Page 63 of The Gentlewoman Author

“Take me to the drawing room. We shall all sit a while. No need to linger over port tonight, gentlemen. We’ve had our champagne, and I would like to converse with my future daughter.” He waved away Daniel and Emma, who tried to help him cross the room.

A great fire stifled the drawing room, and Mary pulled Daniel in the direction of the settee near the window where the heat was not so consuming.

“Come sit over here, Mrs. Allen,” Mr. Fletcher said.

Unwillingly, she moved to the chair next to Mr. Fletcher, adjacent to the fire. Daniel sat beside her, an apology in his eyes.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Fletcher. “What do you bring to the marriage? You have some property, I understand?”

“Father, really…” Daniel said, but Mary put a steadying hand on his arm. They would work this out together. All she had would belong to her husband, unless she arranged it otherwise, and that was not so easily done. There was also the question of her royalties. It was no small sum. What was her duty in this case? Need she be forthright with Mr. Fletcher? Need she disclose all her assets? Dinner congealed in her stomach.

“I have an estate in Ireland, cared for by capable tenants.”

“Ireland tends to be cloudy, does it not?” he asked, his eyes narrowed and fingers steepled under his chin.

“Mine is primarily a livestock farm, located in the west. It rains, but not as much as in the east or south of Ireland. Why do you ask?” Her stomach tightened further. What was he after?

Daniel tensed beside her, leaned forward, and began to speak.

His father spoke louder. “We will sell it and buy something in the south where the sky is more visible.”

“Or nearby,” said his mother, “so we can be near Emma’s children. I don’t believe Mary can have⁠—”

“When we make arrangements for the wedding, draw up the papers, you will deed us your land in Ireland.”

“Father!” Daniel stood. “Absolutely out of the question.”

Mrs. Chapman and her husband sat on the periphery of the gathering but were not feigning disinterest in the conversation. “The vicar believes,” she said, “that a woman must yield all to husband, and a son must be filial.”

Daniel stood and began pacing before the fire. “I begin to understand why my marriage is so important to you.” His diamond-sharp voice did not ruffle his father.

Mr. Fletcher turned a placid eye to his son. “If you’d done as I’d asked and married that other girl, your mother and I were to move into her estate.”

Mary stilled. There was another woman? Young, no doubt, whose property they had planned to seize for themselves. Well, it was small wonder she disappointed them. They could live on her estate, but she would not allow them to sell. It must come back to her upon their deaths.

“We are tired of this old castle,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “It is over one hundred perilous steps to our rooms. We need a cottage without endless, narrow stairs; we’ve not the means to get it ourselves. While Grandmother did not entail the castle, she made it impossible to sell, else we certainly would.”

A pounding on the door interrupted the conversation. The prickly discussion yielded to the ticking of the clock and Mr. Fletcher’s labored breath. One of the maids entered the room. “Mr. Porter is here to see Mrs. Allen.”

It could not be. “Who did you say was at the door?” asked Mary.

“A Mr. Porter, ma’am.”

The room spun, and her heart pounded in sharp wallops. Mr. Porter, her publisher! Here. She rose to her feet and rushed toward the entrance hall. If she intercepted him before he introduced himself⁠—

“I am Lady Mary’s publisher, Mr. Porter.” Mary skidded to a stop in front of him. “Mrs. Eliot informed me of your whereabouts.” He took her hand and kissed it.

“There must be some mistake,” Daniel said. “This woman is not Lady Mary.”

“Mr. Porter,” Mary said. “This is a surprise.” Her ears were ringing, and she knew she spoke too loudly. “Let’s go into the library.” She took his arm.

“Lady Mary!” Mrs. Chapman said. “Really? Mama, do you know who this is? Her advanced age is benign by comparison. You have no idea what trouble we’ve had extricating that…that…refuse from the parish.”

Daniel collapsed against a wall; his face tightened into a grimace. Was it astonishment or revulsion?

“I am not surprised,” said Mr. Porter, who resisted Mary’s attempts to pull him out of the room. “She sold more books for Golden Buck Publishing than any release this decade. You should be proud to know her.” He beamed, clearly glad to know her himself. But Mary could not enjoy his enthusiasm with Daniel shaking his head. She shot him an imploring look, but he put his hand up and looked away. Did he find it so disgusting that she should write a book? A book he enjoyed, no less.

Mrs. Chapman continued, “It is an unholy novel. Isn’t it, Mr. Chapman?” Her husband nodded but continued looking out the window, probably at the full moon.