“I loved it,” I told her. “You must perform all of it some time.”
“And her ladyship?” she asked with a noticeable quiver in her voice which told me a great deal as well.
“Trust me, she loved it as well.”
I then shared what was considered a transgression of mine when I was unable to tolerate another boring lesson. It had to do with escaping the second-floor room at Sussex Square in nothing more than my camisole and knickers before one of our tutors arrived.
That particular episode precluded my aunt’s decision to send my sister and I to private school in France.
“France?” Lily exclaimed. “I’ve heard wicked things about France. However did ye survive?”
“Quite well actually.” For now, I did not go into further details.
That would be a conversation for another day.
Two
Lily and Iarrived at Hatchards book shop at Number 187 Piccadilly in good time. I had my aunt’s driver let us off just across the way and we crossed the street.
There were several people, mostly ladies and a handful of men, in a queue that reached from the shop out to the sidewalk.
And there in the window case my latest book was on display along with a placard that announced the reception for that afternoon.
“Did you read her last book?”a young woman who might have been near my own age commented.
“Absolutely wonderful! Her heroine, Emma Fortescue, is now investigating murder! And she is absolutely fearless! Now, there is a woman after my own heart!”
“Most interesting. The author is actually a noblewoman. I hear that she’s gone off on those very same adventures…”
“I read in the dailies that she assisted in the solving of a murder with a private investigator…”
“I do hope that she will be here…”
There were several other comments, not all of them flattering.
“My sister sent me to purchase her latest book,”a man then added.“I wouldn’t be caught dead reading anything by a woman!”
“Your sister?”another young woman replied. “Of course, if it makes you happy to say that. However, most men might learn something about how to treat an independent woman by reading it!”
Lily looked up at me with a surprised expression. “Men read yer books as well?”
I maneuvered our way past the line. “So it seems.”
Of course I appreciated the accolades, along with the somewhat veiled criticism.
I had put a great deal of time and effort into each book, developing my heroine, Emma Fortescue, along the way. She was most amusing.
“Good heavens!”my sister had commented when she read my first book.“Did you really do all those things?”
As for our aunt. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Do you think I still have time at my age?”
My answer in both instances was— Yes, of course!
I made my way to the table at the back of the shop where several of my books awaited my signature.
My publisher, Mr. Warren, and the owner of the shop had agreed that a personal appearance along with signed copies of my book had a way of bringing people inside, rather than perusing the display at the window and then walking past. Something on the order of a curiosity.
The owner had also arranged to serve afternoon tea in the back of the shop in an area that had been created to resemble a parlor in a private residence.
