Page 7 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Three

Mary enjoyed the ride to her brother’s insofar as the weather was agreeable and the exercise beneficial, but her mind would not settle. That morning in the London Evening Post she read a review of A Woman Who Loves, and the flattering words flowed through her mind in alternating waves of anxiety and—mortifyingly—pride. She cherished all praise for her work, and there was much to cherish, for included in that blasted package she received from Ireland were many letters from her devotees. Her bosom would swell and her eyes sting while reading those missives.

Humiliation tempered her pleasure. Ladies did not publish books, especially novels in which the heroine eloped to Gretna Green. One barely spoke of such things. And Mary strove to be ladylike. All happiness she’d found had been the result of her proper behavior, with the great exception of novel writing.

At sixteen she had eagerly anticipated romance and believed herself ready for marriage. As her study of comportment at a school in Bath drew to an end, she had prided herself on developing every skill required of a lady. Primed and primped, on a walk in the park, her handkerchief had blown from the sleeve of her dress. Her heart still fluttered when she recalled Lord Allen running toward her, a white strip of fabric fluttering in his hand.

“There is an MT very finely embroidered,” he said to her. “Is it a product of your own hand?”

“Yes, however the quality is due not to my talent, but to the competence of my instructors.” She remembered raising her chin but quickly lowered her eyes to compensate for that mistake.

“Pray, tell me, what does MT signify?”

She hesitated to give her name to a stranger. “I am Mary Thorpe.”

It worked. They met that evening at a musical sponsored by the school. After her passable performance of the only song she knew on the pianoforte, she overheard him tell his mother that Miss Thorpe was a perfect gentlewoman, a compliment Mary never thought she would hear. Cornwall was not exactly known for producing fine ladies, and her mother, too busy tending to her flowers, did not concern herself with genteel niceties.

This successful courtship taught her that she could, with the appropriate level of humility and clever assuaging, get what she wanted. With her husband, she had not considered this manipulative, rather a gentle method of making her will known. The skill served her well throughout her marriage and subsequently with all her relationships—in particular, with her brother, an inflexible, disagreeable man.

Mary approached her brother’s home. After dismounting, she headed toward the stable with her horse when her eye caught the outline of two people at the edge of the forest. There, where the tame garden met undisciplined wilderness, Louisa spoke with a young man. Mary squinted to see who it might be. Was it John Lawrence? His father owned a successful business, but a man in trade was inferior to the squire’s family. It surprised Mary to see her niece in conversation with him.

Too far away to hear what they said, Mary watched while Louisa leaned toward him, speaking earnestly. Mr. Lawrence looked away and took a step back. Louisa stomped her foot. He ran a hand through his hair and looked toward the forest. Louisa reached for his arm, but he shook his head and slipped away from her, turning and walking into the trees. Louisa looked after him for a moment before darting behind the house.

Was this a lover’s tryst? That child had better not involve herself with Mr. Lawrence. Yet another reason for the trip to Bath.

Mary entered her childhood home through the kitchen, inhaled the delicious smell of baking bread, and nodded to Cook. She mounted the few stone steps into the back hall and made her way through the house over the worn parquet floor. Everything remained as it had in her childhood, not a portrait out of place, every heavy damask curtain the same, if a little worse for wear. She found her brother in the study at his desk, just as she had expected he would be.

“Good afternoon, Brother. Charlotte told me all that is happening with Louisa. Daughters can be troublesome.” To arrange a marriage for your daughter is beyond foolish! Think of how Annie would berate you for your tyrannical behavior. Instead, she said, “Are you certain your dear wife would approve?”

“I’ll act as I see fit with my daughter.” Stephen had not stood when Mary entered. He barely looked at her as he spoke, and now his attention had gone back to whatever papers lay before him. He had lost weight since his wife’s passing, and the skin on his face sagged, especially around his eyes, giving him the look of a worn rag, thin with use. Though Stephen had his faults, Mary’s heart ached for him. She’d been unable to get out of bed for months when her husband died.

Mary softened her voice. “She misses her mother, just as you miss your wife. Give the girl time.”

He grunted and turned over a page.

“I’ve just hit upon an idea. I am going to Bath soon. What do you think of her accompanying me?”

His hand paused. Her idea caught his attention, it seemed. Perhaps he needed time alone.

“You are overburdened. Let me help?” She knew her brother’s foibles and used a saccharine voice that had served her in the past.

“Perhaps you’re right. Things have not felt quite right since…” His chin quivered.

“No one can expect you to worry about a young daughter’s marriage so close to your wife’s passing. I, for one, suffer at seeing your distress. I will take Louisa to Bath, and you shall rest.” It was only six months since the funeral, and time was a slow healer.

Stephen said nothing.

Mary tried again. “Brother?”

With a heavy sigh, Stephen lifted his head. “All right. Perhaps when she returns, she will look more favorably on the marriage I propose.”

That would not do. Louisa could not come home to some unknown, unwanted fiancé. “Of course, you are too doting a father to deny her, should she find a suitable alternative in Bath?”

“Things are not settled with the match I’ve planned, but soon all will be arranged.”

No, no, no. “But should she find love, Annie would be so pleased.”

He harrumphed and stared at his wife’s portrait, rubbing his quivering mouth. “I will give her eight weeks, after which time I will announce the engagement.”