Page 29 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Thirteen

Mary stood before her maid, Nellie, who pinned a cerulean silk gown onto a tufted and gathered stomacher in preparation for the evening’s ball. Lace spilled from bell-shaped cuffs, and the blue, less austere than lavender, reminded her of Mr. Fletcher’s eyes. The thought brought a rush of color to her cheeks. The blush suited her, but she would not think of him.

“There you are, ma’am. A splendid gown,” Nellie said.

Mary turned in the mirror. This change in style connected her to her younger, more hopeful self and brought her out of mourning and into this new facet she inhabited as an author and one willing to explore new avenues of happiness. Though she traveled a precarious path, she might become comfortable within her own paradoxical identity. She could remain stable on the precipice she walked and never allow the truth to emerge.

“Thank you, Nellie. Will you see if Louisa needs your attention?”

When Nellie was gone, she pushed the button on her locket and beheld her husband’s likeness. “Is what I do so very wicked?” she asked him. Sweetness swelled in her chest. He had liked her tales. Upon his discovery of her writing habit, she read him her work in the evenings after dinner. While Charlotte sighed over Mary’s stories, he found their humor. His laughter had been like a swallow of warm honey that filled her completely.

Inside the assembly hall, the evening advanced in its predictable procession. Mary peeked through the crowd to watch Louisa dance with a foppish young gentleman whose skip was entirely too enthusiastic. The floor flashed in a dizzying parade of embroidery and chintz, ribbons and lace, fringes and tassels. Candlelight flickered over young faces bright in anticipation of finding a partner for a dance or even for life. They glowed with the hopefulness of youth. And why shouldn’t they? Life’s sorrows would come. Let them find joy.

Mary tapped her toe to the rhythm of the dance but did not need to dance to take pleasure in the ball. Since arriving in Bath, the sorrow that followed her through widowhood slipped away. Instead of believing her grief too dense for future happiness, she was grateful for the wisdom her experience lent her. She retained no envy for the young ladies whose lives had not yet taught them sorrow reigned supreme. She felt light, fresh, and—dare she admit—beautiful.

A hand slid onto the small of her back, and she turned.

“Mr. Bateman.” Mary almost told him it was a pleasure to see him, but she bit back the falsehood.

“I wanted to express my sincere regrets for my enthusiastic admiration of you at dinner. You must understand I am not quite myself in your company.”

Mary nodded in reply, moving away from him so she could not smell his sour breath. He followed her.

“Please accept my apology and honor me with a dance.” He had already tucked her arm beneath his and was leading her into the group of dancers. She was too stunned to object.

When he leaned too close or held her too tight, she stiffened her arm and pushed him back. The delight of dancing was worth the discomfort so long as she kept her partner in check. Though he lacked both elegance and finesse, Mary’s nimble feet missed nothing. With delicacy and grace, she slid down the line of dancers, like a swan over smooth water. Her arm arched over her head to touch Mr. Bateman’s, and she was vaguely glad they both wore gloves. She was certain he was the sort of man whose palms were perpetually damp.

She could not but compare this experience to what she’d felt years earlier when her worth rested on the number of dances she performed and the quality of the gentlemen who stood opposite her. The emotions of her sixteen-year-old self endured the passage of time. She had waited for a partner among a throng of other young ladies, all of whom she was certain were prettier, more accomplished, and cleverer than she. With determined fortitude, she kept a hopeful smile pinned to her face. But when Lord Allen had taken her in his arms, her confidence blossomed.

On this night, her enjoyment had nothing to do with her partner. She sensed the floor beneath her slippers, heard the swish of her dress, which added to the allure of the music. Forty trumped sixteen. At her current age, she no longer fluttered with hope and distress at the approach of a man. Though her figure was soft and full rather than light and willowy, confidence in her splendor banished anxiety. She was free to revel in the evening.

When the dance ended, Mr. Bateman tugged her close. “Is it true? Are you Lady Mary?”

Her elbow shot out to remind him he was too close. “Look at me, sir. Do I look like a woman who would do so base a thing?”

His eyes reduced to slits. “No. I must admit you do not. But your life parallels the story and⁠—”

“A mere coincidence.” She lowered her chin and put on a show of humility. “Tell me, should I be flattered by your outlandish assumption?”

“Well, I…” He knitted his brow, seeming to consider, and opened his mouth as if ready to speak, but Agnes appeared at her side, followed by Mr. Fletcher, who edged Mr. Bateman out of the circle and offered the ladies a lemonade.

Mary thanked Mr. Fletcher and inwardly sighed over his thoughtfulness. He would make a fine husband for Louisa, who appeared, flushed and smiling.

“Mr. Fletcher, my niece looks lovely tonight, does she not?” Mary nodded at the two of them in turn, but Mr. Fletcher’s smile fell.

“She does indeed. Mrs. Allen, would you care⁠—”

“And the two of you look so well together.” Mary ignored Louisa’s glare and smiled when Mr. Fletcher took the hint and asked Louisa to dance.

Louisa’s hand curled over Mr. Fletcher’s arm as if it belonged there.

“See, Agnes. How well they suit.” He was in every way a gentleman.

At that moment, Mr. Fletcher looked back at Mary, who nodded her approval, but her traitorous heart fell at not being the one on his arm.

“The only thing I saw was a man wishing to ask one woman to dance and then being obliged to ask another.” Agnes sniffed.

Mary would have liked to dance with him, to feel his hand on her back and to stand close enough to look into his eyes, just as he did with Louisa at that very moment. “Don’t be silly,” Mary whispered.