Page 73 of The Gentlewoman Author

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The novel’s ending buried itself in a corner of Mary’s mind and would not be coaxed into revealing itself. A day ago, she knew the entire story with defined clarity. When the hero kidnapped the heroine, she didn’t recognize him. He kept his identity a secret, even from her, because he was a pirate, wanted for hanging, and he feared she would give him away. But what made him tell her in the end? And why did she forgive him?

Splotches of ink covered the page like burnt circles that threatened to devour the plot. Shut in her room for a day and a half with curtains drawn and candles blazing, she’d done everything possible to steer her mind from Daniel. Daniel and Louisa. Daniel and Almery. Daniel who loved her but not enough to forgo his castle. She, Mary, Lady Mary, was admired and maybe even loved but not enough. The stories she wrote did not reflect real life, where good husbands died and true love stayed true only when convenient. In life, the hero abandoned the heroine in favor of treasure.

Tears splashed over the ink, smearing her words into indecipherable streaks. She slammed her hand against the page and enjoyed the sharp edges of the paper knife her hand as she wadded it up and threw it to the floor, where it joined the dozens of similarly discarded pages. A slow pulse jabbed at her left temple, and her eyes ached. The story would never end. A happy ending for her fictional characters eluded her when she lived in despair. If she could not write, she had nothing.

At the basin, she rubbed soap over the ink on her hand and splashed water on her face before lying in bed. She could not fall asleep. Her life was upended. And this is what came of letting impropriety take control. At least Louisa would avoid ignominy.

Louisa. Louisa and Daniel.

If she lay in bed and did nothing, if she allowed her anguish to consume her, they would win. They being whom? Maybe Daniel? Maybe his parents? Most definitely the world that censured women if their behavior was not impeccable, that kept them from living fully, that tried to take and take with no intention to give.

A story sparked.

She pulled herself out of bed, extinguished the candles, and threw the curtains wide open. The light seared her eyes, but she pushed open the window and yelled to the passersby, “I am the author, Lady Mary!” When a few turned her way, she waved and smiled, though they edged away from her. Hair certainly askew, and wearing a dressing gown, she mustered every last bit of resolve into keeping that grin on her face. Don’t let them win.

With the window open, she sat at her desk and trimmed her quill. Surely there were female pirates. Yes, Jean de Clisson and Grace O’Malley. Beginning with page one, she flipped the characters. Originally, Lord Stealton, peer of the realm, had turned out to be a pirate. In this version, Lady Hollingwood, daughter of the prime minister, became lady pirate, terror of the sea.

The room darkened. She lit candles and kept writing. Candles expired. She lit more. Her mind flashed brighter as the story progressed. She plundered and took captives. She laughed and cried. She fell in love, was loved in return. Their love saved the day.

The manuscript was a mess of crossed out words and re-writes, but calm resided in its completion. She rested the quill on top of the pages and went to bed.

Daniel knocked on Mary’s door, but there was no response. Perhaps the innkeeper had not seen her leave. He tried the door, and it slid open. He would wait inside until she returned. A soft buzz came from the bed. Mary lay on her back, her mouth open, fast asleep. A wild cloud of hair haloed her head, and her nightdress was askew. His hands ached to take hold of her, but he had never seen her so tranquil. He sat at the desk, a neat stack of paper in front of him. On top of the paper was a note, Dear Mr. Porter. Set the press! This is even better than the last! While the pages were in order, the writing on them was not. He began reading, an immediate smile tickling the corners of his mouth. She, Lady Mary, was hilarious and sweet and honest. Between the drama and utter impossibility of the story lay truth. He scratched his chest, to distract from the prickling at the edges of his eyes. Beautiful Lady Mary. How he loved her. How he hoped for her forgiveness.

He turned to look at her and met her eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I hope you don’t mind. This latest manuscript—it’s a masterpiece. I suspect each new book of yours will be my favorite.”

She drew in a shaky breath but sat up in bed with regal calm, clutching the sheets to her chest. “You should be preparing for your wedding. Where is Louisa?” Her words came ever faster, and he wanted to calm her in his arms but did not know if she would accept his embrace.

“Louisa is on her way to Stroud. She did not wish to marry me, so Agnes shall take her back to Lady Halverson.”

“You and Agnes? Who are you to make decisions for my niece?”

“It was Louisa’s decision. I admit your friend is not to my liking, but I found she’s a good sort. She will go to Cornwall and convince your brother that Lady Halverson’s home is the best possible place for his daughter. Somehow, I think she is the perfect person for the task.”

“But her reputation⁠—”

“No one knows save family. Savage is in Nottingham and will be sent abroad soon. All will be well.” He repeated his mother’s phrase, but it did little to calm the turmoil that had increased in his chest since she woke.

“Let us hope that is true.” She huffed and grabbed the locket around her neck, brows pinching together.

“I came because…” He walked over to her. She drew away, clutching the sheets up to her chin. “Fear not. I did not come to ravish you, though the thought has crossed my mind.”

She did not smile.

His cheer dissolved into trepidation, but he knelt next to the bed and pulled a ring from his pocket. “Lady Mary Allen, I am sorry for being an arse. Will you marry me?”

She pushed his hand with the ring into his chest. “I most certainly will not. Really! You sneak into my room in the middle of the—” she glanced out the window “—day, interrupting my repose and expect that calling yourself a rude name will convince me to forget that you made me feel less than a pile of dirt?” Her voice hitched. “I am sorry I did not tell you who I am, but it seems I judged rightly.”

“Don’t say that. I understand better now. Let me help you feel like…like a pile of gold.” He pulled a face, hoping to lighten the mood.

She snorted. “Your comparison is lacking.”

“Diamonds?”