A Lady of Letters

by Andrea Pickens

  A wry smile pulled at his lips. No doubt most of his friends would think him dicked in the nob for what he was about to embark on. Not that he cared. He found he had truly became interested in the plight of children forced into labor, especially in the coal mines in the north. Sparked by Firebrand's first essay, he had sought to learn more, and what he had discovered had shocked and then outraged him. How could a civilized society tolerate such abuses, he wondered, though he knew full well the answer. The people who could effect a change—people like himself—preferred to remain stubbornly blind to such ills. And they would hardly thank him for seeking to open their eyes, of that he had little illusion.

  While that mattered very little, he did find himself wondering what his newfound friend would think. He was almost tempted to reveal his plan, even though that would mean giving away his true identity, for he wished the fellow's frank opinion of his actions. Actually, if truth be told, he wished his friend's approval, and even admiration. Like many of the feelings he had been experiencing lately, that was a novel one as well. Approval and admiration had always rained down upon him so easily that he had never consciously sought them. Yet they had come for all the wrong reasons. Now, for once, he wished to be truly deserving of such sentiments.

  The amber spirits spun in a slow vortex as Sheffield swirled his glass before the light. The look of bemusement on his lean features only deepened on thinking more of the budding friendship that was beginning to take root between the two correspondents. Not only had Firebrand given him encouragement, but the fellow had also begun to share his own doubts and fears. It seemed both of them had developed enough of a trust to reveal their most intimate feelings. With a start, he realized how much the rather odd relationship had come to mean to him.

  And yet it was ironic, really. They were probably acquainted with each other, and had even conversed on occasion at one of the frivolous entertainments they no doubt both attended. His friend claimed that only family obligations forced him to go out, and even then, he avoided most conversation and remained aloof from the usual inanities. But they were sure to have met at some point. Why, his new friend could be Heppleworth, the gouty old Baron who hobbled about with the aid of a silver tipped walking stick, or Symington, the quiet gentleman from the north who was said to collect bats and beetles.

  Indeed, it could be anyone!

  He shook his head. It was doubtful he was the only one who took care to disguise his true views behind the mask of rigid manners and studied indifference that the ton all but demanded of its members. No wonder that society seemed so shallow. After a sip or two, the Earl found himself moved to put down his glass and take up his pen to put such thoughts to paper.

  The next morning, he rose early and spent the morning in his library, putting the finishing touches on his work, all the while fighting down a fluttering of nervous anticipation, as if he were a callow schoolboy about to embrace a woman for the first time. His carriage was brought around. He took one last look in the mirror to straighten the already perfect folds of his cravat and brush the imaginary wrinkles from his coat, then took up his hat and a slim Moroccan leather portfolio and descended the marble steps of his townhouse.

  It proved not quite so difficult as he imagined. Though he found his mouth dry as cotton and his throat so constricted that it seemed no words could possibly squeeze out, he managed to rasp out a hesitant beginning. As confidence took wing, his voice steadied and rose, his sentences soaring through the vaulted chamber. The faces before him betrayed a gamut of emotions, from total shock to wary speculation to outright amusement. When he was done, a smattering of applause was overwhelmed by simple silence. No one was quite sure how to interpret the true meaning of his carefully chosen words. He could hardly blame them if they were all wondering what the deuce the Earl of Sheffield was about, giving a speech in the House of Lords. No doubt they found the notion a bit absurd, but perhaps that would soon change.

  "I say, Sheff, tell me what blunt you managed to wrest out of Copley's pocket by pulling such a stunt!" cried Lord Dunham as the Earl handed his walking stick and hat to the porter at White's. "By God, I nearly wept with laughter at hearing of it. Wish you'd let me place a wager of my own, for no matter how daunting the challenge, I know you always find a way to win in the end."

  "Aye," chimed in another of his friends. "Always knew you were the cleverest of us all, but how even you managed to pull off such a feat has me in awe." He raised a glass in salute. "I vow, tis the best joke yet this Season."

  A chorus of laughter rang out, followed by more friendly gibes. "Whoever did you find to write the bloody speech? Haddington says it actually made some sort of sense—that is, if you are some prosy bore with radical ideas."

  Sheffield walked slowly to a chair near the crackling fire and sat down, Motioning for a newspaper to be brought over, he opened its ironed pages with a decided snap. "It was no joke," he answered from behind the printed paper.

  A few more chuckles sounded, though this time they sounded more tentative.

  "Oh come now, Sheff, you've no need to play a charade any longer," said Dunham, a broad grin stretched out across his pudgy face. He gave a conspiratorial wink. "Tell us who you have roasted so we may go stick a fork in him."

  The Earl lowered the newsprint. "Perhaps I've become a prosy bore with radical ideas."

  The smiles faded, replaced by expressions of uncertainty.

  "You can't be serious!" exclaimed Viscount Grenwald. "You have too much sense to

  ... to become a sensible fellow on us, Sheff."

  "Come to think of it, he ain't been around much these past few weeks," groused Dunham. "The devil take it, next thing you'll tell us is you're contemplating getting leg-shackled."

  There were groans all around.

  "I've not sunk quite that far into lunacy," replied the Earl dryly.

  Grenwald shook his head mournfully. "Far enough, though. I was about to propose a toast, but perhaps it had better be a eulogy to the hearty fellow we once knew."

  "I'm hardly dead, Fitz, more like I‘ve just woken up to certain things."

  His friends looked at him with something akin to bewilderment. "Dash it all, I need a glass of claret to help swallow all this," grumbled Dunham. The others quickly voiced their agreement. "Coming, Sheff?" he added as they all got to their feet.

  "I'll join you in a bit, as soon as I finish this article."

  Dunham turned away, muttering darkly under his breath.

  As the small group quitted the room, another man rose from one of the oversized wingchairs by the fire. "You would do well to heed the advice of your friends, Sheffield. It's rather foolish of a man to get involved in things he knows nothing about," he said in a light voice.

  The Earl cocked one dark eyebrow. "You are entirely right. So you may rest assured that I mean to learn as much as I can about the subject."

  The other man looked taken aback. "Whatever for? What possible interest can it be to you?" His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "After all, one would hardly think of you as possessing the... temperament or the inclination for such causes. I can't fathom why you should risk making a cake of yourself in public.

  "I'm touched by your concern for my reputation, " replied Sheffield coolly. "But if I choose to make a fool of myself, that my concern."

  The gentleman shrugged and made a show of brushing a mote of dust from the sleeve of his immaculate burgundy swallow tailed coat. "I merely wished to offer some friendly advice. You know what they say—a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing." The casual smile still on his face, he took his leave of the Earl and continued on his way out.

  "But if you choose to begin nosing around where you shouldn't," he added to himself, "that is my concern."

  Augusta put down the newspaper with an unladylike snort. It was outside enough that the Earl had unsettled her private thoughts. Now he was playing some sort of May Game with the cause closest to her heart. Confound the man! She almost wished she would run into to him again, s
o that she could tell him what she thought of such behavior. Her lips compressed—no, on second thought, she wouldn't be able to say a thing, not without revealing a passion that was best kept hidden away. Once again she muttered an inward curse at the constraints on females. It was most annoying, to have to keep her opinions stifled in all but one forum. But at least her ire at the Earl had inspired the topic for her next essay.

  The time seemed right for a ringing peal at the indifferent attitude of the privileged class, who chose to turn a blind eye on the misfortunes of those beneath them. Sheffield's speech, though no doubt inspired by some practical joke, contained a number of sensible ideas, even though she was loath to admit it. He had hinted that the ton must shoulder some of the blame for allowing such horrors to exist. She would elaborate on the theme, even though Pritchard was becoming a tad nervous over the increasing heat of her tone. But he'd not kick up a dust quite yet, not while people still flocked to buy his publication and see what were the latest incendiary words from Firebrand.

  However, the essay could wait for later. She put aside the paper to regard the thick sheets of cream stationery that lay folded on her desk. It was strange how her pulse quickened when the envelope, addressed in the bold, sweeping stroke she had come to recognize immediately, appeared on the butler's silver tray. She found she looked forward to the arrival of her friend's letters—for friend was how she thought of him. Considering the intimacies they had exchanged, they could be no less.

  She repressed a slight smile on recalling some of the words on the pages before her. As he himself had said, it appeared that both of them had become unfashionably honest with each other, laying bare their most private emotions, which they dared not to reveal to anyone else. The smile stole back as she re-read his half-joking suggestion that they meet at White's to share a bottle of port and conversation long into the night. So he, too, felt the writing of letters was becoming increasingly frustrating, what with the ideas that always seemed woefully unexplored, the questions that remained unanswered until the next missive arrived. However, if he only knew how impossible his wish was, and not for the reasons he imagined!

  She took up her pen to finish off her reply.

  .... As to your sentiments that an evening at one of our clubs would prove most delightful, I have no doubt that would in many ways be true. But think on it. Part of the honesty we have derives, no doubt, from the anonymity. Much as I should enjoy meeting you face to face and pursuing our talks in a much more animated way, I fear that it might mean risking a friendship that has become quite special, at least to me, or altering it in ways that neither of us would care to do. Therefore, I think it best to continue as we have....

  A final paragraph followed, then the letter was set aside for the afternoon post. Augusta turned her attention to more mundane things—penning several replies to invitations, copying out a recipe for chillblains for Lady Setterwhite, sending off a report of what she had learned so far back to Mrs. Roberts at Greenfield Manor—before her thoughts came back to pages meant for her friend. She chewed thoughtfully on the end of her pen. It was clear from numerous asides he had let drop that he moved in the highest circles. Also more than apparent was the fact that he possessed a sharp mind and a keen eye for observation. Her lips pursed, then she reached for the last sheet of her letter and added an impulsive postscript.

  Perhaps I should not so bold as to ask, but there is a matter on which I could use your help....

  The last chords of a lively country dance ended with a flourish, leaving the capering couples flushed with a touch of color. Augusta watched Marianne laugh merrily at some whispered remark from her partner, which elicited not only a besotted smile from the favored fellow but a collective sigh from the group of young gentlemen awaiting her return from the dance floor. With such unaffected charm, angelic blond looks and sweet disposition, her sister seemed to inspire a rapturous response from even a number of the jaded bucks of the town. Her hand was quickly claimed for the next set, and already the fellow was staring at her like a bewitched mooncalf.

  Augusta's fingers began to trace the subtle pattern of the new brocaded silk gown Marianne had chosen for her as she wondered for a flitting moment what it would be like to inspire passionate emotion in a gentleman. It was a silly thought, she knew, and one hardly likely to come to pass. Even a handsome dowry and influential family could not overcome the aversion men felt toward an outspoken, opinionated female whose bean pole figure and angular face only accentuated how little she resembled the ideal sort of wife. In another moment, her wistful expression changed to one of detached amusement on considering that the only little frisson she was likely to inspire in a member of the opposite sex would be one of immense relief at not having to face a life leg-shackled to an aging antidote.

  At least her words, however anonymous, seemed capable of stirring the souls of some people. She would have to be satisfied with that.

  "You appear to be contemplating some private joke." Baron Ashford took a seat beside her. "Care to share it?"

  "Hmmmm." Augusta pushed her reveries aside. "I doubt you would appreciate the irony of it." On regarding her friend's slightly injured look, she quickly changed the subject. "Who is that dancing with Marianne?"

  Never one to stay miffed for long, Ashford abandoned his pout and swept his gaze over the crush on the dance floor. "Oh, that's Ludlowe," he replied after a bit. "Heir to Cranehill's earldom unless the old stallion can produce an heir with his new bride."

  "I didn't realize centaurs were allowed to succeed to the title," she murmured dryly. "What next? Gryphons when some old lion takes to wife a harpy?"

  Ashford laughed loud enough to attract the basilisk stare of several turbaned matrons sitting close by. "You are still by far the most interesting lady to talk with, Gus. I shall miss it greatly when... " He stopped in some embarrassment.

  "When you take a wife?"

  His ears turned rather red.

  "Well, no doubt there will be other rewards," she murmured, causing his color to deepen to a vivid scarlet. As he struggled to recover his composure, she eyed him thoughtfully. "Who is the lucky lady?"

  "Er, well." Ashford tugged at the collar of his shirt, then lowered his voice to a near whisper. "Miss Denton does not seem adverse to my attentions and though I've not spoken as yet...." His words trailed off as he watched the lady in question turn a graceful figure in the current set. "Is she not a veritable angel?" he exclaimed in a hushed tone suitable for church.

  "An angel," repeated Augusta, with a tad less reverence. "I wish you luck in ascending to heaven, Jamie. Truly I do." On watching the diminutive blonde lower her heart-shaped face and bat her eyelashes at her current partner, she had a feeling her friend was going to need it.

  "Then you aren't... upset?" ventured Ashford.

  "Don't be a gudgeon, Jamie. I have told you, we are much better suited as friends."

  He breathed a sigh of relief. "Come, you must promise me the next dance, so that I may tell you all about Cynthia."

  She did not have the heart to tell him that even a close friendship had its limits, and so, with some reluctance, she allowed herself to be led out.

  It was a waltz. The bows of the violins fairly danced over the strings, the notes from the piano lilted to a crescendo but somehow, her own pulse did not quicken in the quite same way as when she had previously matched her steps to the melody. Ashford's enthusiastic ramblings required little response, giving her a chance to think on what she had just heard.

  Ludlowe. It was one of the six names still on her list. She searched her memory to recall what she knew of him, then finally remembered he was the gentleman who had rented the old Trilling estate last Michaelmas quarter. Few in the neighborhood were actually acquainted with him, as he seemed rarely to visit the place.

  She glanced toward her sister, who was still in conversation with him as she sat out the waltz. Though his back was to her, Augusta could see he was above average in height, with a fitted coat of hunter green s
uperfine and fawn pantaloons that bespoke the sure hand of Weston. He wore the clothes well, showing shoulders that needed no wadding or buckram to exaggerate their breath and strong muscular legs that were no doubt the envy of his less athletic friends. His auburn hair was cut short and artfully arranged in the latest style, and when he turned to bow over her sister's hand, she caught a glimpse of a profile that might have been sculpted by the creators of Lord Elgin's marbles.

  "Are you acquainted with Ludlowe, Jamie?" she asked as her friend's flood of praise finally showed signs of ebbing.

  It took him a moment to abandon the subject dear to his heart. "Oh, er, not really. Spends most of his time in Town and runs with a bit different crowd than I am used to."