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  There was a letter awaiting me, urging me to go to see Mr. Pepper at once. This buoyed my spirits re­markably. I waited only to eat, brush my hair, and change into my best slippers, for the streets were quite dry by this time, and I was eager to make a grand appearance. Annie insisted I could not visit a gentleman alone, even if it was business, and as Bath was rather old-fashioned, I agreed.

  I was glad she was with me when the cab headed across the bridge to the wrong side of Bath. I pulled the check string and stuck my head out the window. "There must be some mistake!" I exclaimed. "The publishing house cannot be here. It looks like a farm­ing area." The rough road was filled with cattle, and such buildings as there were differed widely from the Palladian beauty of Bath.

  "Temple Back is yonder, north of the Cattle Mar­ket," he replied. I had no recourse but to let him proceed, slowly, with the cattle taking precedence. Mr. Pepper's letter said Temple Back.

  After a long, jolting, expensive drive, we were de­posited at the door of a weather-beaten old barn of a place. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw a small placard proclaiming Pepper Publishing Com­pany. I felt I ought to give back the five guineas and let Mr. Pepper buy a gallon of paint. In my heart I knew no hero dwelt within those walls.

  The exterior alerted me not to expect anything in the way of grandeur, or even much of respectability, inside. It was a dusty, rambling, ramshackle building, with a flock of dirty urchins darting about the halls. One door stood open, and a little white-haired gnome of a man in spectacles, wearing a blue jacket with the elbows worn shiny, peered out.

  "You'd be Miss Nesbitt, then?" he enquired in an accent from the east side of London.

  "Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Pepper."

  "You've found him. Come in, come in. Don't mind the dirt."

  With sinking heart I entered his squalid of fice, Annie clutching my elbow. We stared around with wide eyes, as if we were at a raree-show. He had a battered old desk, piled high with papers, a chair behind it, and another chair in front. The walls were grimed with age and dust. No picture enlivened the vast expanse of grayish-yellow paint. There were not only rolls of dust, but actually pebbles on the carpet, along with a wizened rind of orange and some strange black pellets, which I originally took for the droppings of a rabbit, but eventually discovered to come from his pipe.

  "Sit yourselves down," he offered, and wheeled his own chair out for Annie. I sat in the other, and very nearly fell off. One leg was short, but he jammed a book under it and it stopped jiggling. Mr. Pepper, my hero, leaned against the desk and smiled, while ex­amining me closely.

  "I'd a notion you'd be a deal older, and uglier," he said.

  All I could think of to reply was "Oh." He certainly excelled my expectations on both counts. I presented Annie, who was rigid with disapproval.

  "Not that it matters," he assured me. "You have the gift, and that's all I'm after. A fine, impassioned piece of prose you sent me, Miss Nesbitt. I'm ready to take anything else of the sort you have to offer."

  This, at least, was what I had hoped to hear, and I began to recover. "I brought a few things with me." I opened my folio and handed him the two essays residing there. One was on the arrival of autumn in the country, with florid descriptions of changing col­ors and some analogy to life's passage. The other was a brief history and description of the old Perpendicular Church in Milverton, which has some fine wood carvings.

  He glanced at them briefly and looked at me, be­wildered. "But these are pap," he said simply.

  "What do you mean? They are elegant descrip­tions of..."

  "This isn't the sort of thing I publish at all, Miss Nesbitt. Your other piece, now, that was more like it. There are half a dozen magazines putting out this sort of drivel. I print a few of them. Not publish, mind, but print. This building is an old printer's workshop. I began my business doing the printing work for books and magazines. I came to realize the better blunt was in publishing, so I've hired a few sharp pens and began publishing my Ladies' Jour­nal some years back. It's a comer, Miss Nesbitt, aimed at ladies like yourself, who want more from life than to be chained to a stove, rearing children. I thought from your article you were a modern, en­lightened lady."

  My hackles rose gently and I said, "I am."

  He hopped up on the edge of his desk and with feet dangling from incredibly short legs, he smiled down at me. "I saw in you the logical successor to Mary Wollstonecraft—the lady who wrote The Vindication of the Rights of Women in the last century. There is a beacon waiting to be taken up, Missie, and a fortune for the lady who has the wits to grab it. There is a growing legion of women like yourself, fed up with being treated as ladies."

  This was hardly the way I would have described my views, but I listened avidly. Having burned my bridge behind me, I had little choice. When he shoved a magazine under my nose, I felt myself slip­ping back into my dream world. It was the October issue of The Ladies' Journal, ready for distribution. Emblazoned on the cover in large black print was the title of my essay, "A Daughter's Dilemma," by ?. He had changed Anonymous Lady to that coy ques­tion mark. Somehow it hinted at a great mystery. A question mark could be anyone. A royal princess run amok, Lady Caroline Lamb, Madame de Stael. The possibilities were endless, and intriguing.

  That the article was so prominently displayed did not suggest it was written by an unknown provincial like myself. The cover was illustrated in a cheap and garish way that shocked me. A buxom young woman, who would never in a million years be mis­taken for a lady, was bursting free from chains, as well as from the top of her gown. In smaller print there was a lure to draw in the reader. "What does a young, beautiful lady do when she is thrown penni­less into the world?"

  I heard a sharp gasp and Annie exclaimed, "Oh dear!" in shocked accents.

  "This is not the way your magazine looked last month, Mr. Pepper," I said weakly.

  "No, it is changing every issue, following the trend suggested by my readers. It began with the sort of stuff you just handed me—pretty descriptions and poems and fashions and recipes. Other publishers are doing that better than I can, so I have opted for a different tack. You will be familiar with Mrs. Speers. She is my top writer, to judge by the letters. She writes in your vein, but not nearly so well. She writes about the downtrodden plight of ladies to­day."

  The name was familiar. Her marble-covered nov­els littered the shelves of the lending library at Milverton. "I thought she was a novelist." And not one of my own favorites either.

  "She used to scribble gothics, but she has run dry in that line."

  "Do you feel there are enough ladies interested that you can make a go of this?" I asked doubtfully.

  "You'd be surprised how many there are, and where they are hiding. Everyone from mousy house­wives in the provinces to bored peeresses have writ­ten praising me." He glanced carelessly at the litter of papers on his desk. A quick peep showed me there wasn't a letter amongst the lot. It was proofs for his magazine that were strewn about there.

  I was quite simply struck dumb at what he was suggesting. My fit of anger had been dissipated by pouring out all the spleen in that one essay. To have to rehash the same thing, month after month, seemed impossible. Yet to walk away with no possi­bility of future earnings was even worse. London had rejected my first essay. I knew the two efforts Pepper was holding were uninspired. I hadn't even enjoyed writing them. What to do?

  "Think about it," he said. "I know you have it in you to be a literary star, Miss Nesbitt. It is infamous the way you were left out of your da's will. Aren't you interested in righting such wrongs as you see about you?"

  "Yes."

  He tossed up his hands. "There you are, then. Let me see anything you write. The payment will rise as you pick up your audience. I don't waste money on overhead, as you can see. After we have a collection of a couple of dozen essays, I see it going into a proper book. Anything in the way of fiction on the subject will be welcome as well. I have a line of ladies' novels—cheap gothics for t
he most part, but once you are established, I will put you out more hand­somely."

  My mind was reeling with such future glory. A star in the literary firmament, collections of my es­says. No wonder if I sat mute. It was Annie who got us out of the office.

  "We'll let you know," she said, and rose huffily to her feet.

  Pepper hopped off the desk and walked us to the door. "Are you staying in town a spell, ladies?" he asked.

  "Yes, I am moving to Bath," I replied.

  "Ah, excellent! I do like to have my writers about me. I have persuaded Mrs. Speers to move here as well. A widow lady. I am calling on her this evening. She would be thrilled to meet you, Miss Nesbitt. She admired your essay violently. 'I wish I had written that !' she said when I showed it to her. She is a widow lady, turfed out of her home like yourself when her husband cocked up his toes and died."

  "I dislike to call uninvited."

  "We are not so niffy-naffy in our manners. All my writers are one happy family. You will meet a half dozen of them at Lily—Mrs. Speers's do this evening. She enjoys throwing literary soirees. Bring along your chaperone if you dislike to come alone," he sug­gested with a quick glance at Annie.

  I felt a pleasant humming of the blood in my veins at the words "literary soiree." It was the very sort of thing I had hoped to become involved in. Lily Speers was not a writer whose novels received wide critical acclaim, but certainly she was popular and prolific.

  "Do you have her address?" I asked.

  "I have one of her cards here somewhere," he said, and began rooting through his pockets, which held a whole packet of cards. It occurred to me that I must have new cards and stationery printed up as soon as I had found myself a set of rooms.

  Mrs. Speers's dog-eared card was eventually found and handed over. I put it in my purse and we left, with every expression of pleasure at the visit, and assurance of meeting that evening at Mrs. Speers's house.

  When we gained the fresh air and sunshine, An­nie rolled up her eyes and said, "We'll catch the coach back to Milverton tomorrow. You won't want to have anything more to do with the likes of Pep­per."

  Her imperative glance told me she expected a bat­tle, and I was happy to oblige her. "Nonsense. What does it matter to us if he chooses to live in a pigsty? We'll never have to come here again. It leaves all the more money to distribute to his authors."

  "Aye, and have their works put out into the world with naked women on the cover. Your papa would roll over in his grave if he saw it."

  "He's not likely to see it, is he, Annie? Ah, excel­lent! The cab waited for us, and I didn't even ask it to."

  "How could it leave, when the road is full of cows? We shall be here all night."

  After I had won the argument about remaining in Bath and continuing to write for Mr. Pepper, our talk turned to finding rooms. Annie was so disgrun­tled that I decided to put it off till tomorrow. With the lure of riches and stardom reeling in my head, I felt it not an extravagance. And besides, I wanted to spend some time planning my outfit and hairdo for Mrs. Speers's literary soiree.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  As the rising star in Mr. Pepper's literary firma­ment, I felt I had to dress the part. Not for me the modest frumpiness of Miss Burney or Jane Austen. I had seen pictures of Madame de Stael and Caroline Lamb, and was undecided which style to follow. A long examination of my face in the mirror hinted that the somewhat gamin charm of Lady Lamb was not for me. A turban, on the other hand, a la Stael, might add an aura of distinction.

  That I did not possess a turban caused a delay, but by no means a deterrent. My elegant rose silk shawl, shot through with gold threads, would provide make­shift headgear till I could purchase a real turban. Lacking a proper brooch to tether the ends, I bor­rowed Annie's paste circlet of diamonds given to her by her niece last birthday. I seemed to recall that in the picture of Madame much admired in La Belle Assemblée, she wore an extremely décolleté gown to very impressive effect. Lacking her thoracic develop­ment (and a very low-cut gown) I settled for my green sarsenet. My shawl-turban usually provided warmth with that particular gown. As I possessed no suitable substitute, I decided to leave my arms bare, and hoped that Mrs. Speers kept a warm house.

  My entire toilette was accompanied by a threnody from Annie, who insisted God in his heaven had nothing better to do than devise some hideously cruel fate for my waywardness. She courted redemption by wearing black, even if she was going to a party. I hoped it might be mistaken for a lack of interest in fashion, but really she looked like a car­rion crow.

  E'er long, the crow and the peacock were heading below stairs to our waiting hansom cab. I gave the driver the address, Lampards Street, and he moaned. "I'll try if I can coax my nags up the hill," he said in a voice that suggested it was downright cruel of us all, and not likely of success either.

  The nags set out briskly enough, but as we began to scale the heights, our speed slackened noticeably. We were going so slowly as we crawled up Russell Street that there seemed a very real possibility we might have to get out and push. Eventually we were deposited at the doorstep of a large and fairly impressive-looking mansion, done in the Palladian style. Lights beamed from a dozen windows on three floors, giving a cheery aspect.

  "You see what can be wrought by the power of the pen, Annie," I said, examining the house. "With luck and diligence, you and I may inhabit such a mansion one of these days."

  "Make sure you don't build it atop a mountain like this one" was her sulky reply.

  "But only look how lovely the view is," I pointed out. Below us spread the city, with lights gleaming like fireflies in the blackness of a summer garden. "By day it must be stunning. I shall compliment Mrs. Speers on her location."

  "I doubt that poor team will ever stagger back down the hill without breaking their knees. With all the good flat land around, whoever decided to build a town in such an unlikely place?"

  "I believe the Romans are responsible," I replied tartly, and headed to the door before she lured me into her bad mood.

  The first intimation that all was not of the first stare chez Mrs. Speer was the squid-faced female servant who answered her door. In such an establishment, I expected a proper butler. The awful thought flashed into my head that till I had pros­pered beyond five guineas, Annie would be opening our door to my callers.

  The girl, who had no more notion how to answer a door than a yahoo, curtsied, grinned, and said, "La, more company! Come in and join the squeeze, ladies, but don't expect to find a chair."

  On this peculiar greeting we entered. The girl pointed to a table in the hallway, which was piled high with coats, curled beavers, walking sticks, gloves, bonnets, and pelisses, and disappeared with­out announcing us. Annie and I exchanged a blank stare and removed our outer garments. We stood in the hallway, peering into a brightly lit and noisy saloon, where perhaps two dozen people stood, hold­ing glasses and shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. None of them, including the hostess, paid the slightest attention to us.

  Annie looked at me, picked up her bonnet, and said, "If we hasten, we can still catch the cab."

  A line from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar darted unbidden into my head. "'Ambition should be made of sterner stuff,' " I said, and took a deep breath pre­paratory to announcing myself. It seemed an absurd thing to do, but how else was I to call the hostess's attention to our arrival? Surely a self-announcement was better than none.

  I stood a moment, scanning the crowd. I need not have worried I was going a bit far to turn my shawl into a turban. I would have felt undressed without it. Every single lady in the room wore a turban. Nine tenths of them were topped off with towering plumes. None of the ladies carried shawls, and Madame de Stael's décolleté would not have rated a second glance.

  There were jewels aplenty, but even at a distance of three or four yards from the closest gem, I detected a noticeable lack of luster. Paste! If that red stone the size of a greengage plum had been a real ruby, it would be f
amous throughout the land.

  After this observation, I turned my attention to the black jackets. There, too, things were amiss. The white shirtfronts and cravats did not sparkle as freshly laundered linen should. The jackets of the elders did not so much cling to shoulders as sag wea­rily from them. The younger gentlemen with some interest in fashion had their shoulders wadded out to ridiculous widths. Their hair was curled artfully over their foreheads, and one wore an outmoded pair of breeches and silk stockings. It was a parody of a polite party that called up, for some reason, the progress of Hogarth's rake.

  I couldn't decide whether to laugh and join them or grab my pelisse and run out the door. Before any decision was taken, Mr. Pepper shot out from behind a laughing group and headed for me. I was surprised to see he owned a decent evening suit, and had a fresh shave. A statuesque lady of magisterial bear­ing tagged along behind. She wore a shiny green satin turban with white feathers, a huge brooch of strass glass, several square inches of gooseflesh, and a green gown. I judged her to be a well-seasoned forty-five or -six, under her orange rouge.

  Without waiting for introductions, she seized my two hands and pulled me against her ample bosoms. An awful stench of lavender and gin engulfed me. "Miss Nisbitt. How I have bin looking forward to meeting you. Arthur has told me all about you," she said in some strange accent that resulted from try­ing to hide the bells of Saint Mary le Bow by pursing her lips daintily. I escaped her clutches, and saw she was smiling at Mr. Pepper, presumably Arthur.

  I presented Miss Potter, who was welcomed with a glancing nod, before Mrs. Speers, the lady in the green turban, clapped her hands and called for at­tention. A few curious heads turned to examine me while I was presented as "the lady we have all bin on nittles to meet, Miss Nesbitt." I shall not continue with her accent, but if you picture her lips pursed up as if she had sucked a lemon, you will have an idea how she spoke.

  The lackluster eyes took a quick, disintere sted glance, and returned to their shouting. "We shall escape this mad throng and have a quiet little cose," Mrs. Speers decided.