Chapter Twenty-seven
The faint unease that had trickled through Madeline when they’d first moved to Rose Point Park dissipated. She didn’t heed any instinct to be careful of expressing her emotions to Arthur, even when they had breakfast together, and her lady’s maid had not dressed her in the elaborate manner most associated with a marchioness. For some reason Arthur never seemed to mind if she blinked sleepily at him as she gripped her coffee.
“What are your plans for today?” Arthur asked one day.
“Besides avoiding being kidnapped?”
He grimaced. “I don’t think you should worry—”
“I don’t,” she said firmly. “I saw the admiral’s face.”
Arthur laughed.
“But I have other plans.” She inhaled. Voice wobbling was unideal when making announcements. “I am going to stop discovering books written by the late Lord Mulbourne.”
Arthur set aside his broadsheet. “Are you certain? Everyone seems to believe that you keep on finding new, perfectly written books in odd nooks from him.”
She smiled. “If you can give up your career, I can certainly do the same for mine.”
“I would never want you to do so,” Arthur said. “Though I am fully supportive.”
“I thought you would be,” Madeline said. “I don’t want to hide behind his name anymore.”
“Sweetheart,” Arthur said. “I am proud of you. People will be proud too.”
She doubted the latter, though she still appreciated his confidence in her.
Every time she attended a ball, every time she called on somebody’s house, she knew people would be thinking of her deception.
That night she sent letters to the art journals declaring that she’d been behind all of Lord Mulbourne’s criticism.
She waited for the inundation of disapproval.
She’d lied to everyone, and she deserved their disapproval. Still, she couldn’t continue her life not letting people know who she truly was. Art was important to her, and she wanted to be involved in it.
She wanted to use her own name to write articles about the art thefts that had happened in the Napoleonic Wars. Perhaps even the scandal that happened would make people talk about that cause.
The art circles were not silent.
Some art critics announced that they’d never actually found the baron’s work appealing, noting an “overly female interpretation.” They’d been wrong, they wrote, to find Lord Mulbourne’s work of much interest at all.
Others refused to believe that Madeline had indeed been writing as the baron all along. “It’s preposterous,” one art journal wrote, “and a sign of the sad state of affairs we are in now, where some women, led by people like the Duchess of Alfriston and the Duchess of Belmonte seem determined to prove their equality to that of men. They would be better served,” the newspaper continued, “to remember that such a state was impossible. A woman’s mind was simply smaller than a man’s and more prone to emotion as this gross exaggeration and disparaging of a man who cannot defend himself indicates. Never fear,” the column continued. “At least women are prettier than men, and we are content that the vast majority of our little wives have not succumbed to strange urges to do male tasks. Perhaps one day Madeline will realize that the beauty of her own appearance is more useful than any analysis of cupids painted on aged canvas or Roman vases.”
She sighed. It was worth it to reveal the truth.
Matchmaking for Wallflowers was perhaps unusually brutal in its assessment.
It is with great bafflement that London society has learned that Lady Bancroft, wife of the late Baron, Lord Mulbourne, has claimed that she authored not only the late art critic’s recently discovered work but that she has in fact authored much of the work when he was still with us.
Debates rage whether Lord Mulbourne would ever have permitted his wife to use his name in this manner, even for the supposed advancement of art criticism.
We do know that Lord Mulbourne’s name has been forever tainted, and we wonder at the motivations behind his wife.
Though Matchmaking for Wallflowers has praised Lady Bancroft’s skills at hostessing in the past, we doubt the skill of pairing wine and food together in any manner replicates the difficult work of a scholar.
Arthur pulled the magazine from Madeline’s hands and tossed it into the fire.
“You mustn’t,” Madeline said.
“I won’t have you reading anything that criticizes you.”
“Unfortunately I am sure the ton are also criticizing me. I knew they wouldn’t be happy.”
“Do you regret it?” Arthur asked.
She shook her head. She didn’t need to think. “Perhaps some women will not believe this version. Perhaps, despite any humiliation, I’ve helped them.”
“I’m certain,” Arthur said. “Will you miss it?”
“Of course.”
She would still write art theory now, but she wondered whether she could find a publication for it. Art journals had a tendency toward snobbery, and publishing a woman, when women’s writing was relegated to tawdry penny dreadful stories, seemed unlikely.
“Not all critics will dismiss you.”
She tried to laugh. “At least the number will be easy to count.”
The world belonged to men. It always had. Some men apologized for it, but they all benefited from it.
“My stepsister’s husband has a new publishing company for nonfiction books. I think you might find him less prejudiced.”
“Because he knows me?”
“Because you’re wonderful.” He shrugged. “You can always submit anonymously.”
She laughed. “Those days are over.”
He squeezed her hand and smiled, and then he leaned toward her and his lips seemed occupied with doing something quite different from smiling.
But very pleasant.
He wrapped his arms about her, and she felt safe. She’d thought her life fulfilled before, but his presence enhanced everything.
“We wasted too many years,” he murmured.
“I don’t think I could have tolerated you going away on your missions if we had been married then.”
“My darling,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would have taken you with me. The excellent thief that you are, you would have made an incredible spy.”