Candice Hern (21 page)

“My object at the
Cabinet
,” she began, “is to provide a counterpoint to the rationalizations against progressive, Republican views that litter the pages of the
Museum
. We are all of us dedicated to the encouragement of education for girls, to the free and equal treatment of women in the laws of inheritance and custody, to the fostering of strength of mind and body for all females. To promote weak
ness in half of society is to effectively cripple that society. These principles inform everything we do at the
Cabinet.
”

“The
Museum
is not the only publication that deliberately sets out to subvert its female readership,” Nicholas said. “It is one of the most egregious, however, and the one already targeted as competition during my aunt’s tenure.”

“I still find it hard to believe that so much of what they do is based on politics,” Eleanor said.

“It is subtly done,” Nicholas said. “Did you read the recent article about the two wives of an Indian man who’d died? Only one of the wives threw herself on his funeral pyre, and she was held up as a model of feminine virtue and devotion. The other wife, who refused to kill herself, was scorned as unworthy.”

“Or the essay on important women in history,” Simon said, “that suggested many of them, including Queen Elizabeth, were not women at all, or were, at best, of the epicene gender. That one prompted Nick, writing as Augusta Historica, to develop the series on great heroines of British history.”

“Or last month’s
Museum
harangue about not discussing politics in mixed society,” Edwina said, “in order to preserve the delicacy of the female mind. It so infuriated me that I began adding more political works to the books I review as Arbiter Literaria.”

“I’m afraid I missed those articles,” Eleanor said,
“though had I read them I assure you I would have been outraged. If you must know, I generally only skim that magazine, and yours, with a cursory look at the fashion plates with my niece, but little else. She reads every word, I assure you. From time to time I will read an essay, but in truth, not very often. It is not that I have anything against the attitudes and opinions expressed, it is just—”

“I believe Eleanor finds our prose a bit too florid for her taste,” Simon said, smiling at her over a forkful of fricassee. “My prose, at least.”

Edwina chuckled. “Simon is the purest Romantic of us all. A sentimentalist to his fingertips. That is why I assigned him to take over as the Busybody. And whenever we need a tale of requited love to counteract some horror in the
Museum
in which the heroine throws herself off a cliff, we have only to call upon Simon. There is also, of course, the poetry of Alonzo.”

Oh, no. Not Alonzo. Not the worst, most sickeningly sentimental poet of the lot.

“His Alonzo poems are exceedingly popular,” Edwina said.

Eleanor’s stomach gave a little twitch, and she was not certain whether it was due to the mushrooms or the knowledge that Simon was indeed the odious Alonzo, he of the facile rhyme and the saccharine imagery.

“We receive letters about Alonzo, and poetic tributes, all the time,” Edwina continued. “But even Simon’s poetry, though its style may not ap
peal to everyone, is in keeping with our objectives. It extols the laws of Nature rather than the laws of Man, the individual over society. It is the essence of what we are all about.”

“Thank you, Edwina,” Simon said. “However, I do not think you will change Eleanor’s opinion.” Certainly not now that she knew him to be Alonzo as well as the Busybody. The rather qualmish look on her face told him what she thought of Alonzo’s poetry. “She will have no truck with Romantics, especially one who has, quite unintentionally, encouraged her niece to run away.”

“It is not only that, Simon,” she said, “though I do hope what has happened with Belinda will encourage more responsible advice from the Busybody in the future.” She looked across the table and caught Edwina’s eye. “Though Simon prefers to label me a cynic, I have tried to convince him that I am a realist. To me, life is not a walk through the countryside feeling compassionate toward all God’s creatures. Life is a struggle, at least mine has been—a sometimes bitter struggle against a world of temptation and danger.”

“And our principles serve to strengthen women’s character so they may more effectively face those dangers,” Edwina retorted.

“I am not sure I agree with your methods, though,” Eleanor said. “Just take Belinda, as a case in point. She hangs on every word of
The Ladies’
Fashionable Cabinet
. But for a young girl like her, willful and flighty, to consume your veiled messages of female independence simply gives her permission to thumb her nose at society. To disdain society only causes her ruin, and leads to a life of misery.”

“I believe you exaggerate, Mrs. Tennant,” Edwina said.

“Unfortunately, I do not,” Eleanor said. “Such is the fate of many girls, I assure you.” She looked to Simon briefly, and their gazes locked in the memory of her revelation the night before. “In many cases we are completely dependent upon the men in our lives for every morsel of food on our plates and the clothing on our backs. Society is not yet ready for us to be independent. Not all of us, anyway.

“And before you ask, yes, I have read
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
, and I support much of what it says in regard to the subjugation of women.” She gave a little smile. “I suppose, though, that I am more pragmatic about the application of those ideas. I am willing, for example, to accept the patriarchal hierarchies of our society because that is the world in which I live. I am less concerned with changing that world than living peacefully within it.” She pulled a rueful face. “I cannot imagine someone harboring Miss Wollstonecraft’s level of discontent will ever find any sort of peace.”

Her words brought a somber quiet to the parlor.
Eleanor could not have said anything that more clearly evoked memories of a woman the other three had known well.

“She found a measure of peace at the end,” Edwina said. “But you are right, Mrs. Tennant. Her life was not always a happy one. Mary’s unhappiness, though, was of a personal and not a political nature. But I take your point.”

Eleanor looked from one of them to the other, confusion and chagrin marking her brow. “I beg your pardon if I have said something to offend. I was speaking of the ideas, not their author. I had no idea she was someone known to you. And I do not disagree with her on a philosophical level. I simply choose not to fight those battles in my own life.”

“No offense was taken, Mrs. Tennant, I assure you,” Edwina said, and offered a genuine smile so there was no doubt of her sincerity. “And I hope you will take none when I say that I
do
choose to fight those battles.”

“No, indeed,” Eleanor said. “In fact, I admire you for putting action to your principles.”

“But are you not doing the same, Eleanor?” Simon was unable to curb his open admiration for the way she had stood her ground in a room full of Republicans. Regardless of his own opinions, he was bursting with pride for her. “You are putting your own principles to work by chasing after your niece in hopes of saving her from…fromanun-happy future.”

“You believe she will be unhappy with this fellow she’s run off with?” Nicholas asked.

Eleanor gave a little laugh, and there was a hint of self-mockery in it. “Let me say only that I do not trust the bloom would stay long on that connubial flower. I’d prefer she made a more thoughtful, logical choice.”

“Ah, but Mrs. Tennant,” Nicholas said, with a teasing glance at Simon, “love is not always logical, is it?”

“No, it is not.” She returned Nicholas’s smile. “That is precisely why I do not think it should rule our lives.”

“Good Lord, Simon,” Edwina said. “You have indeed found the rare unromantic woman. How provoking for you. But what a lovely challenge.”

Damn Nicholas, for he had surely filled his sister’s ear with Simon’s romantic quandary over Eleanor. He was rather tired of being the focus, however indirectly, of tonight’s conversation, and so lost no time in steering it toward other topics.

They had made good work of the sideboard, and the wine, when the waiter brought the final course of fruits and cheeses. The mood had become more languid and relaxed. Simon was pleased to think Eleanor liked his friends. And though she did not share the same passions or politics, Simon believed they liked her as well. She was quite obviously intelligent and strong-minded, and held her own in the more political discussions. She made him proud.

Eleanor was the first to call it an evening. She was sure there would be a message from the Runners by morning, she said, and wanted to make an early start. Simon should have taken the hint, but he was so enjoying the company of Nicholas and Edwina, he decided to stay awhile longer.

When she’d gone, Nicholas said, “Lord, Simon, you could barely tear your eyes from her.”

“She’s very pretty, Nickie.”

“Yes, but I think our Simon is truly lost this time, Ed.”

“I like her,” Edwina said. “But she’s not your usual type, is she, Simon?”

“No,” he said, “she’s more like you.”

Edwina’s dark eyes regarded him frankly, with curiosity and affection. “Simon.”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said, “I have not been carrying that torch for ten years. But it has occurred to me this evening that I may have been deliberately falling for women who were
not
like you. Nick says I pick the wrong women, and it’s true. I’ve been easily drawn to beautiful eyes or hair or cheeks or bosoms. But they had often belonged to fresh young girls without much more to offer. Remember what we talked about earlier, Nick? The unattainable ideal?”

“Yes,” Nicholas said, “but I still don’t see it.”

“That’s because you’re too close to it,” Simon said. “You see, my unattainable ideal has always been Edwina.”

“Oh, Simon.” Edwina’s eyes grew soft and a little sad.

He smiled and reached across to touch her hand. “Don’t get all weepy on me, Ed. I meant it when I said that torch was burned out, though you know how I will always feel about you. No, what I am trying to explain—and rather badly, I daresay—is that my true ideal has always been someone
like
you. A woman of strong character and principles, even if some of those principles differ from my own. A woman of dignity and confidence and self-assurance. And yet that is not the type of woman I have been routinely falling in love with for the last ten years. Why is that?”

“Because they were all unattainable and provided fodder for your poetry?” Nicholas said.

Simon laughed. “Yes, they were indeed unattainable, for all sorts of reasons. But I think I must have known all along that none of them was within my reach. My dismal luck has never been all that tragic to me, you know. My heart was never seriously broken, only a tad bruised.”

“If I understand you, then,” Nicholas said, “your intentions have never been serious.”

“That’s right.”

“So rather than the tragic poet seeking his ideal,” Nicholas said, “you have really only been dallying, trifling, flirting, philandering—”

“Lord, Nick, you make me sound like some sort of libertine. I was never that, I assure you.” Simon
laughed at the very notion of himself as a lecherous rake. “Until now, I do not think I have been playing out the grand Romantic theme of the unattainable ideal. Though I have lost my head over a woman more times than I care to count, I do not think I was ever seriously out to win any of them. Not truly. Not deep down in the most candid corner of my heart. But it is different this time. I want Eleanor. I want her badly. And Nick, you may wipe that leering grin off your face because you know damned well I am speaking not only of physical desire, though God knows it is there in spades. I want her heart and soul as well.”

“So you believe Mrs. Tennant is the ideal you have been seeking?” Edwina asked.

“Yes, my dear, I do. I honestly believe she is the heart’s desire that has so long eluded me. There is such strength in her, Ed, a level of courage you could never imagine. She’s as hardheaded and obstinate as you can be. And almost as beautiful.”

“So you’re saying,” Nicholas said, “that this time you really
are
faced with the unattainable ideal.”

“Oh, Nickie, don’t be such a pessimist,” Edwina said. “Why should Mrs. Tennant be so unattainable? She seemed thoroughly smitten with Simon. Only think how nobly she defended him when you teased him about the fight at Buxton.”

“Dammit, but I wish I’d been there,” Nicholas said. “Both Westover brothers in action. What a sight that must have been.”

A rapping on the parlor door saved Simon from
having to cut off Nicholas so he could ask Edwina more about Eleanor’s perceived interest. The innkeeper bowed and stepped into the room.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but there be a feller here what wants to have a word with Mr. Westover. Says his name’s Hackett.”

“He’s one of our Runners,” Simon said. He stood and stretched—Lord, how long had they been sitting?—and moved toward the door. “I’d better see what news he has.”

“No need to come downstairs, sir,” the innkeeper said. “He be standing right here.”

Indeed, the stocky, bow-legged form of the Runner could be seen standing in the corridor. “Come on in, Hackett,” Simon said.

The innkeeper stepped aside to allow the Runner in. Hackett gave the man a fish-eyed look, then shut the door behind him. “Evenin’, guv’ner.” He came into the parlor, removed his hat, and looked about the room. His gaze landed on Nicholas and Edwina, and he arched a skeptical brow.

“It’s all right,” Simon said. “You may speak freely here.”

“The girl’s aunt?” Hackett asked. “She still with you?”

“Yes, but she has retired for the evening,” Simon said. “What news have you?”

Hackett rubbed the back of his neck and pulled a face. “Nothin’ good, I fear. The whole business has me fair betwaddled. The long and the short of it is, we lost ’em.”

Simon’s heart flew up into his throat. “What? How? I thought they were heading straight to Gretna by the Carlisle road.”