Candice Hern (17 page)

“The ‘instruction’ is of a specific nature to encourage weakness and complaisance in all females. And the ‘Society of Ladies’ is not a group of women at all, but of very conservative men. You see, the
Museum
was started in reaction to all the republican ideals and rational philosophies that rose up in the last fifteen years or so.”

“Anti-Jacobins?”

“Yes, and more. This group of men is part of the general conservative reaction in this country against the Revolution in France. They truly believe that education of the lower classes will lead to
revolt—‘poisoning the minds of the lower orders.’ They fear an uprising here in England, especially with yet another year of bad harvests and economic hardship. These men, who may have other political outlets for all I know, decided to use a ladies’ magazine as one vehicle for their reactionary messages.”

“Seems an odd choice.”

“It’s likely one of many—antidotes to the ‘poison’ of rational debate. This one is aimed at keeping women in line.”

“Ah. Protecting them against the venomous messages of women like Mary Wollstonecraft?”

“Mary, Thomas Paine, and others. These men believe that all the underclasses, and that certainly includes women, must be subjugated to the will of the government and traditional values in general. And so they have used the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
as a means of reaching one of those worrisome groups, encouraging women to reject any ideas smacking of the rational, the radical, or the republican.”

“You intrigue me. How do they do it?”

“By filling their pages with subtle messages calculated to subvert contrary views. Independent thinking is discouraged. For example, those maudlin tales your mother enjoys are loaded with messages of female subservience to male will. Whenever a girl is shown to disobey or disrespect the will of her father and runs away with the man she loves, she always comes to a tragic end. They throw themselves off
cliffs. They fall into madness when their lovers desert them. They are murdered when they resort to living on the streets. They are rejected by family and society. Only hopelessness, despair, and regret await them.”

“Terrifying!” He gave a theatrical shudder. “I have only read the one installment of a rather gothic tale in this issue,” Anthony said, pointing to the magazine on the desk, “so I don’t know how it ends. But it is indeed the tale of a willful daughter who falls into the hands of a villain.”

“And will no doubt be clapped in a dungeon where she will go mad or die.”

“Well, that is a popular genre these days, Edwina. Readers, especially female readers, delight in the horrible. Mrs. Radcliffe and others have been very successful with it.”

“And the
Museum
editors play on that success by using a popular format to subtly persuade readers into their way of thinking. And not just with fiction. Their historical and biographical essays almost always feature a woman who devoted her life to the career and happiness of her husband. Females who glory in giving up their own wishes to those of a husband or father are held up as shining examples of womanhood. Truly outstanding women are either ignored or disparaged in some way, as when one essayist claimed Queen Elizabeth could not possibly have been a true female, and was at the very least a hermaphrodite.”

He gave a little snort of laughter. “Well, that certainly is a novel concept.”

“And you will notice the
Museum
includes no news or current events. No mention of politics or the war. Its editors do not believe those are fit topics for the frail sensibilities of its female readers. As if our lives are not affected. Every aspect of the
Museum
extols feminine weakness and encourages complete submission to male authority. Women are encouraged to receive, with gratitude, the protection of men, yet have no support if the protector becomes the aggressor. It is very devious, actually, the way they manipulate readers. When the
Cabinet
came into my hands, I decided to use the same devious tactics against them.”

He lifted a brow. “Indeed? How so?”

“I gathered a group of writers and poets who shared my views and set them to work creating articles and stories that appear to be in the same vein as those in the
Museum
, but with a completely different set of messages.”

“Such as Augusta Historica’s recent biographical sketch exalting the extraordinary leadership of the very female Queen Elizabeth?”

“Exactly.”

“And such as stories about young women who run away with their lovers and ultimately find true happiness?”

She smiled. “Yes. Simon Westover is one of the writers who pens our fiction, and there was never a
greater romantic. He loves to show young women reaching for the moon and finding it.”

“Simon Westover? A
man
writes your stories?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes, he is one of many contributors. He writes the Busybody column as well.”

“The devil you say! I thought the Busybody was an old woman.”

Edwina flashed a grin. “That is what you are meant to think. It had in fact been an old woman when I was given the editorial reins. But she wanted to retire and Simon took over the pseudonym. His advice, as you know if you have read the column, is always supportive of young women taking responsibility for their own decisions, their own lives.” She chuckled softly. “In fact, he got into a bit of trouble a while back with his advice. A woman tracked him down and wanted his head on a platter.”

“Egad. What did he do?”

“He married her.”

Anthony gave a bark of laughter. “Seems his advice was a success after all. But tell me more, Edwina. Who else is involved that I should know about? Nicholas?”

“Yes. He pens most of the historical and biographical essays as Augusta Historica. Samuel Coleridge contributes from time to time, both in poetry and prose. William Godwin has submitted an essay. Helen Maria Williams and Mary Hays
are frequent contributors. They know my objectives and do not preach rhetoric. I would not print it, in any case. But all of them have been able to couch their principles in uplifting, positive essays and stories and poems, extolling education, intellect, and independent thought. All using pseudonyms, of course. Some of their true names might discourage the more conservative readers. But without a recognized radical or republican name attached, you’d be surprised how palatable some of their views become.”

“You have gathered a remarkable team of writers, my dear. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

She hunched a shoulder. “I didn’t know if you’d approve. I have not been under the impression that you share many of my views.”

“Even though I was able to quote Wollstonecraft well enough to win a drive in the park with you?”

She smiled. “I simply presumed you were more well read than you let on. I never really believed you harbored republican ideals in your heart.”

“I don’t, in fact. Not entirely, anyway. But frankly, I rather admire what you’re doing.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “It’s quite cheeky, actually. I like that you are using the
Museum
’s own tactics to combat their influence. Good for you, Edwina.”

She sank back against her chair and expelled a pent-up breath in a long sigh. She had been right to trust him. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “It is such a relief to have all this out in the open. You don’t
know what an effort it has been to keep it secret from Uncle Victor all these years.”

“No, I can imagine he would not have approved.”

“He would have shut us down. Several of his own publications are in direct opposition to our principles. He even owns shares of the
Anti-Jacobin Review
.”

“Well then, it was a lucky day for you when I won the
Cabinet
from him.”

She smiled. “It will be an even luckier day when I win it from you.”

“There you go again, getting too confident.”

Her smile faded, and twisted down into a grimace when he grinned at her. She hated when he taunted her about the wager. He seemed so determined to win, so damned certain that he would. He was determined to pay her back for all those lost wagers so many years ago.

His expression softened and his eyes shot her a look so warm it made her forget to be annoyed. “Just for the sake of argument—because, of course, I fully intend to retain my ownership and win back the Minerva—just what will you do
if
you win? Will you change the content to more directly reflect your opinions?”

She regarded him curiously. The question surprised her. And she really could not help but notice the hint of playfulness in his voice when he claimed
he would win. Was he, after all, merely baiting her again? Did he, in fact, expect
her
to win?

Flora and Prudence believed he was trying his best to lose, that his insistence on increased fashion coverage, for example, was clearly meant to encourage new subscribers. Why would he bother, if not to insure Edwina won?

Edwina had never agreed with their assessment of his motives. She had believed he pushed Flora and fashion reports on her simply because it was contrary to her objectives, and his only motive was to annoy her.

Had she been wrong about him?

She studied his clear gray eyes and saw nothing but genuine interest in her answer. Had she misjudged him?

“No,” she said, “I will not change content right away. I think we can reach more women, it is sad to admit, with the lure of fashion and entertainment. But once we have their attention, the other messages are there for them to absorb. So, no, I will not change the magazine, but I will take full advantage of its profits. There is so much to be done.”

“To improve the publication?”

“No. The profits could be put to better use.” She must be careful here. It was one thing to admit the guiding principles of her editorship, quite another to admit to other activities secretly supported by monies skimmed from the
Cabinet
’s profits. But
perhaps it would not hurt to gauge his reaction to those causes. Just in case.

“So many people are in need of help,” she said. “The appalling extravagance of Pitt’s war with France has taken an enormous toll. Combine years of bad harvests with war taxes, and the result is that people are starving. I can’t possibly help the masses, but perhaps one family at a time. I would use the profits to support factory reform and education for the poor. Just think of those poor women who are coloring our prints. If they had been given an education, even of the most rudimentary sort, they might not have had to support their families by selling themselves on the streets. I have some ideas for schools for these women.”

In fact, profits siphoned from the
Cabinet
already supported one such school in St. Giles. But he need never know that. Once she’d won the wager, the profits would be hers to do with as she pleased.

“You humble me, Edwina, with your compassion and generosity. If you were to win our wager—which is, of course, not going to happen—I would happily salute your victory knowing the profits would be put to such good use.”

“And if I lose?” She had no more intention of doing so than he did, but it couldn’t hurt to ask about his plans.

“We shall discuss that when the time comes. In the meantime, perhaps you could show me the current subscriber lists.” He flashed her a lopsided
boyish grin. “Let us see how you stand in achieving this impossible dream.”

As he drove back to Charles Street, Tony wondered how seriously she took his teasing about the wager. He had learned her competitive nature had not modified much over the years, so he figured his taunts only spurred her to work harder toward victory. That was precisely what had happened when they were children. Had he been astute enough to realize it, he would never have boasted so loudly that he could outrun, outride, and outclimb her. Nicholas had said the wager was a good thing, that it had pushed her in a positive way. So Tony continued to push.

He considered all she had told him about what she would do if the
Cabinet
were hers. His admiration of her had risen several notches. Her face—always a pleasure to look at in any case—had been so animated and alive as she spoke. It was another signal that considerable passion was buried beneath that all that control, passion he so wanted to expose and experience.

He was honestly impressed with what she’d accomplished, and admired her dedication to principle. He liked her all the more for it. But he had been quite truthful when he’d told her he was humbled. Again, she made him examine his own life, his selfish disregard for the plight of those less fortunate. He had a great deal of money, but he used it for lit
tle more than to make more money. Perhaps it was time to put it to better purpose.

But if he made some sort of grand charitable gesture, would it be for himself, or only to impress Edwina? He’d been trying to impress her since he was a boy, without much success. She would see right through an empty gesture, no matter how large or lavish it might appear.

Perhaps it was time to stop trying to impress her, or his father, or anyone else. He’d spent a lifetime failing to live up to the expectations of others. It was time to set his own goals and see about living up to them. For himself.

He turned the curricle away from Charles Street and toward the offices of his solicitor.

“L
et’s make all the accessories in shades of red and blue this time.” Flora spoke to the eager Crimson Ladies gathered around Edwina’s dining table and demonstrated what she wanted with a pair of completed prints. “In honor of the peace. Patriotic colors will be all the rage anyway, so let us be the first to embrace them.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Edwina said.

“Cor luv yer, Flora, yer a bleedin’ genius.”

Edwina smiled at Madge and said, “Precisely what I was trying to say.”

“C’mon then, girls,” Madge said. “Let’s git crackin’.”

It was the second month of hand coloring, and the women were excited about the work. Though
they tended to be bold in their use of color, the quality of their painting had been excellent. Polly, in particular, had shown remarkable talent. They were so pleased to have a legitimate source of income, however meager, that each of them took care to do a good job. They were not, however, the quietest of workers. Edwina and Flora left them to their work and chattering about the peace.

“Madge is an absolute marvel,” Edwina said as they entered the study. “She keeps them all in line and makes sure they get as much work done as possible.”

“She has a lot of experience keeping girls in line,” Flora said. “It’s been her business for years. That’s why I suggested her for supervisor. And why I am giving her some other work, too. She is happy to take on some of the deliveries, to carry messages, and such.”

“Well, I am very grateful to her. To all of them.”

Edwina took a chair and stretched out her legs. Whenever they sat down for long chats, Flora insisted she come out from behind her desk. Friends, she had said, do not have barriers between them.

“Not as grateful,” Flora said, “as they are to you for giving them a chance to earn honest money to feed their families. Most of their men, if they have any, are useless buggers who drink up any money that comes in and have no scruples about sending their women out to earn more on their backs. And
it gets harder to earn much that way when your face is creased with lines and your flesh sags.”

“The poor things. So long as I have any say in the matter, they will have work here. That was an inspired idea about the patriotic colors.”

“I’m just hoping this peace takes. I’ve never had much faith in politicians, and I’ve heard talk this isn’t the smartest treaty ever devised.”

“It is merely preliminary. The formal negotiations will begin next month at Amiens. But this peace is a welcome respite. People are bled dry from so many years of war taxes. They were getting restless, with food riots and all, and I think the government was ready to do anything to prevent a Reign of Terror here in England.”

Flora had taken the armchair and arranged her skirts in a perfect array of soft drapery. She regarded Edwina thoughtfully.

“You can’t say those words without a hitch in your voice, can you?”

“Which words?”

“‘Reign of Terror.’ I’ve noticed it before.”

Edwina took a deep breath. Flora could be like a dog with a bone when a subject interested her. And this was not a subject Edwina wanted her to chew on.

“I asked your handsome brother about it,” Flora said. “He told me something of what happened to you and your friends—arrest, imprisonment. But
he was circumspect about the details and said I should ask you, that it was your story to tell.”

Edwina turned away, unable to meet Flora’s gaze.

“He said I should ask you about Gervaise.”

Edwina’s chest constricted with an old misery, long repressed. “No.”

“Nicholas said you would not speak of it. But I got the feeling he thought you should. That it would do you good. So, I am here to listen, my dear. As a friend. As a woman. And nothing you say will leave this room.”

Remembered grief rose up from the tightening in her chest and into her jaws. “I don’t know if I can, Flora.”

“Try, my dear. Tell me about Gervaise.”

Edwina did not want to do this, despite what her interfering brother may think was best. It was not that she preferred to pretend it never happened, or that she locked those memories away in some deep, dark place never to be opened again. Gervaise and France were never far from her thoughts. What happened there informed every subsequent day of her life. From time to time she even spoke of it, with Prudence or Helen Williams or Nicholas. But rarely, and never without pain.

She looked up into Flora’s kind eyes, however, and thought this wise, worldly woman might understand. She took a deep breath and let it out
slowly—and again, and yet again—before she was able to force the tale from her lips.

“We went to France in August of ’92,” she began, a little shakily. “Nicholas, Simon, and me.”

“Simon?”

“Simon Westover. He is a friend and writes for the
Cabinet
. He should be back in town soon and you will no doubt meet him.”

“Was he your lover?”

Edwina gave a weak smile. Leave it to Flora to hone in on the really important details. “No, he was not. He was a little in love with me, but my heart was already given to someone else. I had met Gervaise de Champdivers when he came to London briefly that summer. He fired our blood with revolutionary fervor so that we all determined to go to France and be a part of this extraordinary undertaking. It was an exciting, exhilarating time. There were a lot of like-minded English in Paris then. John Hurtford Stone led the English Revolutionary Society. Helen Maria Williams held Sunday-afternoon teas that we all attended. I met and became friends with Mary Wollstonecraft there.”

“And Gervaise?”

“I had fallen head-over-heels in love with him in London. We became lovers in Paris. He became my reason for living. He was everything: my life, my love, my passion. And he felt the same. He would have done anything for me.”

“Except marry you?”

Edwina frowned. She had not expected such conventional concerns from Flora. “We spoke of it. But we were so busy with other more serious issues, and it never seemed nearly as important as the work we were doing. Gervaise was a Girondin, one of many who were outspoken in their support of a federal republic based on the American model. I acted as his secretary, writing letters and speeches and pamphlets. We attended Madame Roland’s salons together and mingled with all the great philosophers and writers who had gathered in Paris. It was a heady time, Flora. I was in love and fired with republican fever. I never felt more alive. Those were the best days of my life.”

Flora smiled but her eyes were soft with concern. “And then the Terror,” she said.

“Yes. Factions had already begun to splinter the various groups. When the king was killed in January, divisions multiplied. The more moderate Girondins, who objected to the king’s execution, were cast aside and the fiery rhetoric of Marat held the day. By June, most members of the Gironde were imprisoned, including Gervaise.”

Her voice had become quivery and the tightening in her chest had grown stronger. She paused a moment to compose herself. Flora moved her chair closer and took Edwina’s hand. She said nothing, but gave an encouraging little squeeze.

“I was beside myself with worry,” Edwina con
tinued. “Feelings were running high against foreigners, and most English fled Paris—were urged to do so, in fact. But I could not leave with Gervaise in prison. I could not.”

“Of course you couldn’t. What happened, my dear?”

“Nicholas and Simon stayed behind with me. I believe they would have fled but for my determination not to desert Gervaise. It was a terrible time—we could never be sure who to trust, and we were watched closely. When Marat was assassinated by a pro-Girondiste, I went almost mad with fear for Gervaise. And then Robespierre’s inexorable rise to power brought about a national unity more terrible than anything we had dared envision. The Terror began.”

She stopped again, the pain of remembrance almost too much to bear. Flora sat with her in silence, holding her hand, waiting until she could continue.

“In early October, I was arrested under the new machinery of the Terror, along with other English who had remained behind. I was sent to Luxembourg prison along with Helen Maria Williams and other women. Two weeks later, we could hear the cheering of crowds in the streets after twenty-one Girondins were executed. Gervaise was one of them. They cheered his death. A martyr for liberty.”

She reached up with her free hand to wipe away a tear. Memories of that day were still sharp—the raucous shouting heard through the high windows
of the prison, the scramble among the prisoners to climb atop one another to try to see outside the bars, the bellowed list of names of the “enemies of the people” who’d been brought to justice, Gervaise’s name called out as one who had met Madame Guillotine.

They might as well have killed Edwina, too. She had wanted to die. Even eight years later, in her darkest moments of grief, she sometimes still did.

She took a deep breath, composed herself, and continued. “I fell quite ill with grief. Dreams of personal happiness as well as that greater noble cause had been shattered. All those whom Robespierre put to death that day had represented everything that was fine and good about the Revolution. Eloquence and idealism, youth and grand aspiration. I couldn’t bear it. If Helen Williams had not been with me, I surely would have died.”

“Oh, my poor child.” Flora linked her fingers with Edwina’s and held on tightly. “How long were you kept in prison?”

“Helen was able to manipulate her own release in November, and took me with her. Nicholas and Simon had escaped imprisonment through a complicated intrigue involving false papers and a series of hideaways. Helen got word to them somehow, and they made plans to get us all back to England. I remember little of being hustled out of Paris. I was so ill, my whole body ached with the pain of loss. I wanted to die, but my brother and Simon, bless
their hearts, would not allow it. They could not save my spirit, though, which was entirely broken.” She gave a shuddery sigh of relief that she had got through the whole tale, however abbreviated. “I was a long time recovering.”

Flora gave Edwina’s hand one last squeeze and released it. She fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a linen square, which she handed to Edwina, who took it gratefully and wiped her eyes. She hated to be seen so discomposed and made an effort to bring herself under control.

“But you have recovered,” Flora said, “and gone on to make a life for yourself.”

“It was never the same again, though. My heart had been crushed from so many directions, it seemed. But I learned several important lessons. Twice in my life I have lost someone I loved when passion spun out of control into chaos and tragedy. Never again will I act upon passion of any kind.”

“Never? Oh, don’t say such a thing, my dear.”

“Moderation has served me well in the years since France, and I am perfectly content. My ideals have not changed, but I have tempered my expectations. I will never, never again support revolution of any kind. Careful, steady reform is my only objective.”

“And to influence opinion through your magazine.”

“Yes, of course. But I am not advocating revolt. Only an open mind toward acceptance of wise, ra
tional progress, especially as it relates to women. We have no one else representing our interests. We must do it ourselves. But it is a quiet passion for me now, not a fervor gone mad.”

“And what of passion of the heart? Have you forsaken that as well?”

“Gervaise was the one true love of my heart. I have had my Grand Passion.”

Those somewhat hyperbolic words were exactly how she thought of him now. In fact, during the years since his death, her memories of Gervaise had taken on the qualities of high romance. Or high tragedy. Sometimes the everyday, commonplace details of their months together faded in her memory. Worse still, sometimes she could not call to mind a vivid image of his face. But her heart and her body never forgot how she felt when she was with him, or when she lost him. The physical joys and pains had remained bright, while the visual images faded.

Flora’s eyebrows rose sharply. “And where is it written that you are allowed only one Grand Passion? My dear girl, I have had more of them than I care to admit.”

“But I am not like you, Flora. Forgive me, but I am not the sort to flit from man to man.”

“I have indeed done my share of flitting. A woman has to survive, after all. But I am not talking about sex. I am talking about true, deep, emotional passion. Love, if you will. It doesn’t happen
so often, of course, but when it does, you must embrace it.”

“I did embrace it. I gave myself totally to Gervaise—body and soul.”

“But he is dead eight years now. And you are not. Do not waste any more years, my dear, repining what has been lost. Reach out and grasp what is now found.”

“You are speaking of Anthony, are you not?”

“Perhaps. That is for you to discover.”

“Was he one of your Grand Passions?”

Flora laughed. “Heavens, no. Nor was I his, in case you are wondering. No, he was merely an extremely pleasant diversion who ended up being a great friend.”

“Oh.”

“So you must never think there is any competition between us for his heart.”

“But I am not after his heart.”

“You should be. He is most certainly after yours.”

“Oh, Flora, I don’t think so. Everything is a game with him, even—especially—seduction. But he is a handsome, charming gentleman and, if you must know, I have considered the possibility of…I don’t know. Of something.”

“Of entering the game yourself?”

Edwina gave a sheepish smile. “Perhaps. I’m not sure I remember how to play, though. It’s been so
long. But for the first time since Gervaise, I confess I am tempted.”

Flora placed a hand dramatically at her breast. “Thanks be to God,” she said. “I was so worried you would not allow yourself to feel again. Welcome back to the world, my dear. Who knows? Perhaps another Grand Passion awaits.”

“Not that, Flora. I don’t want that again.” It was too frightening even to consider. The singular obsession. The breathless passion. The intense highs and desperate lows. The very idea of being possessed by that madness again made her pulse race. “Nothing like that,” Edwina continued. “A little flirtation, a little dalliance. A…a casual affair, perhaps.”