Page 65 of The Gentlewoman Author

Was she? Mary settled in front of the window, scanning the landscape. Evening light reflected pink off the garden wall where roses climbed so high that their limbs sprawled over the edge. They were disorderly, untamed, lived by no rules, beyond the aptitude nature gave them to grow and blossom. Was not she the same, born with such desires and abilities? Even if her path was gnarled and a bit wild, it was her own, something within her control that could not be relinquished.

The refined façade behind which she hid exhausted her. Gentility had never been in her nature. She liked large slices of cake and to run outside. She liked to stay in bed and read a love story from cover to cover while her maid brought her meals. When she laughed, she liked to do it with her head thrown back and until her side ached. It was time she cut free. Mary was not a lady. She was an author.

Propriety be damned.

Her cheeks warmed at the curse spoken only in her head. Some decency must remain.

“I have a few novels and several stories, but they are in Cornwall, and I need to copy them. I am not certain they are fit for publication, but I am almost finished with my current work.” If she sequestered herself for a day or two, she could finish. Right now, her heart needed time alone with paper, pen, and her own imaginary world of happily-ever-afters. She would see to Louisa and then go to an inn alone. “I will have it to you in five days, a week at most.”

Mr. Porter slapped his thighs and stood. “The Golden Buck will be pleased.”

Of course they would. Mary recalled Eliza Haywood, who opened her own print shop when her publisher was stingy with profits. “Before you go, let’s discuss the payment contract. Since A Woman Who Loves is such a success, I expect a greater advance and higher royalties.” Her heart pounded at her own boldness.

He hemmed and coughed and spewed some numbers that were well below Mary’s expectation.

“If that is the best you can do, I will find another publisher.” It was unladylike to discuss money, even more so to make pecuniary demands. It felt good.

After more blustering, Mr. Porter agreed to her terms, and she signed an amended contract.

When they finished, Mary saw no reason to keep him around. No one needed a reminder of her vocation. “I am quite certain my friend, Mrs. Eliot, will not mind if you take her carriage to the inn,” Mary assured him, while escorting him out of the room to the front door.

“Quite right. I know Mrs. Eliot quite well, having traveled together.”

“But you arrived in advance of her and Louisa?”

“After we found Miss Thorpe, I traveled post ahead of them. The carriage became crowded, you know.”

Mrs. Eliot’s capacious carriage accommodated four passengers, but she comprehended his meaning. The prospect of traveling with two fretting females had disturbed him, as well it might. Gracious! How they’d all met and arrived at Almery confounded her, but she wished him gone. Agnes would tell it better.

“Goodbye, Mr. Porter.”

When the door clicked shut, Mary rested her back against it to regain her composure. She closed her eyes, dreading the next minutes that would take her to Louisa and then to Daniel.

Clipped footsteps brought her eyes fluttering open. Daniel stood not five feet away.

She stepped toward him, and he met her halfway, his jaw clenching and working. His tense eyes bored into hers.

“You lied to me!” they said in unison.

Modesty is a virtue of influence. Not only does it ballast our minds with sober and humble thoughts of ourselves, but also steers every part of the outward frame. It appears in the face in calm and meek looks.

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