Page 23 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Ten

Mary reached for her tea. Empty. She felt naked, and without even a porcelain cup to cover her face. And her filberts were gone. Nothing remained to shield her from impending mortification.

“How am I to guess? I suppose she could be anyone.” Her undisciplined eyes darted to Mr. Fletcher. Of those in the room, she held an illogical dread of his knowing the truth. “There can be no wrong opinion about a work of fiction.” Pleased with her composure, Mary smiled, confident she appeared collected.

With the narrowed eyes of a hunter cornering her prey, Miss Barry pressed further. “The author, Lady Mary, shares your name.”

“Yes.” Mary waved a hand in the air in a flippant gesture. “It is a common name.”

“Come, Miss Barry, the name of the author is hardly interesting. Let’s go back to the previous question,” said Louisa.

Mary sighed as the conversation escalated, passionate comments flying across the room. Despite there being no more set-downs, her shoulders tightened with every word. An hour later, when the last guest departed, she turned to Louisa. “Your treatment of Miss Barry was inexcusable.”

“She is a pig.” Louisa batted her lashes. “I was inspired by your handling of Mr. Bateman.”

Mary groaned and, too exhausted to argue, excused herself, leaving Agnes and Louisa to rehash the event while she ensconced herself in the bedroom. In the dark of night, with her head on her pillow, Mary did her best thinking.

The first meeting of the Literary Society was perhaps its last. Feelings were hurt and divisions made among the attendees. She never supposed her little book would arouse such controversy. If asked before the meeting who would station themselves in which camp, Mary could have guessed. Agnes emerged as the only surprise, debating on Louisa’s side in favor of love conquering all. Her change of opinion was likely made only to give herself an opportunity to argue with Miss Barry. Though no further hints were made that Mary Allen authored the book, the insinuation rattled Mary and she could not help but envision her ruin should everything come to light.

Throughout the whole of the soirée, despite her discomfort, Mary was aware of Mr. Fletcher. Every encounter she had with him reinforced his suitability. He spoke thoughtfully, criticized no opinions, and interjected in support of Louisa as much as correct behavior allowed. To see Louisa settled with Mr. Fletcher was her one wish. Then she could return home having done her duty and explore the possibility of writing anonymously.

Her pen called to her. Though her fingers itched to create a villain of Miss Barry’s stamp, she remained in bed, candles out, attention refocused on Mr. Fletcher and the methods she might use to convince Louisa there could be no better match than he.

In all things, Louisa proved difficult to manage. She would not admit Mr. Fletcher’s charms or that she’d been abominable to Miss Barry. Despite Mary’s best efforts to be a flawless gentlewoman, she was a bad influence on her niece, as demonstrated by Louisa’s near obsession with A Woman Who Loves. Though Mary was not wholly opposed to the romantic notion that one might sacrifice for the beauty of love, she would never wish Louisa to behave as Penelope had. Mary’s fictional characters had fallen into a ruin so deep that not even the generous aunt could save their social standing. In real life, such altruism did not exist. Few in the world were princely enough to turn over wealth to an impoverished, disgraced pair of lovers.

With these thoughts swirling in her head, Mary fell asleep to a dream of dancing daringly close to Mr. Fletcher. His hands wrapped around her, moved to her back, then slid up to her neck. In his arms she became whole, safe, and wanted. The woman in Mr. Fletcher’s arms turned again. Louisa smiled up at him.

Over breakfast, Mary expressed her concern that she and Agnes were guiding Louisa astray. Mary tried to persuade Agnes to join her in an effort to behave more properly. Agnes opposed and called it fraudulent.

“Fraudulent?” Mary did not understand.

“Yes. If we behaved, we would not be representing our true selves. You like to pretend you are a well-behaved woman, but you’ve a rebellious heart.”

Mary snorted but decided it wise not to debate over her own character. “You heard what she said to Miss Barry. I didn’t know she was capable of such insolence. With Louisa trying to make a match, it would not be well to have an enemy in Miss Barry. You said yourself that she and Mr. Nash are great friends.” Beau Nash was Bath’s powerful, if unofficial, master of ceremonies, who created social rules, approved or dismissed those wishing to attend the assemblies, and even brokered marriages.

Agnes put down her fork and leaned back, a nearly imperceptible smile on her lips. Mary’s stomach tightened at the familiar expression. “You are worried she will out you as the author of that book.”

Mary inhaled a bit of toast and lost herself in a fit of coughing. When she righted, wheezing with watery eyes, she asked, “How long have you known?”

“From the first chapter. It is a good book. I’m proud of you, but you did little to hide your identity. I thought you were waiting for the world to discover your secret. You chose the book, after all.”

“I would never! Do you really think me so vain? It was Louisa’s choice.” Mary looked round the room to be sure no servant had caught wind of her confession, or worse still that Louisa should walk in. “An accident, never meant for publication. My housekeeper posted it.”

Agnes grinned. “Good for her. If you don’t find a husband, perhaps your novels will sustain you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You are a romantic, Mary. And you need something to do. You can’t spend your life in your sister’s garden and your niece’s nursery.”

This declaration made Mary feel like a child, helpless and somehow trapped. “I don’t wish anyone to know.”

“No one will. People are very stupid. They need mounds of evidence before drawing conclusions. Take Louisa. She has no idea, though she’s known you for her whole life.”

The words did little to quiet Mary’s anxiety. She dreaded the moment society called her mercenary or indecorous. Mary’s mother had been a bit of a businesswoman. She’d loved flowers. Perhaps that is why Mary had little use for gardening. Masses of flowers grew in her mother’s garden, and the parlor was often replete with heaps of greenery, making it off limits to Mary and her siblings. Their mother arranged the abundance into garlands, wreaths, swags, and any number of huge displays. For a fee, she’d delivered them to wealthier members of the community. At school, with teachers and students citing beliefs about propriety as if it were a religion, she’d become embarrassed by her mother’s enterprise. No other mothers did anything so gauche.

And now she was an authoress. Earning money just as her mother. She could almost hear Lord Allen rolling in his grave. And his mother, still alive and ruling the estates… it did not bear consideration.

The clatter of Agnes’s teacup landing in its saucer roused Mary from her reveries. “You need a husband. I see how you watch Mr. Fletcher, and he will be pleased to protect you from any censure you may receive from being an author.”