Page 71 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

I do not feel very enterprising. Indeed, since your last letter, a certain sense of finality has settled over me. My brother’s wedding is scheduled for the tenth of next month. He has taken rooms in the village in the meanwhile. It would not do for him to stay in the same house as his betrothed while the banns are being called. I wish I might remove to the village as well, but I have been commanded to remain at the vicarage with Miss Trent and her mother, a mere figurehead of a hostess with no actual power over the household any longer.

The Trents are so keen to be rid of me that they have, on two separate occasions, invited my erstwhile suitor, Squire Smalljoy, back to the vicarage for tea. Under their persuasion, he has become convinced that my unfortunate outburst at dinner was due to a temporary bout of ill health brought on by too long a stay in London. He suggests that he might forgive me, given minimal encouragement. Did I mention that he’s the variety of gentleman who takes breathing as encouragement?

4 March 1863

Dearest Stella,

Squire Smalljoy? Are you making that up? Your time in Fostonbury sounds more and more abysmal. Meanwhile, my holiday in Devon continues apace. I have completed two (two!) more seascapes, and am as unsatisfied with the results of them as I was when I started. I require a model for my portraits, and only you will do.

How is the view from Elba?

Please tell me that your miseries have weighed in my favor.

9 March 1863

Dear Teddy,

Is it a misery? There are people in the world who have it far worse than I, certainly. Here on Elba, I at least have food to eat and a roof over my head. Perspective is all. Or so I keep reminding myself.

As I do so, I am practicing being small and quiet. It is not as difficult as you might imagine. I was already quite a good listener to begin with. All that has changed is that, now, all I do is listen.

Two more seascapes? What will you do with them? Are they for keeping or for selling? I should like to see them one day, even if you are dissatisfied with them.

Would you really prefer painting portraits? How could a lady—any lady—ever compete with the sea?

13 March 1863

My dear Stella,

You may as well ask how the stars can compete. The answer is, there is no competition at all.

How was your brother’s wedding? And how are you, now that he and his bride have settled into the vicarage? Are you still practicing being small and quiet? What a deplorable state!

I trust that you have made progress on your plans to come to town next week. We are preparing to travel there ourselves on the sixteenth. You may write to me care of Mrs. Jenny Finchley in Half Moon Street. I shall be staying with her and her husband until I can find rooms of my own.

The search for suitable lodgings will be an interesting one. My needs are quite specific, as you can imagine. The perfect place will be both home and studio, and must be accessible for my chair. You shall see the premises yourself when you come to pose for me.

I expect you there, if not at my studio, then certainly in London. Do not forget—the second day of spring in Rotten Row. Look out for me on the rail.

Stella slowly refolded Teddy’s latest letter. Tucking it back into its envelope, she placed it safely inside the brass inlaid walnut box where she kept the rest of her treasures. The velvet-lined interior held her parents’ yellowed wedding lines, a lock of her mother’s hair (brown in color), a few brief, affectionate notes her father had penned to Stella when she was a little girl, and now…a whole, ribbon-tied stack of Teddy Hayes’s letters. His sketch was folded inside, too, a bittersweet reminder of her unmet potential.

Those distant days in December, Teddy had drawn her as something like a goddess. But Stella hadn’t felt very deity-like in the weeks that followed as she’d dutifully trudged through her days in Fostonbury, every hour becoming smaller and smaller under the oppressive weight of Daniel’s disapproval and Amanda’s unending criticism and advice. There was little joy in sketching any longer. Even Stella’s rides on Locket had begun to feel lackluster. It was beyond worrying. If riding didn’t raise her spirits, what on earth ever could?

It was a terrible thing to be an unwanted third. Daniel and Amanda had each other. They were forming a life together. Refashioning a home. There was no room in it for Stella. Day by day she became more invisible. Soon, she feared, she would disappear altogether.

Closing her box of treasures, she slid it back into its hiding place under her sagging mattress. The box room was cold and damp as ever. She had no fire in the hearth to warm her, only an extra pair of socks and a thickly woven shawl. Twisting the latter more firmly around her nightgown-clad figure, she climbed into her narrow bed.

A single taper burned on her bedside table, its flame flickering valiantly in the draft from the unlit fireplace. Stella blew it out. Darkness consumed her.

This was why women gave in. Why they ended up married to men who didn’t suit them. Didn’t love them. Men who wanted only the raw materials of some untried young lady to fashion into their idea of a conformable wife.

But weary as she was, Stella wasn’t yet ready to cede the fight. She was still one of the Four Horsewomen. Still one of the Furies. And Furies didn’t give up or give in. They fought.

It was exactly what she intended to do.

This afternoon, she’d taken the first step. During the second of her daily gallops on Locket, she’d ridden to Fairhook Station and purchased a railway ticket to London.

She would be attending Anne’s wedding on Friday. And nothing and no one was going to stand in her way.