Clara sat on the divan in her sitting room, with Althea beside her. A portable desk, such as travelers used, rested on the cushion between them. Althea had it facing her, with a pen in the inkwell. Lady Farnsworth, Lady Grace, Mrs. Clark, and Mrs. Dalton sat with them. Lady Farnsworth had called for the sherry again, and even instructed Mrs. Finley where to find it.
If she ever had her women’s club here, Clara expected afternoons in it to be much like the one they all shared right now.
“The goal,” she said, “is to plan the next two issues ofParnassus. We have here a list of subjects and lengths. We need to determine the manner in which the areas will be addressed and which contributor will do it.”
“Will there be poetry?” Mrs. Clark posed the question in her usual tentative voice. She rarely accepted Clara’s invitations to join in these meetings. Although Mrs. Clark always had the good excuse of her millinery business, Clara thought the real reason was that the woman did not feel comfortable sitting like this with others born so high above her.
Today, however, Mrs. Dalton attended as well. A gentry matron of considerable girth and a cloud of pale hair, Mrs. Dalton provided expertly researched history essays that she signed Boudica’s Daughter. She had befriended Mrs. Clark and had taken to having all her bonnets and hats made in Mrs. Clark’s shop.
“Of course there will be poetry,” Mrs. Dalton said. “What a question.”
“There will be indeed. I am already receiving examples left for the journal at a few of the bookshops. Perhaps you will take them and choose our next ones, Mrs. Clark?” Clara opened the little desk and retrieved a sheaf of papers.
“How do we know they are not written by men?” Lady Farnsworth asked.
“You have only to see the handwriting to know,” Althea said. “I suppose some man might be dictating to a woman in order to hoodwink us. However, the sentiments in most of them do not appear to be male.”
Mrs. Clark appeared both pleased and flustered that she had been asked to choose the next poems. She peered at the top one with interest.
“Now, as to the travel essay,” Clara said.
Lady Grace cleared her throat. “If we are willing to take on a new contributor, we could have an essay that would probably cause us to triple the printing.”
“What sort of travel essay would that be?” Althea asked.
“A lady’s journey through the Continent with a person of the highest position. We could allow it to be written as a confidence shared with the author if she did not want to use her own name.”
“Am I correct in assuming the person would be the late Princess Caroline?” Lady Farnsworth asked sharply. “I thought so. That means your contributor would be Lady Anne Hamilton. Since Anne has already written indiscreetly once about Caroline’s situation even while the poor dear was alive, I do not doubt she will agree to do so again, now that she is dead. As for whether it would be wise forParnassusto publish it, I leave that to others to decide.”
Her tone made it very clear her opinion of such a rash move.
“If you prefer I not ask her, I will not, of course,” Lady Grace said.
“I want to think about this,” Clara said. “Mrs. Dalton, do you have the subject of your next history essay?”
“I think it will be on a Roman woman of nobility. Everyone likes reading about the Romans.”
“They like reading about the orgies, you mean,” Lady Farnsworth said. “Find a way to include that, and we will triple our printing without resorting to Anne’s betrayal of poor Caroline’s memory.”
Mrs. Dalton’s expression fell. “I am not sure I know enough about Roman orgies.”
Clara laughed. “No orgies are necessary, Mrs. Dalton. You should not say such things, Lady Farnsworth. She thinks you are serious.”
“And you think I am not?” Lady Farnsworth smiled mysteriously.
Clara was about to move to the next item when Mrs. Finley entered the chamber and hurried to her side. She bent to her ear. “A carriage is drawing up outside. Yourbrother’scarriage.”
Althea overheard. She stood and looked out the window. “Here she comes.”
Clara knew whoshewas.
“Ladies, we are about to have a visitor,” Clara announced. “Please chat about something else until she leaves. Anything else.” She reached over, snatched the poems from Mrs. Clark’s hands, and returned them to the desk. Althea picked up the desk and placed it on a shelf.
“She is in here?” the dowager’s voice could be heard saying. “You say she has callers? Then I will join them.”
The dowager appeared in the doorway. She paused, surprised by the group of women who had all unaccountably called on the same day. Using her parasol like a walking stick, she paced over and took them all in. “Cakes, I see. You are a generous hostess, Clara.” Her gaze lit on the decanter. “Are those spirits?”
“Sherry,” Clara said. “Would you like some?”
