Page 21 of The Gentlewoman Author

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…

Not 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.