Triumph and misapprehension and hope did swift battle in my bosom. Hope won out, and I smilingly accompanied him to the sofa. I hoped to accomplish two things before he left; firstly to convince him I was not of the same social stamp as the company in which he found me, and secondly to get a review of my article in the
Quarterly.
Much guile and flattery would be required to perform these two miracles, but I was ready to be as clever and insincere as necessary.
“You mentioned having left home, Miss Nesbitt. Is ‘home’ very far away?” he asked when we were seated.
“I come from Milverton, only a day away.”
“It’s rather unusual for a young lady to leave home and set up on her own. I expect you are staying with relatives in Bath?”
“I am with my cousin, Miss Potter.” I glanced in her direction and saw Annie, that model of dour respectability, playfully fighting off Pepper’s attempts to refill her glass. Mrs. Speers, in the throes of a nap, had her head lolling on Pepper’s shoulder with her feathers splayed over his shirtfront and her mouth open. Altogether they presented a very model of aging dissolution. I expected Lord Paton to be shocked at this sort of carrying-on, but he smiled blandly.
“Have you been with Pepper’s magazine long?” he asked.
“No, I shall be making my debut in the next issue.”
He smiled again, more warmly. “I dare say you have some hard things to say about gentlemen.
The Ladies’ Journal
is not usually kind to us.”
I felt a compelling urge to pour out the whole story of the iniquity recently visited on me. He seemed an understanding man. If he had any milk of human kindness, he would assist my effort to earn a living. Yet to burden a total stranger with any intimate details was too vulgar. I said vaguely, “You may find my essay harsh. I was stinging from a—a personal injustice when I wrote it. Had I permitted time to soften my first anger, I might have dealt less strongly.”
His voice was full of concern. “Men can be beasts, sometime. Was it a father, husband ...” Sympathy glazed his dark eyes. I swear if we had been alone, he would have held my hand.
All in a fluster, I said swiftly, “Oh, I am not married!”
“I wondered, as Mrs. Speers seemed a little uncertain of your name. I thought perhaps you had recently divorced and reverted to your maiden name.”
“Divorced!” I gasped. “Indeed no. My name is and always has been Miss Nesbitt.”
“Your father, then, is the culprit? Disinherited, I take it?”
“Yes, I have suddenly found myself impoverished. It was ill done of him, though one ought not to speak ill of the dead.”
Lord Paton looked surprised. “I did not realize your wounds were so recent,” he said.
In a twinkling I realized the error. He thought that because I had no mourning weeds about me, my father had been dead for some time. I was strangely reluctant to let him know this was not the case. Flouting convention was all well and good when I did not care for the opinion of anyone about me. To behave with so little propriety in front of a thoroughly respectable gentleman like Lord Paton was less comfortable. I rapidly conned my options and settled on Cousin Geoffrey as an excuse.
“It was not just my father’s will when he passed away a year ago that vexed me. There was a cousin involved as well. A male cousin ...” I left it at that, and hoped with all my heart that Lord Paton would do likewise.
“He attempted to force an unwanted match on you?” he said. It was more an assertion than a question.
I nodded. “If my essay seems very strong, there was good reason for it, you see. I know you do not ordinarily review magazines, but—”
All his compassion dissipated, and he said firmly, “There are many kinds of writing, Miss Nesbitt. Some authors deal with universal human problems, like Shakespeare. The vacillation of a Hamlet, the ambition of a Macbeth, the aging of Lear. Such writing enlightens us regarding the human condition; it is called literature, and is for all time. Other writings are of interest to only a select group—I mean such books as gothic novels, put out by the Minerva and Pepper presses for the entertainment of ladies. They do not attempt to enlighten, but are meant to amuse. The
Quarterly
is interested in only the former. You understand. It is no slur on your talent.”
This patronizing speech sent a hot lava gush of anger surging through me. “You would put Rousseau in the former group as well, I assume?”
“Certainly. Voltaire and Rousseau are the preeminent—”
“And pray what enlightenment are
ladies
to take from the Frenchman’s so-called literature? He informed us that we are to be treated like moonlings. I defy that assertion. I did not write my essay to entertain or amuse anyone. I wrote it to enlighten women and men—I had no select group in mind. It deals with an eternal human problem that bedevils fifty percent of the human population. If those are the criteria that constitute literature, then it is a fit work for you to consider.”
“There is really a little more to it than that,” he said vaguely, with a weary eye, as though it were all too abstruse to be apprehended by a mere female mind. He batted a graceful white hand. “I am referring to style.”
“You can hardly expect an essay to be written in blank verse. I was indignant. The style is blunt, but the content is very serious.”
Lord Paton looked quite taken aback. “Then it must be startlingly different from anything else Pepper has published.”
“You wouldn’t know, as you have decided without ever laying an eye on it that it is akin to a gothic novel.”
A flash of anger lit his eyes, though he was trying to control it. “Time is finite. The propensity for wo— people to run off at the pen seems infinite. There aren’t enough hours in the day to read everything that is published. One judges by the tone of a publication. Well, for that matter, your essay is not even on the stands yet. How could I have read it? Send me a copy, and I’ll have a look at it. If it merits attention, I’ll do a critique.”
“Buy it yourself. I’m a professional writer! Those who
can
write. Those who
cannot
criticize.”
His eyes opened up at that. It was obviously the first time Lord Paton had been put in his place. On that uncompromising speech I rose from my chair and strode out of the room, my turban tail adding the final touch of degradation to a humiliating evening. I went to Mrs. Speers’s morning parlor to compose myself. It was my intention to remain there until someone came and told me Lord Paton had left.
This took approximately two minutes. It was Pepper and Annie who came to me. “What on earth did you say to Paton?” Pepper demanded. The tone of demand was full of mirth. “He tells me I have got a tiger by the tail, and wants to see an advance copy of your essay.”
“I had very little opportunity to say anything. He was too busy giving me a basic lecture on Shakespeare.”
Pepper shook his head, still smiling. “Any slight on his scholarship would be an offense. He thinks he knows all there is to know about literature. He took a first in the classics at Oxford. I expect we’ll be hearing from that young man again.”
“I hope his manners have improved!”
“I hope yours have as well,” Annie declared. “The only respectable parti at the soiree, and you have to offend him.”
“Oh, it would not be romance Paton has in his mind,” Pepper cautioned us. “He comes from a very old, very rich, very noble family. His da is a duke, and Paton is the eldest son, a marquess with half a dozen estates scattered here and there across the land. I doubt he’ll marry lower than a duke’s daughter. But that don’t mean we can’t put him to good use if he takes an interest in Missie.”
“Let us go home, Annie,” I said.
Pepper had a ramshackle old carriage, and drove us to the hotel. I felt terribly depressed. Paton’s remarks told me the world’s opinion of Pepper’s magazine. It was considered light, and I suspect slightly scandalous entertainment, for bored ladies and such non-ladies as had learned to read. I suspected it was an anodyne for governesses and unhappy wives, like a gothic novel. If I were to write that sort of thing, and truth to tell I did not feel I had any guidance on the human condition to give the world, I would prefer to write gothics. Mrs. Speers said they paid well. I always had a good imagination. That would come more easily to me than endlessly repeating how genteel ladies were repressed by men and society.
Our money was fast dwindling away while we stayed at the Pelican. Rooms were very dear, and the only cheap ones discovered were under the roof of the sodden Mrs. Speers. We must remove there at once, first thing tomorrow. After which I must write up another essay or two to recoup some money. But I would also begin a gothic novel to end all gothic novels.
I felt I had my villain in any case. He would not be one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s dark, menacing older men, but a smooth-looking lord whom the heroine (and reader) first mistook for a friend. He would not reveal his true nature quite so quickly as Lord Paton had done that night, nor would my heroine behave like such a ninnyhammer. She would not entangle herself in a web of duplicity, saying in so many words that her father had been dead for a year. Why had I said it? To give Paton a better opinion of me, or at least not a worse one than he already had.
If I had behaved better, he might have become a friend. He must have remarked that I was different from the others at the party, for he had suggested I join him for some conversation. He had seemed very sympathetic at first. I had tried to urge my essay on him too quickly. That was when the mischief began. But at least he had asked Pepper for a copy.
While I sat with my diary open before me, I indulged in a foolish daydream of glory. Lord Paton would admire my article. He would praise it to the skies, and I would become the next Frances Burney. I would be invited to Carleton House to meet the Prince Regent. I must buy a real turban.
I wrote briefly: Party chez Mrs. Speers, a popular novelist. Met Ld. Paton, a toplofty marquess who deigned to lecture me on literature. Amused at his pretentions. Doubt I shall meet him again.
Chapter Five
The first order of business the next morning was to reveal to Annie Potter that I planned for us to reside at Lampards Street. I expected her to hack down the suggestion, root and branch. She took it much better than I expected.
“Mr. Pepper suggested something of the sort,” she said. “It is not what we are used to, but it will do for a stopgap till you make us rich. A pity it is so high up the hill.”
I noticed that Annie set aside her black mourning bonnet and wore her regular autumn one with the pretty feathers.
The second order of business was to find a hansom cab and pair of nags strong enough to haul us up to Lampards Street. Mrs. Speers had already told me she was not to be disturbed at her work, but she had given Sal instructions to show us the rooms. They were about what I expected the attics of a mansion to be like. Far from elegant to be sure, but bright and spacious. The furnishings were such a miscellany as you will find in any place furnished from second-hand shops and auction sales. It hardly seemed possible the bone-freezing chill of the space could be heated up by the miserable grate in the saloon, but small grates had also been installed in both bedchambers.
I paid the two guineas on the spot, and we returned to the Pelican to bring our trunks to our new abode. The remainder of the morning was spent in unpacking and arranging our scanty belongings about the place. We went out for luncheon, and in the afternoon we went to Milsom Street to buy food and a few necessities such as candles and soap and a turban. Annie thought it nonsense for me to wear a turban when Lord Paton was not a day over thirty, and would take me for an ancient. At least he would not take me for an ancient with a tail growing out of her head, and besides, we would not be seeing him again.
After much argument with the stove and a few difficulties with burning chops, Annie served us a simple dinner. She did not cook at Nesbitt Hall, but she had done so in Ireland in her youth, and was a fair hand in the kitchen. We were both very much aware of the heavy, plain crockery and tin cutlery that came with the rooms. We had not even thought to buy wine to enliven our evening, but we felt we had accomplished a good deal for one day, and that lent an air of gaiety to our simple repast.
When it was done, I overrode Annie’s strenuous objections and put on a tea towel to serve as an apron while washing the dishes. Over the next few days I learned an exceedingly disagreeable fact of life. Every bite taken had to be first purchased, then prepared, and worst of all, the dishes on which it was served had to be washed and dried and put away.
When the frequent shopping trips and general housecleaning were added to these duties, it left me with much less time than I had anticipated for actually writing. And this with Annie doing three quarters of the work! She would gladly have done it all, but she was not a kitchen maid, after all. Making some money to hire a maid became a matter of increasing exigency.
In any free moments, I was at work on a heartfelt essay dealing with the awful tedium of women’s work. Men were busily inventing steam engines and various machines to save themselves the labor of grinding wheat, sawing logs, and rowing or sailing boats, but where were the work-saving tools for the housewife? The washing dolly-tub with its wooden paddles turned by hand was almost more laborious than the washboard. Could not some minor genius invent a machine to peel potatoes and wash the dishes? Science, like art, had become the handmaiden of the male sex. Scientists were too busy inventing new engines of war to bother about the kitchen.
Pepper liked the essay immensely (but not enough to raise the payment), and even added an idea for the next issue’s essay. He pointed out that men had devised plenty of frills to make my sex more pleasing to men. Rouge, perfume, all manner of jeweled bibelot and fancy textiles, but where were the inventions to lighten the labor of the unfortunate? No, their concern was to make us look like pretty dolls. I do not mean to infer that I abhorred pretty ornaments. Far from it, I loved them, but they should have come after the necessities.