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One of the few items of common knowledge re­garding Madame was that Napoleon particularly de­spised her. I had to wonder if Mrs. Speers had bestowed these gems of misinformation on Lord Paton.

  "Are you writing anything else for Arthur at the moment?" Annie inquired.

  "Now that he has found someone to replace me, I am able to concentrate all my efforts on Anne Lou­ise's story. Age is getting the better of me, and I limit myself to one work at a time. Such a relief that Arthur has managed to find a genteel young lady to fill the gap. Some of his writers are just a trifle common, I fear. Young Millie, par example, did not return home last night."

  She nodded her head wisely. "I'd swear on a Bible she had a gent clam­bering up a ladder into her room the night before, though they were quiet about it once they hopped into bed. I won't have that sort of carry-on in my house. Damned if I will. Don't you agree, Miss Nisbitt?"

  "I'm sure you are mistaken in her character, Mrs. Speers," I said. "Millie mentioned she was going to visit her sister yesterday. No doubt she remained overnight."

  "And no doubt her sister—if she has one—was rat­tling up the ladder at midnight the night before."

  "I didn't hear anything."

  She simpered knowingly. "It is so refreshing to have a real lady to talk to. You never suspect ill of anyone, Miss Nisbitt, even when it is staring you in the face. I'm sure it is no odds to me who the trollop amuses herself with, so long as she pays up regular and doesn't land a squawling brat in on us. And now I must return to my work. Thank you for the tea, it was lovely, as usual. A new tea set, I believe?"

  The heavy crockery had been replaced, along with the addition of a few other refinements, to the det­riment of our savings.

  "Yes, do you like it?"

  "Very genteel, I'm sure. If you're not using the old one, I'll just get it out of your way. I have picked up a rooming house in London, and am busy furnishing it."

  Annie and I exchanged an astonished glance. "The gothics," she explained. "They are still selling as fast as kippers on the street corner. One reads of their demise from time to time, but great literature always endures, don't you agree, Miss Nisbitt?"

  I smiled pleasantly, and made a mental note to step up the pace on my own gothic. In order to catch the right, profitable tone, I borrowed a few of Mrs. Speers's novels. Outwriting her did not appear to pose a problem. I could invent a gloomy mansion bordered by ancient yews, and a heroine prone to swooning at the slightest provocation as well as the next one. It was the heroine herself that upset me. Could any female really be so foolish as to believe in ghosts? Was sitting around, swooning, the only course of action to occur to her? Such a woman de­served her fate. Yet this was what allowed Mrs. Speers to buy up a rooming house with as little care for the expense as buying a new pair of stockings.

  In the above manner we settled into our new life. At times we, probably Annie more than I, felt the loss of what we had left behind. On rainy days, of which there were many as September drew to a close, we felt like badgers in their sett in our shabby little rooms. But Annie had Arthur, I had my career, and we both had the satisfaction of independence.

  We also had a flurry of letters from Geof frey Nesbitt. The first contained an apology, in case he had unintentionally done anything to cause offense, and enquired in polite but stiff words how long we planned to remain in Bath. Our friends were pester­ing him for information, and he felt uncomfortable having to put them off for so long. Annie had written to him, giving our address. I wrote a reply, stiffer still than his own, ignoring any reference to having taken offense at the theft of my fortune, and inform­ing him that it was not my intention to return, ever.

  Three days later I received another missile, in­forming me that I was behaving irrationally, and asking what I was using for money. I replied that Bedlam had not come after me yet, and I was using pounds, shillings, and pence for money. He took the gloves off in the next one and ordered me home immediately. I mentally composed half a dozen replies of cutting irony, but did not commit any of them to paper. I had decided to ignore Geoffrey Nesbitt. If any more unsolicited letters arrived, I would refuse to pay for them. Let the post o ffice return them for all I cared.

  My wrath was poured out in my diary. Here is a sample of it. You can skip over it if purple prose is not in your line. "At what point in history was it decided that females were the inferior sex? In a.d. 60 Queen Boadicea led an army against the Roman le­gions. Queen Elizabeth, centuries later, was still able to overcome the bias toward her sex. In two hundred years, we have sunk to mere ciphers. If I should try to gather up an army of women today, I wager I could not raise a single regiment in all the island, with Ireland thrown in. Victory must be achieved more cunningly. The pen is still mightier than the sword. We must take control of the pen."

  Yet what my pen really wanted to write was a gothic novel. My heroine, however, would be instru­mental in her own salvation. That would be one lit­tle step for womankind.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  We had been two weeks at Lampards Street. Be­tween the exigencies of settling into our new rooms, my writing, the flurry of corre spondence from Cousin Geoffrey, and finding our way about town, we had not done much in the way of establishing ourselves socially. We passed as quite the tip of the ton at Lampards Street, where the landlady and all the other denizens treated us with a comical degree of deference. We had made a few nodding acquain­tances at the Pump Room, but there were larger fields to conquer, even in Bath. By degrees, Mr. Pep­per and I had coerced Annie out of any semblance of mourning. Now it was time to enter our names with the Master of Ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms, and take on a wider society. Our first venture out was to a ball at the Upper Rooms.

  During the day there was a flurry of refreshing our complexions with Gowland lotion and lemon wa­ter. Our hair was tied up in rags till the curls bounced in joy. Nails were filed and buffed. Gowns were pressed and all the other attempts at elegance attended to. The turban was to be abandoned for this public appearance. Miss Nesbitt would make her bows in an elegant golden gown of corded silk, the skirt rutched up with tiny dark green satin bows.

  As Bath had the reputation of a valedtudinarians' haven, I anticipated a sedate party. Imagine my de­light to see the throng of black jackets blocking the door. The heads above them were neither grizzled nor bald, but a pleasing variety of browns, blacks, and blonds. My anticipation for the evening soared as we edged our way into the room. I felt like a heifer on the sale platform, being ogled so blatantly by the mob.

  "We shall just find a seat a little farther into the room," I said over my shoulder to Annie.

  We inched forward, with "Pardon me" and "Sorry" sprinkled to left and right as we progressed. There was scarcely a seat to be had, but just before we came to the highest bench, a couple vacated their chairs, and with more speed than grace we beat an­other pair of ladies to them. I felt rather foolish when I realized one of the ladies was elderly, and rose to offer her my seat.

  She was a toplofty-looking dame with a face like a gothic painting, but she smiled with great conde­scension and accepted the chair. Names were soon exchanged. The lady was a true Lady, one Lady DeGrue, and the young companion was her niece, Miss Bonham. While Annie conversed with the elder, I struck up a conversation with the younger.

  The la­dies turned out to be regular inhabitants of Bath, and were imbued with its restraint. Miss Bonham, who was not more than a year or two younger than myself, wore her hair parted in the center and skinned back in a tight little ball. She was quite pretty, with regular features, but very shy. Her gown rose nearly to her collarbone, and its adornments were few.

  I soon sensed that Miss Bonham was not the sort of person who would appreciate The Ladies' Journal. She was tediously proper, and I did not mention my career. Instead, I spoke of Nesbitt Hall. Naturally my father's recent demise was concealed. My perma­nent remove to Bath became a visit, and per force Annie became invalidish.

  I trusted Annie was purveying
the same story to Lady DeGrue. Before long, Miss Bonham found a partner in an elderly gentleman whom she ad­dressed as Sir Laurence. Lady DeGrue accepted the escort of Sir Laurence's companion to the card par­lor, and I finally got to sit down.

  Annie immediately leaned toward me and said, "I hope you did not tell her anything about your writ­ing. Lady DeGrue is a mighty high stickler."

  It was soon sorted out between us that we had both told the same lies. This settled, I was free to cast my eyes hopefully over the gentlemen. Outside of possibly seeing Lord Paton, I had not thought I would know anyone there. I could not decide whether I was happy or otherwise, when Mr. Bellows came bolting across the floor. In case your memory needs refreshing, he is Pepper's owlish assistant, the man in charge of polishing up the prose of us writers before it appears in print.

  He was undeniably a gentleman insofar as speech and manners go, and when that is said, the list of compliments runs dry. His father was a vicar in some village in the north of England. He attended Oxford for a year, after which the money ran out and he had to take work. He was a bookish young man of twenty-two or -three years.

  Whatever Pepper paid him, it was not enough to keep up a creditable appearance. He looked and dressed like the impover­ished son of a minor clergyman. He was of medium height and less than medium girth, not far from emaciated actually. His bony face, with dark eyes sunk deep into the sockets, always reminded me of a death's skull when I met him on the stairs at Lampards Street.

  The awful idea was taking root that he mistook me for a lady of fortune, and meant to marry me. I don't know what else could account for his fawning manner.

  "Miss Nesbitt! I have been hoping for weeks to find you here one evening," he said in a solemn voice. "May I have the pleasure of the next dance?"

  A host of troubles rose up to attack me. I disliked to refuse outright, yet was loathe to have him set the tone for my possible partners. No doubt he was accompanied by other needy friends. I would be passed from one to the other, and kept from making more interesting acquaintances. On the other hand, I had not stood up since arriving. One was practically invisible when seated. Perhaps if I got on to the floor ...

  And then there was Annie. I could not like to leave her all alone. Just as I was turning to display my excuse for refusing, I spotted Mr. Pepper ducking forward, dodging through the crowd at top speed to claim Annie. I also noticed the upturning of her lips, the gleam in her eye.

  I said, "I would be delighted, Mr. Bellows. Thank yo u."

  Pepper said a few words and then suggested tak­ing Annie away to the card room. I cast a command­ing eye on her to remain where she was, but was forestalled by Bellows.

  "Don't worry about your charge, Miss Potter," he said. "I shall consider it an honor to look after Miss Nesbitt."

  There was the germ of an idea for an essay here. Why should I, at seven and twenty, require looking after, especially by an unlicked cub like Bellows?

  "We shall meet for tea," Pepper said, and I was left stranded with Bellows.

  I took what consolation I could from escaping the card party, and went with my partner to take my place in the set. There was not going to be one mo­ment's pleasure in this entire evening. I knew it as surely as I knew the two rawboned, awkward-looking youths toward whom we were rushing were Bellows's friends. My next dances would be with them. I would ask Annie to leave as soon as tea was over.

  Bellows was soon proudly presenting me like a trophy to the awkward youths and their partners. It was clear from their assessing eyes that I had been much spoken of. "So this is Miss Nesbitt!" and "De­lighted to meet you at last" would have told the tale if their conspiratorial grins had not.

  It did not seem to occur to any of them that our set lacked a couple, and the musicians' violins were al­ready making those squawking sounds which presage the beginning of the music. I said not a word.

  If we failed to fill the set, I might escape yet. The card parlor now seemed preferable to the dance.

  "We need another couple here. Where is the M.C.?" Mr. Bellows said in a fine, taking-charge manner.

  I smiled wanly and said, "Such a pity! It seems we cannot complete the set. Shall we retire ..."

  "Here's a chap and his lady now," Bellows said. "Why, it's Lord Paton!"

  My heart sank to my slippers. I turned slowly and saw the unmistakable silvery-gold head and straight shoulders of Lord Paton gliding toward us. Any hope that he would not remember me vanished on the spot. His dark eyes were on me, and his lips were pursed in amusement.

  Within seconds he was pre­senting his partner, Mrs. Brisbane, to us. She was pretty, in a dashing way that fell just short of vul­garity. Her eyes were a shade too bright, her gown sprinkled with spangles, her voice just a touch loud, and her arm clung so tenaciously to Paton that it pulled his sleeve askew. I noticed she had the stron­gest possible effect on the provincial gentlemen in our set. That did not surprise me, but I had expected more discernment from Lord Paton.

  The music began, and the dance proceeded before anything that could rightly be called conversation took place. The provincials made no headway whatsoever with the dasher. Her flashing eyes were only for Lord Paton. No matter what partner the move­ments of the dance gave her, her attention never wavered from him. He was too polite to ignore her, but he did not return his undivided attention. As often as not, he was looking at me in a strangely conspiratorial way that was hard to account for.

  When the dance was over, he took Mrs. Brisbane on one arm, myself on the other, and swept us off. "I have someone who is very eager to meet you, Miss Nesbitt," he said.

  Mrs. Brisbane was returned to a chaperone and very civilly thanked for the dance. She managed to both smile at Paton and glare at me before we re­sumed our walk, which took us toward the doorway.

  "Who is it that wishes to meet me?" I asked.

  We were at the doorway. He opened it and ushered me out without answering my question. 'Tea will be announced immediately. In this way, we beat the crowd and get our choice of table. That one in the corner—not the one by the doorway. We'd be jostled to death."

  I noticed that the table to which he dashed was a table for two. Most of them accommodated larger parties. "I am supposed to meet my chaperone," I said.

  "She is at cards?"

  "Yes."

  "Then she will wish to take tea with her group. You don't really want to listen to card talk for half an hour, do you? Useless repinings about trumps and tricks and honors?"

  "But I said I would meet her."

  He smiled urbanely. "I'll go to her table and ex­plain."

  He drew my chair. I sat down, and Lord Paton summoned a waiter by some magic, invisible means. He ordered tea and cakes, and I once again asked who wished to meet me.

  "Me," he replied with a smile that would not only lure birds from a tree, but vultures from a carcass.

  It was a peculiarly intimate smile that had more to do with the eyes than the lips. It took me a mo­ment to recover my wits, but eventually I said, "You mean it is all a trick? There is no one at all?"

  "Only that sorry old critic, Paton. Practically no one."

  The word "critic" jumped out of the conversation and into my mind. Was it possible he was going to review my essay after all? The next term's Review was probably being written now.

  "And what does the critic think of my essay?" I inquired hopefully.

  "It was a very spirited attack on masculine arro­gance. It certainly made me think."

  "Then you will give it a good review?"

  His mouth, which had been formed in a smile till that moment, fell open in surprise. "Ah—well, I am only a scribe for the Review, you know. I do an occasional piece for them, but it is the editors who determine the contents, the works to be reviewed. I broached the matter of your essay. They felt it would not be of interest to our readers."

  A weak "oh" was all I could manage. My hopes were dashed to the ground. "Why did you wish to meet me, then?"

  Another of th
ose intimate smiles glowed in his eyes. "I am not only interested in the anonymous writer, but in Miss Nesbitt herself."

  The cakes and tea arrived, along with a sudden rush of customers into the room. We surveyed the throng till we spotted Annie and Mr. Pepper. They were with the rest of their card table, as Lord Paton had prophesied. He went and made my excuses to Annie, and returned just as I was setting down the teapot.

  "I wish you had waited," he said. "I like to watch a lady pour tea."

  "Drink up, then, and you shall see me pour the next cup. It is hardly a performance to anticipate. I lift the pot by the handle and tip, hopefully in the direction of the cup."

  "But the curve of the wrist, the height at which the pot is held, are revealing. Is the pourer a ven­turesome lady who has confidence in her ability to hold the pot high and let the steaming liquid gush like a waterfall? Or does she let it hug the cup and trickle in with no flare? That is what I should like to have seen, Miss Nesbitt."

  "This is a new method of character revelation, to read the pouring rather than the leaves. I shall be very careful at what height I hold this creamer. You go first, milord. I shall try to spoon the sugar into the cup unseen while you are occupied."

  "I take my tea straight, but neither milk nor sugar count in any case. There is no threat in milk and sugar, except to the figure. Hot tea, on the other hand, is something to be handled."

  I felt uncomfortable all the same as I poured the milk with his dark eyes observing me.

  "I see you have put off your turban this evening," he mentioned after we had tested the tea and found it acceptable.

  I felt a little blush at this reminder of the past. "Just as well. No doubt you noticed its eagerness to leave my head when last we met."

  Paton put back his head and emitted a very natural-sounding laugh, deep and masculine. "You will never know what fortitude was required to pre­vent me from running after you and giving that tail a yank as you strode majestically from the party. You handled the contretemps admirably, by the by. I do admire a lady with a countenance."