Page 19 of The Gentlewoman Author

“I am in complete agreement. There is no reason why I should not enjoy a romance as well as anyone.”

The clomp of the horses faded to a hush, and the sharp rays of sun dampened as Mary sunk into her own thoughts, becoming only vaguely aware that Mr. Fletcher and Louisa debated possible meeting times and other members to invite for their society’s first gathering. To sit among a group while they analyzed her book…the idea stole her breath and veiled her senses.

“Would Pamela be a better choice?” Mary asked. Had she whispered? Neither of her companions glanced her way. A sudden swelling in her throat prevented a repeat of the suggestion. That and an awful wave of heat that prickled down her spine. An image of a group of educated people praising her book blossomed in her mind and carried her away from the present conversation. What would they say? How would she respond to their praise or criticism? Perhaps she would have a headache on the appointed day and stay in her room.

Mary, Louisa, and Agnes gathered in the drawing room to drink tea and finalize the list of literary society attendees. Mr. Fletcher would choose the men while Louisa, with the help of her aunt and Mrs. Eliot, would decide which women to invite.

Learning what people thought of her writing, hearing it discussed as a work of literature, was a gift Mary had not expected. It made her fingers itch to write. Thus far, the publisher, newspapers, and readers fawned over the book, but this literary society might as easily recognize it as dross. In that case, Mary would endure criticism without the benefit of explaining herself. Not that she would. Mary harbored no illusion that A Woman Who Loves was anything more than trivial nonsense.

Mary’s eyes did not close that night. Fear that someone would guess her identity based on a few autobiographical elements kept her awake. Not many knew her late husband had been a member of the peerage or that she held an estate in Ireland. Her misgivings were an overreaction, but that recognition did nothing to calm the fluttering in her chest or send her to sleep.

Agnes posed the greatest risk. As a dear and longtime friend, she could easily find the truth within the story, but Agnes would never suspect what Mary had done, being too self-centered to think anyone could do something she hadn’t.

With an extra biscuit on her plate for support, Mary forced herself to join in the conversation, despite her fatigue. Louisa and Agnes wrote the names of ten women and were deciding which to remove. They were only allowed seven, including themselves. A total of fourteen was the perfect number of participants. Few enough that all could voice their opinions, yet sufficient to keep the conversation fresh.

“Read the names aloud, please, Louisa. I may be able to help eliminate someone,” said Mary.

Louisa did.

Agnes cut in before Mary could remark. “Scratch Miss Park and Mrs. Thurston. I don’t expect they will add much, since Mrs. Thurston is more than half deaf, and judging from my last conversation with Miss Park, I question her literacy.”

Mary addressed Louisa. “And what a chance for you to become better acquainted with Mr. Fletcher—and six gentlemen besides.”

It was meant as encouragement, but Louisa slumped and announced she would retire to her room and reread A Woman Who Loves.

That very day, the invitations were sent and the menu set, and they selected Louisa, though still in her room, to moderate the conversation. That done, Mary had only to fret and anticipate the meeting, which would take place in one week. She would behave with such incontrovertible correctness that no one would suspect her. She would be everything that was appropriate and amiable. Even if Mr. Bateman encroached upon her, she would bear it with fortitude.

“By the by, Agnes, you did call off Mr. Bateman, did you not?”

“You did that all on your own.”

“I trust you will refrain from assaulting me with other men?”

“Why would I do that? Watching you take him down was great sport. I have not been so diverted in ages. But I do apologize. He was very gauche. I own my mistake.”

“It is a waste of time, putting men in my way.”

“Come, a man would do you good.”

Lord Allen had been the perfect husband. No one could exceed him in her affection, but it was a long time to be alone. Charlotte, Mary’s sister, a widow of less time, did not seem as forlorn as Mary sometimes felt. Charlotte had a granddaughter, a daughter, and a son-in-law living with her. In contrast, Agnes spent less and less time with her husband and never wanted for company.

The mere thought of marriage betrayed dear Lord Allen’s memory. He had been great in the way of the world, an affective speaker, a capable landlord, an amiable friend, but Mary treasured his soft words, spoken each night before she closed her eyes for sleep, when he told her he loved her. Each day when she awakened, he had been beside her. He kissed her cheek and bade her good morning. It seemed a small, a very small thing, but that had been a constancy she’d never had before or after. Upon his arrival home, he would find her first thing to tell her what he had been doing. He asked for her opinion—which in hindsight was laughable because she was so young and ill-informed—and then he listened, a powerful gift. The absence of his ear left her unmoored, even these twenty years later. Their love was a wonderful, astonishing gift; an honest, loyal, passionate love, equal on both sides. She loved him with all the strength of her being and felt his adoration in return.

A gentlewoman did not indulge in second marriages. She endured and allowed other women a first chance at happiness. With the shortage of good men, finding someone for Louisa was proving difficult enough.

Mary poured all her romantic fancies into her novels. That is one of the reasons it was so embarrassing. She’d written about a life no true lady would consider living. Yet, she, herself a model of ladylike behavior, had dreamt it. She’d not only fantasized about a love that would never be hers, but she’d also written it down for all of England to read.

“Are you feeling well? You are little flushed.” Agnes appeared as concerned as she ever had.

A wave of nausea rolled over her. “Just a flush of heat. I will soon recover.” She hoped it was true.

A widow may conjecture that when God takes away the mate of her bosom, reducing her to solitude, she must retreat from the higher jollities and gaieties of the world.

The Whole Duty of a Woman, An Infallible Guide to the Fairer Sex, 1737