Page 20 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Nine

Mary tried a second time to swallow a bite of bread. Though thoroughly buttered, it scratched its way down, leaving a residual lump in her throat. Each bite sat like a ball of yarn in her stomach. In only a few hours, the first meeting of the literary society would begin.

For Agnes and Louisa, the novel was a favorite topic at breakfast, at tea, at dinner, or any other time the two were in the same room together, so Mary had a sense of what lay ahead. Before A Woman Who Loves became a part of their lives, the two women had very little in common, but over the past week, Agnes and Louisa found innumerable topics of discussion.

Agnes smarted over the disobedience of the main characters, Penelope and Richard, who deliberately cast aside respectability and parental authority. Louisa sympathized with the lovers and claimed that their over-managing families pushed them into unscrupulous action. She insisted that the couple found happiness in the only way left to them. Agnes and Louisa pulled interminable support for their arguments from within the pages of the book.

On this evening, dinner was a casual affair. Mary and Agnes began eating without Louisa. Agnes, engrossed in marking passages of A Woman Who Loves by stuffing scraps of paper into her copy, did not heed Mary or the way she pushed her food about her plate.

Louisa rushed into the room. “Mrs. Eliot, listen to this passage. ‘Richard’s father lived a life of selfish debauchery, caring for others only insofar as they served his own wicked purposes. A purse full of money, a belly full of port, and an evening full of women: that was the life Richard could expect if he remained in his father’s pocket.’” Louisa looked up, brilliant with conviction.

“Nonsense,” Agnes said. “Richard could have refrained from greed, drink, and women while pursuing a lucrative position in his father’s line of business.”

“But to drag Penelope into the situation, to have her saddled with a reprobate father-in-law. They could not marry if Richard did not escape his father.”

“Precisely. Penelope should have married the earl,” Mrs. Eliot said.

Louisa’s book snapped shut. “You do not remember what it feels like to be in love. Or to have never loved at all.” She mumbled the second sentence through a mouthful of cheese she had plucked from the sideboard.

“Louisa,” Mary interjected. “That is quite enough. You will not speak to your hostess in such a way.” Agnes waved away the insult.

Louisa turned to Mary. “You understand. You are like the aunt in the story who believes in true love.”

Mary’s stomach plummeted to the floor, a now familiar sensation whenever conversation turned to her book. “Yes, well. I see both your points.” She was precisely like the aunt in the story.

“You never say what you think.” Louisa carried her plate to the table and swooped into a chair next to Mary.

“You have barely taken a bite, Mary. Are you well?” Agnes set her book aside.

Mary assured her friend by taking a mouthful of quail, gulping water to work it down.

The housekeeper entered with a stack of mail on a silver salver. “Mrs. Eliot, pardon the disruption. I brought the post. With all the preparations for this evening, it was forgotten.”

“I need a new butler. In no establishment should the housekeeper bring mail. My butler is likely inebriated in the pantry.” She thumbed through the correspondence. “Something for you, Mary.” She squinted at the address. “What’s this? Golden Buck Publishing?”

Mary’s heart stopped. Sending her publisher the Bath address had proven foolish. The game was up. She was found out.

“An investment?” Agnes handed over the letter with a raised brow.

“Yes, precisely.” Mary sank back in her chair, marveling, and not for the first time, that Agnes did not see the glaring truth. In preparation for today’s meeting, Mary revisited the pages of her novel, wherein she discovered countless hints to her identity. The most damning of which was that the kind aunt rescued the impoverished couple after their elopement and took them to her estate in Ireland. That estate lay in the same county as Mary’s property. In addition, the girl had come of age in Bath and gone to school there. Just as Mary had. But the aunt was hardly the main character. Perhaps no one would notice her history.

With the letter stuffed into her pocket, she mentally composed her reply. Dear Sir, In future when addressing your correspondence, please be more discreet…

“Look, here, Mary.” Agnes waved a letter at her. “From the orphanage. They’ve received the donation of the woolen blankets, though a little late for winter use.” She perused the letter. “They are very grateful.”

Mary helped Agnes with her philanthropic work at an orphanage in London. Once begun, the two of them might discuss for hours the endless needs of the foundling hospital, but Mary didn’t have the patience for the debate. “I am delighted to hear it. And would love nothing more than to discuss the next project, but I am tired. I will retire to my room and rest before tonight’s meeting.” Agnes glanced between Mary and her plate of untouched food—she did not ordinarily skip meals. Mary pushed in her chair and hurried upstairs, eager to know what her publisher had to say.

With the door bolted, she sat on a chair near the window and read.

Dear Lady Mary,

As you are aware, A Woman Who Loves is a great success, outperforming our greatest expectations. We are eager for news of your next romance. Kindly inform us of your progress.

Progress? Next romance?

However tempting to her pride, there would be no future novels from her. At least none for a publisher. She would continue to write in obscurity, keep the novels already completed locked away in their special trunk, and hope that A Woman Who Loves would not send her into a nervous fit or to an early grave. It might, given the affect it had on her heart each time she heard it mentioned. She moved to the dressing table and readied a quill to write the letter informing her publisher of that fact.

Dear Mr. Porter,