Page 56 of The Gentlewoman Author

Mrs. Fletcher’s eye sparkled. “You have done more than I have ever managed. If they weren’t so adept at baked goods, I’d have sent them packing long ago.” She bit into her cake. “Divine,” she said, her eyes closing.

Mary sampled the cake. Mrs. Fletcher was right. It was delicious. Nutmeg and citron mingled with butter and sugar in perfect proportions. “Their skill might be worth the trouble.” Mary sipped her coffee and nearly spat it back into the cup. “The coffee, however, is not. But that is my own fault, since I made it myself.”

Mrs. Fletcher laughed, rang the bell, and bid the cook bring another pot.

“The cooks answer the bell?” Mary hoped her question was not impudent.

“Yes. I know it is an odd arrangement, but their mother served here before they did, and they all wanted to work together, so I hired them with the understanding they would all cook, clean, and serve. They all like cooking best, and I believe that is the source of their disagreement.”

Mary nodded and eyed Mrs. Fletcher’s wan, shadowed face. She needed help. It was too much to run a household and care for an ailing husband, a plight too familiar to Mary. “You are overtaxed. Would it be too presumptuous of me to speak with them? It cannot be comfortable to bear the relentless squabbling.”

“You shall someday be mistress of the castle. I would take it kindly.” She eyed Mary over her cup with a deflated expression Mary could not interpret. Was she suspicious? Grateful? Or exhausted?

Mary eyed the ink stains on her fingers. They kept her from becoming the mistress of any house, save her own.

“Tell me, Mary—I will call you that, though you refrain from addressing me as Florence—what is your age?” Though rude, she spoke casually, ending the question with a blithe smile, so Mary took no offense.

“I turned forty not three months ago.”

“Daniel wishes for children. Are you still having regular courses?”

What was this? A medieval union wherein fertility was determined before marriage? Heat crept up her neck as she envisioned herself with Daniel, tumbling in the hay before the wedding to determine if her belly would quicken.

The questions were no longer charming and deserved an impertinent answer. Mary had one ready but vanquished it, opting for politeness. “Do you enjoy gardening?”

Mrs. Fletcher waved the question away. “What attracted you to Daniel?” She leaned forward and stilled, reminding Mary of a cat listening for the sound of a mouse.

She may as well tell the truth. “I saw him first as he entered the ballroom. From that very first moment, he seemed everything a man ought to be. I sensed the sort of man he is.”

“And what kind is that?”

Mary flinched under Mrs. Fletcher’s tight, examining eyes. “Perceptive. Thoughtful. Kind. And he is so handsome.”

“You may say that about any number of men. What in particular do you admire?”

“While many men may be called kind, I have never met one so caring as Daniel. It is not kindness alone. He is perceptive of my needs. He senses when one is in distress.” Mary’s face warmed at the memory of all Daniel did to lift her spirits during their journey. He remembered what she liked and went out of his way to please her. The roses in her room testified of his consideration. “He makes life better. That can be said of few. He is one of the best and most sincere people I have ever met. He a man of character.” A dam broke, and she could not stem her words. “He is polite, excellent at conversation, intelligent, the best companion. But you know all of this. You are his mother.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s attention flicked to the door and back to Mary. Without looking up, Mrs. Fletcher said, “And you, Daniel, what did you notice about Mary?”

Daniel stood in the doorway with an expression she dared not study. Her heart plummeted to her shoes. She busied herself pouring his coffee and cutting cake, while he settled in a chair between herself and his mother. A man whom she complimented with such effusion could not doubt her infatuation. After all, she had stopped writing a novel and begun a new one when she became aware that she unwittingly cast him as the love interest. In that novel she described with effusive abandon his selfless deeds, his fine figure, his well-formed lips, at which she stared this very moment. She looked down at her cake.

“Her charming face, of course,” Daniel said, but his voice was tight. “It’s the first thing one notices. But then I saw that she is a commanding woman.” A forward statement. Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes grew wide. And Mary coughed. It was Daniel’s turn to blush. “I mean, a man likes to be useful to a pretty lady, but I watched Mary take care of herself with admirable aplomb.”

Mary laughed. She was not certain it was a compliment, but she was flattered he’d noticed, even if her treatment of Mr. Bateman, however necessary, had been deplorable. “He is referring to my discourteous behavior toward a gentleman.”

“Not only that. She is independent and clever. After dancing with so many ladies whose heads seemed full of feathers, I was immediately attracted to your frank intelligence.”

He leaned toward her, his pale blue eyes an invitation. For what? Mary swallowed.

“Well, I must see to your papa.” Mrs. Fletcher interrupted their staring match but stood with a question in her smile. “Daniel, take Mary to visit the tenants and bring her upstairs to visit us before dinner. Your father wants to know her better.” She left the room.

“Pardon me. I did not mean to listen to your conversation. I happened to come by and⁠—”

“Do not worry yourself.” She shifted in her seat and dabbed her tingling forehead with a napkin. His compliments affected her, and she did not know whether to take them to heart or brush them off as show. For her own part, she meant every word.

“Would you care to join me, as my mother suggested? I would appreciate your company, but you have no obligation, of course.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as discomfited as she.

How could she refuse? Even if she wanted to, she could not say no when her whole being yearned to be near him. She bit the inside of her cheek. It was not in her best interest to spend more time with a man who had only fictional interest in her. Save for the publication of her book, the past years had provoked very little emotion in Mary.

Over time, grief for her husband had mellowed into an ache that she accepted and lived with. Her emotions rose and fell in joy and sorrow while watching other people fall in love, find happiness or failure. Since losing Lord Allen, her feelings had comprised of other people’s experiences, some real, others she imagined for her stories. The giddiness that fluttered through her in that moment was all her own. She savored the fleeting delight of it, feared its inevitable conclusion. This pretense was driving her into raptures only love could bring. She could not say no to its thrill while available. For that moment and every moment until it was no longer offered, she would take it.

You must be sure to be free and open in your conversation.

The Whole Duty of a Woman, An Infallible Guide to the Fairer Sex, 1737