Page 46 of Surrender Your Grace
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of Mr. Woods.”
“Not surprising. He was first published last month. It’s his mentor, Mr. Dickens, everyone is here to see.”
“Charles Dickens?” she echoed, her gaze sweeping the crowd for the renowned author.
“Yes! He’s agreed to read an excerpt. We’ll be the talk of the town.”
The room buzzed, but not oppressively. Afternoon light skewed through the tall windows, gilding the harpist in one corner. Ladies drifted like petals around clusters of gentlemen and the refreshment table.
Anne guided her toward a group of young women. “Allow me to introduce you to a few people before the reading, Your Grace.”
Most faces were familiar from her debut, though none had spoken to her much then. Now they greeted her with polite nods, yet she felt the subtle shift in the air—the judgment reserved for women who arrived alone. Her title granted protection from open scorn, but not the whispers that drifted to her ears when Anne moved away in her role as co-hostess.
“To come alone… How sad.”
“They say he’s taken up with the widow again.”
“It’s to be expected, though. How often does a leopard change its spots?”
“Never. Not when he gains a dukedom with more wealth and power.”
“Poor girl. She’ll have a lonely life.”
“Yes, she can cry into her sovereigns and five-pound notes,” another sneered with heavy sarcasm. “God knows she’s got enough to keep her company to a ripe old age.”
Cici moved away, keeping her spine straight and chin high, hiding the hurt and shame that curled hot inside her. Was it merely gossip? Perhaps if it were only from Elizabeth. But whispers about Andrew from others were hard to dismiss. She wanted to flee and nurse her wounded feelings as she tried to figure it out, but a hush fell over the room as a man in his thirties stepped forward, tall, earnest, and impossibly handsome.
Eager to get something out of the afternoon, she took a seat.
“Joseph Woods,” a man beside her murmured. “They say he’s the next big voice in fiction.”
Woods spoke—deep, poised, and intelligent—sharing his start in publishing and his fortunate meeting with Mr. Dickens. Questions followed. His replies were thoughtful, laced with dry humor that drew easy laughter.
Then came the highlight of the event: Charles Dickens himself. He seemed her papa’s age, around mid-fifties, wavy brown hair and a beard streaked with silver that contrasted withhis high-collared dark coat. He bowed with a flourish, mischief twinkling in his eyes.
“My protégé’s youth reminds me of my advancing age,” he said, producing his spectacles. “Exhibit A!”
Laughter rippled. Then, with a practiced cadence, he began to read from “The Tallow Maker’s Daughter.”
“She did not speak the language of ladies,” he read, “nor was she fluent in the currency of flattery, gossip, or lineage…”
Cici’s breath caught. The heroine’s yearning echoed her own—the familiar ache of not belonging, of being present yet never fully accepted.
“Still, she learned where to stand,” Dickens continued. “What to say, how to disappear while in full view. And she learned that power often disguised itself as kindness, and cruelty often wore silk.”
Applause followed through which Cici sat. Soon conversation and the clink of silver on china filled the room. The poignancy of the reading faded as reality returned. She regarded Mr. Woods in a glance; for a man to have such insight.
Cici rose and looked toward the door. She should get Mary and go.
“You looked transported, Your Grace,” came a voice at her elbow.
Turning, she came face to face with the author himself, a glass of claret in hand.
“Is it so obvious?” she asked.
He smiled. “To someone who watches for such things.”
She inclined her head. “Your prose was evocative—melancholy, sharp. It’s difficult not to be moved by such talent.”
