16. Chapter 16
T he rain had been relentless for four solid days, keeping all of us hostages indoors. From the front of the castle, the view of the North Sea was magnificent as the stormy waves crashed against the cliffs. To the back, the moors looked dreary and lifeless, almost foreboding.
It had been more than a week and a half since the night of the village festival, and though Everett had not made a formal marriage proposal to Martha, everyone saw the romance blossoming between them.
I had kept the discovery to myself, warning them that if I learned of any other midnight rendezvous, I would not be so lenient.
The house party was full of secrets, which begged the question: What was happening that I wasn’t aware of? If I had not happened upon Everett and Martha, I would not know they had met in secret. Were the others using the passageways for private meetings?
“Does it do anything but rain here?” Sarah complained as she paced to the window in the Cedar drawing room to look outside one more time.
“Shall we play another game of euchre?” Ruth asked, her curls bouncing as she turned her head to gauge the interest in the room.
“Not again. We’ve already played three times today.” Sarah let out a forlorn sound. “I am so tired of games. I want to be outside, to see sunshine again. Anything other than this infernal rain.”
Since there was little work that could be done outside, Ames and his brothers were in the drawing room with us—all but Brant, who had complained of a sick headache and had gone to his room to rest. Ames was reading the London Times , while Davis and Alice played a game of chess and Mrs. Talmadge, Mrs. Danby, Mrs. Harrington, and Beth Townsend played a game of whist.
I sat at the writing desk, pretending to work on correspondence, but I was really outlining the last few chapters of my novel.
I was running out of time. Writing had always been a form of escape for me, something I did when I was bored or disillusioned with life or simply needed a distraction from my responsibilities.
But now, as a wife and hostess, it felt like a chore.
If I had not signed a contract and promised to deliver a manuscript to my editor by the first of August, I would have put the thing away and focused on my house party—and my husband.
If I couldn’t get the manuscript to my editor on time, the contract would be canceled, and I would not get another opportunity to write for them again.
I’d worked too long and too hard to lose everything now.
My gaze collided with Ames’s, as it often did on days like this, and my cheeks filled with heat from the look he gave me.
The love I felt for him continued to grow with each passing day and filled me with hope for the future.
There had been no recent activity in the caves, as far as we knew, and I prayed there would be no more trouble.
Yet—something told me we had not heard the last of the smugglers, and I suspected that Ames felt the same way.
We didn’t talk about it, but it was always there, a dark cloud on the horizon, threatening this life we’d started to carve out for ourselves.
I sat back in my chair, looking at what I had planned for the book, but it didn’t feel right. It was missing something, and I felt too exhausted to explore what it might be.
“You’re deep in thought,” Sarah said as she moved away from the window and approached me. “One would think the letter you’re writing is about a loved one who has died.”
“Sarah,” Mrs. Danby said in a scolding tone without looking up from her hand of cards.
Sarah frowned at her mother’s reprimand.
Everyone was getting on everyone else’s nerves. As hostess, it was my job to keep everyone’s spirits up.
I turned the page over and rose from the desk. “It’s nothing too serious. But perhaps you’re right. I have been too deep in thought. Shall we play charades?” I shifted my attention to Ruth, who was sitting on a sofa with Collins nearby. “Would the two of you like to join us?”
Collins’s arms were crossed, and he didn’t seem to notice what I had said. He was too busy watching Everett and Martha, who were on the other side of the room, working on a jigsaw puzzle, their heads bent together, whispering and smiling at each other from time to time.
“Collins?” I asked.
He jerked his head up and blinked several times. “Yes?”
“Would you like to play charades?”
“Why not?” He didn’t seem thrilled with the idea, but he stood to join us.
“Ruth?” I asked.
She had a handbag with her, and she reached into the inner pocket. “I think I’ll read instead.”
“Oh?” Sarah left my side to look at the book. “Is that something new? One of Alice’s books?”
“New to me.” Ruth grinned as she held up a copy of The Price of a Title , my second novel. It was published a year after my debut novel, Daughters of Fortune .
My heartrate escalated as Sarah took the book from Ruth. “Oh, I haven’t seen this one.”
I opened my mouth to protest—but protest what? If I acted strange, then they would question my behavior. But if I pretended I was unaffected, they would never guess my connection to the book.
Both of my stories were wildly popular among the lower classes but were not read by women in my social circle—at least not publicly. Instead, my books were shunned and labeled rubbish by women like Mrs. Danby and Mrs. Harrington, so I rarely had to come face-to-face with them.
“Did you read the first?” Ruth asked.
“What novel are you discussing?” Mrs. Talmadge asked from her spot at the whist table. “I do love a good work of literature.”
“Sarah!” Mrs. Danby lifted her face, her eyes round. “Wherever did you get that from?”
“It’s Ruth’s.”
“Ruth!” Mrs. Harrington put down her cards. “Where did you get it?”
“From you, Mother.”
Mrs. Harrington’s cheeks turned crimson and she couldn’t look Mrs. Danby or Mrs. Talmadge in the eyes. “I never saw that book before in my life.” She rose from the table. “Whyever did you bring it out in public?”
“This is not public,” Ruth said, frowning.
“What’s the fuss?” Martha asked as she and Everett pulled themselves away from the jigsaw puzzle and joined the conversation.
I took a step back, not even realizing what I was doing, to remove myself from any association with the book.
It wasn’t that I was embarrassed. I was quite proud of my work.
I just didn’t want them to know I had written it.
I’d taken great pains to remain anonymous for several years.
If they knew I was the author, I would never be invited into another drawing room in New York City again, and any prestige that my marriage brought to my sisters would vanish.
The books were too honest, too real in their assessment of Gilded Age conduct to be accepted by the upper crust.
“What kind of book is it?” Collins asked, his curiosity piqued. He waggled his eyebrows. “Is it a bawdy type of story?”
“Oh goodness, no!” Mrs. Harrington reached for the book in Sarah’s hand and put it behind her back. “It’s nothing so vulgar.”
“Then why shouldn’t we read it?” Martha asked. “Several of my friends have read it and said it was a marvelous book.”
“It’s degrading,” Mrs. Danby answered with conviction. “And full of lies and malicious gossip.”
I wanted to deny her claim, but I held my tongue.
“No, it’s not.” Ruth frowned. “Perhaps it’s a little harsh in its realities, but there are no lies within.”
“You’ve already read it?” Sarah asked, her smile lighting with curiosity.
Ruth grinned. “Yes. I’m about to start it for a second time.”
“Goodness gracious!” Mrs. Danby said with a cry as she turned accusatory eyes to Mrs. Harrington. “You allow this behavior from your daughter?”
“Lily.” Ruth shifted her attention to me. “You’re a duchess, a leader in society now. What do you think of this book?”
All eyes turned toward me, including Ames’s. He was frowning and had set aside his newspaper.
“I—” I swallowed as sweat gathered on my brow.
“I would not allow my wife to read something so common as a gossipy dime novel,” Ames said in a level, even tone, as if to save me from answering. “There is no place for something like that at Pickering Castle. Perhaps you should put it away until you’ve returned home, Miss Harrington.”
Ruth looked duly chastised as Mrs. Harrington quickly handed the book to her daughter. “Put it in your bag, Ruth. I do not want to see it again.”
Ruth did as she was told and Sarah asked, “Shall we start that game of charades?”
I felt sick to my stomach and grasped the back of a chair, worried my legs might give out. Ames gave me a reassuring half smile and I was certain he thought he’d rescued me from a disaster.
Yet—he’d done the opposite. He had no idea I was the author of that book—or that I was currently writing another one, this time shining a brighter light on the English aristocracy and their hand in the current problems in society. What would he say or do if he learned the truth?
My stomach turned and I was afraid I might lose my lunch. As quickly as I could, I went to the desk and grabbed my papers, while excusing myself from the room.
I needed some fresh air, and I was afraid if I stayed in the drawing room any longer, I might give something away.
It was one thing to have an entire social class upset about my books, even though they didn’t know my real identity, and another thing to have my husband’s disapproval.
I had felt justified in sharing my stories as I watched my mother and sisters struggle against the old guard in New York and saw the waste and prejudices of that class.
But it was another thing entirely to knowingly enter the English aristocracy and then expose its secrets as I basked in the benefits it offered.