by Sally Orr
“That man,” Grizel started, then turned to Meta, “is he really a gentleman, my dear? Think of the lack of empathy for womankind a man who could write such a book must possess.”
Unfortunately, almost to a lady, they agreed that Mr. Drexel must be a scoundrel toward women.
Meta sighed. They were right, of course. After all, she did not know him well. The naughty innuendo and flirting came to mind first, but he had helped Fitzy and at least tried to right the situation in regard to James. But his behavior could turn unpredictable and contradictory, like all gentlemen’s. “The book is a work of fiction solely to amuse gentlemen who frequent places like the Coal Hole. Mr. Drexel is an educated gentleman and a dedicated engineer.”
“How did a very proper young man like Mr. Codlington come by the field guide?” Grizel asked.
“Fiction?” asked Bethia. Her gray hair appeared almost white from the strong sun streaming in from the windows. “Are you sure, Meta? I read the book years ago and thought my initials were in it. To think that someone sixty years of age could be considered ‘Eager Out of the Gate.’” She turned to the lady next to her. “Brightened my whole day.”
The lady patted her hand. “I understand, dear.”
“Yes, it’s fiction—truly,” Meta said, “and written for the amusement of gentlemen only. Mr. Drexel wrote the book after his friend Lord Boyce Parker, a London publisher, wagered he could not do it, or could not best another man. I know very little of the details, except that he made a significant profit and it proved to be a bestseller.” She stopped, curious about why the busy, driven man of today could do something so frivolous. “All young men can be fools. I wonder how old he was at the time?”
“A repulsive book like that,” Clara said. “He should’ve known better. Why he must have had the brains of a mooncalf in leading strings to pen such a scandalous book.” As she put her teacup down, it hit the rim of the saucer. Her tea spilled and quickly became a river heading for the lady next to her. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.”
“How significant?” Grizel said, ignoring the fuss of spilt tea across the table from her.
“Pardon?” Meta clutched her napkin, eyeing the approaching river of tea.
“The funds,” Grizel continued. “How significant are his earnings?”
“I would never dare ask such a question.”
The ladies began to speculate widely upon the profits of the field guide. Their guesses ranged from the equivalent of a new bonnet to funding the King’s peccadilloes for a year.
“Think of what we could do with funds like that,” said Lady Sarah.
Everyone nodded and spoke to their neighbor.
Meta stood to address them. “Ladies, please, the field guide is not the issue here. Mr. Drexel too, by his profession as an engineer, works to help London’s disadvantaged. The tunnel will increase commerce, which means increased employment and less poverty. His profession is building public work projects, like bridges and piers…everything, really. He is currently working on several smaller projects too, one a steam-powered printing press and the other a card shuffler.”
Lady Sarah nodded. “Meta does have a point. All of this Mr. Drexel’s endeavors will be to society’s advantage. I know I certainly wish him well. We could use a card shuffler for our whist parties too.” She called in a housemaid to attend to what remained of the spilt tea.
“Oh, I agree, worthy inventions,” Clara said, standing and hurriedly wiping up as much of her tea as she could reach before the housemaid entered. “Yet it does not explain why a gentleman wrote such a questionable…” She lowered her voice. “Might I say vulgar book? Why doesn’t he write a treatise on engineering instead?”
Meta laughed. “Would you purchase such a book? I think we all know the reason: young men need to impress other men.”
“Oh, twaddle,” Lady Sarah said. “I’ve seen a copy of his book, and the field guide is not nearly as questionable as some of the books written in the last century. The Monk, for example.”
Gasps erupted.
“Now that is a questionable book,” Lady Sarah continued.
“I may faint.” Bethia let her head fall backward slightly.
“I beg to disagree,” Clara said, shaking her head and handing her wet, tea-stained napkin to the housemaid. “The Monk is lurid, not vulgar. Truly vulgar, filthy, and vile books exist. I found an old book like that in my father’s library. The title is Fanny…something.”
Collective gasps echoed around the room. From the many guilty expressions, clearly most of the ladies knew of the book Clara mentioned, but good manners prevented them from speaking about it.
“What is this Fanny book about?” Sybella asked in all seriousness. “Should we add it to our list of books for discussion?”
Most of the ladies stared at their laps.
“No,” Clara said. “Clearly our ancestors must have been wild, uncivilized beings. That book is the most obscene book ever penned.”
“Oh dear.” Sybella’s knitted brows and wrinkled nose spoke of confusion. “You mean it describes”—she lowered her voice to almost a whisper—“congress between a man and a woman…in detail?”
“Yes, dear,” Lady Sarah said, “and not only in metaphor.”
“What do you mean in metaphor?” Sybella tilted her head, appearing like an eager puppy.
“I remember our discussion now,” Clara said, her gaze darting around the table. “Authors use metaphorical tricks, secret messages to say something without saying something directly, and this something is a thing that only some people understand.”
Blank stares appeared on the faces of several ladies.
Clara tried to clarify the situation. “The metaphor alludes to when a young lady becomes…becomes fallen.” She lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “Carnal knowledge.”
The ladies either gasped or giggled.
“Let me explain,” Grizel said, turning to Sybella. “When a single man and a woman are destined to be lovers, the author foreshadows this event by…” She too lowered her voice.
All of the ladies around the marble table leaned toward the center to catch her words.
Grizel whispered, “The lady will bleed at some point in the book. A small amount of blood is a metaphor for the blood sometimes found when a virgin becomes fallen.”
This time more giggles than gasps were heard.
“I remember that now.” Bethia smiled, appearing younger than her gray hair implied. “You clever ladies discovered that in all novels of the romantic type, the heroines always bleed in the vicinity of the young man they are destined to wed. Of course, if there is no young man standing about, then it’s just bleeding.”
Lady Sarah laughed. “Yes, but in a scene with a young, single gentleman nearby, the lady might prick her finger at a picnic or hit her head at the opera—”
“Yes, yes,” Clara said. “Young women are extremely clumsy in most three-volume novels and spend a great deal of their daytime hours bleeding all over London and the countryside.”
Each lady replied in turn.
“Remember when the young man’s horsewhip hit her in the leg?”
“Or the one that tripped over a rake?”
Ten seconds of silence followed.
“An it rake and not a he rake, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Obviously.”
“We knew that.”
“Actually,” Clara said, “any poking object is dangerous to virgin ladies with an eligible man nearby.”
“Not poke bonnets,” Sybella said.
Lady Sarah frowned at Sybella, then placed her hands on the table. “Remember that lurid one we discussed last year, where the lady pricks herself on the gentleman’s sword?”
Bethia’s eyes widened. “Oh dear, oh dear, I’m going to faint.”
“You don’t tell people you are going to faint,” Grizel said. “You just faint. Otherwise, it’s not fainting, it’s acting.”
“No, it’s loun
ging,” one lady corrected.
Bethia appeared quite pleased with herself. “I tell people I’m going to faint, so they will be sure to catch me.”
Meta’s impatience grew. “If you warn people, it’s not fainting, it’s purposeful reclining.” She checked herself. Her request was too important to lose her temper.
Lady Sarah straightened in her chair. “I firmly believe that one day in the future, women novelists will be able to forgo metaphors and write freely—about any subject—even the subject of amorous congress.”
Several gasps were heard.
“If true,” Grizel remarked with a certain tinge of northern fatalism, “I think those vulgar books will then mark the end of society as we know it.”
“Authorial freedom to that extent will never happen. Too dangerous,” Clara remarked.
Several ladies added, “That’s true.”
“Will never happen.”
The newest member of the Learned Ladies leaned over the table and remarked, “I never imagined how amusing a book discussion could be.”
“Or how fast they can disintegrate into nonsense,” Grizel said.
“Ladies, please,” Meta said. “The field guide does not resemble these vulgar books. It’s merely satire, an exaggeration of feminine romantic behavior for the amusement of men. Mr. Drexel is a gentleman. His cause is a good one and the tunnel will benefit many. That is the main purpose behind the Learned Ladies Society, is it not? All I request is that you put the matter before your husbands, fathers, or man of business if you are a widow, for their consideration.”
“My dear Meta,” Lady Sarah said, “from your defense of the man, it sounds to my ears that you are taken by this Mr. Drexel. I wonder—”
“No. I can honestly say that I am not. I doubt he’d make a suitable husband for any woman, since he lacks constancy. Besides, I loved Charles and have no need for another husband. I ask this favor because my sister’s reputation and happiness are at stake. Well, hers and James’s. Please, just put the matter before your spouses. That is all I ask. Can I depend on your support?”
The ladies answered in turn. “Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, indeed, my pleasure.”
In total, Meta heard eight affirmations. “You all have my sincerest thanks.” She needed to tell Mr. Drexel this news as soon as possible. Perhaps the end of this muddle was within reach.
Grizel spoke last. “I will ask my husband, but I cannot make any promises now, you understand. Hamish must approve first.”
Bethia hung her head. “What if he takes it out of my pin money? I did not consider that.”
“No, you have no worries on that score,” Lady Sarah said. “Your husband loves you dearly and only wants to please you.”
Everyone knew of Mr. Valpy’s devotion to his wife of forty years, so they all agreed about his dedication to ensuring her happiness.
Bethia generously thanked everyone.
“I speak for every lady here,” Grizel pronounced, “when I say that none of us should actually make any promises today. You must give us time to convince our spouses and fathers.”
Meta froze. Her good news for Mr. Drexel had evaporated within a minute. She gulped. What else could she do to persuade them?
“I have an idea.” Lady Sarah jumped to her feet. “Why don’t we all visit the tunnel site together? One of my friends has already done so and considered it remarkable. Maybe we will even meet this Mr. Drexel for ourselves. At the very least, we can determine the size of the operation and the chances for the tunnel’s success. We could have a picnic afterwards to discuss our contributions. What do you all say?”
The majority of the members clapped and agreed to the plan.
Meta smiled at the thought of the ladies’ reaction when she provided introductions to Mr. Drexel. How would they respond to his charming “bear” expression? Or his conversation that on occasion consisted of a single sly word or vulgar innuendo? She chuckled. Some of her friends might be shocked or offended. Some ladies would laugh. Then again, some of them might fall under his seductive spell the way she had. Or perhaps some ladies, especially Bethia, might act like Lily and flee his presence to hide behind the nearest building.
“Fabulous idea, a picnic,” Sybella said. “I’ll be delighted to consider the tunnel for investment purposes and to be introduced to this notorious Mr. Drexel in person.”
Five
Meta sat in front of a large oaken desk, waiting for the arrival of her man of business, Mr. Cole. Her appointment was for eleven o’clock, but her concern about keeping her promise to Mr. Drexel to obtain at least one new investor propelled her to arrive early. Since none of the ladies had immediately agreed to invest, she decided that if she could afford it, she would buy shares at the tunnel’s next offering. Lily and James’s future happiness might depend upon it. So she sat and waited, listening to the tall clock chime on the quarter and the coals hiss in the grate.
The numerous papers on Mr. Cole’s desk appeared in distinct piles, and his five pens were laid next to each other in an even line. Meta believed the order of a person’s writing table reflected the order of their mind. Her orderly desk resembled Mr. Cole’s, except for her collection of enamel boxes with painted flowers on the lids, tokens of thanks from her friends for her assistance.
Mr. Drexel’s unusual desk by the bow window came to her mind next and the pile of papers and models strewn over every inch of the surface. She did not know him well enough to determine if the disarray was caused by a lack of mental discipline or the natural disorder of an inordinately busy man. Perhaps he needed someone to sort his papers, if his housekeeper failed to do so.
The scent of sandalwood wafted in the air a second before Mr. Cole entered the room. “Good day to you, Mrs. Russell. I am delighted to see you again. How long has it been? A year and a half? I hope all is well with that large family of yours you have taken on.” A plump gentleman with quick movements, his blue plaid trousers, coat, and waistcoat all seemed to bounce into the room.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, sir. Yes, my family is well. Most of my family, as there is no change in my father’s condition. However, he is a happy man who does not complain, so I must be satisfied with that.”
Mr. Cole took a seat behind his giant desk and donned a pair of gold spectacles too small for his large round face. “Now to what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”
She removed a folded piece of The Times newspaper from her reticule and handed it to him. “Have you heard of the Thames Tunnel?”
Mr. Cole took the piece of newspaper, spread it out on his desk, and carefully read every word. “Well, well, how about that. Very impressive, I must say. How does the construction of this remarkable tunnel affect you, my dear?”
Mr. Drexel came to mind. Not the man who needed investors for his tunnel, but the memory of his handsome demeanor and physical attractions. Blushing, she turned toward the fire, hoping that the firelight masked her red cheeks. “Without going into great detail, I wish to invest in Mr. Brunel’s tunnel. So I came to inquire about the current state of my fortune. Since my late husband trusted you as his man of business, your opinion on the amount of capital I may commit to the project would be invaluable.”
He peered at her from over his spectacles. “Mrs. Russell, did you not believe me two years ago when I told you that you need not worry on that score? Your late husband left you well provided for. You have enough capital for all of your wishes.”
“Yes, but when we spoke of it before, my only wish was to provide for my family—not to invest in a grand scheme that might be a failure.”
He paused. “If I use that criterion then, the loss of the principle, I would advise you to invest no more than five thousand pounds.”
“Five thousand! Can I lose that much money and still provide for all of my family members, if necessary? Not to mention providing for myself and funding my charity work for years and years to come?�
�
“Without a doubt. Your husband had diverse holdings and no new investments have depleted the accounts, so your fortune has escaped all of this current reckless speculation. Within the last year, the shipping investment alone has provided a large amount of new funds. I can assure you without any reservations that you have become a wealthy woman.” He nodded.
Her heart lightened with the thought of bestowing a large donation for the governesses. “Please do not mention my fortune to anyone. I prefer privacy in the matter.”
“Of course.”
Meta rarely considered her fortune. She knew it was enough to keep her in comfort for her lifetime. Then when she had decided to move back into her family home after her husband’s death, Mr. Cole assured her that she had enough funds to benefit every member of her family. She could purchase military commissions for the boys, if they so wished it, and complement her sisters’ dowries, so they would be able to marry solely for love. But she never dreamed she would have enough so that five thousand pounds could be considered expendable.
Mr. Cole smiled and removed his spectacles. “I, of course, do not think that any person, regardless of their wealth, should waste five thousand pounds. But if I were you, I would initially invest two thousand pounds. That amount should go a long way to back the project.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cole. I will take your advice.” She rose and made her farewells.
Before she left the room, Mr. Cole said, “Frankly, with your excellent luck in investments, I would not be surprised if this tunnel paid off handsomely and made you even wealthier.”
She turned and smiled at him. “Thank you again. Good day, sir.” Standing just outside the closed door, she decided to visit the tunnel next. She could observe Fitzy’s situation and see the tunnel for herself. Hopefully, she could keep her planned contribution a secret while she told Mr. Drexel the exciting news of a new contributor. The day was a cold one, but this thought warmed her all the way over the river to the tunnel.
Two hours later, she found herself standing at the tunnel site, overlooking the round pit at least three stories deep. Except this time, at least twice the number of men toiled down on the riverside of the pit. Meta recalled that today was the day the giant shield would start digging its lateral journey of over thirteen hundred feet under the Thames. Of course, the ladderlike structure would probably only move forward several inches by nightfall, but that did not diminish the excitement emanating from the men scurrying around the bottom of the pit.
