Page 39 of The Gentlewoman Author

Mary allowed Daniel to see her settled by the fire before he left. She lingered on the sight of his broad shoulders and confident gait until he disappeared. What was she thinking? She raised her palms over flaming cheeks. In the carriage, she imagined he would kiss her. She noticed his fine figure. She lamented his absence. Absurd. And under such circumstances!

These were the feelings of a younger inexperienced girl, not of a widow. More than twenty years ago, in her first bloom of youth, Daniel had been a child, an adolescent. The absurdity that she might fall in love with a man so much younger…well, the idea did not deserve thought. Highly improper.

Mary laughed at herself and clutched her locket. The light fluttering of the heart, the heavy yearning in the belly, were sensations she had buried with Lord Allen, except they unearthed themselves when Daniel Fletcher walked into the room. Her love for her first husband was a fortress, a shelter built by the two of them with struggles and disappointments. The kind of love that is strengthened over hardship is not replaceable.

Early in their marriage, Mary had received a letter from Agnes, inviting her to act as partner and treasurer for an orphanage, an idea that thrilled her. She could not wait to tell her husband about the project and hoped it was something the two of them could work on together. She’d spent the day making lists of all the things they could do, the people she would contact, the money she might raise, and the best way to keep a ledger.

At that time, they lived on Lord Allen’s estate outside of London with his younger sister and his mother. Mary had been bored with minimum responsibility to run the household since her mother-in-law found endless reasons to postpone her move to the dower house. Mary expected she would have a child and that would solve the problem, but it never happened, though they’d been married for nearly a year. This work with Agnes would close a gap in Mary’s life. When she sat in the morning room with a stack of beautiful stationary at her elbow, she would have a list of things to do, important letters to write, people to meet. A life.

When her husband came home, he kissed her forehead and took her hands with bright eyes, his manner indicating he had something to tell her as well. They had a light argument about who should tell their news first, each insisting the other begin. Mary prevailed, and her husband told her about an estate in Ireland that was neglected. He proposed they move, remove themselves from his overbearing family. The property had great potential and could increase the family’s income. With a sinking heart and a glance at Agnes’s letter, she agreed to a change that would remove her from family, friends, and country, as duty required.

“Now you can stop writing your silly stories and run a household.” He had said this with the assurance of one bestowing a long desired gift. With a beaming smile, he slid his arms around her and kissed her neck, twirling her around while tears pricked Mary’s eyes. He never knew that in five short minutes, he’d shattered her dreams and her confidence.

Months earlier when he discovered by accident that she was a writer, he seemed delighted. She shared her stories with him and believed he enjoyed her writing. But that day she learned that he thought writing a waste of time or of lesser importance than keeping a house. Through the passage of time, his words twisted her heart anew.

Perhaps she should have told him about the orphanage. A home as far as Ireland prohibited her from any meaningful impact she may have had on the orphanage. She did not want to leave, even when living with her mother-in-law galled. If she had protested, would he have honored her wishes and remained in England? Was her ambition important enough to impede her husband’s desires? She would never know. When he asked for her news, she said she had received a letter from Agnes. The conversation ended, and Lord Allen left to tell his mother their plans.

Months passed before she let go of bitterness and surrendered to the effort of building a beautiful life with her husband. She learned the power of forgiveness and saw that he matched her in loyalty and love. She opened her heart and gave him all her love. To give and receive that tenderness without inhibition transformed her. There could be nothing equal to it. She continued writing but was not prolific. Keeping house did require much of her time. Eventually, she shared her stories with him again but never with the same relish as in the beginning. Even with forgiveness, some slights are never forgotten.

The fire in the inn did its job. Mary’s clothing dried. She looked at her hands, and the black stain on her right finger seemed darker than ever. Despite many efforts, she could never stop writing. It was the one thing that belonged wholly to herself. To think, she was a published author. How would Lord Allen have responded to the circumstance that his wife’s silly words were popular beyond expectation?

Instead of ruminating on the past, Mary concentrated on eating. She slathered clotted cream onto a scone and took a bite, but it stuck to the roof of her mouth like paste and sawdust. She waited with little patience for Daniel’s return. Tea was the only thing that agreed with her, and she had consumed an entire pot by the time he strode into the room, a huge grin on his face.

“My horses are in the stables.” He sat down opposite her, bringing with him a chill of the outdoors that rushed over her too-warm face.

“You must sit closer to the fire and dry yourself,” Mary urged him. He did as she bid. “Now, tell me what this means for our search and in what condition you found your horses?”

He explained that the horses only needed rest. The man at the posting house told Savage that because the horses were exhausted, they must change in less than ten miles. Mary closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her hand. A decidedly unladylike posture, but she did not want Daniel to see the tears in her eyes. They knew their next stop and were headed in the right direction. If not for the weather, they might have found them already.

Daniel reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a small book bound in green cloth, no bigger than Mary’s hand. “I brought you something to distract you from your troubles.” He held the book out to her, their fingers brushing when she took it from him, smiling.

“Thank you.” Mary ran her finger along the soft broken spine. The book was well-worn, its binding loose. It crackled as she opened it, the well-read pages velvet soft, smelling sweet and musky. No one had given her so thoughtful a present in a very long time.

“There was not much to choose from, but I thought we might read to one another to pass the time.” His neck turned red as he spoke.

“I like Katherine Philips. Do you know her work?”

He shook his head, and they lapsed into silence.

“You seem thoughtful.” Daniel pulled the untouched platter of meat, cheese, and bread toward him.

Mary set the book aside but rested her fingers on the smooth cover while turning an eye to the window, where rain screened the view of the road. Since she was impotent to do more to find Louisa, she needed to cast away her worry. “I was thinking about how our past choices affect our present.”

Daniel’s eyes grew soft. He reached out, and for a moment, Mary thought he would touch her bare hand. Just before his fingers touched hers, he dropped his hand to the table.

“I understand you. Miss Thorpe and Mr. Savage have made a terrible decision that may affect the rest of their lives for ill.”

Mary swallowed. She hadn’t forgotten about them, but she was a little ashamed for thinking of herself.

“Yes. Louisa’s flight will not serve her well.” She paused. “And I was thinking about my own life. Just a silly old woman’s fancies.”

“Old?” he asked, stressing the word with incredulity.

“Compared to you, little brother.”

“Why do you think of yourself that way? There is nothing old or silly about you.” He tapped her hand with his forefinger. He was probably only trying to make a point, but something in her stomach flipped, and her hand stilled. Mary almost took hold of her locket. But if she drew her hand away, there was no chance he would touch her again. It was a long time since an attractive gentleman had touched her or noticed her at all.

“Well?” Daniel asked.