Page 24 of The Gentlewoman Author

For a moment Mary was dumbstruck. She lived according to An Infallible Guide to the Fairer Sex, in which second marriages were discouraged. Having already experienced the felicities of marriage, propriety necessitated she leave the bachelors to the young ladies who had not yet experienced that joy.

“Mr. Fletcher?” Her heart fluttered. “If my eyes follow him, it is for Louisa’s sake. Besides, he is young enough to be my…”

“Your brother?”

“Well, yes. We have an amicable relationship, one I hope will continue when he marries Louisa.” Mary blinked away the image of herself standing before the church altar, swearing her loyalty to Mr. Fletcher, his blue eyes looking back at her in adoration. An outrageous fantasy. She would have to alter her book to less accurately portray Mr. Fletcher. “Agnes, do not speak of such a thing when you know very well I do not want a husband.”

“I know nothing of the sort, but I do know that Louisa and Mr. Fletcher will never marry.”

Mary sighed and looked to her tea for comfort. She poured a generous dollop of cream and watched it swirl and tangle through the liquid before stirring in two teaspoons of sugar. She swallowed half the cup, concentrating on the heat that scorched the back of her throat and the creamy sweetness coating her tongue. Ignoring Agnes served best when a confrontation arose between them. Pushing away her own thoughts of Mr. Fletcher remained the true problem, one that would take more than a few swallows of tea to quiet. Her preference for him was nothing more than a fancy born from a return to Bath, where she had fallen in love with her late husband. It resurrected a wish for love and believed-in romance. But she lived all that in her mind and on written pages, though it was mere play. Romance was not for her, not anymore.

During calling hours, they received Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Savage. Agnes stayed in the room but excused herself to her writing desk, claiming she had correspondence that could not wait. It was abominably rude, to Mary’s thinking.

Mr. Fletcher rested on a settee next to Louisa while Mary and Mr. Savage took the chairs across from them. Though speaking to Mr. Savage, Mary lent half an ear to Louisa and Mr. Fletcher. However, their heads were bent toward each other, and they spoke in so intimate a manner that Mary could not hear what was said. Mr. Fletcher touched Louisa’s arm, a familiarity that reverberated through Mary’s own arm. Though pleased by the development, it gave her the sensation of standing alone on a beach while watching a ship take sail.

Louisa turned to Mary. “It is decided. We will hold another meeting of the Literary Society. One sour apple in Miss Barry will not deter us.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased.” Mary lied. “Will you invite Miss Barry?”

“It would seem strange if we did not,” said Mr. Fletcher. “Though I rather hope she doesn’t accept the invitation.”

“Agnes, what do you think?” Mary asked, hoping Agnes would not use this as an opportunity to wage war on Miss Barry.

Agnes looked up from her letter. “I enjoyed Miss Barry’s comments. It is no fun to belong to a literary society if everyone agrees. Conflict is necessary.”

So long as A Woman Who Loves was never mentioned again, Mary tried not to care who would attend.

Louisa wished only for solitude. While Mr. Fletcher applauded her behavior in asserting her opinion, she felt her aunt’s disapproval, and it reminded her how much she suffered. No one was happy with her. Not her father, who wanted nothing to do with her. Not her aunt, who wanted her to like old Mr. Fletcher. She could not please them any more than she could pretend contentment with their plans for her. They expected her delight when they schemed on her behalf. She knew what she wanted, but no one ever asked. Not that it would help, since she desired Mr. Lawrence, who ignored her plight and did not offer for her, though he knew she would accept a proposal. She sighed. Oh, mama. If you were here, all would be set to rights.

That was not quite true, for while Mother could soothe and advocate for her, she could not turn Mr. Lawrence’s head or gain his affection. If Mr. Lawrence loved her, he would have written. She did not comprehend what more he required, but if she figured it out, she would do it, cast aside Aunt Mary’s plans, and run to him.

Mr. Fletcher still spoke to her, but her eyes stung, and she could not attend him when her own thoughts were so pressing. She nodded and hummed in agreement.

Because of her rudeness to Miss Barry, Louisa endured even more condemnation, even though Aunt Mary’s insolent words to Mr. Bateman the other night far exceeded her own.

Mrs. Eliot called to Mr. Fletcher, and he moved to the other side of the room to speak with her and Aunt Mary.

“You look rather glum.” Mr. Savage approached, his frank observation catching Louisa off guard.

“Please, sit down.” He did, and she examined his features. Though they’d spoken before, this was the first time she scrutinized him with interest. He was handsome in the way one might imagine the great hero of a story. Too handsome for her taste and with none of the softness Mr. Lawrence held in his eyes and at the edge of his mouth. Mr. Savage had steel grey eyes and a slight sneer that never quite went away, even when he smiled. He looked the way Louisa felt. Dissatisfied and confined.

She experimented with honesty. “I am. I feel as if my life has been laid out and decided, not by myself or even by providence, but by my father.” Here she hesitated. “And by other meddling family members, though I love them dearly.” Mr. Savage nodded but said nothing. “This is perhaps a problem unique to my sex.” She bit her lip, hoping her sincerity would not drive him away.

“I think not. My experience is much the same. We are ruled by our relations and by circumstances.”

“Circumstances of our family’s making.”

His lips curled. “Yes. And we are left feeling as if we have no power at all.”

A warm shiver crept down Louisa’s arms. He echoed the thoughts of her heart. “I feel trapped.”

“Trapped,” said Mr. Savage at the same time Louisa said it herself. “In my wildest fantasy, I ride away to a place where I can do better for myself, much like Richard in A Woman Who Loves.”

“Where would you go? What would you do?” Louisa was intrigued, his admission mirroring her own fantasies.

“I’ve always been one to do my duty. I came home from Cambridge early to take care of my ailing father. Since then, I’ve been strapped to my family, ensuring my sister finds a husband, looking after my mother.”

“I am sorry. Is your father gone, then?”