Never did Lucy feel herself in a greater grip of thrill and horror than in those weeks. The fact that someone deemed her writing interesting enough to print it (indeed, to pay for it) was unbelievable all by itself. For hours and days on end, Lucy refused to part with her notebook, writing and crossing out line after line, polishing the drafts until they shone. Despite all these measures, they all seemed to her unbearably silly, silly, silly.
But the Sunday Express was apparently pleased enough, and three articles soon turned into ten.
Lucy’s hands trembled as she signed above the dotted line.
It felt so strange. She always used to regard her penchant for writing as an embarrassing tumour rather than a useful asset. After all, she was neither deaf nor blind; she heard the sneer in people’s voices as they talked about silly and shameless women, who wrote romances, and horrid intellectual girls, who wrote anything else. She was used to scribbling when and where no one could see her, hiding the notebooks as soon as she heard the menacing footsteps.
Lucy was secretly relieved that her hasty handwriting was practically unintelligible: this way no one would be able to read her drafts, even if they unearthed them somehow.
Listening carefully, noticing small details, reimagining her life as a series of flowery sentences to make it seem more exciting – it was something she was always simply doing; recasting it as a serious profession seemed laughable. Holding her the first cheque (an actual cheque for a solid sum, intended for her, featuring her name on it – it seemed surreal), Lucy only thought about pin money, about petty pleasures and beautiful bookshops. But, as the time passed and the sums increased, her thoughts changed accordingly. Slowly but surely, she started imagining other things.
What else could money buy?
A household of her own. A name of her own. A life of her own.
Could it be possible?
The success depended just as much on the power of her title as it did on the actual quality of her writing. Again, she was not a fool. She doubted that regular journalists, however talented, were paid hundreds of pounds for ten articles.
Of course, any real influence her title ever held had drained away decades before she was born. The only inheritance it brought her was a swarm of illusions: illusions of elegance and sophistication for some, illusions of might and tradition for others.
However, in this day and age, even illusions could have their power, if wielded carefully.
Lucy used to picture the future very differently.
Only a year ago, she believed – indeed, she knew – that the only way out for her lay in marriage. That’s why she waited for her first Season with such impatience, such ardour. She believed – indeed, she was sure – that it would be enough for her to come out officially, to appear at a few debutante balls, and she would immediately catch the attention of some eligible young man. That was the whole point of the Season, after all.
She wasn’t particularly sure what this man should look like (although he must love books, otherwise life with him would be unbearable). But there was one vital, iron-wrought condition – he would marry her as soon as possible and take her away from this house.
These were all childish dreams, as she discovered soon enough.
Meeting someone suitable and interested enough to propose, despite her uncertain dowry, during her first Season was improbable all by itself. However, even if this fairy-tale-like encounter did occur, her family would never permit such a hasty union to take place. Several Seasons were an accepted norm, an approved time for seeking the most promising match. Early marriages reeked of scandal.
And if there was something the Fitzmartins strived to avoid at all cost, it was scandal.
Lucy knew it all too well.
Several Seasons – that meant several years. Several more years beneath this roof, several more years among these people. Several more years of degrading, sickening dependency used as a lead on her neck – a lead they could pull any second.
And did.
These short-term contracts she secured now were too unsure as a base (although they still brought her more than any allowance would, and it weakened the pull of the lead just a little). But if she proved herself – and, once again, if she played her cards right – they might as well lead to something more. An editor’s post in some small publication, for example, with a stable position and a stable income to match. Of course, it would most likely be some women’s magazine; she would have to write about garden parties and frocks all her life. But it was still much sweeter than the alternative.
The sound of hurried footsteps snapped her out of this reverie.
‘There’s a call for you, my lady,’ Blake said, clearly nervous. Had she ever used a telephone before? Lucy doubted it. ‘Mr Chesterton says he wishes to speak with you as soon as possible.’
Lucy rose to her feet sharply, all dreaminess forgotten.
‘Thank you, Blake.’
She almost had to restrain herself from running to the telephone. The maid followed her with unsure footsteps, her gaze tinted with concern.
Such a peculiar creature she was, this Blake. No, Lucy corrected herself, this had nothing to do with Blake herself; the situation itself was peculiar. She could never have guessed that their strained finances would allow her a maid of her own. That sale of outlying portions must have gone really well.
Outlying portions. The unused land on the margins of the estate. Disposing of it was all about rationalization and consolidation, as any struggling landowner would tell you; it had absolutely nothing to do with financial need.
Not for the first time, Lucy couldn’t help but marvel at the power of carefully chosen words. How well they could hide any unpleasant necessity under a cloak of respectability!
‘Mr Chesterton?’ Lucy asked breathlessly, finally clutching the telephone ‘candle’ in her hand. She was almost afraid he would somehow get tired of waiting and hang up. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ She winced at the reply. ‘I … I understand, yes. I am truly sorry for the delay. I absolutely had to find these numbers … The article will be ready in the next few hours. I will send it by the express post. It will be on your table tomorrow …’ She let out a breath. ‘Thank you for your understanding, Mr Chesterton. Me? Not, I am not nervous. What?’
For heaven’s sake, this telephone must have been installed before the Great War.
‘Thank you! I wish you a pleasant afternoon. A PLEA-SANT AFTER-NOON!’
Blake was waiting for her outside the room, a worried expression on her soft face. ‘Did everything go well, my lady?’ she enquired cautiously.
Lucy couldn’t help but smile. Poor girl, she really was concerned for her!
‘Yes, it was … Oh, never mind. It was just a little difficulty. If Mr Chesterton calls here in the future, or sends a telegram, or leaves any message at all, you will have to alert me immediately. It has to do …’ Lucy hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she?
No. Blake might be sweet, but there were things she didn’t have to know.
‘It has to do with my work,’ she said finally. ‘Very important work.’
‘Of course, my lady.’
Lucy nodded briefly.
She would have thought her mother would find someone older and sterner to guard her virtue. But then, someone older and sterner would most likely ask for more money …
Guarding her virtue was, after all, the whole purpose. The events of the last Season must have convinced Her Ladyship that Lucy clearly needed someone to keep an eye on her conduct, especially when they were among the perils and temptations of the city.
The