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Authors: Kate Moore
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grinned in return. Poor Mrs. Pendares struggled constantly to hold onto her duties in the face of the two Grays, who besides being very self-sufficient, were fond of their widowed housekeeper. Indeed, Ophelia saw with sudden insight that Solomon and Mrs. Pendares felt rather more than fondness for each other. Their glances met and danced away, and Mrs. Pendares's cheeks brightened. It was so like the way Alexander moved in relation to Ophelia that unaccountably she felt her color rise and caught Hetty's intelligent gaze on her.
" Good morning, Mrs. Pendares," she said.
" Good morning, dear. It's good to have you back at the Gray table. My biscuits have been ignored this week."
" Outright slander!" Solomon set the tray on the table and lifted a biscuit, taking a defiant bite. Mrs. Pendares laughed and retreated, and Hetty invited Ophelia to pour herself some coffee, dark and rich in a perfect white china rim, one of the ceremonies of their friendship.
" Tell me what's new," Ophelia said.
Hetty cast a glance at her father. " Father has a poem for you to look at, and so do I. And we had a noted personage join us for Tuesday night supper. Amelia Hart."
" The novelist? "
Hetty nodded, and Solomon disappeared behind his paper.
"Is she as radical as we've always heard?" Ophelia broke open one of the biscuits and reached for the preserves.
"More so. Sensual, charming, daring." Hetty paused, her face taking on a careful air. "It's a performance, but an engaging one. Forthright, fierce, very sure of herself, but surprisingly conventional in dress and appearance, a classic oval face, large blue eyes, delicate features, not what I expected."
"And did she speak well?"
Hetty's gaze strayed to her father behind his newspaper and returned. "Oh, yes. A great deal about what is permitted a woman in this world. She firmly believes women are allowed to exercise power only by guile or charm, never by right."
"My life precisely. Did any gentlemen challenge her?"
"Berwick." Hetty made a face.
Ophelia watched her friend closely. Hetty had been talking about Berwick for weeks. "I suppose Mrs. Hart ate him alive."
"Yes. He mentioned that Princess Charlotte would someday rule vast numbers of men as queen, but Mrs. Hart was quick to remind him of the likelihood that Charlotte, if she does rule, will be governed first by her own sober husband."
"She calls herself 'Mrs.'?"
"She says she's as entitled to it as any widow, having once bound herself to a man. I can tell you, she stirred up discussion all night."
Solomon put down his paper abruptly and stood. "Work to do. I'll leave you girls to your talk." He turned at the door. "Miss Ophelia, Berwick, who fancies himself the next Byron, has offered me a new poem. Take a look, will you?"
"Of course, Mr. Gray." Ophelia smiled. Just like that she had a commission. Her opinion mattered in the Grays' house as it never did in her own.
When the door closed behind Solomon, Ophelia turned to Hetty. "I take it your father doesn't admire Mrs. Hart as much as you do."
Hetty frowned, a little white crease between her brows. "He's published all her books, but they always fight about the money. She refused to call here before now."
Ophelia spread jam on her biscuit. Solomon Gray was a self -made man, with an entirely un- aristocratic air of confidence, the air of a man who'd achieved something, the sort of air Wellington had. To see him shrink from girlish talk was curious.
"You think your father's dislike of Mrs. Hart is something besides the money?"
Hetty poured fresh coffee. "I suppose he finds her fame irksome. We live far from your sort of society, Ophelia. One doesn't meet luminaries in Hetty Gray's drawing room."
Ophelia pondered it. The Grays did live in obscurity, though Solomon's success as a publisher was equal to that of John Murray, who published Byron. There were far more literary addresses in London, and the Grays could easily afford a grander style of living in one of the newer
" Good morning, Mrs. Pendares," she said.
" Good morning, dear. It's good to have you back at the Gray table. My biscuits have been ignored this week."
" Outright slander!" Solomon set the tray on the table and lifted a biscuit, taking a defiant bite. Mrs. Pendares laughed and retreated, and Hetty invited Ophelia to pour herself some coffee, dark and rich in a perfect white china rim, one of the ceremonies of their friendship.
" Tell me what's new," Ophelia said.
Hetty cast a glance at her father. " Father has a poem for you to look at, and so do I. And we had a noted personage join us for Tuesday night supper. Amelia Hart."
" The novelist? "
Hetty nodded, and Solomon disappeared behind his paper.
"Is she as radical as we've always heard?" Ophelia broke open one of the biscuits and reached for the preserves.
"More so. Sensual, charming, daring." Hetty paused, her face taking on a careful air. "It's a performance, but an engaging one. Forthright, fierce, very sure of herself, but surprisingly conventional in dress and appearance, a classic oval face, large blue eyes, delicate features, not what I expected."
"And did she speak well?"
Hetty's gaze strayed to her father behind his newspaper and returned. "Oh, yes. A great deal about what is permitted a woman in this world. She firmly believes women are allowed to exercise power only by guile or charm, never by right."
"My life precisely. Did any gentlemen challenge her?"
"Berwick." Hetty made a face.
Ophelia watched her friend closely. Hetty had been talking about Berwick for weeks. "I suppose Mrs. Hart ate him alive."
"Yes. He mentioned that Princess Charlotte would someday rule vast numbers of men as queen, but Mrs. Hart was quick to remind him of the likelihood that Charlotte, if she does rule, will be governed first by her own sober husband."
"She calls herself 'Mrs.'?"
"She says she's as entitled to it as any widow, having once bound herself to a man. I can tell you, she stirred up discussion all night."
Solomon put down his paper abruptly and stood. "Work to do. I'll leave you girls to your talk." He turned at the door. "Miss Ophelia, Berwick, who fancies himself the next Byron, has offered me a new poem. Take a look, will you?"
"Of course, Mr. Gray." Ophelia smiled. Just like that she had a commission. Her opinion mattered in the Grays' house as it never did in her own.
When the door closed behind Solomon, Ophelia turned to Hetty. "I take it your father doesn't admire Mrs. Hart as much as you do."
Hetty frowned, a little white crease between her brows. "He's published all her books, but they always fight about the money. She refused to call here before now."
Ophelia spread jam on her biscuit. Solomon Gray was a self -made man, with an entirely un- aristocratic air of confidence, the air of a man who'd achieved something, the sort of air Wellington had. To see him shrink from girlish talk was curious.
"You think your father's dislike of Mrs. Hart is something besides the money?"
Hetty poured fresh coffee. "I suppose he finds her fame irksome. We live far from your sort of society, Ophelia. One doesn't meet luminaries in Hetty Gray's drawing room."
Ophelia pondered it. The Grays did live in obscurity, though Solomon's success as a publisher was equal to that of John Murray, who published Byron. There were far more literary addresses in London, and the Grays could easily afford a grander style of living in one of the newer
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