Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Julia reached the door to Porter’s at the same time as Miss Theodosia Nelson, a West Indian heiress whose fashionable bonnet trimmed with yellow ribbon perfectly set off her brown skin and eyes. She wrote the magazine’s news columns, foreign and domestic, which provided young ladies with the latest information about politics and the war with France, topics that supposedly lay far outside their interest.
As if the state of the world, the risks being taken by fathers and brothers and lovers, concerned them not at all.
Theodosia reached for Julia’s hand to squeeze it in greeting, but stopped short when she discovered her clenched fist. “What’s that?” she asked, a curious tilt to her head. “In your hand?”
“Oh.” Julia uncurled her fingers to reveal the circle of ivory. “The ticket to Mrs. Hayes’s box. She sent me to fetch it.”
“And was that—?” Theo looked past Julia with narrowed eyes, prompting her to turn.
The curricle was already spinning away, twinkling like a gem in the sunshine. A gaudy gem, she tried to convince herself, but the sour words left behind a bitter tang. In truth, she’d never seen anything quite so splendid.
A pity it belonged to such an unpleasant, humorless man.
“Lord Dunstane is a friend of Mrs. Hayes,” she replied, at last dropping the ticket into her reticule—what a goose she had been, carrying it about in her hand, like something she couldn’t bear to part with.
Theodosia sent her a speculative glance but said nothing.
Inside the shop, Julia and Theo parted ways, as Lady Stalbridge had advised. A gaggle of young ladies descending all at once on the back room might have attracted undue attention, though from whom wasn’t entirely clear. As always, the bookshop was almost empty. The same clerk stood behind the counter, the one who had refused to help Julia out of her predicament a fortnight earlier, still shuffling through what she suspected might be the same set of receipts. Even he did not look up when the bell above the door jangled to announce their arrival.
Theo strode past a wall of bookshelves and gave a passing glance to a few volumes of sermons before disappearing. Julia stayed longer, looking at row upon row of history, a good deal of it in languages she couldn’t read, about wars long past and kings whose triumphs had dwindled into dusty myth.
Still, she was absorbed enough that when Lady Stalbridge spoke low in her ear, she started.
“Did I see you arrive in Lord Dunstane’s company?”
She was standing shoulder to shoulder with Julia in the narrow aisle between two rows of towering shelves, though Lady Stalbridge had positioned herself facing opposite, toward the mathematics section.
“I went to the theater to retrieve Mrs. Hayes’s ticket for tonight, and our paths happened to cross” was Julia’s murmured explanation.
“Your paths seem to cross quite often, Miss Addison.”
Julia couldn’t decide whether the countess sounded disapproving or intrigued.
“He offered to convey me where I was going. I thought it would be rude to refuse.”
“And I’m sure the prospect of a ride in a curricle, cozied up to a dashing gentleman, had no bearing on your decision.”
Cozy? Dashing?Julia twisted her head to face Lady Stalbridge, though she knew she was meant to keep looking at the books. “I assure you, ma’am, I—”
Lady Stalbridge’s lips were pressed together, poorly disguising a smile. “Say nothing more, my dear. But if your paths should cross again, may I suggest directing his steps somewhere other than Porter’s? Else he might begin to suspect you’re up to something here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Julia snatched back her fingers, which had been resting momentarily on the edge of a shelf, near a volume with the name HUME embossed on its spine in faded gold.
With that, Lady Stalbridge glided away.
Julia was the last to arrive at the meeting table, though Lady Stalbridge was still settling herself and drawing a stack of papers from her leather satchel when Julia slid into the seat next to Theo. Because the room was used for storage, sorting, and sometimes repair of damaged volumes, it was in a shifting state of disorder, with stacks of old books scattered about, last time on the little desk tucked into the corner, today on the floor surrounding the oval worktable.
The magazine’s artist, Constantia Cooper, was also already there. Then again, she seemed almost to be a permanent fixture in the room, a handful of half-completed sketches perpetually spread before her and a pencil tucked into her rather frizzy red-blond coiffure.
Equally unsurprising was Miss Busy B.’s absence. Since Lord Deveraux had married Daphne Burke, the former rake had settled quite nicely into life as a country gentleman and had very little difficulty persuading his wife to stay by his side.
Lady Clarissa Sutliffe, whose golden ringlets gleamed even in the meager light that passed through the room’s single, grimy window, was the unexpected addition to the meeting. The talented young pianist who wrote the Domestic Arts and Accomplishments column under the name “Miss R.”—“my mama has always called me ’Rissa,” she had explained when she chose it—would be presented to the queen in the course of the coming Season and would surely take the ton by storm. But she must have had some difficulty in coaxing either her mother or her father or both to leave their seaside estate in Hampshire to come up to Town in autumn.
Together with Julia, they made up the Magazine for Misses’ regular columnists, under the editorial guidance of Lady Stalbridge. In each issue, their work was supplemented by excerpts from important works of the day, poems and entertaining short stories, occasional essays on a variety of interesting subjects, and usually a letter from their figurehead, the famed author of Mrs. Goode’s Guide to Homekeeping—who was really Lady Stalbridge’s stepson, Lord Manwaring.
Lady Stalbridge cleared her throat to call the meeting to order. “I begin with good news, ladies,” she said, lifting the uppermost sheets from the stack before her. “This is an essay by the esteemed botanist, the Duchess of Raynham, which she has agreed to let us publish in our next issue. It will, I believe, not only inform our readers but also provide them with a sensible answer for those who still insist that botany is too scandalous a subject for young ladies.”
Julia wondered whether Daphne had had a hand in procuring it, since the duchess was a former Miss Burke and Daphne’s elder sister. But, of course, Lady Stalbridge was also well-connected and had ways of getting what she wanted for the magazine, all while managing never to reveal her own connection to it.
“That should do very nicely,” Constantia chimed in.
“Will it be too much trouble for you to come up with a picture for it, Miss Cooper?” Lady Stalbridge asked, extending the sheet of paper to her. “Something to set it off.”
Constantia flushed with pride, right to the roots of her hair, where the two shades of red met and clashed. “Not at all.”
“And sadly, Bonaparte’s rapaciousness means you never lack subjects to cover, Miss Nelson.” She handed the next several pages in her stack to Theodosia. “I’ve had a look at your plans for your next column, and I believe your approach is sound, as always. The young ladies in this country may be better informed about political and economic matters than their brothers, at this rate.”
Theo’s pleasure in Lady Stalbridge’s praise was evident, though she only dipped her head in acknowledgment.
Lady Stalbridge turned to the next in line. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here today, Lady Clarissa, though, of course, I am always pleased when you can join us.”
“Mama persuaded Papa that she and I must return to Town a few weeks early, on account of all the visits to the dressmakers and such. But I intend to make the most of it. We have tickets to Covent Garden tonight,” she added with a shy smile at Julia.
“How delightful! Yes, you must do all you can to enjoy yourself.” Lady Stalbridge’s first marriage had been the sort of miserable society match that Clarissa, the daughter of a marquess, might well be expected to make—though one hoped that Lord and Lady Estley, rumored to be very much in love with one another, would look for more than a title and a fortune for their own child. “There’s nothing more for the next issue that you need concern yourself with. I already received the sheet music you sent to be included.” Lady Stalbridge tapped the page now uppermost, and even at a distance, Julia could see musical notes scattered gaily across the paper. “If I’m not mistaken, this must be something of your own.” Clarissa’s demure nod hardly moved a ringlet out of place. “Does your mama suspect you’ve turned your hand to composing?”
“If she does, she’s said nothing, for which I’m grateful, because Papa would insist on my playing it for him.”
“He would be displeased by the discovery?” Lady Stalbridge’s question was sharp. He might be a doting father in every other respect, but everyone knew that Lord Estley had not yet warmed to his daughter’s great ambition to be a concert pianist. Public performances, especially for money, were considered improper for young ladies of her rank.
“Oh, no. He would praise it far beyond its deserts,” Clarissa explained. She paused for a private laugh. “And then, if he ever chanced to hear the same tune coming from some other young lady’s instrument—someone who reads the magazine, I mean—I’m certain he’d make a fuss and try to say they’d stolen it from me.”
Lady Stalbridge’s features softened into a gentle smile, and she patted the girl’s hand, a more maternal gesture than she was usually wont to give any of them. Then again, Lady Clarissa was the youngest member of the magazine staff, not quite seventeen years of age.
For the next few moments, silence hung over the meeting table, marked only by the quiet sounds of Lady Stalbridge leafing through the next set of pages and the scratch of two pencils: Theo making notes on Lady Stalbridge’s editorial suggestions, and Constantia already working on a sketch to accompany the duchess’s botanical essay.
Lady Clarissa’s dainty fingertips danced silently across the edge of the table in front of her, as if she were seated at a pianoforte. Julia watched the movement absently, waiting for Lady Stalbridge to turn her attention to the latest from Miss on Scene.
She had reviewed The Iron Chest once already in the magazine, and though each performance was something new and she looked forward to attending tonight, she couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for devoting another column to a play everyone had seen. Nothing new to interest those with . . . discriminating tastes.
Good heavens, had she really spoken so saucily to Lord Dunstane?
Evidently, possession of the ticket to his box had made her bold—or relieved her of her good sense.
But it had seemed, just for a moment, as if her daring would be rewarded with an elusive smile. She would swear she had glimpsed a hint of one playing about his lips.
Not that she had been staring at his mouth, of course.
Though it was as sharply sculpted as the rest of his features, and so firm she was beginning to doubt there was any hidden softness within. Perhaps he was simply hard everywhere.
Warmth rose to her cheeks. A ready blush was a curse she shared with her brother, though she had always considered that he, with his slightly darker coloring and brighter eyes, wore the color better.
This was more than a blush, though. This was heat in unexpected places and a quickened pulse and—
“Miss Addison?” Lady Stalbridge’s piercing look had no difficulty traversing the length of the scarred oak table and pinning Julia squarely in her straight-backed chair. “Are you feeling quite well?”
“Perfectly, ma’am.”
Painful though it might be, she would remember Lord Scottish’s caustic comment about her taste in reading, his gravel-voiced dismissal, the speed with which his curricle had spun away. Those were sufficient cures for whatever ailed her.
At her reply, Lady Stalbridge looked skeptical, as well she might. But Julia could sense something more than skepticism in her expression. Was she disappointed? Displeased?
She had begun the meeting with good news. Did she have bad news to report, as well? To Julia in particular?
Constantia paused in her sketching and lifted her head to glance between them. Whatever it was, she sensed it too.
“I—I apologize if my latest column is not up to my usual standards,” Julia stammered. “There’s been no new play at Covent Garden since my last, so my only option was to review the opera I attended with Mrs. Hayes at the Haymarket a few nights ago.” There had been nothing severe about her assessment this time, because her thoughts had been elsewhere during the performance, such that she could hardly distinguish one part from the next.
“I am aware that the theater’s bill does not always coincide neatly with the magazine’s publication schedule.” With the tip of her index finger, Lady Stalbridge separated a half-dozen sheets from the top of her stack and laid them aside, face-down. “The problem is not with your next column, Miss Addison.”
The stress she placed on the word next made it a clear she intended to imply a contrast with last.
“Is it—were readers unhappy with my review of Othello?”
Lady Stalbridge fixed her with another assessing look, and the others fell perfectly silent. Clarissa’s hands slid from the edge of the table and into her lap.
“Our regular readers? No, I don’t believe so.” Three more sheets joined the smaller stack. “However, Mrs. Goode has had the honor of receiving correspondence from two noted scholars of Shakespeare’s tragedies, the manager of the recent production, and someone purporting to be a close personal friend of Mrs. Siddons.”
Silence reigned once more, broken after an interminable moment by Theo’s wry laugh. “I hope they wrote to praise Miss Addison’s honesty. She had the right of it.” A shudder passed through her. “Oh, I despise that play.”
At that, Lady Stalbridge’s lips twitched in a sort of bemused smile.
Julia’s breath eased from her. “But if you weren’t intending to speak to me about my last review, ma’am, or my next, then—?” Clearly, the countess had something on her mind.
“Much as I agree with Miss Nelson, I am concerned about the convergence of the Othello review and another matter of which I have recently been apprised.” And then, she pushed away from the table, rose to her feet, and began to pace. Though her steps were measured, as always, it was nonetheless a hint of agitation none of them had ever seen her exhibit. “This morning, I had the pleasure of breakfasting with my stepson, who is always full of . . . interesting information.”
Gossip, Julia translated in her thoughts. Innuendo. Rumor. And the subject might be anything, for Lord Manwaring sometimes moved in less-than-refined circles.
“By chance, have you heard about that new poet, Lord Byron? Most particularly, his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers?”
Baffled, Julia shook her head.
“Well, it was meant to be anonymous, though of course everyone now knows.” Constantia had returned to her sketch and did not look up as she spoke. “He took issue with what the Edinburgh Review had to say about his first book of poems. So, he wrote a . . . well, I suppose you could call it a scathing review of reviewers, in verse. And savaged a number of his fellow poets, too, for good measure.”
“Oh,” Julia said. Another bad-tempered nobleman. But she was no less baffled as to what this Lord Byron character had to do with her. She didn’t review poetry, after all. Or aspire to write it.
But Lady Stalbridge said, “Precisely,” as if Constantia’s explanation had clarified everything. “Ransom Blackadder’s new play, The Poison Pen, has begun rehearsal, and the few who know anything about it have taken to calling it . . .” Speaking the epithet seemed to require an unusual degree of fortitude. She paused to draw breath and moistened her lips, but did not break her nervous stride, though the room only permitted a few steps in any direction. “An English Reviewess and the Scots Bard.”
“I don’t—” Julia began, then broke off. I don’t understand, she had started to say. But she was beginning to. What had Constantia said of the poem? A “scathing review of reviewers”? “Am I meant to be the English ‘reviewess’?” she asked, incredulous.
“So it would seem,” Lady Stalbridge answered with a sigh. “Evidently, Mr. Blackadder has decided to use his next play to respond to Miss on Scene’s review of his last.”
Julia thought back to what she had written, to that night last spring when she had sat in the crowded theater and listened to those around her who could not seem to make up their minds to be affronted or amused. She had been neither. She could not fathom why Mr. Blackadder wished so clearly to waste his talent to no good end. And she had said as much in her review.
But Miss Cooper was right. Other reviewers had been far more scathing, even going so far as to call for his plays to be banned.
“Perhaps,” offered Theo, “it’s less a matter of what she said than where.”
“What do you mean?” asked Clarissa.
“It’s quite one thing to be excoriated by a highly regarded reviewer,” explained Miss Nelson. “But I, for one, have no difficulty imagining that Ransom Blackadder would regard criticism launched by a young lady, in a magazine for young ladies, rather differently.”
“You may well have the right of it,” said Lady Stalbridge. “According to Oliver”—her stepson—“other reviewers come in for their share of criticism, but the lion’s share seems to belong to a woman meant to suggest Miss on Scene and the ladies’ magazine for which she writes.” Here she turned toward Julia. “I fear that the play, combined with the furor over your review of Othello, may renew interest in discovering your identity.” Her gaze then traveled around the table. “All our identities.”
Clarissa’s eyes were wide; she looked more girlish than ever. “That would put an end to the Magazine for Misses.”
“No.”
Inside, Julia was trembling. But she spoke with conviction enough that Lady Stalbridge stopped pacing.
“What will you do?” Constantia’s pencil was poised, as if she were prepared to take down whatever answer Julia gave.
The trouble was, Julia had no answer.
Theo flicked the corner of her notes with her fingernail, refusing to look at Julia as she asked in an unusually quiet voice, “What about Lord Dunstane?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he is known to have influence in the theater.”
“Over Ransom Blackadder, in particular,” Lady Stalbridge added.
“And you are obviously acquainted,” Theo pointed out, a knowing lift to her brow.
“Only slightly,” Julia protested. “I could hardly presume . . .”
But hadn’t her presumptuousness got her into this mess?
As she looked around at the faces of her fellow staff members—her friends—and watched their fear give way to cautious hope, she knew she had no choice.
Without revealing her secret identity, she was going to have to find a way to persuade surly Lord Scottish to intervene on Miss on Scene’s behalf with Ransom Blackadder.