intention to return, ever.
Three days later I received another missile, informing me that I was behaving irrationally, and asking what I was using for money. I replied that Bedlam had not come after me yet, and I was using pounds, shillings, and pence for money. He took the gloves off in the next one and ordered me home immediately. I mentally composed half a dozen replies of cutting irony, but did not commit any of them to paper. I had decided to ignore Geoffrey Nesbitt. If any more unsolicited letters arrived, I would refuse to pay for them. Let the post office return them for all I cared.
My wrath was poured out in my diary. Here is a sample of it. You can skip over it if purple prose is not in your line. “At what point in history was it decided that females were the inferior sex? In A . D . 60 Queen Boadicea led an army against the Roman legions. Queen Elizabeth, centuries later, was still able to overcome the bias toward her sex. In two hundred years, we have sunk to mere ciphers. If I should try to gather up an army of women today, I wager I could not raise a single regiment in all the island, with Ireland thrown in. Victory must be achieved more cunningly. The pen is still mightier than the sword. We must take control of the pen.”
Yet what my pen really wanted to write was a gothic novel. My heroine, however, would be instrumental in her own salvation. That would be one little step for womankind.
Chapter Six
We had been two weeks at Lampards Street. Between the exigencies of settling into our new rooms, my writing, the flurry of correspondence from Cousin Geoffrey, and finding our way about town, we had not done much in the way of establishing ourselves socially. We passed as quite the tip of the ton at Lampards Street, where the landlady and all the other denizens treated us with a comical degree of deference. We had made a few nodding acquaintances at the Pump Room, but there were larger fields to conquer, even in Bath. By degrees, Mr. Pepper and I had coerced Annie out of any semblance of mourning. Now it was time to enter our names with the Master of Ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms, and take on a wider society. Our first venture out was to a ball at the Upper Rooms.
During the day there was a flurry of refreshing our complexions with Gowland lotion and lemon water. Our hair was tied up in rags till the curls bounced in joy. Nails were filed and buffed. Gowns were pressed and all the other attempts at elegance attended to. The turban was to be abandoned for this public appearance. Miss Nesbitt would make her bows in an elegant golden gown of corded silk, the skirt rutched up with tiny dark green satin bows.
As Bath had the reputation of a valedtudinarians’ haven, I anticipated a sedate party. Imagine my delight to see the throng of black jackets blocking the door. The heads above them were neither grizzled nor bald, but a pleasing variety of browns, blacks, and blonds. My anticipation for the evening soared as we edged our way into the room. I felt like a heifer on the sale platform, being ogled so blatantly by the mob.
“We shall just find a seat a little farther into the room,” I said over my shoulder to Annie.
We inched forward, with “Pardon me” and “Sorry” sprinkled to left and right as we progressed. There was scarcely a seat to be had, but just before we came to the highest bench, a couple vacated their chairs, and with more speed than grace we beat another pair of ladies to them. I felt rather foolish when I realized one of the ladies was elderly, and rose to offer her my seat.
She was a toplofty-looking dame with a face like a gothic painting, but she smiled with great condescension and accepted the chair. Names were soon exchanged. The lady was a true Lady, one Lady DeGrue, and the young companion was her niece, Miss Bonham. While Annie conversed with the elder, I struck up a conversation with the younger.
The ladies turned out to be regular inhabitants of Bath, and were
Three days later I received another missile, informing me that I was behaving irrationally, and asking what I was using for money. I replied that Bedlam had not come after me yet, and I was using pounds, shillings, and pence for money. He took the gloves off in the next one and ordered me home immediately. I mentally composed half a dozen replies of cutting irony, but did not commit any of them to paper. I had decided to ignore Geoffrey Nesbitt. If any more unsolicited letters arrived, I would refuse to pay for them. Let the post office return them for all I cared.
My wrath was poured out in my diary. Here is a sample of it. You can skip over it if purple prose is not in your line. “At what point in history was it decided that females were the inferior sex? In A . D . 60 Queen Boadicea led an army against the Roman legions. Queen Elizabeth, centuries later, was still able to overcome the bias toward her sex. In two hundred years, we have sunk to mere ciphers. If I should try to gather up an army of women today, I wager I could not raise a single regiment in all the island, with Ireland thrown in. Victory must be achieved more cunningly. The pen is still mightier than the sword. We must take control of the pen.”
Yet what my pen really wanted to write was a gothic novel. My heroine, however, would be instrumental in her own salvation. That would be one little step for womankind.
Chapter Six
We had been two weeks at Lampards Street. Between the exigencies of settling into our new rooms, my writing, the flurry of correspondence from Cousin Geoffrey, and finding our way about town, we had not done much in the way of establishing ourselves socially. We passed as quite the tip of the ton at Lampards Street, where the landlady and all the other denizens treated us with a comical degree of deference. We had made a few nodding acquaintances at the Pump Room, but there were larger fields to conquer, even in Bath. By degrees, Mr. Pepper and I had coerced Annie out of any semblance of mourning. Now it was time to enter our names with the Master of Ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms, and take on a wider society. Our first venture out was to a ball at the Upper Rooms.
During the day there was a flurry of refreshing our complexions with Gowland lotion and lemon water. Our hair was tied up in rags till the curls bounced in joy. Nails were filed and buffed. Gowns were pressed and all the other attempts at elegance attended to. The turban was to be abandoned for this public appearance. Miss Nesbitt would make her bows in an elegant golden gown of corded silk, the skirt rutched up with tiny dark green satin bows.
As Bath had the reputation of a valedtudinarians’ haven, I anticipated a sedate party. Imagine my delight to see the throng of black jackets blocking the door. The heads above them were neither grizzled nor bald, but a pleasing variety of browns, blacks, and blonds. My anticipation for the evening soared as we edged our way into the room. I felt like a heifer on the sale platform, being ogled so blatantly by the mob.
“We shall just find a seat a little farther into the room,” I said over my shoulder to Annie.
We inched forward, with “Pardon me” and “Sorry” sprinkled to left and right as we progressed. There was scarcely a seat to be had, but just before we came to the highest bench, a couple vacated their chairs, and with more speed than grace we beat another pair of ladies to them. I felt rather foolish when I realized one of the ladies was elderly, and rose to offer her my seat.
She was a toplofty-looking dame with a face like a gothic painting, but she smiled with great condescension and accepted the chair. Names were soon exchanged. The lady was a true Lady, one Lady DeGrue, and the young companion was her niece, Miss Bonham. While Annie conversed with the elder, I struck up a conversation with the younger.
The ladies turned out to be regular inhabitants of Bath, and were
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