Page 64 of The Gentlewoman Author

“I knew it was not meant to be.” Mrs. Fletcher clapped her hands, but Mr. Fletcher leaned over and whispered something to his wife. She patted his leg. “Of course, you are right dear, but without another prospect, it does ruin our plans. We must figure out something else. Besides, Mrs. Allen is so very old. We may never get a grandchild out of her.”

The maid appeared in the doorway. “Two more guest for you: Mrs. Eliot and Miss Thorpe.”

Mary spun toward the door. “Louisa!” She embraced her niece, who trembled in her arms. “All will be well, now. I will make sure of it.” Mary squeezed her, trying to imbue all her affection, all hope for Louisa’s future into the embrace, while stabilizing her own ragged breath.

“Louisa Thorpe?” Mr. Fletcher wobbled to his feet unaided.

Louisa stepped forward and nodded.

Mrs. Fletcher’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Are your affections engaged?” Mr. Fletcher asked.

Louisa shook her head.

“Mercy! We have been spared. Miss Thorpe, your father and I are old friends and have arranged a match between you and my son.”

Mary watched his mouth continue to move but heard nothing past the ringing in her head. Daniel and Louisa’s marriage was arranged. He still leaned against the wall, but as her eyes landed on his, he turned toward her, his face closed.

Through the commotion, Mary asked, “Daniel, did you know?”

He nodded and leaned forward, covering his face with his hands.

The world fell from beneath her. She could barely stand. Couldn’t breathe. Had it all been a lie? Was she merely a necessity to get the castle? Could she trust any part of their relationship?

There was no time to wander through the tangle of questions she had for him. As Louisa’s guardian and advocate, she would do right by her to the exclusion of all else. Louisa was pale, her clothes sagged over her frame, and her face blotched red. Mary did not know exactly what her niece had been through, but she looked like a kitten pulled half-drowned from a stream. The poor darling. She wrapped an arm around her waist. “Are you all right?” she asked in a voice so low the others would not hear.

“Oh, Aunt. I am so sorry.”

“Say nothing of it. I am only happy you are well. Are you well?”

“Well enough.” She bent her head and then rested it on Mary’s shoulder.

The room continued to fuss and squawk, and the volume rose in equal measure to the heat gathering in Mary’s body and the expanding knot in her stomach. What could be done? Daniel would no longer meet her eye. The Fletchers believed Louisa would resolve their problems. Most of all, Louisa, Mary’s responsibility, was hurting. The girl’s permanent disgrace was partially her fault. Any hopes Louisa may have had of a suitable marriage were sunk. And here were the Fletchers, offering her Daniel. A tidy fix to many difficulties, but not one she could address in that moment.

“Agnes, I must speak with Mr. Porter. Take Louisa to my room and wait for me. The maid will show you the way.” She nudged them out the door and then clapped her hands. “Let us retire to our beds. We will continue the discussion tomorrow when we are well rested.” It was not her place to take charge, but now that they knew she wasn’t a gentlewoman, it didn’t matter. She could not abide the family discussing her all night. “Come along, then.” She clapped her hands and shooed them out of the room like some harried nursemaid. To Mr. Porter she said, “We shall go to the library.”

With the door open for propriety’s sake, Mary tried to settle her thoughts by pacing in front of Mr. Porter, who sat in a chair.

“Why have you come, Mr. Porter? I admit to being more than a little surprised by your presence.”

“You are a poor correspondent, and I want your next novel.” He adjusted his position, leaning toward Mary with a look of earnest admiration. “You have no idea. We cannot print enough of your novel. We need another book, and fast. Do you have anything ready?”

She spun on her heel and faced him. “By the by, why did you publish my book without my permission?”

He emitted a sound that was something between a scoff and a snort. “You don’t remember…the letter you included with the manuscript?”

She searched her brain. What had she written? It was years ago. She only remembered swelling with accomplishment while tying the twine around the thick stack of papers, like she’d climbed a mountain or conquered the world. “I do not, in fact, recall. The manuscript was sent by accident.”

“Your letter was the most amusing and audacious the office had ever seen. I passed it to all my colleagues, and we all laughed at you. It stopped being so droll when I read the manuscript and saw that you were right. At that point, we did as you commanded in your letter and began setting the press immediately.”

“I told you in my letter to commence production?”

“You said we were holding the book of the century, and if we knew what was good for us, we would not wait a moment before setting the press. We had your permission.”

“I wrote that?” The memory was vague, but she could imagine herself composing the message, a triumphant moment when she had let go of all scruples and written a letter that had never been intended for reading.

“And you were right.”