Book sales! Titania looked in disbelief at her familiar writing covering the pages Mr. Harris held in his hands, and began to understand what the “power of the written word” might mean to her in her current circumstances. If she was to get published, and the book was a success, she might not face the looming financial disaster at all. In fact, she might never have to get married. Somehow, the idea did not fill her with glee.
Mentally dismissing the image of growing old by herself with only a group of even more elderly caretakers to keep her company, she listened as Mr. Harris gave her the sum she could expect upon signing her contract for the column. It was much more than they had originally discussed, and she was relieved to realize that she could comfortably meet her expenses for the Season, although she still did not have enough to sustain Ravensthorpe for long.
Mr. Harris, meanwhile, had finally unearthed a writer’s contract from under the massive pile of papers on his desk and was holding it out to her, his face alight in excitement. “Miss Stanhope, please take your time reviewing this agreement—but not too long, mind!—and I will begin to query which of our caricaturists would be most adept at bringing your words to life. Ah!” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I feel like a boy in short pants. This is the dawning of a new era!”
Titania, still overwhelmed by her editor’s flights of enthusiasm—and turns of phrase—accepted the sheaf of intimidating-looking papers and stuffed them into her reticule, its sides bulging out preposterously.
“Mr. Harris, I must thank you for the faith you appear to have in me. You have afforded me the courtesy of treating me like a writer, not a female who writes, and I am beyond grateful. You cannot know how difficult it is to pretend to be something you are not.” Titania halted her words, a tremendous lump in her throat threatening to engulf her in tears. Really! Of all the moments to cry! What must Mr. Harris think of her?
Her editor quietly withdrew a large handkerchief from his pocket and was even now holding it out for her, a gleam of understanding lurking in his eyes. She took it quickly, blowing her nose and wiping the errant tears away from her cheeks.
“I must apologize, sir,” she said when she could speak again. “I do not usually get in a pucker like this. I will return this to you later,” she said, gesturing to the by now sodden handkerchief.
“Keep it,” he said, waving his hands toward her, “consider it a bonus.” She laughed, then rose and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I will review these papers; once I am certain everything is in order, and I am sure it will be, we will strike a bargain.” She gathered her shawl and reticule and left the office, her thoughts in a jumble as she collected Sarah, who was waiting outside.
She walked along Paternoster Row, thinking to herself as Sarah chattered on. To be free of the constraints under which she had placed herself. Perhaps to be able to choose her own future.
Half an hour ago, it was easy to slip into the role she, and everyone around her, had created for herself: caretaker, adviser, the sturdy Titania. But if she were able to create a new future, a new Titania, what did that mean? She was dismayed to realize that what she had hoped for—freedom from her responsibilities—was also what scared her. Maybe, she thought disgustedly to herself, my wildest hopes will be realized and my writing won’t be successful and I won’t get published and I won’t be able to support my family and I will have to marry some random lord with enough money and tolerance to keep my family going. Is that what you want?
As Titania was chiding herself, Sarah stopped her own monologue and started plucking at Titania’s sleeve urgently. Titania looked up to see Lord Gratwick, his blond hair no more than ruffled in the breeze, his walking coat immaculately clean despite the dirty city streets. Why did the image of scuffed boots and a disarranged cravat seem so much more appealing?
“Miss Stanhope,” he said, sweeping her a deep bow, “I see you are alone; might I foist my presence on you? I have been anxious to see you in the hope you will agree to visit my uncle’s library and find me a treasure. Not that I can hope to find a treasure as lovely as you.” He placed her hand firmly on his arm and they started to walk, Sarah a few paces behind.
Titania’s tone would have quelled a less determined man.
“Of course there are better treasures in books read and cherished than in a person’s beauty merely admired, my lord. With proper care, books last many lifetimes, while beauty fades over time. I would enjoy perusing your collection again; I am actually in search of some items from my own library I did not think I would require while in town.”
“Require?” Lord Gratwick queried, his light eyebrows shooting up into his forehead. “I did not realize ladies required anything more than a new gown and a ball to show it off at. At least that is what our mutual friend Lady Wexford has told me repeatedly after I have tried to engage her interest in the opera.”
Titania gestured toward a shop door. “I am going here, Lord Gratwick; you need not accompany me.”
“Oh, but I want to, Miss Stanhope,” he said, swinging the door open for her. He waited patiently while she made her purchases: a sober waistcoat for Thibault (something Titania’s sense of style, if not Thibault’s, was desperately in need of), a new pair of gloves for Stillings, whose old ones had been destroyed in a chicken’s fruitless dash from Cook, and some ointment for Miss Tynte’s feet, which were not accustomed to the vast amount of dancing to which she was subjecting them.
Her purchases paid for, Titania allowed Lord Gratwick to gather her bundles and walk her outside. The sun was beginning to set, and she glanced at the sky, hoping she could make it home in time to do some writing before she went out for the evening. Lord Gratwick inclined his head to hers and began to speak.
“Miss Stanhope, it has been a delight and a saving grace to meet a beauty like you in this city that is so filled with dirt and ugliness. At times London almost rivals the ugliness of the battle front, but I would not shock you with stories from my time there.” Titania blinked up at him, astonished to discover how many things he had just said to make her get into a pucker.
First of all, there was no way he could possibly admire her as he said he did; although Titania was enjoying her first Season, she was no green miss to be taken in by a suave gentleman. He hadn’t displayed any of the signs of appreciation Titania had started seeing on her admirers’ faces and which she was able to recognize even as a naive girl of sixteen. And he spoke with none of the passion she knew was essential to the process of falling in love—not that she had experienced any of that firsthand, of course. Secondly, she was passionately interested in what was happening at the front, and continually frustrated that so many well-meaning men refused to tell her. She had thought Lord Gratwick was different. When she replied, her tone was sharp.
“Lord Gratwick, I am not a silly girl who is only concerned with new gowns, the price of tea, and vouchers to Almack’s.” She picked up her stride a bit, hoping to make it home faster. He kept pace with her easily, but she could hear Sarah start to puff behind her. She slowed again.
“I did not think you were, Miss Stanhope. I was being selfish, since I do not want to recall that horror when I am here enjoying your company. Forgive me. Tell me, do you plan on attending Almack’s tonight?”
“No, I am engaged to attend a literary society with Lord George Ward. And I have not yet received vouchers to Almack’s anyway,” Titania replied, feeling chagrined she had gotten so angry.
“Then I shall not attend either, Miss Stanhope. I would rather stay at home than ponder the evening without a chance of seeing your fair face.”
“Oh, please, Lord Gratwick, there are plenty of young ladies who are just as lovely to look at—many more so—than I. Thank you for the pretty words, but I cannot believe you.” He raised his eyes heavenward.
“You wound me, Miss Stanhope. May I wish that you find the night just a little duller without me? Ah, if that were only true, I could die a happy man, slain on the battlefield of love.”
He could not think he would impress her with that ridiculous speech, did he? And if he did, he certainly did not know her very well. She was Titania of the Practical, Managing Ways, not someone who swooned if some man spoke pretty words at her.
“Ah, Lord Gratwick, your duty is discharged. That is my house over there. Thank you very much for your assistance. Sarah can take the packages from you.” She held her hand out to him, hoping he would not say anything else to embarrass her.
“Good-bye then, Miss Stanhope. A pleasure to run into you today.”
“Good-bye, Lord Gratwick.” She scurried into the house after Sarah, leaning back against the door with relief. She raced upstairs, pulled out her writing materials, and started scribbling frantically. At least Lord Gratwick’s presence was inspiring, even if it was not the kind of inspiration he had been hoping for.
“THERE. FINISHED.” TITANIA looked at the words she had just written, a contented smile on her face. Her self-satisfaction was interrupted, however, by the knock on the door. Goodness! Was it really that late? She heard Lord George’s voice downstairs as she heard Sarah’s footsteps heading toward her door. She hid the papers and ran to the door, opening it just as her maid was about to enter.
“We are certainly running late, are we not?” She gave Sarah what she hoped was a charming smile.
“Mmph. I was thinking the green tonight, miss, and you can stop trying to win me over.” Sarah strode over to the wardrobe, pulling out the gown. Although Titania had seen it when she had purchased it, she could not help but gasp when she saw the gown again. Sarah must have correctly interpreted her response.
“It is lovely, miss. You will look a right treat in it, too. Now, mind, hurry up, you do not want to keep that lord ’oo’s downstairs waiting. ’E looks like ’e needs ’is feed reg’lar.”
Titania let out a giggle from underneath the fabric. She emerged from its folds and stood, patiently, while Sarah adjusted it. She batted Sarah’s hands away when they reached for her hair.
“Never mind that now, Sarah, just twist it up. You know it all falls down anyway.”
“It wouldna if y’could keep your ’ands out of it. I swear—”
“I know, I know. Just make it neat, will you please?”
Straightened, smoothed, and neatly coiffed, Titania descended the stairs to where Lord George waited.
“Thank you, my lord, for your patience. Should we go?”
“Yes, indeed, Miss Stanhope, we should. Your cousin, she is coming as well?”
“Yes, of course I am, my lord.” Miss Tynte appeared from the drawing room, nodding at him.
“Good, good. Ladies, shall we?” He led the way out to the carriage, which was emblazoned with his father’s crest. He gave a little satisfied sigh, then helped the ladies up. The carriage lurched as he entered, and he settled himself in the backward seat facing the ladies.
Lord George had an expectant look about him, and he kept rubbing his stomach as if he were a Buddha attempting to grant his own wish. That there was likely to be some erudite discussion at the evening’s salon did not seem to make him uneasy; from his comments, Titania gathered that he was looking forward to amusing himself at the refreshments table rather than indulging in any literary fancy. He wandered off topic as blithely as she spouted ancient aphorisms.
“...I was just saying to my friend Quigley, right after he had the audacity to question if an orange waistcoat was appropriate with mulberry pantaloons. I mean, they are both types of fruit, are they not? Quigley would have it that only that light brownish color would work. I ask you, is there such a fruit as ‘light brownish’? I think not.” He nodded his head in satisfaction. He poked himself in the nose, thrust his head out the window, and began to yell instructions to his coachman.
Titania leaned over to Miss Tynte, keeping her voice very quiet. “Apparently the lord is not familiar with the pear. I think he is a good soul, but watching him think is like seeing a cat try to nudge a milk bottle open; they both know they want to do it, but they just are not sure how.”
Mrs. White’s house was ablaze with candles. There was a general hubbub of activity that foretold a lively evening. Once inside, their hostess emerged from the vast array of lights to greet them.
“My lord, how honored I am to have you join our little gathering. I was not sure you were going to return after the dull talk we lapsed into at your last visit. You would think, my dear,” she said, turning to Titania, “that we were all prosing on in Greek for all that Lord George paid attention. But we have not met,” she declared, holding out her hand. “I am Mrs. White, the friend to all these dullards.”
Titania shook her hostess’s hand as Lord George quickly made the introductions. Mrs. White appeared to be about forty, although Titania thought she might be a bit older. Her face was marked by laugh lines, and her dark eyes seemed to dart about as if looking for the next bit of fun. She reeked of confidence, the confidence of an older woman who was aware she was still attractive. She put a hand on Lord George and Titania’s backs and pushed them forward.
“Please come meet everyone. We gather once a week on Wednesdays when all those other people are traipsing over to Almack’s. I do not like to deny entrance to anyone, so I thought it would be a fine thing to open my house when so many people are pining to go somewhere, if only to forget they are not allowed at that dungeon of dragon ladies. And as Lord George can attest, my table is just a bit finer than that stodgy old place.”
Titania let herself be swept up in the tide that was Mrs. White, landing in a large room filled with people. One of the gentlemen stepped forward, directly in Mrs. White’s path.
“Honoria, I beg you, do not let them discuss Byron one more minute! I am sick to death of him!”
“That is only because he has found fame with the same kind of scribbling you do, Julian,” Mrs. White replied. “If you would just find your own voice and follow it, you would be as well-known as he is.”
The man who had approached her was young; Titania guessed he was probably around her age. His dark blond hair hung loosely around his face, bits of it dangling romantically in his eyes. His face was a striking contrast between strength and beauty—straight, dark eyebrows on top of the most gorgeous brown eyes Titania had ever seen. He paused dramatically in the course of his recitation, and his eyes paused on Titania, moving on after just a moment. Titania discovered she was quite piqued to be so nonchalantly regarded.
She grabbed a glass of champagne—after all, her father had taught her some courage came from the bottom of a glass—and took a sip, its bubbles tickling her nose. She snorted as one flew up her nose, and it was then the poetic angel took notice of her.
“Egad, Honoria, your champagne is wounding your guests!” he exclaimed. “Ah, if only we had the nectar of the gods to drink, for then even the most...sturdy ladies would be able to imbibe.”
Titania was livid. True, she was not a fragile waif, but she was not an ox. In defiance, she drained the rest of her glass. Mrs. White, rather than being embarrassed at the man’s untoward behavior, gurgled in amusement and chucked him under the chin.
“Julian, my sweet, you are a bit too blunt. And in this case, you are wrong. Miss Stanhope, may I present my ill-mannered son, Julian Fell?”
Titania extended her hand to Mr. Fell, a smile that showed very little teeth and even less goodwill plastered on her face.
“Miss Stanhope, I beg your pardon for my indiscretion. It is not often one meets a goddess from Mount Olympus, and I did not mean to cause offense. As my mother will no doubt tell you, I have been accustomed since I first put A to Z to speaking in more elegiac phrasings than most other mortals. But you, Miss Stanhope, are a star in the firmament, a timeless melody that wafts on the wind like a feather, a...”
Titania threw her hand up in surrender.
“Stop; in the space of one minute, sir, you have likened me to a divine being, a stellar object, and a song. You must stop before my head swells like a balloon, and I cannot fit th
rough the doorway of your mother’s lovely house.” Titania was not expecting the charming, slightly boyish grin he gave her.
“Miss Stanhope, forgive me. But there are so many buffoons and charlatans and hangers-on who frequent my mother’s salon I have become callous. I am not suited to be a knight errant,” he said, gesturing down at his slight frame which seemed built to hang clothes on, “and I fight my battles as I can.”
“Understood, Mr. Fell,” Titania responded. “I myself was used to shielding my parents from harm; it is hard, is it not, when the ones who sired you are in need of some gentle protection?”
Julian gestured Titania toward a sofa in the corner of the room that was almost obscured by the cluster of people thronged in front of it.
“Would you care to sit and tell me what brings you to my mother’s gathering? Surely it cannot be the possibility of discussing learned tomes!”
They walked together to the sofa, an elaborate striped concoction with claw feet and exceedingly uncomfortable-looking bolsters perched at either end. Titania perched in one corner, while Julian settled deep into the sofa as much as its uncompromising fabric would let him.
“Now I know you are not the usual idiot who comes here,” he continued, “I need to know more about you. You are not in your first Season, are you? You look a little older than the usual debutante. But I have never seen you before, and despite appearances to the contrary”—he coughed discreetly—“I am interested in beautiful women, and would have noticed you if you had been here before.”
Titania blanched, both at his mentioning her age and his direct response to a question she had not asked.
“No, this is indeed my first season, Mr. Fell, despite the fact that I am a wizened old crone. My father has only recently passed away, and before that...well, before that there were things to be done, and somehow I was the one to do them. All of them, from managing servants to planning menus. Otherwise we would have starved and wandered about naked.”
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