The Pirate Princess: The Thrilling Adventures of the Most Dangerous Woman in Europe, #9

By Brenda W. Clough

When her husband Theo dies, Marian Halcombe Camlet's heart breaks. Her plan is to wear black and dwindle away into her grave. But then her brother reveals her late husband's deathbed request: Theo wants his beloved wife to be happy. To marry again! Suddenly everyone in her family has a likely prospect to offer, and men are lining up. Fed up with the demands of Victorian society, Marian takes the decision into her own hands by returning to her first love–adventure. She sails halfway around the globe and finds old enemies and new loves. Why does she become drawn into the murderous politics of a tiny pirate kingdom? Because the pirate is tall, dark, and irresistible! But when she takes him home to Britain, danger and treachery inexorably follow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda W. Clough
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781611389777

Brenda W. Clough

Brenda W. Clough is the first female Asian-American SF writer, first appearing in print in 1984. Her novella ‘May Be Some Time’ was a finalist for both the Hugo and the Nebula awards and became the novel Revise the World. Her latest time travel trilogy is Edge to Center, available at Book View Café. Marian Halcombe, a series of eleven neo-Victorian thrillers appeared in 2021.  Her complete bibliography is up on her web page, brendaclough.net

Book preview

The Pirate Princess

Brenda W. Clough

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www.bookviewcafe.com

Book View Café edition

September 21, 2021

ISBN: 978-1-61138-977-7

Copyright © 2021 Brenda W. Clough

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Table of Contents

Book 1

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

From the papers of Micah Brickley Camlet

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

From the correspondence of Micah Brickley Camlet

From the correspondence of Sensational Books

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Book 2

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Book 3

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Halcombe Camlet Inglis’s journal

An unmailed letter to Laura Hartright

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian H. C. Inglis’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian H.C. Inglis’s journal

Book 4

From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet Inglis Sze

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian, Ziyahni Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian, Ziyahni Lady Sze’s journal

From the correspondence of Laura Fairlie Hartright

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian, Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Book 5

From the papers of Marian, Ziyahni Lady Sze

Walther Hartright’s narrative

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Book 6

From the commonplace book kept by Marian Margaret (Merry) Camlet

Walter Hartright’s narrative

From the correspondence of Lord Richard Lowry

From the Manuscripts & Archives collection, 19th century division, at the Sterling Memorial Library, Yale University

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Marian Lady Sze’s journal

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Read a sample from The Single Musketeer

Mr. Rolles’ record

Acknowledgments

Also by Brenda Clough

Copyrights & Credits

About Book View Café

Book 1

Walter Hartright’s narrative

It is a truth universally acknowledged, Micah Camlet misquoted, that I, a young man in tolerable, though not overly-posh circumstances, am – what?

In need of a wife, Marian finished for him. Oh my son, it is our dearest hope!

Not another drop, his father Theophilus Camlet added to the footman. Veuve Cliquot goes straight to his head.

Micah grinned at his father and stepmother over his champagne. Which novel shall I now enact, Papa? I’m in a good situation to emulate Pip, and aspire to a wife of rank and wealth. Twenty-eight and handsome with his vivid blue eyes, Micah Camlet might indeed catch the fancy of some female well above his station. And we were here at Cranmorden, a noble estate. The earl of Brecon and Stowe had invited us all to his Winter Ball, a prosperous pond when fishing for a mate.

I thought you were going to be Mr. Rochester, his younger half-brother William said. And marry someone plain and poor.

Not plain. The family had congregated in the wide lobby outside the ballroom, where Micah lounged with one arm along the back of the sofa. I do confess that beauty has its power. Through the doors standing broad open before we could see the flower of female Britain whirling merrily past to the music. Micah raised his glass to the ladies before draining it.

The waltz wound down to its final bars, and I was pleased to see my sister Sarah emerge on the arm of her husband the explorer, Ambridge Skyllington, Lord Fulbeck. She was expecting her third, and ought not to dance the faster measures. I rose and gave her my chair, and her husband cried, Alas, they’re playing our favourite polka, my pet!

You need not sit out, Sarah returned. See here Marian, tapping her toes!

Camlet smiled at his wife. Yes, lead her out, Skyllington – we’ll keep Sarah company.

Marian’s shimmering gold silks suited her black hair and eyes perfectly. Only if we may also dance the mazurka that is sure to follow, she cried, surging to her feet. I do love an energetic dance, do not you, Ambridge?

On this point, Fulbeck declared, we are as one, my dear Marian! And they were off as the orchestra struck up a sprightly melody.

Sarah has never been reticent. She produced a lorgnette, a new affectation, and inspected Camlet through it. So you are not dancing, Theo? How terribly seedy you look. You’ve gone entirely grey. Have you been ill?

I’m fifty-four, Camlet pointed out. No longer as young as I was.

Startled, I too peered at him where he sat beside his son. Time was when Camlet and Marian would dance every dance until the musicians collapsed in exhaustion. I am only four years older than Camlet, and do not think of myself as aged. However, Camlet has passed through some deep waters. His short full beard and hair could no longer pretend to colour, and he had lost his prosperous comfortable plumpness. Brother, I said quietly. How is your health?

My doctor has concerns, Hartright, he admitted. But we may not talk of them here.

I rely upon you to tell me all, soon.

He would have replied, but a young woman approached us. She could not have been more than one-and-twenty, still gawky and ungraceful, her pink ball gown visibly handed down and unflattering to her mousy hair and pallid complexion. Good evening. Her words, brisk and of a confident carrying tone, were a strange contrast to her green youthfulness. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Camlet?

The words were addressed to all of us gentlemen. Camlet cannily kept a poker face and glanced at his son. Micah said, Indeed I am, miss. And you, you are?

My name is less important than what I bring, she said. Abby? She waved a maid forward. This unlucky woman held a manuscript, a great bale of paper at least a foot high.

Oh, the deuce, Micah groaned. Never say that you’re making a submission to Sensational Publications?

I am, the young woman replied. When I learned that the Mr. Camlets were attending the Winter Ball – the foremost publishers of female authors of our time! – I knew that I must act.

Marian has set her stepson an example of boldness, and now Micah was blunt. A ballroom is no place to discuss literature. Rather, I declare that you moved in this direction to seek a partner.

The colour came up painfully scarlet into the girl’s pallid cheeks, making her uneven forehead too plain. I have done no such thing!

Micah was not deterred. I have an assistant editor to hand for this precise need. Billy!

William started to his feet. Micah, I can’t polka worth a continental curse.

No time like the present to begin. Micah was inexorable. Miss, we shall take your manuscript into consideration in due and proper time.

But I don’t want to dance!

With an air of weary resignation William said, What do you expect, at a ball? Come along, miss.

When they were safely lost on the dance floor Micah beckoned the maid closer and lifted the cover sheet. "The Fortress at Corunna, by Miss Pomona Ogilvy, he read aloud. There, I’ve looked at it. All promises are fulfilled. Does the name ring a bell, Papa?"

I’m afraid not. Camlet addressed the maid, an older woman of visible respectability. Your mistress is Miss Ogilvy?

Miss Pomona, sir, the youngest.

And she wrote this?

It’s a novel, sir.

And no one informed her that submissions for publication should not be made at formal balls.

No, sir. Oh please, sir, she’s worked at it night and day for months!

Micah shuddered elaborately. I can just imagine.

Camlet said, I am the executive editor. My chambers are up in the family wing – the other servants will direct you. Take this up to my rooms, and leave it there. I’ll take it back to London with me and start it on the submissions process.

Thank you, sir. Right away, sir! And the maid staggered off with her burden.

In due and proper time, Micah repeated. What a soft touch you are, Papa.

His father grinned at his tall lounging son. A literary female – those are not common, Micah. Perhaps you should have danced with Miss Pomona yourself.

It is the duty of the assistant editor to undertake those tasks which the senior editors have not the time to address, Micah replied. "I consider myself the editor of Gadsbee’s Gallimaufrey, one of the more notable magazines in Britain. The novels I’m happy to leave, Papa, to you. Besides, I’d like a pretty wife, not such an under-ripe peach."

Your father is the wrong man for that, I remarked. Your stepmother will tell you herself, that she is no beauty.

Marian is unutterably beautiful, Camlet said comfortably. But in her own way. As your mate will be, to you, Micah.

Wait, Sarah said. Ogilvy – is that not the surname of that debutante, Walter?

This girl was not the beauteous Florissa, I objected. I remember that young lady perfectly well. She could have been a Pre-Raphaelite model. Long rippling golden hair.

Now that sounds more like, Micah said. Where is she, Uncle? Can you point her out?

Such was the press of revellers that I could not. There were perhaps a hundred couples twirling energetically around the vast gaily-lit ballroom. I did espy Marian and Fulbeck – they are both tall and of striking appearance, my black-haired sister unlovely of face but magnificent of form, and Fulbeck with a huge grey handlebar moustache and a frizz of faded red-gold hair.

When the mazurka ended in a crash of cymbals the two returned, panting and warm. I’m getting too old for this! Fulbeck sank gasping down into the chair beside his wife.

How you fuss, Ambridge. When I’m dancing backwards, and in bustle and train! Marian fanned herself energetically, not worn in the least.

He has no difficulty trekking for a month through virgin jungle, Sarah assured us.

Marian’s great dark eyes glowed with happiness. Listen, Theo! Is that not our favourite Offenbach waltz? You haven’t danced with me yet this evening. Your laziness is grown severe of late. Why must it be for me to ask you, when it’s the duty of the man?

Her husband laughed at this raillery and rose. My love, your vigour would put any three men to shame. And they were off as the music struck up again.

Certainly these three, Fulbeck groaned. No, my pet. You get only one more dance this evening, and it shall not be this one. Let me recover somewhat with quiet chat. Hartright, you would know. Where’s Donthorne these days? At that family pile of his, Varneck Hall, near Southampton?

Roderick Donthorne? Somewhere in Asia with the FO, why?

Damn. I had hoped he was still stationed in America. One of my diggers found a gold and jade mask, and I need someone trustworthy to look at it. I don’t suppose you happen to be going that way.

I intend never to leave Britain again, I declared.

Then there’s nothing for it. I must go myself.

And I go with you, Sarah cried. And Raymond, and Augustus.

Surely it would be safer for you to stay. The idea of a woman in a delicate condition dragging herself and two children through the jungles of Honduras was fearful.

You know Ambridge, she retorted. Once in Central America he’ll stay for three years. I had to admit this was true.

It was then that I became aware of a disturbance on the dance floor. Someone’s tripped over their partner’s feet, Micah suggested.

The merry music ground to a dissonant halt in mid-bar. See how on a crowded floor it’s easy to catch one’s heel on a hem, Fulbeck said to Sarah. We shall dance a sedate measure, perhaps after the supper.

Still we thought nothing of it, until after a further time a footman pushed through the press. Mr. Camlet?

Micah started to his feet. What is it?

Your father, sir.

We all leaped up and followed. Somehow the crowd parted before us, revealing Marian, sitting on the dance floor in a great pool of golden silks. Camlet lay sprawled on his back, his face whiter than paper. Marian had his head on her lap, and she looked up at me with such a look of terror in her uncomely countenance that my heart turned over in my breast.

Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal

Sandett House in north London, 18 February 1879

Today we drove over to Highgate where the family doctor Mr. Clive keeps his office. Theo has been going alone, but this time I insisted on accompanying him. And, in a truly underhanded ploy, I brought Laura. My sister makes something of a hobby of illness and has wide experience of medical men. But more crucially, she’s a flame of purity and truth. I can occasionally do it, but she can nearly always discern when someone is lying.

Both our husbands know this perfectly well. You need not waste your morning attending upon me, Laura, Theo protested as we climbed into the brougham. A chill under the liver, nothing more.

Laura’s fair hair showed not a thread of grey as she took out her ivory memorandum tablet to note the points to be addressed. The chief complaint is your collapse at Cranmorden, of course. How I wish that my gall bladder had allowed me to come down that evening! But you should not fail to discuss with him your digestion, this intermittent nausea that afflicts you. You certainly are thinner than last season. A weight loss is always worrying. And you bumped your knee as you went down, so that joint should be examined…

Is there any pain, dear man? I noted that he did not reply. The two villages are not far apart, and I told myself it was simply because we were arriving at the doctor’s office.

It would of course be inappropriate for ladies to be present when a man is examined by his doctor. While they were closeted we waited in Mr. Clive’s office, a fearful place lined with gloomy dark bookcases and adorned with the articulated skeleton of a dog in a glass case. A presentation clock on the mantelshelf ticked so slowly I longed to hammer it into silence with my umbrella. It was an hour before the doctor came through, silently drawing the door to behind himself. He is tall and bushy in the beard, a respectable figure in his black frock coat. His voice was deep and furry. Mrs. Camlet, good morning. And Mrs. Hartright, I hope you are well.

I drew a deep breath. Mr. Clive, you have attended all our family for some years now. I rely upon you to tell me the truth.

His gaze was fixed upon the stethoscope as he laid it back into the velvet crannies of its wooden case. I will not deny to you, Mrs. Camlet, that your husband is ill. But there is no serious cause for concern.

Beside me on the sofa Laura glanced in my direction. Her beautiful blue eyes were eloquent. But I did not need her to speak. I rose, gathering up bag and umbrella. I am sorry that you see fit to deceive me, doctor. I am to take it this means you no longer require our family’s custom, and that I must seek another medical advisor.

The wooden stethoscope case clattered as he set it down. Not at all, Mrs. Camlet, no! You mistake me. I merely – you must know that medical science has made great strides in our lifetimes, and – 

Laura reached to take my gloved hand, and from her grasp I drew strength. Do not dare to wrap it up in fine linen, doctor. State it in plain English. What is my husband’s ailment?

The doctor threw up his hands in surrender. Gastric cancer, madam.

Shock and horror struck me dumb, but Laura was there to speak for me. Are you certain, doctor?

The growth is palpable, in the right hypochondrium.

My knees weakened so that I had to sit down again. Because of Sensational’s previous line in educational pamphlets, I have more miscellaneous medical knowledge than many ladies. Then you must operate. The best surgeons in the world are in London.

Surgery, oh! How awful! Laura shivered at the idea. Chloroform has made the scalpel less of a horror than it was in our parents’ generation, but the word still terrifies.

The doctor’s deep voice was like a tolling bell. An abdominal operation has never been successfully done, Mrs. Camlet, even by Professor Lister. The patient always dies, if not on the operating table then very shortly thereafter. There are portions of the human frame that will ever remain sacred from the scalpel’s intrusions. However, I have prescribed tartar emetic.

The vomiting, Laura murmured to me.

And calomel. The late Emperor Napoleon also suffered from the disease and found relief with calomel and purgatives.

He died, I retorted. Tears stole down my cheeks, and I groped for a handkerchief.

My dear Mrs. Camlet, be assured that everything that can be done shall be done. But there is one essential task that only you may accomplish.

What, doctor? Laura cried. Theo is the dearest man, the most excellent of husbands. Marian will do anything, and I also!

The doctor’s beard wagged in his earnestness. You must keep him in ignorance, ladies. He must be sheltered from the knowledge of this fatal diagnosis. By so preserving his calmness of mind, his courage from day to day shall not falter, and this shall bolster health and foster a good outcome.

But… Laura looked doubtfully at me.

My mind was clouded, stunned by the news. I … I have never lied to my husband. And he is a businessman, doctor. Should he not have the time to properly wind up his affairs?

And to make his peace with his Maker, Laura added.

It may be the last and best service you may do him. Mr. Clive’s tone was heavy as lead, crushing me down, and I began to sob in earnest. Master your emotions, madam. While he is dressing, thrust your tears back to their source! Else they immediately betray you.

Let us take a turn around the village green, Marian, Laura said. She is ever tender of my sensibilities!

It is not warm at this time of year, but the trees were coming into leaf, and it wasn’t raining. We made a slow circuit of the open space. Laura linked her arm through mine so that, blind with tears, I could weep aloud. 

How can I survive without him, Laura? He is the mate of my body and my heart. I love him more than life itself!

You must think of the children, Laura said, also shedding sympathetic tears. The older ones may be relied upon to do their duty, but Tad’s only eleven. He shall need you for many years yet. And Merry is almost fifteen. A girl of her looks shall need a watchful parent until she is safely wed.

We walked slowly, leaning on each other as we have done so often in times of trouble, and I strove to master myself. I know I should be grateful. We’ve been so happy, for so many years. He has spoken often, of how we must enjoy what is before us. And we have.

Your union has been ideal, Laura said. But all things in this vale of tears must pass, Marian. We’re all of us mortal. I am so grateful that I am likely to predecease Walter! My health is so poor, I shall never have to live without him. And Dr. Clive was hopeful, Marian. It could be that Theo has many years before you are sundered.

Can I be brave for so long? I wondered. Can I maintain my fortitude, and keep the awful secret hushed in my breast?

Of course you can, Laura said. You’re the strongest woman I know, my love. There is nothing beyond your power.

But as we came around again to our waiting carriage, my dearest husband waited there by its open door. Behind the round steel spectacles his hazel gaze was so grave, so sad, that I knew immediately all of Dr. Clive’s cunning was in vain.

I was brave. I shall maintain always that I kept my countenance, betraying nothing. There is a devious streak on my side of the family, and I called upon it. But I am at that time of life when a woman is subject to hot flushes and temperamental upset. The uncomfortable heat came up into my face, turning it red under the usual swarthy hue. And Laura’s heart beats in the closest concert with mine. I was forbidden to shed a tear, and so she burst into heartrending sobs, and flung her arms around my poor husband. Absently he patted her back, and above her bent bonnet his face was as stricken as my own.

Walter Hartright’s narrative

Appearances are deceptive. All his life Camlet presented an utterly middling appearance, neither short nor tall, plump nor slight, dark nor fair. But his bland exterior cloaked the courage of a hero. A good death came naturally to him; he faced his end with quiet fortitude. A unanimous cry had gone up for a portrait of the patriarch, and I was naturally the man to paint it. Time was short, and Camlet already found it difficult to sit for any great while. So I spent a good deal of time in in his office on the topmost floor of Sensational’s building, painting him as he worked. The pose was undemanding and typical of the man, Camlet at his desk.

Portraits of black-clad businessmen staring dumbly out at the viewer are ubiquitous, and so for this work I experimented with Frédéric Bazille’s challenging perspective. I perched on a stepladder six feet up, my canvas was propped on another. All my paints and brushes stood ready to hand on top of a bookcase. Only my brother would be so tolerant as to allow such a circus in his inner sanctum. All the melancholy alterations – the looseness of his collar that showed how much weight he had lost, his ghostly pallor, the boniness of his hand holding the pen – were irreparable in real life. But on canvas I could wipe it all away. The benison of the artist, to show the world as it ought to be.

The fall of the light through the slanting windows made painting possible only for several hours every afternoon. Afterwards we took tea together by his tile stove. On that day Camlet added milk to my cup and then poured. I’m writing an essay for the magazine about my medical advice. This lying to the patient is an invidious practice.

Being a member of Parliament means that everyone offers me their notions of how Britain should be run. You are going to beg me to introduce a bill forbidding it.

He passed me my cup and smiled. No. But doctors deserve a rebuke. Obliging the family and friends to lie – are we not told that the Devil is the father of such? And here his cloven hoof is plain to see. The enforced untruth creates a gulf between the patient and his loved ones where no gap ought to exist.

You always wring every possible bit of copy out of daily happenings. But this is perhaps going too far.

Oh, I’ll use one of the house pen names. At least our readers may become aware of the issue. He added milk and sugar to his own cup. I’ve arranged annuities for the girls, enough to keep them respectably all their days.

I looked up. Can their husbands access it?

My instinctive reply brought the twinkle to his eye. Have I not learned from your experiences, brother? No, the funds are tied to Lottie, Lester or Merry solely, for their lifetimes, and to their children after. William’s bequest shall support his Army career once he leaves Sandhurst. Micah shall take over the business, and act as guardian of Merry and Tad, whose portion shall be the house in Hampstead. My loved ones shall not want, when I’m gone.

I did not fail to note the name he omitted. How could I, when her dark uncomely face gazed boldly down at me from the family portrait on the wall by the door? The artist had painted my sister in a froth of fuschia silks, surrounded by the four elder children. What of Marian?

He paused long in thought. Busy Theobalds Road ran three stories below, but the wide windows of the proprietor’s office faced the other way over the rooftops, so that the murmur of traffic could only be heard when we both fell silent. Camlet looked down into his untasted cup. A man who had always loved his food, lack of appetite was the surest sign he was ailing. At last he spoke, very softly. She has made me and mine the centre of her life, the dearest care of her heart, all these years.

She’s strong, Camlet. She will survive.

To survive, merely? No, that’s not what I want for my Marian. I want her to be happy, Hartright. She shall mourn, she will grieve, I know it, and I would not deprive her of that poor solace. But after? Her Majesty may dedicate herself to perpetual misery as a monument to Prince Albert. I want Marian to recover. To thrive. To be joyful.

To marry again.

He looked up, surprised. Yes. Yes, that’s what I want.

She’s over fifty, Camlet. Past childbearing age. Ladies of that age do not find many suitors.

I’m tying up my bequest to her as well. She shall have a considerable sum, but only the life interest. Upon her death the capital will be divided among the younger four, her sons and daughters.

I nodded. So that no man shall marry her for her money.

She must marry for love, Hartright. He set aside the untasted cup. When he leaned back in his chair to stare out the wide slanting window, the office cat insinuated itself onto his knee. Outside the wind carried drifts of soot, and the chimney pots were black against the smudgy sky. He did not seem to see them as he rubbed the cat’s neck. I can’t bear to think of my dearest girl lonely, a solitary widow in mourning black all her remaining days, drooping like a bird with a broken wing. I see her in bright colours. Scarlet, yes, and perhaps blue. Laughing. On the arm of one that I cannot quite make out. But he’s tall and dark, and smiles down at her... She would be happier wed, and I want her to be happy.

His voice was low as the slow words trickled out, so that I had to lean forward to catch them above the cat’s thunderous purr. Yes, we all of us want her to be happy.

Suddenly his hazel gaze transfixed me. Then I may rely upon you to find Marian a second husband.

I could not have been more galvanised if he had hooked me up to a generator and turned the crank. Oh God, Camlet. I almost sputtered in my dismay. I beg of you. Don’t ask me to do this! Surely, surely you have not let those helpless airs and those protestations of womanly submission bamboozle you. Marian is the most dangerous woman in Europe! You might as well ask me to bridle and ride the Severn bore.

When Camlet grinned his face almost became plump again. Share the duty with any you deem fit to assist. Laura without question, her cousin the earl if you like, certainly the countess. It’s my last request of you, brother. Always, you have been a true and faithful guardian of all I hold dear.

I writhed at the prospect. I cannot deny you, brother. But I very much fear it won’t end well. How in thunderation shall I select a husband for her?

It shan’t be any great task, Hartright. She’s a spirit of fire, but her flame is love. Don’t weigh in with a heavy hand, but give her her head. Marian’s heart is a true compass. She will not fix upon an unworthy man.

I cannot take responsibility, Camlet. If she dislikes the notion, that must be the end of the matter. It isn’t possible to compel her, and I won’t even try.

A woman so ardent and affectionate? She’s no beauty but has never lacked for admirers, and she won’t be poor. Your task may amount to little more than beating back the throng and marshalling candidates to wait in an orderly queue. I daresay she’ll emulate her own mother, and remarry the day she’s out of black gloves. If you like I’ll write a letter, to the one she chooses. You may present it to her choice on my behalf at a time you deem appropriate.

Don’t seal it then, so that I may look it over as well. My thought was that I might need to show it to several candidates. I see now your intent. Your wife and children pray night and morning for your recovery. And now you’ve ensured that my fervent prayers will rise with theirs. And that made him laugh, which did not often happen these days.

At this point a visitor arrived, Mr. Pilkington of Pilkington and Barr, one of the many business associates who came essentially to bid my brother farewell. I took off my smock, donned my coat, and went downstairs. The two levels below were taken up by a warren of offices, the storefront at ground level being a chemist’s shop. A young woman was just coming up the stair from the street, and I waited for her to pass. She was entirely ordinary, mousy and pale. Only when she addressed me did I recognise the penetrating tones of Miss Pomona Ogilvy. Is this the office of Sensational Books?

Indeed it is. Well brought up, she did not encourage conversation. Instead she swept down the hallway, peering at the names on the doors, until she came to Micah Camlet’s.

Knowing the passageways better, I ducked around the corner to the editorial offices, the domain of Jerome Flawne. An excellent fellow, the managing editor is an old friend. Tell me, Flawne,  how goes the reading of a Miss Pomona Ogilvy’s manuscript?

Ogilvy? The name doesn’t ring a bell. But we have so many submissions. A novice author, perhaps?

I believe so. Camlet brought it back from Gloucestershire in February.

Well, he certainly has better things to do than to read manuscript at this juncture. And that reminds me. Would it be allowable, Mr. Hartright, to beg for a copy of the portrait once it is complete? Mr. Camlet, the founder – his image should hang in a place of honour on the premises. I know that Mr. Micah would agree with me on this.

Nothing could be more natural or proper, and I readily agreed, with my usual proviso that it would not be promptly produced. I’ve many other duties which I may not neglect. The arts are but a pastime for me now.

We all pray that the doctors are wrong, and that this cup shall pass.

Yes, even the gods of Harley Street nod on occasion. With that I made my departure, descending the stair to the street door. There was no reception room on the ground floor, but simply a colourfully-tiled lobby lit by the transom above the door. On the bottom step sat a maidservant, her shawl clutched around her shoulders. She jumped up at the sound of my step so that I could pass. I paused with my hand on the street door. Are you waiting for your mistress?

Yes, sir.

Miss Pomona Ogilvy.

Yes, sir.

She was older and respectable, in a decent black gown and a straw bonnet. The sound of Miss Pomona’s plangent tones up above decided me. I remember. You are Abby. Run up and fetch your mistress down, if you will. I have a word for her.

This took some time, but there was no other exit from the offices save past the outhouse in back. Miss Pomona had to pass this way unless she took up permanent residence at Sensational. From the complaints upstairs, the clerks were unwilling she should do this. At last she came down the steep stair followed by her meek servant. She halted on the last step so that she would not have to look up at me. Sir, I do not know you.

We have not been introduced, I agreed. I am Walter Hartright, MP, and I was sitting in the statuary hall with the Camlets at the ball at Cranmorden in February when you delivered your manuscript. This is a poor place for conversation. May I offer you a cup of tea? Mrs. Panker, across the way there, runs a respectable establishment, and your maid may join us. When she hesitated I produced my card, adding, My wife’s sister is Mrs. Camlet, so I’m a member of the family.

From behind her the maid peeped at my card in her mistress’s hand. I’m sure it’s all right, Miss Pom, Abby whispered. In Parliament, just fancy! And I remember his face. Indeed he was at the ball.

Miss Pomona might have declined, but Micah Camlet’s query floated audibly down from upstairs: Is she gone?

Oh, the man’s impossible, Miss Pomona grumbled. Yes, let us go, Mr. Hartright. I held the door for her, and in three minutes we were seated at the window table in Mrs. Panker’s genteel tea shop. The little old proprietress served us her renowned maid-of-honour cakes.

Marian is ugly but striking, a true jolie-laide. Maturity has given her an overwhelming assurance that attracts like a magnet. My guest was a girl of merely ordinary plainness. No one would look at her twice: her complexion pale yet without luster, her hair of the common colour, so rebelliously curly that a haze escaped out of her unflattering coiffure to form a dry wiry halo above a lumpy and high forehead. At an age when nearly all females have the bloom of youth, she did not shine.

I began obliquely. Tell me of yourself, Miss Pomona. Is your family a connexion of the Lowrys?

Papa’s sister went to school with the Countess, she replied.

And your parents know of and approve your literary ambitions.

Of course not, sir. Miss Pomona cut into the edge of her cake with a fork. Hypatia made a grand match. She is now Lady Tavershire. Florissa looks to do the same. And so Mama hopes that I too will marry well. But I’m the intelligent one in the family, not a beauty. My intent is to become my parents’ prop in their dotage, and write novels.

The scene sounded distressingly familiar. And the estate is entailed upon heirs male, so once your father is gone your only hope is to support yourself by your pen.

Yes – I mean, no. The estate is entailed, but my brother George shall inherit.

George.  

When she blushed the effect was unfortunate, blotchy and entirely un-flowerlike. Papa indulged Grandpapa’s fancy for classical nomenclature for us girls, but his only son needed a strictly conventional name.

Pomona’s a lovely name, miss, Abby ventured, from her corner.

I loathe it, Miss Pomona said. Pat, Pom and Flor? We sound like a comic-opera turn.

Having improved our acquaintance somewhat, I was emboldened to speak plainly. Miss Pomona, I beg you will consider my advice as from an uncle, or some benign older relative, when I urge you not to push forward the consideration of your manuscript at this time.

Nonsense. What can Mr. Camlet be doing with it? It’s been six weeks, and so far as I can tell no one at Sensational has even looked at it.

It’s been put into the system.

That’s what they keep on saying, she retorted. I’ve written three letters, and since Mama is in town to consult her complexion improver I made so bold as to call.

Miss Pomona, let the publication processes take their own pace. This is not a good time for you to try and speed any editorial decision.

Why, sir?

When did young ladies learn to be so pert? It was not so in my youth. Camlet’s illness was no great secret; his friends and associates knew. My reluctance stemmed more from an ingrained instinct to shield a lady from all the storms of life. But a dollop of harsh reality might be just the thing now. Miss Pomona, the elder Mr. Camlet is in failing health. You did not glimpse him upstairs just now. If you had, the change in his appearance would have struck you immediately. He’s lost at least two stone since you saw him in February, and the doctors hold out little hope. Mr. Camlet the younger is confronted now with a great bereavement and enormous responsibilities, and all lesser tasks must wait until …

Suddenly I could not go on. The prospect of losing Camlet, who had been a brother to me through thick and thin – grief seemed to seize me by the throat, bringing an unmanly moisture to my eye.

Oh, Mr. Hartright! You make me ashamed. She reached and clutched my hand tightly in both her smaller ones. At such an awful, awful time. I have been cruelly burdening poor Mr. Camlet! I see now that my own narrow enthusiasm has led me to commit the most unkind and discourteous –

Suddenly her gripping hands were snatched away. Abby gasped, Miss Pom? But her mistress jumped out of her chair and dashed out of the shop into the street. Turning, I saw to my dismay that Micah Camlet just emerging from the doorway opposite, his tall hat on his head and his stick under his arm.

I followed and emerged in time to catch Miss Pomona’s impassioned words. – am in a position to help, Mr. Camlet! My uncle manages a hydro in Sussex. I’ll have him write your father, immediately!

Micah was too well-mannered to jerk his sleeve free, but he was curt. My father has the best medical advice available, miss. If you will excuse me, I have an appointment.

I would have intervened, but tiny Mrs. Panker set up a wail that the bill had not yet been paid. By the time I settled up, Micah had taken to his heels and Miss Pomona was weeping with frustration and mortification in the middle of the street.

You must not cry out here in public, child, I said. What would your mama say? Abby, will you take your mistress home? Let me secure a hansom for you.

I would have handed maid and mistress up into the cab, but Abby whispered to me, Sir, I misdoubt we have the fare. We walked here, from Portman Square. And in the end to ensure their safe arrival I went with them in the cab to the home of some cousin, and saw the tearful Miss Pomona safe to her door.

Three days later I received the following at my rooms off St. James Street:

Mr. Walter Hartright

Sir,

I write to thank you most sincerely for taking me to tea earlier this week and seeing me home in such a gentlemanly way. I have taken your just and kindly rebuke to heart. In token of my repentance I shall not intrude upon either of the Mr. Camlets at this melancholy time. Instead I enclose the leaflet that my uncle distributes to medical men in the south of England. I leave it to your discretion and judgement whom to pass it to and when. If Mr. Camlet avails himself of the hydro’s facilities, let him mention my name and Uncle Horace will see that he has every facility.

Yours with humble gratitude,

Most faithfully,

Pomona Elizabeth Ogilvy

A very proper note, I said to Marian when I recounted the incident to her. She may be the next Brontë or Gaskell, but this is an unpropitious time.

Micah is leaving all such decisions to Mr. Flawne, Marian agreed. But what of this hydro, Walter? Can such treatments be effective in Theo’s case?

You must consult the doctor, I said. Take the brochure with you when you go to Harley Street. These resorts are desperately expensive, and you will wish the treatments to be effective.

Marian cloaked her misery with the utmost care, pouring her despair out only into Laura’s sympathetic sisterly ear. With Camlet and the little ones and even me she was cheery and strong, supporting her husband in every