Page 37 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Fifteen

With utmost anguish had Mary read Louisa’s parting letter and wondered at the boldness of the child. Louisa stated that her decision to leave was inspired not only by A Woman Who Loves but also by Mary herself. Mary’s courage in becoming an author. Mary’s unflinching treatment of Mr. Bateman. Even parrying comments to protected her identity as an author.

Rain fell softly against the carriage and trickled down the window, nature reflecting her suffering, even if she could not yet cry over it. Too sick for tears, her eyes ached and burned. Her stomach, though empty, felt like it carried a quarry full of rocks. How could she tell her brother that under her care, his only daughter had run away with a scoundrel? And that her action was inspired by Mary’s poor example.

This was what happened when one did not watch herself, when a woman cared too little for what others thought of her. She paid the price now. Under the presumption that no one would ever read her writing, and she’d written a salacious tale that indeed inspired an innocent to take an irredeemable step. Even if Louisa was found, her reputation lay in tatters. Not even the man Stephen planned to marry her off to would take her.

A groan escaped Mary’s lips. She swallowed it.

“What was that?” Daniel asked.

“What?”

“I thought you said something.”

Mary shook her head.

“Have you read anything by Eliza Haywood?” Daniel asked.

“Every word.” She was too tired to evade the truth but averted her head, watching rain slither down the window.

“Oh.” Daniel’s surprise expressed his opinions regarding her reading habits. “What do you think of her?”

Mary became intensely aware of their solitude, as it reminded her of a scene from a Ms. Haywood novel. The comparison brought heat to Mary’s cheeks. In truth, she had nothing to be ashamed of in her present action. The lenience given to widows did not extend to young ladies. Mary took a shuddering breath.

“I’m sorry. I only meant to distract you,” he said.

“I need to gather my thoughts. I suppose I admire her. There are no other women who write so boldly about women, their desires, and social impediments. Did you know she started her own printing press when her publisher didn’t pay enough?”

“I did not. An enterprising woman.”

“Yes, and though criticized by the likes of Mr. Pope, I am sure he wishes he sold as many books.”

“No doubt.”

“Have you read anything by her?”

“I cannot say that I have, but after reading A Woman Who Loves, I might.”

Another stone dropped into Mary’s stomach. She did not like the comparison, but it was inevitable. “Lady Mary is far tamer than Eliza Haywood.”

Beside her, Daniel shuddered, and she found he was laughing.

“What can possibly be funny?”

“I was thinking of Miss Barry accusing you of authoring A Woman Who Loves and the look on her face when you refuted her.”

She wanted to say that she did not find it amusing, but he might be offended, so she restrained herself. Instead, she said, “I am grateful you defended me.” Gratitude blossomed in her when he stood by her that night, but it had since dried up. She felt like a shriveled plant which no one expected to produce fruit.

Daniel sobered. “You know, Miss Thorpe practically memorized that book. It is no wonder she eloped like Penelope. Perhaps A Woman Who Loves is not a good influence for young minds after all.”

She turned as far away from him as possible in the small equipage. “You hardly need remind me of that.”

“Pardon me, I did not mean to suggest it is your fault. Did you introduce her to the book?”

“You might say that.”

“Even so, she is at liberty to make her own choices.”