by Sara Reinke
* * * *
She caught sight of Kenley standing in the foyer by the front doors. He was speaking with a servant, who nodded and turned, walking away to fetch his coat and tricorne. Charlotte shouldered her way through the party guests milling about. “Lord Theydon,” she called.
He was admiring a large portrait framed against the wall, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, his chin lifted. He did not turn at her beckon, and she tried again as she drew near, reaching out and touching his arm. “Lord Theydon?”
He jumped, startled from his thoughts. When he saw Charlotte, he smiled, seeming surprised to see her, but pleased nonetheless. “Miss Engle,” he said, lowering his face in courteous deference.
“I did not mean to startle you,” she said, and he laughed quietly.
“Quite all right,” he said. He tapped his fingertip against his brow. “Tending my own garden, that is all. Sometimes I can be rather oblivious.”
The servant returned, presenting him with his coat and hat. Charlotte watched him shrug his way into the navy-blue greatcoat, and press a penny against the boy’s palm in thanks.
“I wanted to apologize, Lord Theydon,” she said. “Kenley,” he said, and when she blinked at him, puzzled, he smiled. “Social protocol is such stuff and nonsense. Lord Theydon was my father. I am Kenley.”
“I…I wanted to apologize to you…Kenley,” she said.
He raised his brow. “For what?”
“For Lords Stapleford and Roding…Julian and James,” she said. “They were untoward to you, and unkind besides, and I find their behavior offensive and reprehensible.”
Kenley smiled as he settled his tricorne atop his head. “It is no terrible secret, what happened to my father,” he told her. “I am surprised no one else has made such mention before now.” He offered her a brief nod. “But thank you for your courtesy. Good afternoon, Miss Engle.”
He turned and walked for the doors, obviously meaning to leave. “Charlotte,” she said, and he paused, glancing at her. “I find social protocol absurd as well. My name is Charlotte.”
He smiled again, that delicate measure of his mouth unfurling slightly, and Charlotte could not explain why so simple and common an expression suddenly made her feel rather light-headed. She did not understand anything about the young man: why he might have awarded such interest in her opinions, why he had studied her so intently, or why his attentions had left her so flustered. She only knew that she wanted to speak with him again; she had enjoyed that fleeting measure of what had felt like mutual understanding, and she wanted it to continue. She did not want him to leave.
“Charlotte Engle,” he said. “Your acquaintance at the parlor doorway, Miss Tunstall tells me that you are betrothed to this man who has so offended you, Lord Roding.”
Charlotte remembered the young lady who had glanced in her direction, guiding Kenley’s eyes with her own, and she frowned. “I am not betrothed to him,” she said. “He is insufferable and I would rather see myself run through by some dulled and rusted implement.”
Kenley laughed. “You are certain?” “Positive,” she replied.
“It is only gossip? I am not courting death by duel to stand here and speak in such close proximity to you?”
Charlotte laughed. “No,” she said. “I mean yes. I mean, yes, it is only gossip, and no, you are not risking a duel to speak with me.”
“Good,” Kenley said. “I am a terrible shot.”
She smiled, looking up at him. “Are you leaving?” she asked.
He brushed his fingertips against his hat, his eyes widening slightly as though he had forgotten he had donned it. “Oh, no. I would not get far. I arrived with Lewis. I have no coach of my own that does not look a disgrace. I was going to step outside for a moment, walk about, and breathe the damp English air a bit. I have missed it.”
“That is right. My sister told me you have been in Italy,” she said, recalling his Grand Tour.
“And Germany,” he said. “Not France, given His Majesty’s recent war, but it is just as well. I cannot speak French anyway.”
She laughed and a peculiar silence settled between them. It was not precisely uncomfortable, and he looked at her all the while, as though giving some aspect of her a great deal of considerate thought. “May I ask something of you?” he said. “I have heard that you are none other than the rather infamous Miss E., whose chapbooks have caused such a stir about London.”
She could not tell if he was offering commendation or condemnation, and said nothing. His smile widened. “Not that I pay much mind to gossip,” he added. “It is difficult to avoid in these sorts of circumstances.” He flapped his hand to indicate the party they attended. “And I might not have been so inclined to lend it heed, had I not heard you speak so well and passionately in the parlor. Is it true?”
“It is,” Charlotte said, bracing herself mentally for any ridicule that might follow. She had nearly found him endearing at the card table, but he might have humored her without dismissal only to save her embarrassment in front of others. They were alone now, face to face, with no need for such courtesy. To her relief, he only smiled again.
“It is a delight to meet you then,” he said. “I have read your works, and found them quite thought- provoking.”
“You… you have?” she asked, unable to keep her mouth in line. She smiled, genuinely pleased.
“I have indeed,” he said. “You demonstrate a great deal of insight in your writing. I would not have placed you as so young. Your voice in your work lends itself to an older woman, a more matronly sort.”
“I have never felt that youth is any preclusion to common sense,” Charlotte said, and he chuckled.
“Certainly not,” he agreed. He looked at her for a long moment. “If I may, I should mention that I have noticed a glaring discrepancy in your works,” he said. “One that grossly undermines your ideas and discredits your otherwise well-founded arguments.”
Caught off guard, Charlotte blinked. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “What discrepancy is that?”
“Your sex,” he told her, and she blinked again, startled anew. “You are a woman. It is contrary to what is socially acceptable for women to write about such things as you do.”
She was nearly disappointed; had she truly harbored the fleeting, endearing hope that he might be different from any other man? Her brows drew narrow, and she lifted her chin. “I suppose you expect a woman to write measures of inane poetry, or editorials about shopping districts, wigmakers, and fabric?”
“Flower arrangements, social engagements, that sort, yes,” he said, and she fumed.
“You might be surprised to realize, then, that there a goodly number of women with matters other than these to occupy our minds,” she said. “Society may have relegated us to the unenviable position of watching purported gentlemen corrupt and ruin everything with their penchants for cards, brothels, wars, and dueling, but that does not mean all of us stand back idly and helpless. Some of us have long ago opened our eyes to the ailments you have brought upon this world we share, and simply because you dictate that we should have no say in matters does not mean we are duly inclined to agree.”
Kenley looked down at her, the smile she had only moments ago found engaging now rendering her incensed. “That would not surprise me at all,” he said. “And you misunderstand my meaning. I did not say your being a woman was an offense. I said it discredited your writing.”
She blinked at him.
“You write under a pen name,” he said. “You should choose one that is a man’s. Most men cannot absorb the inferences of your work because they simply cannot get beyond the feminine byline. You are shouting logic against deaf ears. I think if you offered the pretense of being a man, you might find other men more inclined to at least consider your ideas, if not agree with them.”
She said nothing. She had been so prepared for his dismissal, she had never even entertained fleeting thought that he might be suggesting something else.
&nb
sp; “It is just a thought,” he said.
“It…it is a good thought,” she admitted, feeling color stoke in her cheeks. She looked up at him, shamed by her anger. “It is a very good thought.”
He studied her for a long, quiet moment. “Would you like to go for a walk with me, Charlotte?” he asked at length.
She met his gaze, and when he smiled at her, she felt something deep within her flutter. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Yes, Kenley, I would like that very much.”
