Romantic Rebel by Joan Smith Page B

imbued with its restraint. Miss Bonham, who was not more than a year or two younger than myself, wore her hair parted in the center and skinned back in a tight little ball. She was quite pretty, with regular features, but very shy. Her gown rose nearly to her collarbone, and its adornments were few.
    I soon sensed that Miss Bonham was not the sort of person who would appreciate The Ladies’ Journal. She was tediously proper, and I did not mention my career. Instead, I spoke of Nesbitt Hall. Naturally my father’s recent demise was concealed. My permanent remove to Bath became a visit, and per force Annie became invalidish.
    I trusted Annie was purveying the same story to Lady DeGrue. Before long, Miss Bonham found a partner in an elderly gentleman whom she addressed as Sir Laurence. Lady DeGrue accepted the escort of Sir Laurence’s companion to the card parlor, and I finally got to sit down.
    Annie immediately leaned toward me and said, “I hope you did not tell her anything about your writing. Lady DeGrue is a mighty high stickler.”
    It was soon sorted out between us that we had both told the same lies. This settled, I was free to cast my eyes hopefully over the gentlemen. Outside of possibly seeing Lord Paton, I had not thought I would know anyone there. I could not decide whether I was happy or otherwise, when Mr. Bellows came bolting across the floor. In case your memory needs refreshing, he is Pepper’s owlish assistant, the man in charge of polishing up the prose of us writers before it appears in print.
    He was undeniably a gentleman insofar as speech and manners go, and when that is said, the list of compliments runs dry. His father was a vicar in some village in the north of England. He attended Oxford for a year, after which the money ran out and he had to take work. He was a bookish young man of twenty-two or -three years.
    Whatever Pepper paid him, it was not enough to keep up a creditable appearance. He looked and dressed like the impoverished son of a minor clergyman. He was of medium height and less than medium girth, not far from emaciated actually. His bony face, with dark eyes sunk deep into the sockets, always reminded me of a death’s skull when I met him on the stairs at Lampards Street.
    The awful idea was taking root that he mistook me for a lady of fortune, and meant to marry me. I don’t know what else could account for his fawning manner.
    “Miss Nesbitt! I have been hoping for weeks to find you here one evening,” he said in a solemn voice. “May I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
    A host of troubles rose up to attack me. I disliked to refuse outright, yet was loathe to have him set the tone for my possible partners. No doubt he was accompanied by other needy friends. I would be passed from one to the other, and kept from making more interesting acquaintances. On the other hand, I had not stood up since arriving. One was practically invisible when seated. Perhaps if I got on to the floor ...
    And then there was Annie. I could not like to leave her all alone. Just as I was turning to display my excuse for refusing, I spotted Mr. Pepper ducking forward, dodging through the crowd at top speed to claim Annie. I also noticed the upturning of her lips, the gleam in her eye.
    I said, “I would be delighted, Mr. Bellows. Thank you.”
    Pepper said a few words and then suggested taking Annie away to the card room. I cast a commanding eye on her to remain where she was, but was forestalled by Bellows.
    “Don’t worry about your charge, Miss Potter,” he said. “I shall consider it an honor to look after Miss Nesbitt.”
    There was the germ of an idea for an essay here. Why should I, at seven and twenty, require looking after, especially by an unlicked cub like Bellows?
    “We shall meet for tea,” Pepper said, and I was left stranded with Bellows.
    I took what consolation I could from escaping the card party, and went with my partner to take my place in the set. There was not going to