by Diana Brown
"That is exactly what I wished the reader to consider, but you are the first to speak of it. Others speak only of the story, but you . . ."
"Hello, coz, I might have known you would have ensnared the charming guest of honour. But you cannot keep her to yourself. I insist that you present me."
Before I turned I knew that another precious moment had been snatched from me by the one who had so robbed me one evening at Drury Lane.
"Alexandra!" Geoffrey gasped as I turned. "But you were pointed out to me as Arabella Marlowe, the lady whose name is on everybody's lips."
Darius made a stiff bow. "I shall leave you to your explanations, Miss Marlowe."
As he withdrew, I wondered, quite unkindly, whether some unseen hand guided Geoffrey to prevent any possible intimacy between myself and his cousin. It was an unfair thought, for as I drew him aside to explain my new identity and the reasons therefor, he was so completely understanding, so thrilled at being part of my secret, promising not to divulge a word, swearing to it, crossing his heart and hoping to die, just as Paul was wont to do, that I felt a great rising of affection for him.
This affection, however, did not extend to the friend who accompanied him, Sir Clarence Wilmott, just arrived in London from his estate in Hampshire: a tall, sparse man, older than Geoffrey, with lazy, heavy-lidded eyes that, despite their outward lassitude, followed women, pretty women, in a predatory fashion. The way in which his glance raked me as he was introduced made me feel that he saw right through my elegant brocade, that I was quite bare.
Geoffrey caught me as I glanced beyond to where Darius stood with the hostess and Lady Brentwood.
"He won't be back."
"Who won't be back?" I parried.
"You're looking for Darius and you know it, Alex; don't try subterfuge with me. He won't come back while I'm around."
"I'm sure you're mistaken. He wouldn't come back anyway."
He shrugged. "Perhaps."
It was a waltz, and Sir Clarence asked me to join him, but once on the floor I regretted my acceptance. He held me far too close, and his speech was laced with innuendoes that no amount of innocence could pretend were innocuous. I disliked him intensely, and it surprised me that he should be a friend of Geoffrey's. I couldn't help but mention it.
Geoffrey laughed. "Don't pay any mind to Wilmott. He takes himself for a ladies' man, that's all, and nothing will convince him to the contrary. Actually he's a very considerate fellow—to me, anyway—doesn't mind ponying up for a fellow when things are tight, something no one else will do. But I grant you he doesn't show to advantage in mixed company."
"Well, if he's a good friend of yours, I shall have to bear with him, though I wish he would behave in a more civilized fashion."
Thereafter I was polite but I refused all efforts on Wil-mott's part to persuade me to dance with him again. Geoffrey, however, I delighted in. He was a link with my old life, but with those parts of it I had most enjoyed—with Lady Bladen, with Crumpet, with Charteris . . . with Darius.
The next day I drove with Geoffrey in the park. He talked of his last visit to Charteris, of his sorrow at the death of his aunt.
"I didn't come to the funeral. Darius wouldn't have wanted it."
"Surely not."
"I know him; he would not. I wanted to, though, for she was more like a mother to me in many ways than my own, who, I'm sorry to say, is Wentworth through and through, like her brother, or Darius himself, for that matter. She's tight-fisted, doesn't realize that a fellow needs money to live. She makes all kinds of conditions. I'm sick of hearing her say I should follow the example of my dear coz—she thinks he's a paragon of virtue, while I think it a pity he didn't inherit more from his mother than her looks."
I demurred, yet though I could find in Geoffrey's complaint a reason, misconstrued though it might be, for his dislike of Darius, yet it did nothing to explain why Darius reciprocated that dislike so heartily.
"You at least have the sense not to fall in love with him, as so many silly young things do—or have you?"
His quizzical look forced a quick denial from me. "Perhaps there was a time when I had the sort of crush you're talking about, but that was ages ago. Like you, I'm fancy free."
"We're alike in many ways. Who knows what the future may hold."
If I managed to hide from Geoffrey my feelings for his cousin, I could not hide from him my dislike of his friend, whom I found so completely insensitive that, although I ignored him in an attempt to avoid his cloying attentions, he seemed to enjoy rather than be rebuffed by my attitude. I requested Geoffrey never to bring him when he called at Hans Place, to which he agreed, though not without demur; he plainly wished to accommodate his friend's wishes, in repayment, I suppose, for Wilmott's generosity.
In my flurry of activities my morning walks with Tim were not forgotten. In fact, I found my conversations with him vastly superior to many I listened to in Mayfair. He had a common sense combined with a quick intuitiveness truly rare in one so young. I thought it sinful that he could neither read nor write.
"Cor! Wot would I want that fer," he blustered when I insisted I should teach him.
"It could be very useful to you, and it certainly couldn't harm you. You would understand a great deal more of what is going on around you. You could read the banners on the newspapers, for instance."
"All that's nuffin to do wiv me."
"And if you could read it would make it much more difficult for others to take advantage of you. As it is now, you have to take another's word for what is written. If you could read you would know for yourself."
"P'raps. I dunno though. 'Spect it's boring."
Yet I knew he was wavering. The next time I met him I had with me a book I had requested Mr. Hillaby to get for me, a book from which I had first learned to read: Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. It was not an easy book, but Tim became so involved in the tale, as I thought he would, and since I refused to read it to him, he was forced to make it out for himself. More than anything I enjoyed watching him as he puzzled over a word, sounding out the syllables until suddenly it fell into place, and with recognition, relief and jubilance he formed the word.
"P'raps there is something in this reading stuff after all," he agreed finally.
XXIII
I had returned to Hans Place one morning, filled with delight at Tim's progress, to be met by voices raised in anger. They came from Mr. Hillaby's study, and stopping for an instant, I heard my name and recognized immediately the voice of Mr. Hillaby's visitor. Without pausing to knock, I entered.
"I trust I do not intrude, but since I appear to be the subject of your discussion, it seems only just that I should be allowed to join you."
Darius rose at my entrance and bowed stiffly. He held in his hand a slim volume that seemed to be the matter of contention between them.
Mr. Hillaby's face was flushed; his upper lip glistened with perspiration, making it appear to me that the argument between them had been of some magnitude.
"Miss Marlowe, I am glad that you are here, though I had hoped this matter to be resolved before your return. Lord Bladen has taken exception to the publication of your latest work, which I have readied for distribution to the booksellers."
I looked from one to the other in puzzlement, and Mr. Hillaby came to my rescue, reminding me, "Your new book—the miscellany of short pieces—you must have seen the copy I had sent to you along with the volume of Robinson Crusoe that you asked for."
I remembered there had been another volume in the packet. I had taken it for another reader and had not looked at it. I wondered, since it was my book, that Mr. Hillaby had not commented on it or asked my reaction, but I had left the matter in his hands. I trusted his judgement.
"Yes, to be sure. And does Lord Bladen consider it unworthy?"
"It is not a question of being unworthy, Miss Marlowe; I believe you are quite aware of that. I find much of it superior, even exciting. I wish it were not so, for it
s quality will ensure that it be read, yet from all I know of the world, it will not be for its quality that it will be remembered but for its content."
My heart quickened. "Its content?" I glanced quickly at Mr. Hillaby. Surely, surely he had selected with care. He had assured me that I could trust his judgment. He flushed slightly under my scrutiny, which did not reassure me. "You find its content distasteful?"
"No, not distasteful. It is simply that there are—" he broke off and ran his hand through his hair, "Al . . . Miss Marlowe, I am of the opinion it would be better—for you—if some of the poetry had not been included."
So it was the poetry he spoke of. My suspicions of what I might find there increased, yet outwardly I remained calm. "Because the content does not please you."
"Because the content—of some—is too . . . too personal."
He confirmed my worst suspicions. But surely Mr. Hillaby could not have included the love poems, at least not those I wrote in Salisbury. My cheeks grew hot at the thought, but I refused to let Darius know my concern.
"I know you have no great opinion of women writing poetry. You have mentioned something of that before."
"It is not a question of my having no great opinion of it. That is not the matter of dispute. It is the question of how its publication will affect you; that is what concerns me."
"While I know that a woman, like a child, is expected to be seen and not heard, my other publications have caused me no regret."
"But your other publications have not covered such material."
"I suppose other gentlemen may feel as you, out of sorts with the romantic content, but after all, most of the poems were written when I was much younger and subject to—to girlish infatuation I have outgrown. They are to be forgiven rather than denigrated."
He thrust before me the book he had been holding, opened midway. "And this, madam, does this concern a girlish infatuation, as you put it?"
My heart sank as I recognized the first words.
My breast 'gainst yours, we breathe, our arms entwined
The breath of love, of life dearer by far
After love has revealed what youth divined
Love's glory and love's force spectacular.
It was indeed the sonnet written in Salisbury to recall that night of love. I had never thought it would reach any eyes but mine, though at one time I had wanted Darius to read it, but not now and certainly not under these circumstances. Yet—yet now he had read it he must know that what he had spoken to me of in St. Mary's churchyard was, in fact, no dream but a reality. He must know what had happened between us on the day Crumpet died.
I waited for him to speak, my eyes fixed on the page, not reading, for I knew every word by heart. But when at last it came, his voice was colder, harsher than before.
"And who was this lover of yours? Ramsey? Or that gangly youth with the stutter? Or one of these fancy swains who's been dogging your footsteps in London?"
"But you must know," I said in bewilderment.
"Don't tell me it was Poindexter!" He visibly pulled himself up after this last burst of anger. "You must excuse me, Miss Marlowe, it is not my business, as I can see you are about to point out to me, nor is it my concern. Nevertheless, for your sake, for the sake of our long and close connexion, I must intercede in the publication of this book. It cannot, indeed it must not be openly sold."
His imperious tone, his assumption that he had any obligation, any right to make my decisions, more than anything stiffened my resolve. I snapped the volume shut and threw it down on the mahogany expanse of Mr. Hillaby's desk.
"You have absolutely no right to interfere in my life. This is my work. Mr. Hillaby is my publisher. If he considers it of sufficient merit to warrant publication, then I have no objection to it."
"Of course it is of sufficient merit," Darius retorted. "Mr. Hillaby is well aware of its merit, but he is even more aware of its value on the marketplace. I have already offered to make good his loss, to buy all the copies he has so far printed—to no avail, and why? Because he knows it will sell; it will sell in great numbers. But as much as you and as much as he gains by it, the cost will be to you and to you alone. And that cost will be enormous. It is you who will suffer by its publication, not Hillaby. I have told you before: I know London. Those who now adore you will vilify you if this book appears. Even if your name were not emblazoned on the title page—that might be preferable, though with your close association to Hillaby it would probably be placed at your doorstep. You might, however, then deny it."
"I have no intention of denying it. The book is mine and mine alone. If Mr. Hillaby chooses to publish it, I shall do nothing to stop it," I replied heatedly.
Mr. Hillaby was clearly upset by Darius's remarks.
"My dear, I wish only your good. If it is as Lord Bladen fears, that publication of this book will in any way make you an object of notoriety, then I shall certainly withdraw it and destroy the plates. I would never wish you harm. I must say, though, that I selected the material with care. I included the love poetry because I considered that its place was there. Some of it is perhaps less veiled—a shade too intimate, perhaps—but I cannot believe that it warrants Lord Bladen's violent objection. If, however, you are in any way of the same mind, I shall certainly not distribute it."
"You have my permission. By all means distribute the book as you had planned, Mr. Hillaby. Lord Bladen has commented in the past that it was a great shame that no woman had written of the experience of love. I have tried to correct that omission. If he finds it not to his liking, so be it. Evidently he is of the opinion that it is only men who may express themselves adequately on the subject; women must submissively read and admire their words."
"You avoid the issue," Darius interjected in exasperation. "If you insist on this book being published, you are asking to have every roué and rake in London at your heels. I know these men; I was educated with them, I have played with them, I know how their minds work. I know this . . ." He took the volume from Mr. Hillaby's desk and it fell open at the offending sonnet so readily that I felt it must have been opened there innumerable times before. "This will not be read by them as a work of literary merit, I can assure you of that, for they have little interest in such matters. It will, however, be taken by them as an indication that you are a woman of experience, experienced in the arts of love, and by publication of that fact you make yourself open to their advances. They know that you are without the protection of any man of rank. You will be completely vulnerable."
"But Miss Marlowe is under the care of myself and my wife, my lord. We would allow no harm to come to her."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you must realize that you have no rights over Miss Marlowe or obligations to her. You are not her father or her husband, or in any way related to her. You can make no claims against anyone who wrongs her. She will be forced to suffer brazen advances from quarters she will least desire them from, to suffer insults from women who best know how to denigrate their own sex. If this book is published, I warrant Miss Marlowe will either become a hermit in your house or will end by running home again, something I am sure she has no desire for."
"That I shall never do," I asserted. "Nor, Lord Bladen, do I believe in the grim picture you paint. Byron has written much that ranks, in subject at least, with this. If society ostracized him it was not because of the merit of his poetry but because of his personal life. Mine is above reproach."
Darius was plainly exasperated. "Miss Marlowe, you may consider it so, but after this book comes out, no one will believe it to be the case no matter how much your conduct indicates the contrary. Nor can you expect any forgiveness such as Byron received. He is a man—can you not understand the difference that must make?"
"You mean that the double standard of morality applies also to the arts."
"There is unquestionably a double standard that applies to the arts—to poetry—as it does to everything else. It may perhaps one day be broken, but that day is n
ot today, nor will it be this year, nor next, nor in the next decade; I doubt we shall see it in this century. Those who try to break it, unless they have wealth and position to protect themselves from society's castigations—as well as a hard exterior—will suffer. You have more wit, more intelligence, more creativity, even more courage than most men I know, but you cannot do it. To believe that you can is foolhardy and can only lead to suffering. When I mentioned to you some time ago that no poets of your sex had written of love, I had not considered the consequences they would face by so doing. Had I realized that you might take it upon yourself to correct that inequity, I should not have spoken of it. I wish to God I had said nothing if my words prompted you, or if it is that thought that makes you refuse to withdraw it now. If you allow its publication you ask to be ostracized by those you would choose to receive you, pursued by the most raffish elements within society and generally vilified. I beg you to reconsider, Miss Marlowe. Think carefully on what I have said, please."
I was shaken by his vehemence and unable to prevent myself from being swayed by his arguments.
"How came you to know of it?" I asked at last.
"But I sent an advance copy to Lord Bladen. I had done so with your other books at your instruction; I thought you would wish it." Mr. Hillaby glanced from Darius's entreating face to my own flushed cheeks. "You must excuse me, but I take it that you know one another well and have done for some time. If Lord Bladen has some position in your life of which I am unaware but to which I should accede, I must heed his warning."
"Lord Bladen has no position in my life, Mr. Hillaby, none whatsoever. In this instance I wish you had not sent the volume to him, for he has not the right to intercede. This is my work and I must stand by it. If there are, as he suggests, certain scurrilous elements who will read into it some interpretation of their own, there is little I can do about it. I can only point out that the poem to which Lord Bladen so strongly objects occupies only one page of the volume. If he considers it too—too sensual, I can only say that I have seen sensuality far more openly expressed than in this volume. Perhaps it should make others reflect on their own morals rather than mine."
