Read Online The Lady of Bolton Hill by Elizabeth Camden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Camden
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“That really takes some doing, Clara.”
She flashed him a grin. “What good adventure story doesn’t have a stint in prison?” How odd that only this morning she had still been mourning the demise of her career in London, but somehow when she was sitting with Daniel Tremain, it no longer seemed so tragic.
“No sidestepping. Tell me how it happened,” Daniel prodded.
She traced her fingernail along the moss that grew on the wall while she struggled to find the words. “When I went to London, I thought I might publish poems or essays, like Margaret Fuller or Henry David Thoreau. But everything I was writing seemed so pale and vapid. Then I met a doctor who was treating children who had been injured in the coal mines.” Daniel listened intently as she recounted the next few years, how she had to earn the coal workers’ trust, watch the children entering and leaving the mines. “I never intended to write those sorts of explosive articles, but once I knew what was happening, I could not keep silent. As soon as I became a journalist I felt as though the pieces had clicked into place. I was good at it, and I believed I was making use of the talents God intended for me to use. Of course that didn’t stop me from making a complete and total disaster of everything.”
Daniel lifted an eyebrow and slanted her one of those curious half-grinning, half-reproving looks. “Clara, I hope you aren’t going to subject me to one of your blistering rounds of insecurity. After all these years, has nothing changed?”
“Not really,” she confessed. And there under the shade of the sycamore tree, Clara poured out all the anxieties and regrets of her final year in London. To whom other than Daniel could she speak so freely? During her years in London she had fabricated an image of sophisticated self-confidence that fooled most people, but Daniel had known her when she was a raw, awkward teenager without artifice. Twelve years had passed, and by all rights he should be a stranger to her, yet he was a familiar stranger with whom she felt absolutely safe sharing her terrible failings as a journalist. Pouring out her shortcomings was like ridding herself of a pestilence that had been weighing her down for months.
Through it all, Daniel listened to her without comment or condemnation. He merely watched her with that speculative, captivating gaze that made her feel she was the object of his complete and total attention. After she had finally cataloged her every fault, Daniel posed the oddest of questions.
“Clara, give me the name of one other woman in the English-speaking world who has done more than you to end the scourge of child labor.”
The question took her aback. She was but one small foot soldier among thousands who had been working toward this cause. “Well, there is Thomas Gilbert, for one. And Henry Mayhew has done extraordinary—”
Daniel interrupted her. “I said name one woman . Your gender puts you at a distinct disadvantage, and I don’t enjoy watching you pummel yourself into despondency over your perceived inadequacies. You are a woman of extraordinary accomplishment, and I hope you intend to continue your publishing here in America.”
How odd, the way Daniel’s words seemed to inject a surge of confidence straight into her bloodstream. Whenever she was with him she always felt as if she could dream bigger, see farther. A smile broke across her face. “I hope so,” she said. “Learning about the world around me and publishing my work has been the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done. I still like to play the piano—I still love playing the piano—but I don’t compose anymore.”
“Is that why you never sent me drafts of the duet we were working on?” Daniel asked.
The phrase hung in the air, and Clara had to process it several times to be sure she heard him correctly, but there was no mistaking the look on his face: curiosity blended with the hint of an old wound. He masked it quickly, but
She flashed him a grin. “What good adventure story doesn’t have a stint in prison?” How odd that only this morning she had still been mourning the demise of her career in London, but somehow when she was sitting with Daniel Tremain, it no longer seemed so tragic.
“No sidestepping. Tell me how it happened,” Daniel prodded.
She traced her fingernail along the moss that grew on the wall while she struggled to find the words. “When I went to London, I thought I might publish poems or essays, like Margaret Fuller or Henry David Thoreau. But everything I was writing seemed so pale and vapid. Then I met a doctor who was treating children who had been injured in the coal mines.” Daniel listened intently as she recounted the next few years, how she had to earn the coal workers’ trust, watch the children entering and leaving the mines. “I never intended to write those sorts of explosive articles, but once I knew what was happening, I could not keep silent. As soon as I became a journalist I felt as though the pieces had clicked into place. I was good at it, and I believed I was making use of the talents God intended for me to use. Of course that didn’t stop me from making a complete and total disaster of everything.”
Daniel lifted an eyebrow and slanted her one of those curious half-grinning, half-reproving looks. “Clara, I hope you aren’t going to subject me to one of your blistering rounds of insecurity. After all these years, has nothing changed?”
“Not really,” she confessed. And there under the shade of the sycamore tree, Clara poured out all the anxieties and regrets of her final year in London. To whom other than Daniel could she speak so freely? During her years in London she had fabricated an image of sophisticated self-confidence that fooled most people, but Daniel had known her when she was a raw, awkward teenager without artifice. Twelve years had passed, and by all rights he should be a stranger to her, yet he was a familiar stranger with whom she felt absolutely safe sharing her terrible failings as a journalist. Pouring out her shortcomings was like ridding herself of a pestilence that had been weighing her down for months.
Through it all, Daniel listened to her without comment or condemnation. He merely watched her with that speculative, captivating gaze that made her feel she was the object of his complete and total attention. After she had finally cataloged her every fault, Daniel posed the oddest of questions.
“Clara, give me the name of one other woman in the English-speaking world who has done more than you to end the scourge of child labor.”
The question took her aback. She was but one small foot soldier among thousands who had been working toward this cause. “Well, there is Thomas Gilbert, for one. And Henry Mayhew has done extraordinary—”
Daniel interrupted her. “I said name one woman . Your gender puts you at a distinct disadvantage, and I don’t enjoy watching you pummel yourself into despondency over your perceived inadequacies. You are a woman of extraordinary accomplishment, and I hope you intend to continue your publishing here in America.”
How odd, the way Daniel’s words seemed to inject a surge of confidence straight into her bloodstream. Whenever she was with him she always felt as if she could dream bigger, see farther. A smile broke across her face. “I hope so,” she said. “Learning about the world around me and publishing my work has been the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done. I still like to play the piano—I still love playing the piano—but I don’t compose anymore.”
“Is that why you never sent me drafts of the duet we were working on?” Daniel asked.
The phrase hung in the air, and Clara had to process it several times to be sure she heard him correctly, but there was no mistaking the look on his face: curiosity blended with the hint of an old wound. He masked it quickly, but
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