“He’s already overspent at every gambling den, you know. None of them will let him inside. The clubs too have denied him! I spoke to his brother, and he said he’s attempting to sell everything within reach.”
“Everything?” Came an excited whisper. Verity recognized the voice as London’s loudest but least graceful gossip, Lady Hemphill. “Even the Welsh cottage? The Caesar bust? Oh, you know my dear Earnest would adore the bust.”
The other voice remained unfamiliar. “Then now might be your best opportunity, because I personally believe he will take what he can and leave.”
Verity pressed too hard on the paper, breaking the tip of her pencil. She cringed and held her breath. Had it been heard? Had she been noticed?
“That’s ridiculous! Now tell me what his children are doing. Those poor boys. At least his wife won’t have to be ashamed.”
“Now that’s just crude, my dear friend. But hush. This is my favorite song, and I should like to listen. We shouldn’t speak so baldly of what doesn’t concern us.”
Taking that as her cue to leave, Verity finished scribbling her notes, and then finished off her sketch before hurrying over to Elowen.
The youngest didn’t scold her like Octavia would have. “There you are. I was worried about you, Verity, off on your own.”
“I was only sketching. I’m afraid it’s a paltry effort, but I’ll use the reference for a larger piece. I like to see movement inpaintings and would like to try that for myself,” she pontificated while settling neatly in her seat.
Octavia was turning back to her from having been motioning to one of her friends seated much further away. “Don’t you think you should first improve upon painting still objects?”
“Why walk when you can run?” Verity teased her in return.
As Lucien returned with punch, the conversation shifted. She let Octavia lead much of the chatter while she mused through the pieces of gossip she’d just overheard.
The evening pressed on while she crafted her stories in her mind.
Verity played the part of a responsible sister at Vauxhall Gardens, and on their return home, claimed absolute exhaustion. She hastened up to her private bed chamber where her maid, Lucy, was already laying out her night garments.
“There you are,” Lucy cried in relief. She was nearly ten years Verity’s senior and, while she excelled in everything else, she was not a particular fan of late evenings. “I am so tired, my lady.”
Already on her way to her side table where the portable writing desk resided, Verity pulled out her sketchbook and gathered her notes. “Then you don’t want to accompany me to Gregor’s tonight?”
“Oh heavens, we can’t possibly.”
“It’s Wednesday,” Verity reminded her while already penning her notes down.
Although Lucy grumbled, she kindly put down Verity’s hair into a simply plait. Then she dressed Verity into servant attire before they sneaked down the servant stairs.
“I don’t like this.”
“You say that every Wednesday,” Verity reminded her, hiding a smile as they hastened into the hackney on the street.
It was a process she and her maid had perfected. Simple dark clothes with a cloaked hood so no one might identify them. They rounded the corner of the street where there was always a hackney to be found at any hour for a ride, and then off they went through the neighborhoods of London. Verity would read aloud her journal so Lucy might learn everything by the time they reached the quiet street where Gregor’s sat.
Three knocks.
“Come in, come in, you’re late!” The words could be hear through the door before it opened to reveal a harried redheaded woman was ushering them in from the street.
“I’m afraid we’ll never be early, Mrs. Wendel,” Verity pointed out.
Mrs. Wendel had married the lout, Gregor, who had been a printer for all of twenty years before a roof fell on him down the lane. But the widow hadn’t cried for too long. She had already been doing most of the work during their marriage and no longer having to worry about her lazy oaf of a husband, as she used to say, had eased most of her burdens.
Now, the older woman, stout and wrinkling her nose, stretched her back with hands on her hips. “Tch, I suppose you’re right. Whisky?”
Lucy beamed. “Yes, please!”
It was another routine that made Verity smile. She handed over the papers once Mrs. Wendel had filled two glasses. Then Mrs. Wendel hummed and paced while she read through the shuffle of papers to ensure she knew what might happen next.
Verity’s eyes drifted toward the backroom that smelled of ink and wood. She had never gone in to actually see the printing press up close, but she had glimpsed it and loved it. The written word was a powerful tool. Women had little to hold onto in society, but she had grasped what she could find.
