Page 5 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
The Woman’s Word was one of the foremost collectives of feminine power in the literary world, one she had always aspired to join. To have been accepted…
“Maybe I ought to join you this evening,” Spencer mused aloud. “Instead of whatever nonsense musical our dearest aunt is dragging me to. I dare say a collective of all women will have need of my presence…”
“Thank you,” Imelda said primly, “but no thank you.”
“It’s not a musical, Spencer,” Lady Merrit sighed for what had to be the eighteenth time. “It’s a musicalperformance. A social gathering. The Thiebalds have so graciously invited us.”
“To listen to their youngest two daughters who can’t string a violin,” Spencer grumbled.
Imelda tried not to laugh. She had been delighted with the change in her plans. As much as Spencer complained about social engagements, he wasn’twrongin his summarization of the Thibealds’ talents.
“As opposed to listening to short stories and the like that have recently been published,” Imelda reminded him.
“One of them at least is sure to be good,” Spencer shrugged. “I do like the one that they chose to publish of yours this week. Especially the bit about the bosomy lady.”
“There is no bosomy lady.” Imelda dug her elbow into his side as she spoke. “Only bosomfriends,remember? Do you even read what I send you, or do you just skim the pages?”
Spencer grinned unapologetically, his dimples carving out caverns on either side of his face as the carriage slowed to a stop. “It depends,” he teased, “on what my week holds and just how bored I am.”
“Stop teasing your sister.” Sir John chuckled as the sound of the footman scurrying about carried through the walls of the carriage. “This is her stop. You’re sure you’re happy to go on your own?”
“She won’t be on her own, Lydia promised she would look out for her tonight,” Lady Merrit cut in, winking at Imelda again.
Lady Lydia de Trafford, Countess of Waddeson was a bosom friend of hers and one that Imelda had only very briefly been introduced to upon her arrival a few days before. All she could really remember of the woman was her shocking silver hair and the fact that she was the hostess of the literary salon: The Woman’s Word.
“I’ll be fine,” Imelda assured the both of them with a smile.With or without Lady Waddeson.“I’ll enjoy my words being discussed much more than listening to any musical stylings by the Thiebald sisters.” She couldn’t resist the last jab at her twin as the carriage door opened, and the footman appeared to help her step down.
Spencer groaned, but her aunt and uncle laughed as they waved her off, Spencer’s grumbling the backdrop to it all as she stepped off the step and down onto the driveway of what had to be the largest house she had ever stood in front of in London.
“Oh, my.”
She joined the queue of women bustling from the drive into the house, her eyes roving over the expansive estate—or at least as much of it as she could see from the front door—and all of the yellow lilies that were placed decoratively about the entryway as she was ushered in.
“Miss Merrit!”
From the familiar chatter of her family into the parlor of a home she had never visited, the gentle hum of laughter and conversation filling it even as Imelda fought to see every aspect of it at once. Imelda had no problem socializing, she enjoyed it, really—but her name being called out like it was still served as a shock, her eyes widening slightly as she spun on her heel to face the one calling her.
“Lady Waddeson,” Imelda greeted back as she caught sight of the only semi-familiar woman with silver hair.
Lady Waddeson, upon closer inspection, should have been far more memorable.
She was a tall woman, five foot eight or nine at the very least, with her hair so silver it defied her barely creased skin and still-young brown eyes. Her hair was piled fashionably on her head, and the green dress that she wore had been obviously and expensively tailored just to her frame that it was impossible to miss the money behind it.
“I was so glad to hear that you were joining us tonight,” Lady Waddeson grinned as she pulled Imelda into the small group that she stood amongst. “I told your aunt we would be overjoyed—that I would be overjoyed. Come and meet my daughter, Lady Charlotte—and our dear friend Miss Tuberville. She’s also an aspiring writer. Girls, I’d like you to meet Lady Merrit, although tonight, we might be more comfortable referring to her as Ellar Dance.”
Lady Charlotte looked much like her mother, though a fairer and more slender version. Her brown eyes lacked the same confidence, though they made up for it with a warmth and kindness that couldn’t be missed. Miss Tuberville looked equally friendly, though somewhat less finely dressed than the two women that she stood with.
“Ellar Dance!” Lady Charlotte exclaimed excitedly. “Not the Ellar Dance who wroteWith Changing Winds!”
Imelda’s chest tightened, her whole face warming as she nodded. Despite her embarrassment, she could feel her lips twitching, the reminder of her accomplishment warming her in a way that little else could.
“I enjoyed that story immensely,” Miss Tuberville said softly. “Especially the parallels between Caroline and Sarah, it was very finely crafted, Miss Merrit. I’ve seen quite a bit of praise in the papers for it already.”
Imelda’s eyebrows rose slightly as she looked down at the bundled papers that Miss Tuberville held, her surprise genuine.
“I’ll confess I haven’t read the critique on it yet,” she admitted softly. “I was hoping to wait until tonight…”
Musical chimes cut off whatever else she might have said after trailing off, Lady Waddeson’s eyes brightening as she clapped her hands together. “That is just the time for it!” she encouraged happily. “Although, before duty calls, I would like to extend a dinner invitation to you for later this week, Miss Merrit. And I won’t hear no for an answer. However, that is the sound of duty calling. I need to get this meeting started, if the three of you will excuse me.”
