Three days had passed since that first performance. Now Kate was sitting in Mrs. Warbler’s house, in a lovely room with windows all around overlooking a quite substantial rain-soaked back garden. The house was modest and yet, well-appointed. “My husband was a man of some means,” Mrs. Warbler had said proudly when Kate admired the furnishings.
A maid had served them sherry and biscuits before busying herself elsewhere.
In truth, Kate had found the invitation for a visit from the matron rather surprising, considering the widow’s earlier animosity. The matrons’ attack had been the first time Kate had ever experienced vegetables being thrown at the stage. It had happened to other actors, and for some with great regularity, but it had never happened to her.
And she had stood her ground. She was very proud of her courage because it had requiredallof it. Since that performance, the crowds attending her play were larger than she’d ever had before. The troupe’s coffers would soon be replenished.
When the invitation had been delivered inviting Kate to call on Mrs. Warbler, Silas hadn’t wanted her to accept it. She felt she must. She’d learned that Mrs. Warbler was a close confidante of the Dowager Duchess of Winderton. The duke still followed Kate everywhere. No matter what she did to discourage him, short of ordering him away, he refused to see that she was not interested in his attentions or his gifts, and definitelynothis opinions.
She didn’t quite know what to do next. His youth made him irritatingly persistent. It was as if he considered her fortunate to have his presence in her life... while the man she actually wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of was annoyingly absent.
Brandon Balfour had gone on about his business with apparently no thought of Kate. After that one night when she’d sensed his presence in the woods, she’d not felt him at all. For the second time in her life, he seemed to have vanished.
Except she knew he was in Maidenshop.
Of course, what Mr. Balfour did should be ofnointerest to her. She was a woman with big dreams. She was returning to London. How many times did she need to be reminded that men only complicated matters? It became their will, their desires.
Kate did not have time for such rot.
She hoped today to reassure an anxious dowager by way of her friend that she was not a threat to her precious son. Silas was certain she was walking into a trap, and Kate was wise enough to be wary—but what she’d not expected to hear today was a confession.
“You write?” Kate repeated.
Mrs. Warbler was pouring a healthy draft of sherry into Kate’s glass. “I do,” she said, putting down the bottle after topping off her own glass. “Poems.” Lifting a hand to her chest, her wig ever so slightly askew, Mrs. Warbler started quoting, “Dew upon a blade of grass, a maiden’s hopes and dreams. A lock of hair, a memory there, and sadness to all extremes.”
She sat back in her chair and smiled hopefully at Kate—who understood her role here. A fortifying drink of sherry gave her a chance to think. “Why, that was astounding. Truly, I’ve not heard anything like it.”
“My mother was a poet as well,” Mrs. Warbler answered with a pleased blush. “Father never approved. He discouraged both of us. I vowed the manImarried would not be so dictatorial. I never understood what was wrong with stringing words together.”
“And did you marry the right man?” Kate asked. She’d known she’d been fortunate that her father had been one who appreciated intelligence and talent in women.
“Ah, the colonel. He was rarely home.” For a moment, her pigeon-bright eyes dimmed. “I had all the time I needed. I stopped writing, well, except for letters to my husband. I don’t know that he appreciated my small observations of life in Maidenshop. I would tell him the goings-on and include a little poem. Something cheery. He never mentioned them and only sent back the tersest of replies.Dear wife, I am well. Your husband, Peter.”
She lifted her glass in an ironic salute and drained it halfway. “Not romantic.”
“Some men are not that way,” Kate offered, responding to the loneliness in the older woman’s voice.
Mrs. Warbler poured more sherry into her glass and offered some to Kate who shook her head since she hadn’t touched any of it. “I sent one of my poems to a publisher once.” Mrs. Warbler looked shocked by her own audacity.
“What happened?”
“I received a letter from him stating that no woman can write even passably well.”
Kate jumped to her defense. “That is not true. There are a number of very good writers who are women.”
“But are there any poets?”
That question stopped Kate. She could not think of one—in print. “I’m certain that there are dozens,” Kate said with conviction. “I do understand your doubts. I’m often chastised for being too independent,” Kate confessed. “I’ve even had men, always men, rarely women, inform me that I could not have possibly written my plays. They claimed they are too intelligent to have been penned by a woman.”
Mrs. Warbler huffed her disgust. “Why do they dismiss everything we do?” she asked, sounding more than a bit tipsy. “Anything that is fun, or interesting, or challenging, they tell us we must not do.”
“We don’t have to listen to them.”
Her eyes widened at Kate’s suggestion. “You never do, do you?”
“I did at one time,” Kate answered. That had been a very dark time when she’d failed so miserably in London and her parents had been dying. She’d truly lost sight of herself. “I finally came to realize that I had this need inside of me to perform and to share stories. To make people believe that what they see on the stage could be real. To forget their troubles, or their doubts, or their fears. You see, I believe stories, like poems, are important. They make us think. They make us feel.”
“You are very good.” Mrs. Warbler uncapped the sherry decanter but did not pour. Instead, she asked thoughtfully, “But are you happy being alone? Is it not hard, especially since you don’t follow convention?”
