Seven

DEAR MR. GARDINER, this one began. A strange part of him became very aware of the salutation. Dear... Not just Mr. Gardiner, but Dear Mr. Gardiner.

You think to shock me with your forwardness and ungentlemanly conduct, but I do not frighten so easily. Indeed, I relish the opportunity to enter into frank and open discussions with a good man such as yourself, devoid of the uncomfortable and awkward restrictions of propriety and social acceptability. I promise not to reveal your secret if you do likewise with mine.

As to my circumstances, you are correct. I am of the gentry. My father was a small landowner, and I was raised a gentlewoman. He was also the finest man I shall know and indulged me greatly as a child. When my brother was at his lessons, I was fortunate to be allowed to sit in during the sessions; I believe Matthew described a similar indulgence allowed to him. Thus, we learned together. The tutor was aghast, I am certain, but my dear father paid the bills and was appeased. I learned my letters, as every young lady should, but also my maths, geography, Latin and Greek. I read poetry, which I dislike but read anyway for the edification of it, and novels, which I enjoy more than is deemed suitable for a sober woman. I read histories and plays, even the ones unsuitable for Young Ladies of Quality. I wished to be treated as my brother was, and my tutor grudgingly agreed that I was the better student.

This, I believe, is one of the oddities about my character of which Matthew spoke. I care not for convention. There! I have said it. I can behave myself and perform dutifully in society, but I far prefer just to be myself and interact as I will with whomever I will, with little or no regard to how others might regard me. Do I horrify you? If you talk to me as to a man of your acquaintance, I will happily respond in suit. I will not faint at the sound of profanities, nor will I blush and swoon at matters not deemed fit for the ears of women. I would far rather drink port and smoke cigars with the gentlemen after a meal than retire to the salon and natter on about the lace on Lady M’s chemise and the must-have colour for velvet this season.

I shall shock you further still. Not only do I prefer the real, earthy conversation of men to the fripperies of women, but I engage in a diversion not deemed suitable for young ladies. I write novels. Are you perspiring yet? Have I given you cause to lie faint upon the sofa and call for your salts? Have you summoned your man to pour you a whisky? No? Then you are a stout and hearty man to listen to my account of my inadequacies and foibles.

Yes, I am a writer. I have sent two works off to a bookseller, and at least one is being considered for publication. I know not whether I shall ever see a penny for my writing, but I revel in the knowledge that some few folk, at the least, consider my poor words worthy of being read. My erstwhile suitors have insisted that they shall forgive my past and my quirks of habit if I cease and desist in writing my little stories, but I shall never give it up, for it is something I truly love to do. Should you seek my friendship, be aware of this. You have been warned.

My other habits are quite ordinary, I suppose. I play adequately at the pianoforte, but not exceptionally, and sing a little, if the notes are not too high. I know which end of a pencil to hold when I draw, and at times a careful observer may even discern the intended subject of my art. I take pleasure in teasing out others’ foibles and I never hesitate to laugh at my own.

And that, sir, is the whole of who I am.

Now that we have disclosed the entirety of our characters to one another, there seems to be no point in furthering our correspondence, for we shall have nothing left to say. If, however, you do desire to reply, I should be very happy to receive another note from you.

Amiably yours,

Miss Grant

Edward read and reread these welcome words, smiling and chuckling as he proceeded. He sat in his comfortable chair by the fire, long past the time when he should by all rights have been abed, enjoying the impishness and candour of the writer. This young woman was bewitching him. He had never seen her, nor had he any expectation of doing so, but he found her wit exactly to his taste and her sense of humour more than pleasing. He was not a gentleman to be ashamed of a woman who wrote novels. He was a merchant, a tradesman, who must survive on his skill and wit. The lofty ideals of the social elite were nothing to him. He might converse prettily with them and do business, but their social niceties were of no concern to him.

He needed to reply, but at last his journey and the late hour got the better of him, and he resolved to sleep now and write when his affairs allowed him sufficient time. This unexpected correspondence was becoming a delight to him, and he needed to devote himself to it suitably. He went at last to his bed, composing sentences in his head that he would eventually commit to paper, and his dreams were of a faceless young woman who made him smile.

Dear Miss Grant,

I have roused myself from the sofa with my vial of smelling salts, and have summoned my man with a flagon of brandy, and thus I am composed to reply at last to your missive. Your habits and predilections are unorthodox indeed, but I cannot find fault with them. What intelligent person would not prefer a frank discussion of current political affairs to a discussion on Lady M’s lace? Perhaps your inclinations do not quite suit the notions of proper ladylike behaviour amongst the leaders of our polite society, but what of that? I have long since learned to value character and good judgement over manners, for what sort of businessman would I be if I based my enterprise merely on appearances with total disregard to integrity and worth? The greatest scoundrel may have the most polished appearance, after all, and the roughest rock to look upon may be as solid and dependable as the earth itself. Likewise, pretty decorations might disguise ill-woven cloth, but a good and sturdy bolt will last you longer and see you better clothed than a poor quality of fabric made pretty with flimsy ornamentation. If you thought to scare me off with your confession, I fear you are mistaken.

Indeed, you remind me somewhat of my young niece, Elizabeth. She too is a fierce individual and drives her mother (my sister) to distraction with her refusals to conform to said good woman’s notions of ladylike deportment. Elizabeth is more often found in her father’s library reading than in the salon sewing, and might have the makings of a writer too, should her father ever consider the notion of allowing her an education. Although I am well aware that I do not know you, and I shudder at my effrontery for even imagining such a thing, but I imagine you and she might rub along together quite nicely, for all that she is only nine years of age. One day, perhaps Miss Grant, should our paths ever cross in the flesh, you might allow me to make an introduction to my dear niece.

As we are approaching the Christmas season, I believe I will soon be seeing my sweet little Lizzy, as we are all invited to her family’s home for the celebration. May I bore you with mundane details of my life? I shall accept your silence as an approval and shall proceed accordingly. My older sisters both live in a town of no great name in Hertfordshire, not too far from London. The older of the two married an attorney from that town, Mr. Phillips by name. He is a solid, if unremarkable sort of man, and he puts up well with my sister’s frivolous nature. The younger of my two sisters (still some years older than myself) was a very pretty girl, as my friends would remind me once and again. She is pleasant enough in nature too, but tends to silliness. Her sweet smiles and lovely face, however, recommended her to many a man who was happy to ignore her empty giggles. Whilst spending a summer with Mrs. Phillips one year, this sister met and soon wed a small landowner from that same area. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet now have five healthy daughters, the youngest of whom is four years of age. They are ever hoping for a son, but I do suspect their dreams shall not be realized.

As mentioned above, my sisters are both silly, albeit good-hearted creatures, and would be very glad for an afternoon’s discussion of Lady M’s lace. You will please forgive them for their inadequacies of brain. My brothers-in-law, however, are sensible men, and Mr. Bennet in particular would be pleased to enter into a long and detailed discussion on the revolutionary tendencies of France, the current state of our Navy, and whether an established trade with the former colonies in America is to our benefit or detriment. I believe he speaks Latin as well. That should be an interesting, if unintelligible, conversation upon which to eavesdrop.

And yes, young Lizzy is my favourite. May I say that? An uncle is supposed to dote equally on all his siblings’ offspring. Her older sister is a lovely girl, and the younger ones are too small to really know. But my Lizzy has something special, I feel. She will forge her way to a brilliant future, even if only in the selection of a remarkable man for a husband. The ordinary shall never suffice for her.

There, I have bored you long enough with my rambles about my relations. What of yours? You have a brother, whom you have mentioned. Who else has the inestimable joy of being related to the fascinating Miss Grant? I yearn to hear more!

Most truly,

E. G.

And thus their correspondence, so strangely begun, continued. At times they wrote about themselves, at others about books or music, and at others still about world affairs. Not once did they mention Lady M’s lace in any manner other than ironic, and over the course of several exchanges, they found their friendship growing solid.

Edward, never a man to hold secrets close to his chest, spoke of this unusual relationship over coffee with an old and intimate friend. Frederick Dyson was a jovial chap, whose father had been an early partner with Old Mr. Gardiner, and who had made his fortune in tea and spices from India. He was a pleasant-faced man, taller than average, and neither too thin nor too stout. He fancied himself a bit of a dandy, taking full advantage of the fine fabrics at the Gardiner warehouse to clothe himself most fashionably, and could often be found perusing his sister’s fashion plates and commenting extensively on the sartorial choices of the upper classes. If not, perhaps, the very smartest of men, Frederick’s good sense, unfailing good humour and deep insight into his fellow men had made him a favourite with many. Edward was proud to call him a friend.

“And that,” sighed Edward as he passed along the cigar box, “is the current state of things. She writes, I write, she writes back, and if I didn’t know myself better, I would say I am besotted with a phantom!” He laughed at himself.

Frederick sat back in the chair by the fire and smiled in return. “Perhaps it is unwise to become besotted with a creature you know only from letters, but there is precedent for forming a deep friendship in this manner. You say she is intelligent, witty, and sound in her principles. She sounds much too profound for the likes of me, but here, old friend, I give you leave to like her.”

“Then like her I will!” Edward raised his coffee cup in a mock toast, “To Miss Grant, whoever she may be.”

“In truth, though, Frederick, I should very much like to meet her. But Miss Grant... how many young women must there be of that name in so large a place as Derbyshire? That assumes that she is still in her ancestral home, and that she even uses her true name. She speaks so little of her actual circumstances, I hardly know how to separate fact from supposition. I know her father is dead, but little more. Her uncle, I believe, now has the run of the estate, but what of her brother? Why is he not the current master? Is he too young? Is he away? There are so many questions.”

“As little as she possibly can and in truth, I have asked little as well. I suspect the uncle is not aware of our correspondence, and would forbid it if he were. How much power his censure would have on Miss Grant I don’t know, but I would not wish her to find herself in trouble. I also suspect the uncle is less amiable than the late father. She speaks so lovingly of her father. Matthew seems to have loved him as well. He must have been a first rate sort of a man.”

“So you do not even know if Miss Grant is still at home? Could she have found a situation somewhere? A governess, perhaps, or a teacher in a parish school?”

“To be honest, Frederick, I do not know. How I wish I did. I should dearly love to find this creature and see her with my eyes, rather than my imagination.”

“Then let us toast again, Edward: To Miss Grant, may she soon be amongst our company.”