Chapter 7
Flora let herself into her rented rooms and took in the state of them.
A man’s hat sat on a small table in the vestibule, a walking stick in the corner.
Through the open bedroom door, one could see a small vanity situated under the window, where the last of the day’s sunlight poured through the lace curtains.
Pots of creams and rouge were scattered on the vanity’s surface, the cosmetics mixed in with hair tonics and shaving soap.
A fine shawl was draped over the brass bedstead, its tasseled points caressing the faded rug on the floor below.
Next to it were a pair of highly polished Hessian boots.
Though fastidious in her dress and person, Flora had always tended to neglect her surroundings.
At least it’s mine, Flora thought with a sigh. Untidiness aside, Flora did love her little rooms. At fifty-five guineas a year, they were not the cheapest furnished rooms in London, but they boasted an extremely incurious landlady. Verbena had been correct to remind her of their rarity.
Flora went to the vanity, unpinning her bonnet and hairpieces as she did so.
The curls—cleverly arranged on combs—were set aside in a toast rack she kept close at hand to maintain their shape.
She sat at the vanity and took up a pot of cold cream.
After being buffeted by a whirlwind like Verbena Montrose, it was only prudent to have a quiet night in, and so there was no reason for Flora to maintain her face.
Some nights, alone in these rooms, Flora remained Flora.
She possessed several nightgowns of good quality and a long dressing gown embroidered with delicate vines that she might wear while sipping something in front of the fire.
Today, however, she longed for the comfort of retiring completely, and so one face was removed in favor of another.
William emerged from the soft towel he’d used to wipe the remnants of cream from his skin, gazing out the lace-curtained window as he did so.
His rooms faced the brick wall of the adjoining building, affording him the privacy he required.
He completed his toilette, ran his hands through his cropped cherubim curls, and rose to change out of his gown.
He slipped into his unadorned nightshirt and silk banyan, then poured himself a glass of brandy.
His lap desk was exactly where he’d left it earlier in the day, leaning haphazardly against an armchair.
The timepiece on the mantel chimed, then continued its soft click-click, counting out the moments in the quiet room.
William retrieved the papers inside the lap desk’s drawer with a sigh, ensconcing himself in his armchair to read over that morning’s work.
It wasn’t much. The Woman in the Window, said his flowing script, beneath which was scrawled, again in his cramped, left-handed style, by William Forsyth.
It was always a relief to have a title before he began writing the damn thing, even if said title left much to be desired.
The women in these sorts of novels were constantly appearing in windows, or in swiftly passing carriages, or in deep shadows on the moors.
He sipped his drink and read the few sentences he’d managed to complete, knowing that, however polished he might make them, very few eyes would ever pass over their final form.
Unlike Flora, the lauded poetess, William struggled to find his readers.
His career had heretofore been relegated to tawdry mysteries and gothic stories of middling success.
In a fit of pique, William had tried his hand at poetry.
Yet when he’d put the nib of his pen to the page, the most curious thing had happened: the words that poured out of him were not his, not entirely.
They belonged, he sensed, to someone else, or rather some part of himself that was not himself.
He found it difficult to explain, and so allowed the verses to speak as closely to that secret flowering as best he could.
Those early poems, rife with longing and romantic imagery, described the soul of a woman who wanted desperately to live, with all the tumult and strife that life offered.
Privately—for there could be no other way—William concluded that this soul resided inside him alongside his own, sometimes quite apart, more often so entwined that he could not fathom where he ended and Flora began.
For Flora was unmistakably a living, breathing person, not a mere pseudonymous creation.
It hadn’t even occurred to William, all those months ago, to attribute the poetry to anyone but her; she was the one who had written the lines, and so her name—which had come to William as easily as knowing how to breathe—had been the one typed on the frontispiece.
It was quite the shock when that first chapbook published under her name sold better than all of William’s previous works combined.
He would never complain, though. Being the sixth son of a minor noble family, William was entitled to only twenty pounds a year, and was required to make his own way in the world.
Flora’s success meant they could both live a comfortable, if not extravagant, life in their private rooms in Maiden Lane above the paintbrush factory.
About a month after the first chapbook had sold through three reprintings, it became clear that Flora would not be content to live only on the page.
William had gone about the thing with care, though he quickly discovered that people tended not to ask too many questions when there was coin to be made.
He’d purchased the necessary clothing and feminine items as “gifts” for fictional sisters and beloveds, paying for an entire wardrobe with the money Flora had rightly earned for herself.
He’d located a maid working in his eldest brother’s house whose hair was the same chestnut shade as his own and held just the right amount of curl, and he’d induced her to part with several inches for a handsome payment.
If the maid wondered at his reason for collecting her hair, she did not give voice to any questions.
William was certain the poor girl thought him some kind of morbid collector. Better than the truth, he supposed.
While it was not precisely clear what would happen if William and Flora were discovered to be one and the same, it couldn’t be good.
William had seen men put in the stocks for the supposed crime of wearing gowns at masquerade balls; his double life, if exposed, would no doubt earn him worse than that from the constabulary.
And in the court of public opinion (which, in London, was the one that truly mattered) he would be branded a devil in human shape, regardless of official judgment.
He shook his head and retrieved the lap desk. It would do him no good ruminating on such dire possibilities. His current ghost story needed attention, and he endeavored to give it some.
He scratched at the page, crossing out more lines than he kept.
Inkblots bloomed on the paper where he paused too long, wracking his brain for the correct words.
Writing with his left hand meant curving his wrist into an awkward angle and taking care that the sleeve of his banyan was kept well away from the wet ink.
It caused terrible cramping in William’s arm, but he’d adopted the style when it became clear that Flora needed a hand of her own distinct from his.
It was fitting for her to keep a precise, elegant script, so like the gentleman he was, William had ceded the use of his right hand to her.
Now, however, he regretted it terribly, as pain radiated from his wrist all the way to his elbow.
After a fruitless quarter of an hour of jagged scrawling, William scrapped the page entirely and tossed it in the general direction of the ashen fireplace. He was doing nothing but wasting ink at this rate.
He stared up at the flaking ceiling, flexing his left hand open and shut to dispel the ache, and wondered whether Miss Verbena Montrose ever experienced days like this, when the world seemed to hold all the proper words just out of reach.
No, her poetry was likely as striking as she was.
She probably wrote beautifully, never at a loss, as she was in conversation.
A woman like that could only ever say exactly what she wished to say. William closed his eyes with a sigh.
Flora opened hers. The urge to communicate her deepest desires was overwhelming. Verbena was not the only woman capable of such things. She took up the pen and dipped it into the lap desk’s recessed inkwell, then began to write in her tidy, flowing hand.
Dearest Verbena—
It is not an hour since we last spoke on our stroll, yet I am compelled to write to you now.
Our earlier conversation feels like a dream that haunts my thoughts, if a haunting can be a gentle comfort.
Thank you for your candor, and for accepting mine in turn, such as it was.
In that selfsame spirit, I must tell you of my most ardent desire to see our friendship blossom.
If my boldness shocks you, that is only fair; I am shocking myself, to be sure.
Do you understand me now as you seemed to understand me so readily today?
Perhaps I am alone in this, but I do not think I am.
For the first time in my relatively short life, I think I have found a kindred spirit. Truthfully, I want—
Flora halted, the nib of her pen striking across the fine paper as if refusing to be party to such folly.
What was she doing, committing these sentiments to the page?
It was too scandalous to be borne. While her heart told her that Verbena could perhaps be trusted with her secret, what of everyone else?
That horrible mother of hers was certainly capable of peeping at Verbena’s correspondence.
Then there were all the maids and the delivery boy, the dozens of people who would touch the letter as it passed between them—if anyone read those words and caught their meaning, it would spell disaster.
Even the most independent poetess in London couldn’t survive the assault on her reputation should anyone discover her attempts to woo a lady of excellent standing.
How stupid to think for even a moment that such a thing was possible.
The shame of it all was enough to cause Flora to recede and William to return to the forefront.
He tore the page from the desk and knelt by the grate, lighting a fire to burn the accursed thing.
His other half possessed great talent, but not always great sense.
They were lucky to have each other for balance.
William sat back on his haunches on the worn Turkish rug in front of the fireplace, watching the flames engulf the ill-conceived missive. The paper blackened and curled until nothing but ash remained, yet still William kept an eye out for any remaining scrap that might have escaped.
And anyway, Verbena Montrose was as good as engaged to that gentleman tailor, Charbonneau.
William had never met the man, but even so it was obvious to anyone with an ear for rumors and half a brain that he was a lover of men.
The inevitable marriage was clearly a farce, but weren’t they all, to some extent?
William rarely encountered a married pair who tolerated each other’s presence, let alone delighted in it.
His own parents, god rest their souls, had only ever achieved a vague politeness toward each other before succumbing to consumption, which William supposed was the best most English households could hope for.
Cynic, Flora whispered in the back of his mind.
“Romantic,” he murmured back, but he knew the accusation did not sting her. If anything, he felt her pride at the appellation, a warm preening deep in their shared chest. He rested his forehead on his kneecaps with a groan.
The line between himself and his feminine half was so blurred as to be utterly useless.
If he was cynical, so, in some ways, was she.
If she was doomed to romantic leanings, so, in turn, was he.
They were the same person, after all. The only difference was that William’s sex allowed him to conduct personal affairs with ease—or any other sort of affairs, should he so desire.
Which, given his unique situation, he did not.
Though he was at an age when most young men of means, paltry though they may be, were encouraged to sow their oats, William’s oats were distinctly unstrewn.
He had never taken anyone to bed, or, as Flora, been taken.
He had never met anyone compelling enough to put the thought in his mind. Until Verbena.
Oh, Verbena! If only he could press his suit with her, things might be different.
William lifted his head, staring sightlessly into the crackling grate.
There was an idea.
Could he not, as William Forsyth, court the lady properly?
There was no barrier to it, save her supposed attachment to the Frenchman, but that was easily dealt with.
Surely she only meant to marry him for the sake of convenience.
William was not a rich man, but he was far from destitute.
With the sums Flora earned from her poetry, he might even be able to procure a suitable house in a respectable neighborhood at some future date.
He was just as fine a marriage prospect as étienne Charbonneau—better, if one cared to add William’s family line to the equation.
Yes. Yes, why not? Why shouldn’t he win Verbena’s hand?
“I could,” he whispered to himself. The flames in the grate gave a loud pop.
William sat up stick straight. “I can. I shall! But first—” This last was said in Flora’s soft voice, slightly higher but no less warm.
She turned and reached for the abandoned lap desk, fixing a fresh sheet of paper upon its slant.
“Let us tell London, in our own enigmatic fashion, that Lord Byron has returned from abroad.”
After all, she had made Verbena a promise.