by Joan Smith
On that speech, the hostess deserted her party and led me to a morning parlor, where she called for wine and biscuits. I looked helplessly over my shoulder at Annie, and saw that Mr. Pepper was endeavoring gallantly to entertain her. At least he was handing her a glass of wine. What they would have to say to each other I could not imagine.
There was a grate in the parlor to which we went, but no fire in it. I felt goose bumps rise on my arms, and hoped the wine would allay the cold. It did not, nor did it provide any other pleasure. It posed as sherry, but tasted like turpentine. After the first sip, Mrs. Speers wi sely set hers aside and called for water. What came was a colorless liquid bearing the telling aroma of juniper.
"Call me when Paton arrives, Sal," she said to the servant, the same one who had admitted us to the house.
"What a lovely big house you have, Mrs. Speers," I said, rather wondering why we were sequestered in such a cubbyhole of a parlor.
"There is no investment like real estate," she assured me. "When Gaby died—that is my late husband—he said, 'Lily, scrape up every penny you can lay your hands on and buy yourself a house. You will always have a roof over your head, and will never starve to death when you have a house with rooms you can let.' And I followed his advice." She took a long draught of her "water" and smacked her lips.
"I expect that was some time ago?" I queried politely.
"Oh my yes, a dozen years. I have grown rich since then. I have rooming houses sprinkled all around the country. I keep a room in each for myself, which makes traveling so much cheaper. I wrote Angelina in Newquay—in Cornwall, you know. I needed the stormy sea and cliffs and whatnot for that one. And Marie Claire was written in Brighton, for she was an orphan from the Revolution."
"These are your gothic novels, Mrs. Speers?"
"Indeed they are. I wrote two dozen of them, and very profitable they were too, but I have taken up serious writing now."
"Indeed! For Mr. Pepper, you mean?"
"Pepper?" She stared, offended. "Certainly not, though I scribble up the odd article for him. Seven guineas always comes in handy to buy knickknacks." Her eyes slid to the juniper water. "No, I am writing a biography of my heroine, Madame de Stael, Miss Nisbitt." Her voice was beginning to slur.
I had rather wondered that Mrs. Speers did not resent my rising star at The Ladies' Journal, and I now had my answer. I also had an idea what price to demand for my next essay. It seemed shockingly high. Throughout the conversation, Mrs. Speers's eager desire to meet me did not lead her to ask any questions, or even give me much chance to volunteer any information. Her real interests were twofold: herself and Madame de Stael, in that order.
When she next stopped to take a tipple, I put the pause in her monologue to good use and enquired, "What sort of article do you think Mr. Pepper wants?"
"Just the sort of thing you wrote before. That will go down very well, my dear. All about how men abuse us and steal our money under the guise of marriage, and leave us to educate ourselves. They take all the good jobs. Why should not Madame de Stael with all her learning and nobility and experiences, be an ambassadress, I should like to know?"
"Why indeed? But about my writing—to go on writing the same sort of thing time after time ..."
"It is what he wants. Millie Pilgrim writes on the plight of governesses and house servants. Her article on how the lords of the manor prey on innocent young girls was very effective. Next month she is doing nursemaids. Elinor Clancy, a vicar's orphan, writes of the situation of ministers' female children. There is more goes on in a rectory than counting prayerbooks! She knows of a vicar in Northumberland who has never opened a Bible. He has a daughter write all his sermons while he takes the bows and collects the money. That is the sort of thing we expose."
I felt quite at a loss. "I have no experience of that sort, I'm afraid."
She grabbed my hand and laughed gaily, "Oh, my dear! That is not what you shall write! You are so refained—I noticed it at once when Arthur showed me your essay. All done in lovely copperplate writing, and with such faine grammar. You are to write of life from the real lady's point of view. You will add a touch of class to the magazine. Such things as forcing daughters to marry for money, and how husbands squander their wives' blunt on other ladies—that sort of carry-on must be exposed. Surely you know of many such cases outside of your own, and if not, you must use your imagination. No need to mention any names at any rate, and go making enemies in high places. It will be the makings of you—and your friends need never know, for you will remain a question mark. My suggestion, by the by. Do you like it?"
"I thought it very clever, Mrs Speers. A definite improvement over the well-worn 'Anonymous Lady.'"
I saw that I had fallen into shameful company. But beneath all the awful vulgarity and self-seeking of the conversation, there was a kernel of justice. Wrongs were being perpetrated against my sex, and there was nothing immoral in exposing them. Quite the contrary, it ought to be done. Millie Pilgrim had taken up the cudgel on behalf of servants, Elinor Clancy on behalf of vicars' daughters—why not Emma Nesbitt on behalf of wronged genteel ladies? And of course I had urgent need of the money.
"And where are you staying, dear?" she enquired.
"At the Pelican."
"Samuel Johnson." She nodded. "But an inn is only for the nonce. You will not want to pay out such a stiff sum for long. You need rooms."
"Yes, I have been looking."
"Look no further," she announced, and smiled benignly. "A flat on my upper story has just been vacated. Four bright, airy rooms, furnished as faine as a star, and supplied with all incidentals. Linen, dishes, pots and pans aplenty. All of it going for an old song. Two guineas a week, including fuel for your grates. You will find the company congenial—all of us here are writers. Elinor has the other half of the upper, and Millie Pilgrim is below. Both jolly gels, and Elinor is very genteel. Mr. Bellows, an ill-feathered young owl, has half the second floor. He was up at Oxford for one term, and is Arthur's proofreader. Just between the two of us, Millie is unsteady in grammar and spelling, but Bellows polishes her up dandy. He also contributes the odd poem in a satirical vein. His Sara Agonistes was quite a hit. From Milton, you know."
My first reaction was that I would sooner live in a cellar than with this house of hacks. A brief reflection of the morning's search, however, brought second thoughts. Four rooms sounded quite luxurious, and four furnished rooms at two guineas a week was a godsend. It would take some jawboning to talk Annie around, but I said, "I should like to look over the rooms in daylight. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?"
"Tin it is. I cannot be interrupted during my working hours, but I'll have Sal show you the rooms. You'll not find better at the price, Miss Netter." The bottle of water was lowering noticeably in the pitcher.
"It sounds reasonable."
"Where is Paton? Is he not here yet?" She yanked the bell cord and Sal, the butler, came running.
"He's here! What a swell, Mum! An out and outer!" was her manner of announcing Mr. Paton.
Mrs. Speers struggled up from her chair. Her step was unsteady as she headed for the door, lo oking from the rear like a shiny green hippopotamus wearing feathers on its head. "He is come to interview me for the Quarterly Review," she announced grandly. "Such an honor. I didn't half believe he would come, for he sent no reply to my invitation. No doubt that lummox of a Sal lost it."
She lurched out the door, and I sat on alone, wondering if I was imagining things. The prestigious Quarterly Review was actually taking Mrs. Speers seriously? They usually reviewed Walter Scott, Lord Byron, Roger Moore, and such luminaries. This literary life was a strange affair. And now I was to become a part of it. Whatever else it proved to be, it certainly was not dull.
* * *
Chapter 4
Mrs. Speers was escorting Mr. Paton to her parlor as I made my way to the saloon. We met in the hallway. She did not stop to make us acquainted, but I heard myself being described as
"a very refained young lady writer" as I turned the corner. The glimpse I had of Paton put me in no hurry to leave the party before he joined it.
Quite apart from the good a review in the Quarterly could do my career, the highly polished article at Mrs. Speers's side interested me. To my astonishment, Annie was ensconced on a sofa with Pepper when I returned to the saloon, sloshing down a glass of Mrs. Speers's poison elixir. She was actually smiling! What on earth could Pepper be saying to her? She hadn't smiled since we left home.
I hurried forward and was offered a seat. "Mr. Pep per was just telling me about Ireland, Emma," Annie explained. "He comes from Doneraile, not far from where I was born. Can you imagine such a coincidence!"
Well, that accounted for the smiles. Mr. Pepper hadn't an Irish name, and there was no hint of the brogue in his voice, but he had at least been born on the ould sod, and green blood was always enough for Annie.
"I've bought back the old homestead," he said, smiling lazily. "My parents are dead now, but I mean to retire there one of these days, after Miss Nesbitt has made me rich."
"Made us both rich, I hope," I replied.
"Let me get you a glass of wine, Miss Nesbitt," he offered.
"No, thank you!"
He laughed merrily at that. "Not Lily's poison. I keep my own case in the cellar." There was a bottle on the table in front of them, and he poured me a glass of quite decent sherry.
We chatted a moment more about Ireland, then I said, "Did you know Paton, from the Quarterly Review, is interviewing Mrs. Speers? He was just shown in."
"You mean Lord Paton," he corrected me.
I felt a happy ringing in my ears. A lord! This was flying very high indeed. Annie and I exchanged a look of delight.
"I knew she was expecting him," Pepper continued. "I hope she is not—feeling poorly," he said. This suggested her problem was a chronic one. Pepper looked flustered, Annie looked curious, and I looked knowing.
"Not too badly," I assured him.
"It's the gin," he explained with an apologetic glance at Annie. "She never has a drop till she has finished her day's writing, but from three or four on, she tipples rather heavily, I'm afraid. She says her greatest story inspiration comes after a few drinks. She promised to hold off today because of her party. The poor creature has seen all of life. She used to be pretty. Now she looks ridiculous, mutton dressed as lamb." He smiled appreciatively at Annie's accoutrements of grief. "But she can still write up a storm."
"I trust you won't have to resort to the bottle, Emma," Annie joked. Her joking about such a matter showed me she was enjoying herself, and I was glad, since I still had to tell her we were moving to Lampards Street.
"I understand it is her life of Madame de Stael that Paton is interested in," I continued. My real aim was to turn the conversation back to Paton, with hopes of garnering a review myself.
"Oh, certainly. The Quarterly would never condescend to do a critique of my magazine or writers," Pepper said. "They hold themselves too high for that."
Disappointment lent an edge to my voice. "That sounds grossly unfair to me!"
Pepper replied with a certain heat, "I wish you would tell Paton so!"
We stayed talking for perhaps ten minutes, during which time Pepper did not suggest introducing any of the guests to us, nor did any of them approach our corner except Mr. Bellows, the proofreader. The others were content to stare in an ill-bred way. It seemed a strangely uncivilized way to carry on at a party, but I was not in the least eager to rub elbows with any of them. The miscellany of accents heard and the frightful appearance of the gathering was enough to make a lady blush to be caught in their company.
I kept a sharp eye on the hallway, and soon spotted Mrs. Speers showing a wooden-faced Paton to the front door. He did not intend to mix with the hoi polloi then. I thought he had probably made short shrift of Mrs. Speers once he got a smell of her breath. I felt a little stab of disappointment. He was the only respectable person there, and now he was leaving. Across the room, I got a good, long look at him as he said a few words to Mrs. Speers.
He was not startlingly handsome by any means, but there was a quiet elegance about the man. His hair under the hall lights was the color of dry hay in the sun, a pale gold tinged with a glint very like silver. It was an uncommon shade, not unattractive. He wore it short, smooth to his well-shaped head. I could see his eyes were very dark, but their exact color escaped me at that distance. His face overall looked intelligent and rather pale. The man was no Corinthian. His height was a little above average, but appeared greater due to his lean, graceful body. Yet there was nothing of the man-milliner in his frame. He had good wide shoulders.
As I gazed, he lifted his quizzing glass, held it to his eye, and made a leisurely examination of the room. I was curious to see his reaction, which prevented me from averting my glance before he looked at me. His disinterest was humiliating. He passed me over with no more regard than if I were a dirty glass on the table. I had expected him to recognize my superior breeding instantly. In the mind's fancy I had already imagined us sharing a laugh at the infamous party where we had met as he praised my essay. Surely I appeared in a different light from all these turbaned women?
Except, of course, that I too was wearing a turban, pinned in the style of the party with a paste brooch. He could not see when I was sitting down that my gown was of excellent cut and material. No, what he saw was another aging writer in a demmed turban, sliding now over one eye at a rakish angle. In a moment he would leave, and surely never again set foot in this establishment.
I looked to Pepper and said, "Why do you not go and ring a peal over Lord Paton for ignoring your magazine, sir? I doubt you will have another opportunity."
Paton's glance slid back to our party, but I fear Pepper was the attraction. He nodded at Pepper, said a word to Mrs. Speers, and before I had time to straighten my turban, she was leading him toward us. I felt a blush creep up my neck and surreptitiously reached up to my head. I felt the unmistakable threads of the fringe working their way loose, and probably hanging out to betray the turban's origins.
Mrs. Speers and her victim were upon u s. The hostess, quite slurry in her speech now, said, "You know Mr. Pepper, I think, your lordship. And this is Miss Nicols, so refained. We are delighted to have nabbed her for our periodical. Ladies, Lord Paton." Why she found it necessary to bow herself I do not know, but bow she did, more deeply than his lordship. Her feathers brushed Annie's nose. Annie batted them away angrily.
So many thoughts swarmed over me at once that I hardly knew what to say. The fringe was definitely loose, and beginning to tickle the back of my neck. Lord Paton's eyes were brown, a deep, rich brown like Dutch chocolate. He must think Mrs. Speers had no upbringing, calling him "his lordship," like an upstairs maid. His breeding overcame any propensity he must have felt to laugh at this charade.
He said, "Delighted to meet you, Miss Nicols."
"This is my cousin, Miss Potter," I said, pointing to Annie, who smiled very politely and murmured something.
No one seemed to notice or care that I had become Miss Nicols. I quite welcomed the alias and said nothing about the mistake.
"Miss Nesbitt has just been wondering why you never review The Ladies' Journal, Lord Paton," Mr. Pepper said archly.
Lord Paton, in forgivable confusion, looked about for Miss Nesbitt. "We seldom review magazines, Mr. Pepper," he explained. His voice was well modulated, firm, and authoritative without infringing on arrogance.
I recalled very clearly reading something about the Edinburgh Review in a recent issue of the Quarterly and said, "They will be surprised to hear that at the Edinburgh Review !"
The chocolate eyes settled on me with an air of surprise. No doubt he thought I spent all my time reading Mrs. Speers's gothic novels. "I said seldom, Miss Nicols, not never. One can hardly ignore an attack on such an acknowledged genius as Coleridge."
"Especially when his nephew is on the board of th
e Re view," Pepper riposted.
Mrs. Speers eyed the wine bottle and said, "You fool no one with that line, your lordship. We are ignored because we are ladies."
A sparkle of amusement lit Paton's eyes. "Now, you must know, Madame, a gentleman never ignores a lady."
"Except in print, eh?" she said, and gave his arm a nudge with her elbow. "Let us sit down before we all fall down." Her hand rose, ready to make a rush at the wine bottle. "Milord, I would be deeply honored if you would take a glass of wine before leaving."
"Thank you, I really must be going," he said hastily. I assumed he had already been served his draught of turpentine.
Mrs. Speers looked in some danger of falling over. To forestall this embarrassment, I rose and gave her my seat beside Annie, and the three elders began chatting, quite ignoring Lord Paton.
I smiled wanly at such a wretched display of poor breeding and said, "Will you be doing an article on Mrs. Speers's life of Madame de Stael?"
"Perhaps, when it is published. I was under the misapprehension that I was to receive a pre-publication copy this evening. It turns out, however, that the work is far from completion. I understand you are also one of Pepper's writers, Miss Nicols?"
"Nesbitt."
"I beg your—ah, that explains the mystery."
Mrs. Speers, who I hoped had passed beyond speech, heard the question and answered for me. "Miss Nevins is very genteel. She is to write about the lot of ladies. You never saw such a dainty fist as she writes."
The turban, mine, I mean, though Mrs. Speers's was also sitting aslant, was getting quite out of control. One end had worked loose and was falling like a misplaced tail down the back of my head. This annoyance, added to Mrs. Speers's claim for my gentility, made me blush bright pink. With an astonished and amused Lord Paton pretending to notice nothing amiss, I pulled the fringed tail over my shoulder and held it, as though it were a shawl.