Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (14 page)

“How is the new book coming along?” Harriet asked of Annabelle one day in late autumn.

The two of them had met for tea, both having been preoccupied elsewhere the whole day. Harriet announced that she had spent most of her time in the nursery and now welcomed adult company. Annabelle’s ink-stained fingers bore testimony to how she had spent the day. Aunt Gertrude had returned to London right after the harvest festival. Marcus had gone hunting with some local men.

Annabelle had brought the first chapters with her to the drawing room, hoping to get Harriet’s reaction. “See for yourself.” She handed the pages over and sat quietly sipping her tea and nibbling biscuits as Harriet read.

“Good heavens! You are writing about yourself,” Harriet said at last.

“Well, yes . . . and no. This is not merely Portia and Nathan’s story. I am trying to convey also an overview of Society—blemishes as well as beauty. The heroine draws portraits of all sorts of people, you see. I have tried to make her
work
the focus of the story.”

Harriet smiled and reached for her tea cup. “And only incidentally prove women capable of such creative work, is that it?”

“That
is
one of the underlying ideas, but I want the portraits of different
types
of people to come through.”

“So far, it does—and without the strident tone of
Innocence Betrayed.”

“I do hope so,” Annabelle replied. “Actually, I
hope
this story is peopled with believable human beings. I want to present them sympathetically—even those who are basically silly and shallow have
reasons
for behaving as they do.”

“I think you are doing that very well. This is far finer than any of your earlier work, Annabelle.”

Annabelle basked in her mentor’s praise for a few minutes.

Harriet spoke again. “There is this parallel between your heroine and yourself, though.”

“Do you not think all writers put something of themselves into their characters? Maybe show their made-up heroes and heroines as the kind of people they would
like
to be?”

“Hmm. Probably. But this may cause yet more speculation about who Emma Bennet is.”

“Well—” Annabelle drew a deep breath. “I think this book will signify Emma Bennet’s come-out.”

Harriet’s eyebrows rose. “You will publish under your own name?”

“I plan to. I am truly tired of the subterfuge.”

“Well, at least
you
are not likely to be accused of sedition.”

Harriet’s voice was laced with irony and Annabelle laughed sympathetically, for she knew Harriet referred to her own essays written under the pseudonym of “Gadfly.” Certain reactionary members of the government had attempted to arrest the Gadfly for sedition.

“No, I will not,” Annabelle said. “But my work may not prove any more acceptable in some quarters than Gadfly’s did.”

“We shall see. This is going to be quite good.” Harriet handed the sheets back to Annabelle.

 

 

Portia and Nathan continued to occupy Annabelle’s waking moments right through the Christmas and the seasonal festivities. Thorne Wainwright occupied her un-waking moments—against her will and in spite of her efforts to banish him. She would awake suddenly, still feeling his arms about her, his lips pressed to hers.

“This is ridiculous!” she muttered on more than one occasion. “You would hate me if you knew the truth. So—please—leave me alone.”

She drove herself beyond the point of exhaustion every day. She spent long hours at her desk. She rode every day. And she played with the children every day so long as the nursery was full of visitors. “Auntie Belle” was a favorite playmate of the little ones.

When the Christmas and New Year celebrations were ended, Annabelle returned to London with Aunt Gertrude, who had come to Timberly for the holidays. The book was finished and Annabelle wanted to be there when Mr. Murray dealt with it. He had already seen and approved the first chapters, so she did not worry that he would not like it. Still—this was her baby. She wanted to be there. She admitted privately to caring more about this book than any of her previous work.

Accompanied by her maid and driven by Aunt Gertrude’s coachman, Annabelle visited Mr. Murray in his own offices. Located in an area that was probably downright dangerous after darkness fell, Murray’s working quarters consisted of a large room where several clerks sat copying. A low partition separated visitors from these scribes. Murray’s office was in the rear. As soon as she was announced, he came running out.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, ushering her and Molly into his office and quickly closing the door. “Surely you know I cannot quell the speculation of my employees.”

She took the comfortable seat he offered her across from his large mahogany desk and motioned Molly to a chair next to the wall. “We can talk about that later, sir. I want to discuss some minor details about the book.”

“This is your best effort so far,” he said, extracting her manuscript from a pile on his desk.

“I think so, too.” She made no pretense of false modesty.

“This will be your break-out book.”

“My what?”

“This one will break you out of the mold—the niche—into which your previous work has fallen. This one will be well received by the critics. Even Lord Rolsbury will be praising it in
The London Review.
Just you wait and see.” Murray’s enthusiasm was contagious.

She winced inwardly at his mention of Thorne’s name, but she smiled and said, “I hope the reading public will like it, too.”

“They will.”

They proceeded to cover the matters of text, over which Annabelle fretted. Murray pointed to some minor changes he wanted. Finally, they were finished and Murray returned to his initial concern.

“I am happy to see you, Miss Richardson, but really, I do wonder about the wisdom of your coming here. You should have sent me a message.”

“It matters not. You see, I wish this one to be published under my own name.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” There was dawning wonder in his voice, then Annabelle could see the businessman’s calculation going on behind his affable smile.

“Yes,” she said. “I have discussed this at length with Lord and Lady Wyndham. They agree that the protection of anonymity is no longer necessary. I shall be of age in only a few weeks, you see.”

He seemed hesitant. “Hmm. You must know the name Emma Bennet would alone account for some of our initial sales. Takes time for a new name to catch on.”

“I had not really thought about that,” she said. “I am simply tired of hiding behind a pseudonym.”

“We could put both names on the book.” He seemed to weigh her response to this idea.

“Both?”

“Yes. Say, ‘Miss Emma Bennet, also known as Miss Annabelle Richardson’ or perhaps ‘Miss Annabelle Richardson, who is Miss Emma Bennet’ or ‘—who formerly wrote as—’ or whatever phrasing you wish.”

“I think I should like my own name first. Yes. I want to be frank and open about the authorship of this work.”

“This comes as very good news to me, Miss Richardson.” He rubbed his hands together. “It will sell a good many books—especially with your standing in Society.”

“Perhaps ...” She was doubtful.

“No ‘perhaps’ about it! It will mean increased sales.”

“But that is not why I am doing this.”

“I understand, Miss Richardson. You are the sort who would write whether you sold or no.”

She laughed self-consciously. “You know me too well, I think.”

“I know a good many
writers,
miss.”

She felt the interested gazes of his staff as she and Molly left the office.

“Well, the die is cast,” she muttered as she and Molly climbed into the waiting carriage.

“I beg your pardon, miss?”

“Never mind. ’Tis not important.”

She wondered how Thorne Wainwright would react when he learned that Annabelle Richardson was Emma Bennet—or vice versa. Well, the book would not be out for another six weeks or so.

In the event, however, she did not have to wait that long to learn his reaction to such news.

Thorne returned to London early in the New Year, for he wanted to be in the city as the nation’s political power brokers drifted back into the capital for the opening of Parliament and the social season. He hoped to begin building early—and strong—support for some of his reformist measures.

He knew the very word
reform
struck fear in many a breast. England still had vivid memories of the cataclysmic changes France had endured in the last thirty to forty years. Such fear in recent years had manifested itself in restrictions that appalled much of England’s free-thinking citizenry. A number of basic freedoms had been severely curtailed.

Many, not necessarily motivated by fear, nevertheless advocated harsh restrictive measures because doing so achieved some self-serving end. Thus, Thorne saw many of his fellow mill owners instituting ever harsher measures against workers. Among the most vocal of these unfeeling fellows who fought tooth and nail to keep labor costs down was Viscount Beelson. The labor of women and children was vastly cheaper than that of men. Therefore, unscrupulous mill owners were especially vehement in their opposition to reforms that would curb exploitation of weak workers.

Specifically, they opposed any measures approving workers’ rights to organize. Meetings of more than fifty people were banned. Education of poor children was simply a waste of public money. For some jobs—notably, cleaning chimneys or gaining access to veins of coal in narrow crevices—the smaller bodies of children were essential to the task. To oppose the use of children for such work was a threat to the natural order of things.

For the Thorne Wainwrights of the nation, it was beyond time for change. His days of military campaigns were over, but there were other battles to be fought and other strategies to employ. For the Beelsons of Britain, the status quo was just fine. So the battle lines were drawn and the battle
field
was Parliament.

Knowing that Lord Wyndham—despite his being a member of the opposite party—shared many of his views, Thorne visited their club on his first night back in town. He was disappointed to learn that the Wyndhams had not yet returned to the city. There
was
a positive side to the delay, he told himself. At least it would postpone the probably inevitable meeting with Annabelle.

The days had become weeks and the weeks blended into months, but he still thought of her often—the recurring positive images mixed inextricably with the pain of her deception. On the one hand, he dreaded seeing her again; on the other, he would dearly love to wring her pretty little neck!

The next night he attended a meeting of the London Literary League—and there she was.

 

 

Annabelle was surprised to see him. Celia had said nothing of his return to town when the two women had called on Letty in the afternoon. However, even had Letty or Celia known, there would be no special reason to inform their friend, would there? How could they know how nervous she was about seeing him again?

Annabelle wished now she had dressed more fashionably. She was wearing a simple gown of soft wool. Midnight blue and trimmed with light gray lace, it was one of her favorite outfits—but it was also a holdover from last year.

Their parting at Rolsbury Manor had been cordial, but reserved. She remembered thinking as they said their goodbyes that both of them seemed to be mindful of that kiss above the abbey ruins. Nevertheless, both had been formally polite as she and the Wyndhams took their leave. Would that cool formality prevail now at their first meeting since then?

As soon as he entered the room, he was taken up by first one small group and then another. Given the size and informality of these gatherings, he might avoid her all evening if he were so inclined. After all, he had chosen to ignore her for months now—proof positive, if she needed such, that their friendship—let alone those kisses—meant nothing to him. She tried, with little success, to concentrate on the conversations swirling around her. She wished she could leave, but Aunt Gertrude had especially desired to hear tonight’s featured presentation on modern poetry.

In the way of these affairs, the persons she had been talking with drifted away and she stood momentarily alone. She turned abruptly on hearing his voice just behind and to the side of her. He was dressed in gray Cossack trousers and a dark green jacket that reflected the color of his eyes. He was simply the most attractive man in the room and all her senses leapt to attention at his nearness.

“Good evening, Miss Richardson.”

“Good evening, Th—uh, Lord Rolsbury,” she said, on catching the aloofness in his tone and a cold, closed expression on his face.

His voice was soft enough not to carry to others, but there was a steely quality to it as he continued. “I address you as ‘Miss Richardson,’ but in a meeting such as this, it should be ‘Miss Bennet,’ should it not?”

A distinct coldness gripped her and she was sure the color had drained from her face. “I ... I ... What did you say?”

“Never mind the dissembling. I have had quite enough of that.”

His gaze was unrelenting in angry accusation. She looked away. No! She would not fall to pieces right here in the Melbournes’ drawing room. “Yes. I suppose you have. I ... I wanted to explain—so many times—”

He made a dismissively slicing gesture with the hand not holding his walking stick. “Cut line, my dear. You have had your little joke. The hoax is over. When I think—and you were laughing all the while. I do hope you enjoyed it—all of it.” His tone became increasingly bitter.

She put out a hand to touch his arm, but he jerked away as from a flaming torch. “Please, Thorne. It ... it was not like that—”

“You simply do not stop, do you? Your deceit has no bounds. You cannot just explain away your despicable behavior.”

Angry tears of regret and humiliation threatened, but she was certainly not going to allow
him
to witness her turning into a watering pot. “Very well, my lord. I will not even try.”

She turned sharply and walked away from him, but not before she heard him mutter, “I had the right of it. Emma Bennet is a coward.”

She hurried out of the room as the first tears made their way down her cheeks.

Anger, pain, regret, humiliation—she hardly knew which emotion was uppermost. She made her way to the ladies’ withdrawing room, stopping only momentarily to ask a footman to find Lady Hermiston for her. She sank onto a settee and tried to sort out her feelings.

He might at least have accorded her the courtesy of listening to her explanation! But, no, the ever-so-superior Lord Rolsbury wanted none of that. Wanted none of
her
. And, that, she supposed, was the keenest pain. She put her fist against her mouth to quell her trembling chin. No! Absolutely not! She would not dissolve into heavy, racking sobs!

Aunt Gertrude entered the room, looking very concerned.

“Annabelle, my dear, whatever is wrong?”

Annabelle turned her tear-stained face up to the older woman and broke into heavy, racking sobs. Aunt Gertrude sank down beside her and enfolded the girl in her arms. She patted her back and murmured, “There, there, darling. Stop crying, do—and tell me what is wrong.”

Annabelle tried to get hold of herself. She took several deep breaths, snuffled, and searched futilely in her tiny reticule for a handkerchief.

“Here.” Aunt Gertrude handed her a lacy square of cloth.

“Th-thank you,” Annabelle whimpered. “It . . . it’s Th-Thorne. Lord Rolsbury. H-he knows about Emma Bennet.”

“So? The whole world will know in due time.”

“Y-yes, but he is very angry about it, you see. Oh, Aunt Gertrude, what am I going to do?”

“First off, we are going home. We need not let the whole League see you like this.”

“I shall go and send the carriage back for you. I know you wanted to hear the presentation.”

“Robert Southey will probably have little to say that I have not already heard—or can hear again another time. No. I shall accompany you, dear.”

“Thank you.”

Once they were in the carriage, Annabelle said, “I—I wanted to tell him myself,” and foolishly dissolved into tears again.

“Of course you did, my dear.” Aunt Gertrude held her as she cried anew until her sobs died away.

As they arrived home, Aunt Gertrude steered Annabelle to the drawing room instead of allowing the girl to go immediately to her room. She motioned Annabelle to a chair and busied herself at a sideboard.

“We must talk about this, my dear. The situation may
seem
relatively simple, but it is actually very complicated.”

“I—I do not understand.”

“It is not merely a matter of Rolsbury’s wounded pride and your hurt feelings.”

Annabelle felt the tears threaten again. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Aunt Gertrude handed her a glass.

“Here. Drink this. ’Tis only sherry, but it may help settle your nerves.”

Annabelle sipped at the amber liquid. “I still do not understand.”

Aunt Gertrude fixed her with a steely look. “You must get hold of yourself. And this . . . this contretemps between you and Rolsbury must be smoothed over.”

“Smoothed over?” Annabelle repeated, feeling as though she had walked in on the middle of a play with no idea of what the dialogue was about.

“Smoothed over.” Aunt Gertrude sounded adamant. “You must not mention it to Marcus—nor to Harriet, who would undoubtedly tell Marcus.”

“Why? Marcus and Harriet—they are my best friends. I tell them everything.”

“Yes, I know. And that is why you must mend this breach with Rolsbury and pretend it never happened.”

“Given his anger at me, I doubt that is possible. But, I still do not understand.”

Aunt Gertrude sighed. “You do know that Marcus is rather highly placed in government circles?”

“Yes . . .”

“A
Tory
government?”

“Yes, but—”

Aunt Gertrude held up her hand. “I know. Marcus is his own person. But consider this—Rolsbury is a Whig. He, too, is his own person, but he is much respected by Whig leaders.”

“But this has nothing to do with
me
—or Emma Bennet.”

“Oh, but it does, my dear.” Aunt Gertrude took a sip from her own glass. “Rolsbury and Marcus were working together last year on certain reforms. They have been in correspondence these last several months.”

“They—they have?”

“Yes. You were so involved with this new book, you hardly noticed, I am sure.”

“Perhaps . . .”

“Well, the long and short of it is
this
—England needs these reforms sooner than later—and if there were a breach between Rolsbury and Marcus, it would mean a major setback the nation could ill afford.”

“I suppose I actually
knew
all this, but just did not realize its full import.”

“Yes. Well, you do see why Marcus must not know how deeply Rolsbury may have hurt you? Both men have a very strong sense of family loyalty—and you
are
very much a part of the Jeffries family of which Marcus is the head.”

Even in her misery, Annabelle felt a glow of warmth at having this idea voiced aloud.

“You are saying,” she said, her voice at last clear, “that I, too, must show some family loyalty in protecting Marcus—and his goals.”

Aunt Gertrude smiled. “Precisely. Can you do it?”

“I—I think so. In a few days.”

“Do not hesitate too long. Marcus and Harriet will return to town soon.”

Annabelle took another sip from the glass, then set it aside and squared her shoulders. “I shall pull through this. I know I will.”

She bade Aunt Gertrude good night and at last escaped to her own chamber, where she allowed herself one last bout of tears, grieving for what might have been.

 

 

Thorne watched her leave the Melbourne drawing room, annoyed that he could not control his own conflicting emotions. He should be feeling triumphant, vindicated. Instead, he felt deflated. Those unshed tears shimmering in her eyes had nearly undone him. Part of him wanted to run after her—walking stick be damned—and take her in his arms to comfort her. Another part scorned that idea as foolish weakness.

He observed a footman approach Lady Hermiston and speak softly to her. She hurried from the room, but neither she nor Annabelle returned. When it dawned on him that he was responding to others with polite nothingness and not really listening to what they were saying to him, he took his own leave.

That night, for the first time in several weeks, he sought forgetfulness in a brandy bottle.

Over the next several days, more and more of the
ton
returned to the city and the social whirl picked up its pace to a fevered level. Thorne spent the days making calls, usually at the home of this or that Member of Parliament who might lend him a sympathetic ear. His evenings were filled with routs, soirees, and an occasional dinner party. He did not accept invitations to balls. Not anymore. His acceptance of other invitations was entirely dependent on assessing the political advantage of attending an event.

“I swear, Thorne, you are becoming a real bore, always prosing on about some reform or another.” Luke, who had returned to town two days after Thorne’s encounter with Annabelle, grinned at his brother at the end of a rather unproductive day, in Thorne’s view.

“Hmmph!” Thome sniffed in derision. “One social flutterby in the family is quite enough.”

Luke ignored this and said, “And what is wrong between you and Annabelle?”

Thome was guarded in his response, for he had as yet said nothing to Luke—or anyone else—about Annabelle being Miss Bennet. “Why do you ask? What has she said?”

“She
has said nothing—and that in itself is strange. Whenever I mention either of you to the other, you both change the subject.”