Page 18 of The Gentlewoman Author

Louisa groaned. “You needn’t remind me.”

Yet, Louisa did nothing to help herself. The eligible and amiable Mr. Fletcher provided an impeccable solution to Louisa’s quandary and seemed the answer to her future happiness.

Mary opened her mouth to encourage Louisa further, but the butler stepped in the room and informed them of Mr. Fletcher’s arrival. Louisa sat upright and pinched her cheeks in front of the wall of mirrors. Perhaps there was still hope.

In the carriage, Louisa sat by Mr. Fletcher, and Mary situated herself vis-à-vis. He asked Louisa if she preferred a tour of town or if the countryside was more to her taste.

“Take me to the trees. Since there is no ocean, the forest will do.” Near the outskirts of town, Louisa leaned back and took a deep breath. The bustle of Bath must be a strain on the girl’s nerves. “I miss the ocean air.” Louisa was homesick. How could Mary not have taken that into consideration? Young and away from everything familiar for the first time since her mother’s death, of course she missed home. She did not have the adventurous tendencies Mary suppressed in her own heart.

“Do you enjoy books, Miss Thorpe?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

“I adore novels. I’m reading the most fascinating story, A Woman Who Loves. I know gentlemen are generally wary of a romance, but I think everyone should read it.”

Mary’s heart jumped to her throat, while Mr. Fletcher beamed at Louisa as if she’d given him a gift. Louisa was reading her book. Mercy! Was it suitable for her?

“Odd you should ask. The bookseller recommended me that very title.”

Heat prickled up Mary’s spine to the base of her hair. If it weren’t impolite to scratch oneself in company, she would have attacked her neck.

“Oh, you will love it. Have you started yet?”

“I didn’t have a chance to make the purchase, but I look forward to it. I told your aunt that I thought I saw her through the bookshop window that day.”

Mary held her breath, her mind a scramble of thoughts, none of which sufficed to redirect this conversation.

“It is possible. She likes to gawk at that display. By the by, Aunt, what is your interest in it?”

“Mine? I was pleased with the color of the binding.”

“I do enjoy reading,” Mr. Fletcher said after an uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Pope, for example.”

Louisa scoffed. “Tedious. I don’t know how you endure reading a sermon when you could go speak with the vicar.”

Mary’s shoulders relaxed with the turn in conversation, though the comment did not show Louisa to advantage. “Louisa, I am sure you would appreciate ‘The Rape of the Lock.’ We shall read it together.” Louisa gave her aunt a look that might have shriveled an evergreen. At least Mr. Fletcher did not see her.

He laughed. “Alexander Pope was talented, but sadly, he wrote no novels. Did you enjoy Robinson Crusoe?”

“My brother liked it so much that I determined to despise it,” Louisa said.

With a nudge at her niece’s shoe, Mary cut in. “It is a favorite of mine, except…” She caught herself, not liking to insert herself again, but what else could she do when Louisa behaved with so little decorum? She must lend her The Whole Duty of a Woman.

“Yes?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

She tried to be brief. “The scene where Crusoe is on the beach, and he sees footprints? It seems that having been alone for so long, he would have longed for human contact, even if he feared they were cannibals.”

“I had never thought of that. You believe a person starved of human interaction would put themselves at risk to have it?”

“We are not meant for solitude. I don’t know how anyone would retain their sanity when left alone for so long.” The carriage rolled over a rock, and Mary clutched the cushion beneath her. Were they still discussing the book?

“Mayhap he didn’t, with his imagining his dog to be his footman.” Mr. Fletcher smiled, showing strong white teeth, and she felt herself grinning back at him like a schoolgirl. Mr. Fletcher asked her opinion of Tom Jones, and the two of them slipped into comfortable conversation.

“I have always wished to be a member of a literary society.” Mr. Fletcher led the horses deftly along the path, which grew narrow as the trees thickened. “Not the sort for writers, but a place for readers to discuss books.”

“What a lovely idea.” Mary glanced at Louisa’s slack face. “Louisa, why don’t you select the first book, and we will begin this literary society.” She closed her lips to keep herself from speaking anymore. They could not fall in love if she kept prattling on.

“A Woman Who Loves.” Louisa did not pause before stating her preference, and Mary could have swallowed her own thoughtless tongue. After encouraging Louisa to choose, she could not very well disagree.

“Mr. Fletcher, what are your thoughts?” She prayed he would suggest another book.