Candice Hern (15 page)

“Sit down, Mrs. Tennant, and I’ll have you done in about two minutes.”

Before Eleanor could object, Simon said, “Yes, please do, Mr. Jackson. Give her whatever she likes.”

Eleanor still looked a bit leery. “What is fastest?”

“Don’t matter. It’s all the same. I can pop one in a frame in no time.”

“All right,” Eleanor said. “What do I do?”

Jackson had her sit down in a chair to which was
attached a special screen of thin paper. He set in place a bar across the front of the chair and told Eleanor to keep hold of it in order to remain steady. A candlestand was attached to the chair arm and the candlelight produced a stark shadow against the paper. Jackson sat on the opposite side of the screen and began to trace the outline of Eleanor’s profile with a strange mechanical contraption he called a pantograph. It was made of folded wooden arms with a pencil fitted into each end. As Jackson traced the life-sized profile, the pantograph created an exact duplicate in miniature. It was a fascinating process and Simon wanted to stay and watch, but the landlord came to tell him the meat pies were ready.

By the time he came back from the kitchen, two pies in hand, Jackson had completed the profile. He was mounting it in an oval fame of hammered brass. He held it up for Simon to see.

“Remarkable. He has captured you, Eleanor. It is beautiful.” And it was. Her soft curls, the tilt of her nose, the elegant curve of her jaw, the full upper lip were rendered perfectly. Even the lace at her throat was beautifully painted.

Eleanor looked pleased as well. He wondered if she would allow him to keep it?

He paid Jackson, then led Eleanor to their carriage to resume their journey.

“Thank you, Simon,” she said. “That was very kind of you.”

“Not at all. A beautiful woman deserves to be painted, even if only in miniature profile.”

He took a bite of the second meat pie, and brushed away the crumbs from his waistcoat. He looked over to find Eleanor smiling at him. He was so pleased to see even a hint of cheerfulness from her that he could not hold back a broad smile. The profile had been a perfect diversion.

“What have I done that amuses you?”

“It is nothing,” she said and shook her head.

“Eleanor?”

“Oh, all right. I was just thinking if you kept it up you might one day be as big as your brother.”

He almost spewed out a mouthful of pie, but choked it down instead, setting off a fit of coughing and laughing. “I’ll have you know,” he said when he could speak, “that I can pack away more than Malcolm on any day. We’re just built differently, that’s all.”

“In more ways than one, I should say.”

“Yes, indeed. As I warned you.”

“Malcolm may not be as well read as you, or as sentimental, but he has his charms.”

“I fail to see them, but I bow to your feminine judgment on such matters. I hope you took most of what he said with a grain of salt.”

“About your love affairs?”

“There, you see? He’s given you the wrong impression, as I suspected. Just because I am sometimes moved to pen a verse about a woman does
not necessarily mean I have had a love affair with her.”

“So you have not left a trail of broken hearts?” she asked.

“I am afraid not. Though my own has been bruised a time or two. But never seriously. As I believe I once told you, I have not yet found my heart’s desire. I am still in search of it.”

“And you are quite sure you know what it is you seek?”

“Quite sure.” He caught her gaze and held it, and the deeper he looked into those green eyes the closer he thought he’d come to finding his heart’s desire.

“Are you certain you are not simply in love with the idea of love?” she asked.

He shrugged, but did not take his eyes from hers. “I suppose there is a bit of that in every Romantic. But I tell you this: when I find my one true love, I will never let her go, and I will love her until the day I die.”

“Optimist.”

He smiled. “Cynic.”

And she could not hold back her own smile.

She allowed him to finish his second meat pie before pursuing the conversation.

“I hate to continue to impose my own cynicism on such a cockeyed optimist,” she said, “but I feel obliged to point out the difficulties that optimism has wrought through the offices of the Busybody.”

“I shall never live down my one mistake, shall I? I’ll have you know I have been penning that column for years with many happy, satisfied readers.”

“And I have been living for twenty-nine years and my wisdom and experience show me a world less perfect than yours.”

“Twenty-nine years? As many as that? Well, my dear old crone, I have reached the crusty age of four-and-thirty and still find much to be optimistic about. Hence my always hopeful advice.”

“And you are not ashamed to publish that advice under a pseudonym in a ladies’ magazine?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why are you so afraid for your family to know about it?”

If Simon ignored or evaded her question again, as he had so often done in the past, Eleanor would no doubt continue thinking him a milksop who was afraid of his own father. How could he ever expect her to care for him, truly care for him, if she thought him so weak? But could he trust her with the truth?

Yes, he could. In fact, he had to trust her. He had been trying for days to win her trust. How could he expect to do so if he did not trust
her
?

He hoped his friends would forgive him for what he was about to do.

“W
hat I am about to tell you,” Simon said haltingly, “must be kept in the strictest con?dence.”

Intrigued, Eleanor nodded and said only, “Of course.”

“It is rather complicated,” he said. “I am not sure where to begin.” His head was bowed as he studied the hands ?dgeting in his lap. Alock of red hair, unregarded, fell across his brow. “I believe I mentioned my friends and neighbors in the Peak district. They are more than friends. We are colleagues at the Cabinet. We share similar goals of a…a political nature.”

“Political?”

“We were in France together in the early ’90s, at the beginning of the Revolution. We were each of us exhilarated by the ?res of Republicanism and re
form, but were ultimately disappointed when the Revolution disintegrated into violence and chaos. When we returned to England, we hoped to foster more successful reform by concentrating not so much on political events as on the larger concerns of society itself. By then, however, a fierce reactionary spirit had taken hold in the wake of the Terror, and it was not safe to espouse Republican ideals in any sort of public forum.”

Eleanor was not entirely surprised by the revelation of Simon’s politics. “I believe many so-called Romantics or Sentimentalists are Republicans at heart, are they not? Those who are passionate about all things natural are very often reformers, I think. Asort of Whiggish optimism seems perfectly in keeping with the Romantic philosophy, as I understand it. However, I’m afraid I do not understand the connection between your political activities and
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
.”

He gazed at her with open admiration, as though pleased that she had even an inkling of what the Romantic movement was all about. “I will get to the
Cabinet
in a moment. At first, after we had settled in the Peak, we wrote and anonymously published several pamphlets supporting such things as the repeal of anti-sedition laws, general criticisms against strictures on speech, printing, assembly, the Combination Acts, and so on. Also a few pamphlets on the rights of women, liberally borrowing from Miss Wollstonecraft. But we were not reaching enough people, and were constantly
alert to discovery. Any one of us could be jailed under the laws against ‘seditious’ activities.”

Eleanor was more than a little astonished to discover Simon’s politics to be more serious than she would have imagined. But perhaps politics was in his blood. Sir Harold Westover was a very prominent member of Parliament. On the Tory side of the aisle. “Your father is one of the more vocal opponents to the repeal of those laws, is he not?”

“He is. That is only one of the reasons I keep my activities secret.” He rubbed his bruised jaw absently. “Not, mind you, because I am afraid for him to know, though it would surely give him no pleasure. But it would also jeopardize his standing in the House and, despite our different positions, I have no right and no wish to interfere in a career he has spent his life building.”

Eleanor’s brows lifted in surprise. The man she had thought so fearful of his formidable parent’s wrath was instead simply a son who honored and respected his father. She felt a twinge of shame for ever thinking otherwise. “But I still do not see what all this has to do with a ladies’ magazine.”

“I’m getting to that.
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
, as you may know, has been in existence for many years. It had always been written by a group of ladies under the editorship of its founder, a woman who happened to be great aunt to one of our group. Miss Edwina Parrish, one of my colleagues in the Peak, was a favorite of her great aunt. When the old woman died a few years back,
she requested that the editorial reins be turned over to Edwina, though the magazine itself is still owned by her son, Edwina’s uncle. He collects the profits, and because he believes it to be a silly female rag sheet, he ignores it. He has no idea what Edwina has done.”

“I don’t understand. What has she done?”

Simon smiled. “The fact that you don’t know shows how successful the scheme has been.”

“What scheme?”

“Do you also read the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
?”

Eleanor gave him a quizzical look and wondered if he would ever get to the point. “Yes, I read it, along with every other woman in the country, I’m sure. But what has that to do with anything?”

“Quite a lot, actually. The
Museum
affects to be written by ‘A Society of Ladies’ but is in fact written by a group of exceedingly conservative men. One of the hidden goals of the publication is to defeat the advocates of Rationalism, Radicalism, and Republicanism. They use cunningly calculated indirection in their essays and stories to promote their conservative philosophies and manipulate their unsuspecting readers.”

Eleanor was somewhat surprised to hear that such a fashionable publication had political motives, though she could not quite understand what purpose it served. “What good does it do them to promote their politics in a magazine directed at women?”

Simon shifted his position so that he almost
faced her. “Among the philosophies they fear,” he said, “are those aimed at the rights of women, those of Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Hays, Catherine Macauley, Thomas Paine, and others. The editors of the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
ally themselves with arch conservatives like Hannah More and George Canning, promoting established hierarchical structures and a disposition of power purposefully unequal: woman’s inherent weakness of body and mind oblige her to defer to man.”

“Good heavens! I think you must exaggerate. The
Museum
is no more than an entertaining little magazine with bits of fashion and poetry and stories and other business thought to appeal to women. How is it you find such high-blown and sinister motives in descriptions of the latest fashions?”

“All the elements expected in a ladies’ magazine are there,” he said, “including the latest fashions. It is what draws female readers, after all. But if you look closely you will find subtle manipulation throughout. Just as an example, they frequently attack the very notion of education for females. More than once they have printed essays in which education for girls of no fortune is considered to be a bad thing because it unnaturally raises their views beyond the reach of their station and character. The fact is, they regard the broadening of education to females and the lower classes as presenting a threat to the conventions of civilized society, that the dissemination of knowledge might inspire a Reign of
Terror on British soil. And so they send subtle messages, and some not so subtle, to their readers that education for females is a foolish endeavor. Can you imagine anything more contemptible? Not to mention wrong-headed. Education does not breed anarchy. Neglect and despair do.”

His free hand had become as animated as his voice, punctuating his words in the air. Eleanor could not reconcile this passionate reformer with the spineless fool she had once thought him. The dreamer was more grounded than she had imagined. She was humbled to think how completely and thoroughly she had misjudged him, in every possible way. He was a man of strong principles, and though she might not always agree with him, she could not help but admire him.

“The
Museum
editors attempt to offer ‘guidance’ to their readers,” he went on, “but their moral doctrines guide their female readers into carefully constructed, narrowly defined subservient roles. When Edwina inherited the helm of the
Cabinet
, it seemed the perfect vehicle to combat such patriarchal attitudes. But her uncle, the formidable Victor Croyden, would close down the magazine if he knew that the sweet old ladies who once ran it were now totally out of the picture, and that men and radical women were controlling it.”

“And that is why it is so important to keep your identities secret?”

“Yes. If Croyden found out a man was involved, he might become curious and be tempted to take a
closer look. There are things in the account books, for example, that he must never see. It would be a shame to have the
Cabinet
shut down. We’ve made great progress. Our circulation has doubled and we actually turn a profit. We are able to provide regular stipends to some of our staff writers, and to request contributions from established essayists and poets who are in sympathy with our principles. Mr. Coleridge has recently submitted poems, and a few members of the Whig Club have provided articles.”

“Coleridge? Does he perchance use a pseudonym? Something like Rodolfo?”

Simon colored and shook his head. “No, he always signs his initials.”

Eleanor was glad to hear it. She rather liked what little she had read of Mr. Coleridge’s works. She would hate to think of him as penning some of the poetic drivel she had read in the magazine. “I must say you have intrigued me, Simon. I had no notion there was such serious intent behind a seemingly frivolous publication like the
Cabinet
. Or such ferocious competition of principle with the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
.”

He nodded and his eyes blazed with fervor. He seemed remarkably pleased that she understood what he had been trying, in his very long-winded fashion, to explain. “My own personal grievance against the
Museum
,” he said, “is the way in which they twist stories and historical essays to show how a woman should glory in giving up her own
wishes to those of her husband, how a woman who thinks herself equal to her husband will necessarily find herself in an unhappy marriage. And they are forever espousing the notion that marriage to a complete stranger, so long as the match was arranged by her parents, is preferable to a young woman entering into a love match. You may call me a Romantic, but I believe women should not be forced into marriages that are little more than business contracts. I believe a woman should be allowed to love.”

“And so the Busybody was born.”

He grinned and the dimples twinkled. “Actually, she had already existed in the original publication. When Edwina took over the magazine, we maintained most of the original columns and pseudonyms. I became the Busybody. Nicholas Parrish, Edwina’s brother, became the essayist Augusta Historica. All of us took on various roles. It has been our intention to beat the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
at its own game.”

“How so?”

“By filling our pages with veiled messages of female potential and strength and fortitude rather than female subjugation.”

“I would not have thought a Romantic would appreciate strong and powerful women. I would have guessed he would prefer his women frail and weak, in constant need of a man’s protection and reassurance.”

He grinned. “Not this Romantic. I prefer a strong,
self-possessed woman of parts. One who would delight in arguing a point with me rather than one who would quietly submit to my authority. Someone like you. Have I not often compared you to an avenging angel? To Boadicea? There is much more to admire in a woman like you, Eleanor, who takes matters into her own hands, than in a wilting violet languishing on her chaise waiting for things to be done
for
her.”

“That is very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said, and hoped she was doing a good job of disguising the unexpected and unwelcome wave of pleasure that had swept over her at his very obvious regard. It both thrilled and frightened her to know that he truly admired her and didn’t simply lust after her. “But I always associated Romantics with knights in shining armor rescuing damsels in distress. Have you not been my heroic rescuer more than once on this journey?”

At that moment, the carriage hit a deep rut that sent them both bouncing off the seat. Simon used the bumpy ride as an excuse to take her hand in his. His thumb stroked the skin above her glove where she still wore the red ribbon at her wrist. His touch sent a tremor up her arm that was almost too much to bear.

“My dear Eleanor, I can think of nothing more romantic than being your knight in shining armor, if you would allow it. A woman with the strength of character to accept help when it is needed is much more romantic to me than a helpless damsel
in middling distress. There was nothing heroic in my actions last night in the taproom. You were putting up an admirable fight of your own. My reaction was one of pure animal rage at the sight of that brute with his hands on you.”

The look in his eyes had become more intense than was comfortable. She would like to have explained it away as nothing more than a reflection of the passion of those political and social convictions he had revealed, but she rather suspected it was a different kind of passion altogether. As tempting as it was to cast all her prudent considerations to the winds and give in to the invitation in those bright blue eyes, she must remember to guard against such foolishness. She must remember Belinda and her plight.

Eleanor gently removed her hand from his. “Tell me more about these veiled messages in the magazines.”

He sensed her discomfort and gave a rueful little smile. “It’s quite simple,” he said. “The
Museum
, as an example, relishes stories about young girls who fall in love, run away with their heart’s desire, and end up miserably unhappy, socially ruined, hopelessly mad, or quite often dead—all because they went against the wishes of a parent or of society. You will notice the stories in the
Cabinet
always have a more uplifting ending. Young girls are shown to have character, to be fully capable of making their own decisions, and ultimately finding happiness. Unlike the
Museum
, we send mes
sages that promote education of women, including the poor. We try to foster strength of mind, heart, and body for all females, for all people. Not to put too fine a point on it, we believe in women. We trust women.”

He smiled, a bit roguishly, and Eleanor was reminded of his brother’s words.
He adores women
.

“The
Lady’s Monthly Museum
,” he said, “though written for women, has nothing but contempt for them.”

Blast it all, she believed him. Worse than that, she admired him for what he was doing. She would never again be able to read the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
without being aware that some beastly man was attempting to manipulate her with his maudlin tales and moralistic essays.