Love and Scandal, page 24
Philoxia lifted her dark veil only when she was securely in the Evans/Lewes home, rented rooms near Richmond Park. The little maid who had shown her in to the sitting room, a cozy room with a table by the window and a sitting area near the fire, retreated and closed the door. “Collette Jardiniere, I cannot remember when I have been so angry,” she declared with blistering heat, stripping off her gloves and throwing them down on a table.
Collette, who had leaped up from her seat at the table—she had been writing, and paper was strewn in front of her—was about to take her good friend’s hand, but stopped. “Loxy, what’s wrong?”
“What is wrong is that you would go to complete strangers to stay, and not come to me!”
Divided between concern and pique, Collette chose her words carefully. “You made your feelings on reputation clear. I feared exposing you to unkind report. Just look at how you come here, veiled as if entering a house of ill repute!” She glanced around, glad that Marian had had the tact to withdraw.
Discomfited, Philoxia shrugged. “I do not know Miss Evans and am only slightly acquainted with Mr. Lewes. For their sakes I would risk nothing.” Her expression changed, and she held out her hands. “But for yours…for you I would risk anything, and I should think you would know that!”
“I would not have you suffer on my account,” Collette said gently, taking her outstretched hands and squeezing them. She was touched Philoxia had responded to her brief note with a personal visit. She had underestimated the value of this woman before her, and she was deeply sorry.
Philoxia compressed her lips but nodded, releasing Collette’s hands. “I think there is more to this than meets the eye. Why is Charles Jameson so intent on finding you, too? Do not think to fob me off with easy explanation, for I intend to know all.”
Collette sighed. Perhaps it was time to tell Loxy her story, given how patient she had been and how helpful. It wouldn’t upset her that Collette was a novelist, but it likely would hurt her that she had not been trusted with the knowledge. It was a long story, so Collette indicated a chair. Philoxia glanced around uneasily, but then unbent enough to relax into a shabby easy chair by the table. How much should she tell, though? Should she share her intimate connection to Jameson? Or would it only upset Loxy and to no good effect? She would have to decide as she began her tale.
“I must tell you, I am a novelist.”
Philoxia raised a polite eyebrow. “That is not news to me, dear.”
At first Collette felt a jolt, that somehow Philoxia had known all along about Last Days, but in a second she understood her friend merely meant it was no surprise that she was a writer. Collette locked her hands in front of her on the table to keep from twisting them together, so much did her nerves rattle her. “I wrote The Last Days of a Rake.”
The other eyebrow rose to meet its mate. “You are Colin Jenkins?”
“I am.”
“Not Charles Jameson, but you?”
“Yes, me!” Collette said, beginning to get testy. If her own friend would not believe her, then how could she hope to convince others?
Philoxia, looking a little dazed, said, “Tell me all, Collette, make me understand.”
And so she did, from beginning to the present, and when Collette was done, her friend sat for a long moment, digesting the news. She stared off toward the mantle, where a German clock ticked away the minutes.
“I must tell you, Collette, my dear,” she finally said, “that every literary hostess has been wild to find you and be the first to fete you, you know. I among them. It is the only reason I invite Jameson to every soirée. I truly believed he was Jenkins, as did most of London.”
Collette said, fury tightening her voice, “He is the sole reason I am here in London. If he had not said what he did to that reporter, Randall Proctor, this whole mess would not have happened.”
Marian came into the room at that moment. “I would not interrupt you, my dear,” she said to Collette, with just a slight nod to Philoxia. “But there is someone else to see you.” There was an expression of distaste on her mild features.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Charles Jameson.”
Anger—never far away when she thought of Jameson—flickered to life in Collette’s heart. If he had not abandoned her, leaving town when she needed him most, she would have spoken to him, but now he had given her no reason to ever see him again. “Would you tell Mr. Jameson that we have nothing to discuss, and that I do not wish to see him. Ever.” She relented after a moment and called her new friend back, rising from her chair. “Oh, Marian, I cannot have you do my nasty tasks for me. I should tell him that myself.”
A look of mischief lit the other woman’s face. “Oh, no, let me, please!” she said, stopping Collette with one outstretched hand. “Mr. Jameson has been rude to me on occasion. He questioned my right, as a woman and therefore an intellectual inferior, to chair a literary meeting. I think I should like the opportunity to deny him something he seems to want so very much.” She left, humming a little tune.
“Was that wise, dear?” Philoxia asked. “Will you not need his cooperation to battle this unfair campaign?”
“I will do things for myself, Loxy. I will tell you what Marian, George and I have planned. And what else I have in mind.”
Twenty
Smarting from Marian Evans’s refusal to allow him access to Collette, Jameson stalked to his club that night more out of restlessness than a want for any companionship. He threw himself into a chair and nodded when a waiter offered him brandy. He had not been bored, he realized, since Collette had come to London, and he didn’t know what to do with himself. None of the usual remedies appealed. Women? He could not think of a single one who could hold a candle in wit to Collette. How could she reject him, and in such a smartly worded rejection, too? It was beyond believing that a little Kentish spinster would hold him at bay, as if he were beneath contempt.
He would put her out of his mind. He would simply forget her and go on with his life of pleasure, a life that had been pleasant enough before a late night encounter on the train from Kent made it seem drab and uninteresting. He tossed back the brandy and set the glass down with a bang on the polished table beside his chair.
How was he going to forget her, when she had become a part of his thoughts? He realized with a start that Collette’s slender figure and passionate abandon had become an obsession with him. Beyond their sexual consonance, other moments spent talking and laughing, arguing even, came back to him constantly. He missed her. Marriage, even, had lost much of its terror, when he thought he could marry her.
He could drink more. That would certainly result in forgetfulness of a sort, but it did not appeal. Gambling? He eyed the door to the card room, a hum of voices coming from it like the sound of bees in a hive. Gentleman of all ages lounged near the door watching with avid, fevered gazes, looking for a likely table at which to try their luck. But gambling struck him for the first time as a horrific waste of money, when he could just as easily use that money—
He stopped, riveted in his chair by a strange and wonderful idea. A marvelous idea. A miraculous idea! Money. He had pots of it and accumulated more every day. He actually gave away a fair amount, more than he let on to any of his friends. He supported the charities his mother had held dear, as a way of honoring her memory. And his own philanthropies ran to education for the poor and housing for the elderly. He told no one because he could not bear to be thought altruistic. Excessive gratitude made him queasy.
But how about using his money for something he would enjoy, something that would help people and perhaps even make more money? He straightened in his chair and tapped his fingers on the low table in front of him.
He loved books, but he was no writer. And yet he recognized good writing when he read it. He could publish the kind of books he looked for and so seldom found, the work of worthy young writers with the kind of potential Collette showed. It would give him something to do, something about which he could become passionate. It might save him from the interminable boredom he suffered whenever not near Collette, and if it didn’t help him forget her, then it would at least make some use of the time he would otherwise spend brooding. He waved down another servant, demanded some paper, pens and ink, and eagerly fell to work at the table in front of him.
“‘It is regrettable that certain journals and gazettes in this great city must stoop so low as to commit libel to sell papers.’ Ha!” Collette laid down The Westminster Review’s condemnation of Wilson’s Gazette’s spurious search for the author of Last Days and their scandalous gossip campaign, and clapped her hands together. “George, Marian, it is marvelous! I am so grateful to you both, and doubly grateful it was not too late to put this in this issue.”
Marian yawned and leaned her head on George’s shoulder. “Well, it took some midnight work to word it just right, but with your help we got it done.”
Shamefaced, Collette admitted, “You know, there is quite a bit of truth in the allegations in Wilson’s Gazette concerning my relationship with Charles Jameson.”
“I know,” Marian said with a gentle smile, rubbing her lover’s arm. “But they did not need to make such suggestions. It is the condemnation of the woman in such a relationship of which we disapprove. Why should you be condemned and he lauded?” Raising one brow, she continued, “I will not say a word about your dubious taste in gentlemen. For the purposes of our campaign, we will whitewash a little what has been painted so black. I only wish we could reveal all of the truth. You should be praised for your accomplishment in writing such a notable book.”
“Even if the characters are a little weak and the reformation implausible?” Collette grinned.
“Shame on you, taking us at our word like that. No work is perfect, as my own articles attest.”
Collette’s grin disappeared. “Marian,” she said earnestly. “I aspire to better myself as a writer. I begin to see I have only just begun to grasp the true splendor of the craft. Last Days fell far short of what I wanted to say.” She shook her head. “I can see the subject matter was sensational, and so it garnered attention…undeserved, much of it. I vow I’ll someday write a book I can be proud of, and yet one that will still entertain and tell a good yarn.” She paused and gazed at her new friend steadily. “But Marian, your work is so far superior to mine! It’s the most lucid, cogent writing I have ever read. If only you put your talent to use writing novels, I think you would eclipse every novelist, female or male, since Miss Austen.”
“Hear, hear,” George said. “I heartily second that.”
Marian colored a bright pink.
“You must try your hand at a novel.” Collette picked up the paper again. “My only complaint with this article is that you did not blacken Mr. Jameson’s name at all! I so wished to see him humiliated.”
“Would you really like that?” Marian asked with a speculative look.
“He deserves whatever he gets,” Collette said. “If he had corrected the mistake immediately, none of this would have happened.”
“To be fair,” Marian said, “We have not given him the opportunity to respond.”
“He had ample opportunity and frittered it away,” Collette replied.
George frowned. “We must be responsible in our reportage, and restrained, or we are no better than that fellow at the Gazette. What is his name? Randall Proctor?”
“Imagine him being the one who writes the gossip column after all,” Marian said, deflecting the threatened disagreement effortlessly with a change of subject. “It had been hinted that the columnist was a society hostess, and that is how the gossip is gleaned. Opinion has been shifting as to which lady it was, but my informant is quite sure it is Randall Proctor behind it after all. Oh, if we could only come right out and say it is this fellow!”
“Why should you not?” Collette asked.
George and Marian exchanged glances.
“Unwritten rules,” Marian said with a shrug. “Articles, reviews, columns… Most are written anonymously, and that suits those of us who are no longer… Well, you know how it is for us. We are personae non gratae, you might say.”
Repentant, Collette laid her hands over her friends’. “I am sorry. I would do nothing to disrupt your lives. You know that.”
Marian laughed, but there was an edge of relief in her laughter. “Good! We are an impecunious lot at the moment, you know, and must work hard to maintain the flow of pounds and pence into the coffers.”
And she did know, Collette thought. Over the last few days she had, in the close confines of their Richmond Park rooms, learned much about her new friends. George manfully provided for his wife, from whom he was separated, and their children; so far that seemed commendable.
But as strange as it seemed, he also provided monetary support for her children by her lover, Thornton Leigh! Very odd, but so very George. Despite what she would normally think about a man who abandoned his wife to live with another woman, he was, in truth, the soul of honor. Collette understood more each day how Marian felt about him. But the end result of this scramble to support his family was that to Marian was left a great deal of the task of providing for their own modest wants.
She did it gladly, Collette knew, but it was a struggle. She must not burden them with her presence too much longer. Her bank draft had arrived, and she had insisted upon putting some money toward food and coal, but still, she was a third person in a crowded household. What would she do? Would the articles be enough to release her from the prison of unfounded gossip? And what should she do about Last Days? If she admitted her authorship of a book many considered scandalous, she would be placing herself right back in that purgatory of gossip and innuendo.
Did she really care anymore what people thought of her?
As George and Marian talked in soft undertones about an article they were collaborating on, Collette examined the thought that had been teasing her mind the last few days. The underlying message in her novel was that one must be true to oneself. Had she been? Or by fearfully disowning her work was she only mouthing convictions by which she was not prepared to live?
She had before her, in the persons of her new friends, an example of people willing to be true to themselves. They had given up the esteem of friends and family and the approval of society to follow their hearts and souls. Could she do likewise? Did she dare to live and do as she wanted, without worrying that others would be offended?
Her heart thudded as she pondered the freedom that lay just outside the open cage door. Did she dare step out and fly?
A war of words had erupted between the esteemed Westminster Review and the rag sheet, Wilson’s Gazette. And now it had gone beyond any ability of Jameson’s to repair, for the Gazette, stung by the Review’s criticism of their allegedly unfounded gossip, had come right out and boldly named Collette Jardiniere as his mistress.
He groaned and threw down the paper, jamming his fingers through his thick hair in an uncharacteristically inelegant movement. Of all the damned messes he had ever been in, he had never been accused of being a novelist! And he had never ever been accused of being lover to a lady of previously impeccable reputation. What was he going to do? He had hoped to be able to correct this debacle before it blew out of proportion, but it appeared he was too late. His indecisiveness was to blame, and his own blasted pride and arrogance. It had degenerated into a war of words between two papers, with Collette in the center, volleyed like a shuttlecock.
He ground his teeth and pulled at his mustache, thinking perhaps Collette Jardiniere had been right to send him away. What had he ever done but complicate her life? Now that he had lost them, he coveted her esteem and goodwill more than ever. From their first meeting he had been aware of something different about her, something that lured him and teased him, attracting him against his own intentions and reason.
And now that he acknowledged that Last Days was her work, completely and unequivocally, he had to admit it was not just her vivacity and country freshness that pulled him to her, nor was it solely the yearning he had for her body melding with his. She was intelligent, witty, more so than most men he knew. And if that was true of her, had he misjudged other women? Was she not an aberration but an exemplar of her sex?
There was Marian Evans, the young woman who had repeatedly irritated him with her outré opinions and intellectual pretensions. Though he had passed these off as the parroting of her lover’s thoughts, he now remembered things she had said, opinions she had stated, that had been at complete variance with George Lewes’s expressed ideas, and yet were so well formulated and coherently expressed that he rather began to suspect she was the more intelligent half of that very odd couple.
Philoxia Bertrand he had damned as a literary hanger-on, a society matron engaging in the cult of adoration of literary figures. But he had to admit that he had spoken to her often in the last months, and that rarely were her opinions foolish or poorly thought out. She might hostess parties and vie for the most dazzling of literary figures for her dining table, but unlike many hosts and hostesses, she actually read the books and the reviews, too. They had discussed in detail many modern works, not fiction only, but also translated German philosophical works, lengthy and serious tracts on social issues and the occasional travelogue. She read widely and with intelligence.
How vain of him to ignore that evidence, hidebound as he had been in adhering to his faulty opinions of feminine intelligence. Could it be that there were other women like Miss Evans, Mrs. Bertrand and Collette? He had allowed himself to unthinkingly condemn half of society as brainless without the slightest evidence. However, self-loathing was not going to correct this mess. It required action, action he was now ready to take. He was furious in a slow-burning, dangerous way. He would find out whether Dick had learned anything about Randall Proctor. It was time to settle this mess once and for all time.
