Page 30 of The Gentlewoman Author

Agnes nodded toward the door. “Miss Barry has arrived.”

Wearing an immense feather in her hair, Miss Barry greeted everyone she passed, drawing the attention of the room. Mr. Nash, the master of ceremonies, was at her elbow, and they walked together like the king and queen of the assembly. The lightness that filled Mary’s chest seeped out as she watched her former schoolmate approach.

“Mrs. Allen, or shall I call you Lady Mary? How do you do? And you, Mrs. Eliot. I hope both of you have recovered from the literary discussion of the other day?”

While Mary felt herself shrink, Agnes grew until she towered over the pudgy Mr. Beau Nash, showing them both she was the real sovereign. “How do you do, Miss Barry? Mr. Nash? Lovely evening.” She sipped her punch, her eyes trailing away from them.

“I am hosting a rout the day after tomorrow and hoped the two of you would come. Miss Thorpe is, of course, invited,” Miss Barry said.

“Oh, dear. We are having our own evening affair that night. I don’t suppose you would care to join our party.”

“I’m afraid I’ve already issued a number of invitations.”

“A pity.” Agnes did not appear to have any regrets.

Miss Barry walked away.

Mary nudged Agnes. “But we have no plans.”

“We do now, and we must invent a gathering no one will want to miss.”

“You are childish.”

Agnes beamed and departed to make her invitations.

Mary turned her attention to the dance floor, noting the grace with which Mr. Fletcher turned. He bent his head near Louisa’s and said something near her ear. Louisa laughed up at him. An ache compressed Mary’s heart. Perhaps youth had its advantages. Mr. Fletcher smiled back at Louisa, his arm wrapped around her back, and their fingers mingled.

Mary’s mood soured. She walked demurely to the refreshment table and took a measured sip of punch, a practiced show of elegance.

“Mrs. Allen, how do you do?” Miss Rowe, a member of the literary society, appeared at her side with several other young ladies.

Mary nodded, but her cordiality faded when she recognized the petition in their too eager eyes. Since Miss Barry’s accusation, a few curious people had approached her with speculative expressions and leading questions. “Good evening,” she said.

“We wondered if you would sign our copies of your book.”

This, she was not prepared for. She glanced around the room. Several groups of people looked back at her. Did everyone suspect? Had Miss Barry been so convincing or her gossip so pervasive and enduring? Impossible. A fortnight passed since that grand revelation, and though there were whispers, these were the first overt questions from mere acquaintances. Besides, if at first one suspected she had authored the book, her genteel behavior was beyond reproach. Surely her refined comportment was enough to convince the world of her innocence. In fact, how dare they believe it of her?

She forced a tittering laugh. “You are darlings to imagine I could do such a thing. Lemonade?” She held a cup to Miss Rowe, pleased with herself for dodging their entreaty so gracefully.

Hours later, Mary’s feet ached. She danced several times and had a lovely evening, but the whispered remarks about her authorship sunk her spirits. At the edge of the dance floor, her heart began to flutter and press inside her. Do not allow those thoughts space. She was hot and needed air. She slipped out the door to the balcony where, as expected, several couples lingered. She inhaled cooler night air, gripping the rail of the balcony and watching a sequence of carriages stopping to collect the attendees of the ball and take them off to their beds.

She sensed someone at her side and looked up, brushing against Mr. Fletcher. His breath caught just as her own chest hitched. They stood very close, their arms touching. She was powerless to pull away.

“You seemed to enjoy the evening,” he said, his gaze intense, blue eyes sparking black in the darkness.

“I did, thank you, but I am grateful the balls in Bath end at eleven rather than going on and on into the early hours of the morning as they do in London.”

“I cannot endure endless parties.” They shared a smile.

As Louisa’s chaperone, it was her responsibility to become better acquainted with him. “What brought you to Bath? If you wished for a diversion, London is far closer to Chesterfield.”

After a moment of hesitation, he said, “My father wishes me to marry. Since I do not enjoy the bustle of London, I came here.”

His admitted search for a wife suggested an understanding beyond her knowledge. Was he about to ask for Louisa’s hand? His father wished him to marry. Did he not want that for himself? She faced him, her back resting against the rail, but she lacked the courage to ask her questions.

“Tell me about Ireland.” His look intensified, and she could not tear her eyes from his.

The answer twisted with complications, and Mary considered telling him what she told everyone else. But somehow, he did not feel like everyone else. “My late husband and I relocated to one of his holdings in Ireland following the first anniversary of our marriage. He dreamed of revitalizing the place.” She examined his expression. He was interested. Still, she wondered if she should go on. His slight nod persuaded her. “I did not want to go, though living with his mother was uncomfortable at best. I thought it absurd for a man with so much to go so far away. I suppose he wanted to prove himself.” She waved a hand, brushing away the notion. “I was angry with him and shut a part of myself away in a foolish attempt at revenge.” She pressed her fingers into his arm, urgently and inexplicably wanting him to understand this part. Perhaps her wisdom would help him with Louisa. “We worked through it. I changed my attitude, and he worked to understand me. It was painful and took some time, but we were so happy. Then he got sick and died with his dream only half realized.” She became wistful, tired guilt resurfacing, regret spilling into her voice. “Imagine if I had held on to my grudge.”