And the bewildered admiral was pulled away, and whilst they were still within Mary’s hearing, Mrs. Fremantle exclaimed to him, “Do you not recall, Thomas—that woman—Lord Elsham—scandal—how could you think of presenting such a creature to my notice!
Mary’s angry and resentful glare followed the Fremantles as they walked away, the lady scolding, the husband abashed.
“Well,” Claire murmured, after a few moments of exceedingly awkward silence. “I perceive that you, too, know what it is to be an outcast!”
Mary tossed her head in vexation, too mortified to speak. The sly grin on Claire’s face at that moment was intolerable to her.
“Do not mind it, Mrs. Bertram,” Claire said, patting Mary on the arm in a manner which Mary found deeply presumptuous, “we shall all be outcasts together. Mrs. Fremantle will not know you—what do we care for Mrs. Fremantle?”
“There comes a time, Miss Clairmont,” said Mary, “When the opinion of the Mrs. Fremantles of the world matters a great deal. One must conform to society—or rise so far above it, that it does not matter. When a lovely woman stoops to folly, says Goldsmith, she has nothing to do but die, but wealth and rank are also known to be clearers of ill-fame.”
“Oh my lord, yes,” said Claire, complacently resuming her meal. “When Shelley becomes Sir Percy, he will be respectable and rich. We have only to wait for his father to die, and that will not be much longer.”
Chapter 16: London, Summer 1818
To receive a letter of any kind was an unusual occurrence for Prudence Imlay. To receive a letter all the way from France added an extra fillip of pleasure. To receive a letter from Mr. Gibson that bore her name in the salutation and his signature at the end, was a circumstance so delightful that Prudence thought the world could do little more for her.
My dear Miss Imlay,
I am taking the liberty of writing you directly to thank you for the informative letter which you were so obliging as to enclose with John’s brief note to me. As you know, John Price is a most unsatisfactory correspondent, and your memorandum giving me particulars of the London literary scene in my absence was very much appreciated.
I have, as you may imagine, spent no small portion of my time here in Paris in haunting the book shops. My books are here; they have been translated for the edification of the French and the enrichment of some-one other than me.
And now I come to my request, which I would rather entrust to you than to John, even though Betsey is his sister. It has been my custom to send books to Miss Betsey Price every September for her birthday. I believe she is about 14 or 15 years old now. Could I ask you to select two or three volumes and send them to her with my compliments. Her direction in Portsmouth is below. Please call on my banker, I have made the funds available for you.
With my very best wishes,
I remain, etc.
It had become a settled habit for John Price to pass his Saturday afternoons with Prudence, so she restrained her eagerness to fulfil Mr. Gibson’s directives until they might carry out the errand together. John looked over the list, and asked, “Why would Mr. Gibson want Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare?”
“Because these books are not for Mr. Gibson,” said Prudence, and who could be begrudge her if she revelled in the consciousness of her superior knowledge. “It is strange, you know,“ she added, “that I only learn from Mr. Gibson, and not from you, that you have a sister named Betsey.”
“She was just a baby when I left home,” said John. “I have not been back to Portsmouth since. I don’t know her.”
“Then how does Mr. Gibson know her?”
John related the story of Mr. Gibson’s adventures in the Navy with his oldest brother William, and how he had come back from Africa half-dead with yellow fever, and convalesced in his family’s attic. “But I didn’t know him at that time, you see. I was gone from Portsmouth for all of that.”
Prudence was very taken at the thought of the author lying ill in a cheerless attic. He might have died, unknown and unlamented, with his novels never written. “Should we ever go to Portsmouth,” she said, “you must show me where it was.”
John shrugged. “My father moved about so often, I hardly know which house it was. And say, why should we go to Portsmouth?”
Prudence shook her head, in a pitying sort of way. “Never mind.”
They had been walking together during this interesting conversation, and had reached Skinner Street, where they entered the shabby premises of the Juvenile Library, a book shop specialising in books for young people. Mr. Gibson had authorised Prudence to select several more volumes for Betsey, and the pair were soon happily employed in their favourite pastime, sampling and comparing books.
“Although I cannot know what your sister might like, or what she might have read, since you know nothing about her,” remarked Prudence.
“Allow me to recommend these books of popular history,” interposed the shopkeeper, a severe-looking woman with green spectacles perched on her nose. “Or perhaps the young lady would care for a French grammar?”
Prudence looked at John, and John shrugged.
“I suppose anything will do,” said John, “since we don’t know.”
The book shop was low-ceilinged, and at that moment, directly above their heads, Prudence
