Chapter 4 #2
She realized she was making quite a scene in her friend’s sitting room, huffing and puffing at the crinkling pamphlet in her grip. The urge for vengeance was at once overtaken by embarrassment at her outburst. She looked apologetically to her companion.
Belinda took a slow, meaningful sip of her tea, her eyes fixed on Verbena over the rim.
Verbena retook her seat, closed the shabby little pamphlet, and placed it on the low table with a calculated air of derision.
“What nonsense,” she said, clipped. She did not relish lying outright to her friend, of course, but she had made a promise to étienne. “What tawdry nonsense.”
Belinda gave a delicate cough. “I agree completely,” she said. “If it is meant to allude to you and Mr. Charbonneau—well! It’s patently absurd.” She glanced at her, then glanced away.
A little tension leeched out of Verbena’s body. It appeared Belinda was willing to dance around the truth to spare Verbena’s feelings, even if she suspected the poem was a faithful account of the facts. For the moment, that was all the security Verbena could hope for.
“Who is this—this Flora Witcombe?” she asked, glaring at the pamphlet’s cover. “What have I done to inspire such wrath in her? If the silly passage is referring to me, I mean.”
Belinda shook her head. “I doubt Miss Witcombe has any quarrel with you. This is her bread and butter, you see: poetry that makes some subtle allusion to the gossip of the day. I would call it a terrible use of that art, but…” Here she hesitated, seemingly interested in the iced biscuits all of a sudden.
“But?” Verbena pressed.
Belinda let a biscuit clatter back onto the bone china. “It’s exceedingly popular. Her tracts sell out with every printing.” Her brow furrowed in sympathy. “This one has likely been read by hundreds of people already.”
Shock stiffened Verbena’s spine all over again. “What! But—how did she reach such heights of popularity without my notice?”
“Her ‘society verses,’ as she calls them, only reached prominence at the beginning of this year, when the royal funeral provided her with so much fodder,” Belinda said. “I suspect that is why you were not familiar with her work.”
Ah. Verbena gritted her teeth. Now it made sense.
Verbena had been completely overwhelmed with social commitments surrounding the funeral, which, even in the dead of winter, had drawn all the ton back to London from their country estates.
Moreover, over half her family’s staff had been released before February.
No wonder Verbena had not heard of this poetess.
Lighthearted poems had been the farthest thing from her mind.
Belinda refreshed her teacup with a graceful pour from the silver pot. “That is why I sent you a note asking you to come round. I wanted to inform you before you heard of it from someone else.”
“Still,” Verbena murmured darkly, “I should have known about this, even if it was happening somewhat outside of my province.” It was her business to know things, especially things that would be useful to her.
“Well, with your recent foray into romance, it’s only natural that your attention was diverted,” Belinda said.
That gave Verbena pause. Belinda was correct, in a roundabout way; this mad dash to find a husband had occupied Verbena’s thoughts to the exclusion of all else. Very foolish of her. She knew better. She had to keep her ear to the ground, even—no, especially when she was busy securing a match.
Verbena was furious at herself. She craved satisfaction. If she could not achieve it with a blade, she would have to use her wits.
“Where might I find Miss Witcombe?” she asked. “I must congratulate her on her success and inquire as to whom this poem refers. And if I am the subject, then I must correct her error.”
Belinda’s lips thinned into a neat line. “Do you feel that’s wise?”
“I have never felt wiser,” Verbena said.
Her teacup was in danger of exploding into shards, so tight was her grip on the dainty thing.
Yes, she would confront this woman and take her apart just as she had Lord Newham.
Everyone had their secrets, even poetesses.
Verbena would pluck her like a pheasant.
Belinda relented with a sigh. “I am only somewhat acquainted with her, so I cannot tell you to which address you might send a strongly worded note. But I do know she frequents the Calliope Club. Horace and I are members.”
“Both of you?” Verbena was taken aback. She knew many so-called secret clubs proliferated in London, catering to every sort of membership under the sun, yet those members were always constrained to one sex or the other, as far as she knew. “This club admits men and women?”
“One of the few that do. I’ve been a member for years,” Belinda said. “Being the daughter of a duke has its advantages, I suppose.”
Verbena leaned forward eagerly. “Where is this Calliope Club located?”
“In Curzon Street,” Belinda said, “though it may not be so simple as appearing at the doorstep and demanding entrance. It’s meant for writers and poets only. A lone woman with no standing in the arts would be turned away.”
“You can accompany me, surely,” Verbena said. “Tell the porter I’m also a poetess, and we’ll be inside in no time.” What was another lie when there were pheasants that needed to be laid bare?
“You forget: I cannot appear at the club for the next few months. Or at public gatherings of any kind.” Belinda placed her hand on the slight roundness of her belly. “Even in that informal crowd, I would not be welcome in this state.”
Verbena closed her eyes in frustration. God forbid a nobleman ever catch a glimpse of a lady with child!
Not for the first time, the absurdity of society’s rules made Verbena grind her teeth, but she set all that aside.
One might as well shake a fist at clouds for covering the sun for all the good it would do.
“Apologies, of course you’re right. Is there another way I might manage an invitation?” she asked.
Belinda thought for a moment, then motioned in the direction of a handsome writing desk in the corner of the room. “If you fetch some note paper and ink, I could write a letter of introduction. That might serve.”
Verbena shot up from her seat. “Brilliant!” Tea abandoned, she collected the necessary supplies, including a lovely lap desk, and brought everything to the divan for Belinda’s use.
Her friend crafted the letter with impeccable penmanship, leaving no doubt as to the quality of tutors she must have had as a child.
“There.” Belinda signed her mark with a flourish and set about blotting the ink.
“If anyone asks, you are an eager, unpublished poetess with a penchant for woodland verse. Everyone is fascinated with woodland verse these days, so you’ll fit right in.
” She folded the note and sealed it with her husband’s family crest.
Once the sealing wax was set, Verbena took the letter and secreted it into her reticule with all due care. “You truly don’t mind aiding me in this subterfuge?” Her friend’s reputation, while not as pressing as her own, should be spared a thought, she felt.
Yet Belinda only smiled. “When you have risked my father’s pistol shots to aid me in mine?
I owe you this favor.” She placed a hand over the swell of her stomach again.
“Gracious, more than one! I should probably name the child after you when it comes! Verbena Chesterfield, it’s got a ring to it, don’t you find? ”
“And if it’s a boy?”
“Verbenjamin,” Belinda said without pause, causing the two women to collapse into laughter.