Page 2 of The Gentlewoman Author

Nellie froze. “You’re certain you don’t need a doctor?”

“Please get the tea.”

When the maid disappeared out the door, Mary collapsed into the chair and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, trying to force the fabric to generate comfort. Publishing a novel, a love story no less, was not what a lady would do. The vulgarity! And especially for the respectable widow of a lord. She found consolation in the fact that no one remembered her brief years as Lady Mary Allen.

The book, her book, already circulated. Among the many letters the package still contained was a book-sized item wrapped in brown paper. Heat crawled up her spine, and the tiny hairs on her arms stood in curious attention. She reached in, took a corner of paper, and pulled a long strip. Pink canvas peeked out at her. Paper razored over her skin as she slid both hands into the opening and drew the wrapping away. In gold lettering, the words A Woman Who Lovesby Lady Mary glinted in a ray of sunshine. She picked up the book and pressed it to her chest.

What was she to do?

Over there course of a few weeks, when no one mentioned A Woman Who Loves, Mary began to feel comfortable again. The distance from London made it unlikely for the book to appear on shelves in Cornwall, so she went about her life with increasing confidence that her secret was safe.

She pinned a grey-trimmed bergère hat to her head. “You have done it again, Miss Taylor.” It was a masterpiece, just as Mary had imagined it would be.

The milliner made an adjustment and added a pin. “It is odd, but while trimming this confection, I could not but think of a book I just finished. The protagonist wears a very similar hat.”

Mary’s breath caught, dragging the air from her lungs. She knew the hat, had invented that hat, had described every detail in her book and then to Miss Taylor when placing the order. She pushed on her stomach, trying to draw air. “Of what book do you speak?” her voice squeaked.

“A Woman Who Loves. It’s the novel everyone is reading. If you like, I will lend you my copy but not to keep. It’s a favorite.” She squeezed Mary’s shoulder. “You look lovely.”

Mary pulled away, unpinned the hat, and returned it to Miss Taylor for boxing. She gathered her things, took the hatbox from the milliner, and headed for the door. Halfway out, she remembered to thank Miss Taylor. Turning around, she found the milliner with her arm outstretched as if to stop her.

“If you wait a moment, I will fetch the book.”

“Thank you, dear, but I fear we have very different tastes in literature.”

She closed the door on Miss Taylor’s incredulous stare and stood outside, appalled by her falsehood. So it began, the start of a double life in which lies rolled off her tongue, an existence wherein her priority was to protect Lady Mary, authoress, from discovery and subsequent ruin. Laughter, traitorous laughter, bubbled inside her chest and erupted. She covered her mouth. At home she would sink into the bathtub, where no one would interrupt, and soak away her quaking insides and think if anything could be done.

Across the street, the bookshop tempted, beckoned. Cornwall was not the first county to receive the latest publications, but if Miss Taylor possessed a copy, then A Woman Who Loves must be in the shop. Vanity enticed, snagged, and pulled her across the road to peek in the window.

In the center of the display, a book covered in rose canvas reigned in glorious distinction, the gold lettering of its title sparkling. Mary’s breath fogged the glass, and she turned her back to the window, her fingers closing around her locket.

What would Lord Allen think of this? He used to call her his perfect gentlewoman, even to his mother who had wished for a superior match for her son. And Mary was a gentlewoman, or she had been. She’d married at sixteen and been widowed at eighteen, over twenty years ago. Those short years with him were halcyon, warm with love that multiplied by the day, and they solidified her into the lady she was. To be a published author tarnished the genteel reputation she had garnered, and mocked Lord Allen’s memory.

Regardless of the sky that threatened rain, Mary would not go home. She must see Charlotte. She mounted her horse and sped away from the tiny block letters at the bottom of the pink book: LADY MARY. Oh! That her horse could take her far away, back to Ireland, back in time, or to a place where her actions were so irreproachable that her identity as author would ever be concealed.

Chill wind twisted her artfully powdered hair out of its pins and sent it flying, whipping her face, but she pressed on at an impressive gallop and arrived at Charlotte’s home in record time—a little proud of her speedy arrival, considering she’d just turned forty. She threw open the door with a reverberating thwack.

“Charlotte?” She made her way to the sitting room.

Her sister smiled and stood in greeting. “I did not expect to see you until later today.” They were meant to garden that afternoon, a pastime Mary participated in somewhat grudgingly. “What is the matter?” She kissed Mary’s cheek. “Sit down and tell me.”

In the comfort of her elder sister’s nearness, Mary repeated her conversation with Miss Taylor.

“Oh-hoo! Just this morning, Mrs. Vincent visited. She mentioned the book as well. With high praise, I might add. What did you expect? You are a published author.”

“Hush! Sophia may hear you.” Mary did not even want her trusted niece Sophia or Philip, her husband, to know of what she’d done.

“Sophia is with Philip in his studio, so I have Rachel this morning.” She nodded toward a crib in the corner of the room.

Three weeks passed since Mary received the letter from Golden Buck. Three weeks of conversation with her sister, each containing less and less anxiety until she believed none of her acquaintances would ever hear of the novel. But the day had come.

“It was enough for the story to be printed,” Mary said, “but if someone were to guess…can you imagine? Disgrace!”

Charlotte tsked. “I see what you mean. But no one remembers you as Lady Allen, so you can remain anonymous. You have a nom de plume.” She said nom de plume the same way one might say twenty thousand pounds.

Mary had signed the book Lady Mary, though she’d dropped the title of “lady” upon the death of her husband. They’d been married so short a time, and the appellation never sat easily with her as a daughter of a mere country squire. Without any children, she was all but forgotten by her husband’s family. The estate in Ireland took care of her financial needs, so they had little reason to think of her. Insisting upon a title seemed pretentious.

“It does not matter if no one knows. I know, and I am deeply ashamed.” She covered her face with her shawl. What she did not admit, could never admit, even to her sister, was that a tiny part of her loved it. Loved the praise her novel was gaining. But she couldn’t give in to those emotions, couldn’t let herself fall prey to ego and vanity. A gentlewoman had neither. She did nothing to draw attention to herself and lived in the shadows, serving others. She needed to get away, travel to a place where no one knew about A Woman Who Loves. “I would do anything to be away from here. If my home were not let, I would go to Ireland now.”