Joan Smith: Imprudent Lady / An Imprudent Lady

The job sounded onerous, but the pin money attractive, and Prudence agreed to do it. As it turned out Mr. Halcombe had written only three s of ten pages each, and those were copied in two days. But the idea caught on with her, and Mr. Halcombe promised to speak to his publisher to see if other writers might require her services. Soon she was regularly employed in making fair copies of others’ work, and rather enjoying it, especially the novels. She found herself wondering what would happen to the heroine, trapped in some seemingly hopeless situation, and would read and continue copying to discover her fate.

Soon Prudence began fashioning her own heroine in her spare time, and toying with her predicament. One day she finished her copying early, and to fool her uncle sat pretending to work for gain-which was not only permitted but encouraged-but actually writing a story of her own. She finished eight pages, and when she ran out of legitimate work would press on with her own story.

Forty portraits later it was done, then copied in her best copperplate and delivered to Mr. Murray for his perusal. Prudence had met the publisher several times when delivering or picking up work, and he had formed a good opinion of her judgment, so when she shyly handed him her manuscript, he read it with a kind eye. It was not the style in vogue at the moment, with Mr. Scott’s romantic novels sweeping the nation. Here were no tribal chieftains, no wars or warriors, nor even much in the way of a love story, but a keen ear had been at work to hear conversation, and a sharp intelligence to sort it out and render it into story form. He decided on a short run, a small advertisement, and a hope for profit over the long haul.

Mr. Murray had no vision of a vast and immediate audience such as Miss Burney and Scott enjoyed; certainly nothing in the nature of his top writer, Lord Dammler, and he was not out in his judgment. Miss Mallow’s book sold slowly at first, but continued to sell fairly regularly. When the second came out a year later, it sold better and he reissued her first. On her twenty-fourth birthday her third was published, and she felt her position was secure. Prudence had found her niche in the world. Under Clarence’s roof, unfortunately. The monetary rewards for her work did not permit her to set up a creditable establishment for herself and her mama, but if her social life was restricted and her private life tedious, her work was a compensation. She felt she could be content with her lot, and Clarence was kinder to a promising writer than to a penniless niece.

If some doubts assailed her as she lay alone in her four-poster nights, they were reasoned away. She was not young, not rich, not very pretty, and not married. She was and would likely always be a spinster. So be it. She would make do with it. The hopes that had come to London with her of meeting and eventually marrying some eligible gentleman had been slow in dying, but after four years they had died at last, or so she thought. The morning after her birthday, she bound back her dark curls and set, for the first time In her life, a cap upon them. It was a pretty cap with blue ribbons to match her eyes, but it was a cap nevertheless-an announcement to society that she had consigned herself to the anteroom of life forever as a spinster.

“Oh Prue,” her mother wailed when she saw what her daughter had done, “you are too young! Clarence, tell her this is nonsense.”

He was much inclined to, as she had not consulted him on the matter, but his innate selfishness held sway. He liked very much to have an authoress sharing his house. Then, too, with his wife gone, the women made the place more comfortable. For one thing, there was always someone there to paint or to watch him paint, to ask him if anything interesting had happened when he returned from a walk, or to admire his new jackets and move the buttons if they had to be moved, and his sister, Wilma, was an excellent housekeeper, even if she did spend too much money on food. “No such a thing,” he answered jovially. “Prudence knows what she is about. She is not called Prudence for nothing. She is better off single. Why should she marry some stupid fellow to have to wait on hand and foot?” Why indeed, Prudence silently agreed. I have you.

“And he would think to take charge of her earnings, too. No indeed, she is wise to set on her caps. Dashed pretty it looks, too, my dear. Dashed pretty. I have Miss Sedgemire coming in for a sitting today, Prue, at eleven o’clock. Will you bring your work to the studio and stay with us? She is single, you know, and on the catch for a husband, poor soul. She would like to move her luggage in here well enough. Has been dropping hints these two months that she would welcome an offer. I never pretend to understand what she is up to. It is the best way with her sort. But I shall enjoy to paint her. She has nice hands. I’ll have her fold them like Mona Lisa.”

“But she is only twenty-four,” Mrs. Mallow insisted.

“Nonsense. Thirty if she’s a day. She colours her hair. It is grey at the roots.”

“I mean Prudence,”

“Oh Prudence, yes, she is twenty-four. Getting right on. There is nothing so vulgar as an older lady chasing after the men, making laughing stocks of themselves. She is wise to put on her caps and put herself out of it all. Very prudent of her.” He looked about him for some appreciation of his wit. Wilma and Prudence smiled dutifully, and attacked their poached eggs.

The only difference putting on her cap made to Miss Mallow was that she thought rather more than she used to about marriage. Her noble resolve to forego nabbing a husband did not inhibit her daydreaming about it, but they became wild, improbable dreams now, untethered to reality. She let her vivid imagination soar, and was pursued in her mind by princes and nabobs, by foreign generals and handsome wastrels, by scholars and sportsmen. One particularly dreary day, with rain sliding down the windows of the studio and the smell of Clarence’s paints in her nostrils, she even imagined she was the object of Lord Dammler’s devotion. He combined the attributes of many of her dream lovers in one person. He was a lord-a marquis to be precise-he was an intellectual and a poet, he was a rake, a sportsman, and the handsomest man in England.

He had risen to prominence a year before with the publication of his Cantos from Abroad. Upon coming into his title and dignities two and a half years before that, his first act had not been to take over the reins of Longbourne Abbey, his late uncle’s estate, or take his seat in the house, or even take a wife, but to take the first ship leaving England’s shore and spend the next three years circling the globe. He had travelled those parts of the world known to few westerners-Greece, Turkey, Egypt, across vast Russia into China, from China by schooner to the Pacific Isles. He had returned via the Americas, North and South according to his poems, and finally across the Atlantic home to England. He had left an unknown young nobleman, and returned a legend. His first set of poems preceded him by six months in the hands of a friend, and by the time he landed the ton was on tiptoe to meet him.

His Cantos from Abroad were tales in verse loosely based on his voyage. The hero was named Andrew Marvelman, which was soon discovered to bear a strong resemblance to his own-Allan Merriman. The circumstances too were remarkably similar-a young gentleman with wealth and duties thrust suddenly on to his shoulders. A mystery and point of deep interest was the reason for his precipitous flight at the very point in his career when it was most probable he would remain at home. The reason was widely held-though not explicitly stated-to involve a liaison with a lady. Certainly ladies and females of all sorts and degrees featured prominently throughout the cantos, as did villains, intrigues and dangers of all kinds. There were harem girls who were in turn replaced by czarinas and Indian princesses as he jaunted recklessly from country to country, being shipwrecked, shot at, mauled by tigers, Musselmen, Cossacks and Indian chiefs. But a bigger and more dangerous event yet awaited Dammler when he was presented to panting Society. It was said by one wit that every man in England was jealous of him, and every woman in love with him. Dammler modestly retorted that the case had been overstated; only those ladies and gentlemen who could read had fallen into a passion of one sort or another over him.