccentric, and the country estate setting is perfect for their conversations. I do believe it’s satirical in nature.”
“Anonymous?” Mr. Brooks questioned. He scoffed and chuckled. “I happen to know it was written by Thomas Love Peacock.” He seemed quite pleased with himself as some of the others appeared jealous, thinking he might actually know the author personally.
“This anonymous publishing is quite annoying,” Miss Tuttle said, her upturned nose wrinkling. “Everyone simply assumes a woman wrote the book.”
“I don’t,” Eliza claimed.
“I admit I do,” Mrs. Peabody said, shrugging.
“What say you, Miss Kingston?” Mr. Knox challenged. “You’ve probably handled more books than all of us here.”
Catherine straightened in her chair, her cheeks reddening at being asked her opinion directly by the distinguished gentleman who managed banking clerks. She could never tell if Mr. Knox’s comments were an attempt at flirting or if he took exception to her knowledge of books.
As the daughter of a publisher, she had simply grown up surrounded by them. Reading was second nature. “Having just completed the arrangement of my father’s ten thousand volumes in his library…” she paused as several of the women gasped and Mr. Johnson made a sound of disbelief, “I discovered the section containing books by Anonymous to be the largest.”
“The section?” Mr. Johnson questioned. “Which section?”
“Why the fiction section, of course,” Mrs. Waddington said, before Catherine could reply. “I rather imagine men publish anonymously because they don’t wish to be associated withnovels, but can you blame them?” She sniffed and visibly shuddered.
“If I wrote a novel, I should wantmyname on it,” Mr. Brooks said, helping himself to his third biscuit.
“Novels,” Mrs. Peabody said as if in disgust. “Despite my scolding, my daughter reads those abominations from Minerva Press, one after the other. Why, if she didn’t have a subscription at Hookham’s, she wouldn’t have a pence of her pin money left for more important purchases.”
“Such as?” Miss Tuttle challenged.
“Ribbons and gloves and such,” Mrs. Peabody replied. “She’ll be of an age to marry next year.”
Sensing the discussion was veering from the topic of books, Catherine said, “In my avocation as a librarian, I’ve discovered there are a number of non-fiction books without the credit of authorship.”
