Philippa blinked. Happy here? A peculiar question that no one had ever put to her. The expectation had always been that, as a lady, she belonged wherever her husband, or father, or now elder brother was. "I am," she said at last. Because she was. At least happier than she'd been when she'd been a girl living in this very house. Unable to meet the searching expression in Jane's eyes, she looked about. Her stare landed on the book set aside by her sister-in-law. She peered absently at the title. Thoughts on the Education of Daughters-
"Are you familiar with Mrs. Wollstonecraft's work?"
Philippa shot her head up; her attention diverted away from the gold lettering on the small leather tome. She looked questioningly at the other woman.
"Mrs. Wollstonecraft," Jane elucidated, holding up the volume.
"I am not," she said softly.
"She was a writer and an advocate for women's rights," her sister-in-law explained, as she held the book out. Philippa hesitated. This was the type of scandalous work her mother would have forbidden and her husband would have burned. With steady fingers, she accepted the book. "I quite enjoy her work."
Philippa studied the title. Thoughts on the education of daughters: with reflections on female conduct, in the more important duties of life. How singularly … peculiar that her brother, who'd lamented Chloe's shows of spirit and praised Philippa's obedience to propriety and decorum, should have married a woman who read philosophical works, and whom he'd also given leave to establish a finishing school to educate women who dwelled on the fringes of Society. At the extended silence, she cleared her throat and made to hand the book back over.
"I've always admired her," Jane said, ignoring the book so that Philippa laid it on her lap. "Mrs. Wollstonecraft's father squandered the family's money. He was a violent man." Philippa stiffened. How much did Jane know of the abuse she and her siblings had suffered at the vile monster's hands? "She cared for her sisters," the woman went on. "And then she cared for herself."
Self-loathing filled her. In a world where she'd readily turned over her fate and future to a man simply because he was respectable and kind, there had been Mrs. Wollstonecraft who'd laid claim to her life. "Did she?" For what did that even entail? Even now, living with her brother and his family, she'd demonstrated a return to a life not wholly different than the one she'd lived.
"Yes," Jane said simply. Something gentle and, yet, at the same time commanding, in the woman's tone brought Philippa's gaze to hers once more. "Mrs. Wollstonecraft was not always that way, Philippa. She was compelled by her father to turn over all the money she would have inherited at her maturity to him. A miserable, mean cruel man."
Not unlike the way Philippa had turned her body over to a husband to use as a vehicle to beget heirs and boy babes. Her throat worked. "Some women come to believe the rules and expectations set forth by Society so strongly that they can't escape from those ingrained truths." Ever.
Jane scooted closer. "Ah," she said. "But that isn't altogether true." She pointed to the book in Philippa's tight grip. "One might have said as much about Mrs. Wollstonecraft and, yet, she went on to lay claim to her fate and her future. She found work." She paused and gave Philippa a meaningful look. "But more, she found joy in her work and in the control she had of her future."
Those words echoed around the room, penetrating Philippa's mind. Jane spoke to her. Encouraged her to see that she could be something different than the silent, obedient creature who, no doubt, would crumple under her mother's determination to see her wed. Why does it have to be that way? Why must I marry where my heart is not engaged? Her heart, mind, and body belonged to no one. Not anymore. Not in the ways Society saw it. "My mother wishes me to marry," she said, unable to keep bitterness from tingeing her words.
"And you do not wish that." Jane spoke as a statement of fact.
Philippa cast a look at the door and then absently fanned the pages. "They expect that I should find a proper," her lip peeled back in an involuntary sneer, "husband who will be a father to my girls and who will properly manage my finances."
"What do you expect for yourself, Philippa?"
She'd spent the whole of her five and twenty years working to be an obedient daughter, a proper debutante, a flawless wife. So much so that she'd never, not even once, thought about herself as anything beyond an extension of another-until now. Philippa stopped her distracted movements and her gaze collided with the center of the page.
… Taught from their infancy that beauty is woman's scepter, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison …
"My mother's friend and her widower son came to visit." She smiled wryly.
"And do you wish to see this widower son?" Jane asked hesitantly.
"No, I do not." Her loudly spoken words bounced off the walls. She blinked. I do not. Her smile widened and with it went the bitterness, leaving in its stead a freeing purity. "Nor do I want my mother or brother's interference in my life." Well-meaning though it may be. She'd been the recipient of those well-meaning intentions and what had that attained her other than a miserable marriage? She slashed the air with her hand warming to the freedom of her thoughts. "And I certainly don't wish to guard my words and laughter. Or to be dull and bored by life." No, she didn't wish to ever be the lifeless creature she'd been. Lightness filled her chest.
Jane gave a pleased nod. "Then live for yourself and show your daughters how life can be, and should be, lived," she said.
Were the two mutually exclusive? How could a woman exist for herself while also putting her children before all? Another wave of awe struck her at the woman's fierce independence. She was a marchioness. An expecting mother. And she saw the running of a finishing school for ladies. And I am here, listening at keyholes, worrying about gentlemen my mother wishes to pair me off with.
Jane held her gaze squarely. "It is possible to be a mother and to still have control and power of your life. You do not lose yourself when you became a mother," she said with a gentle look. "You find new parts of yourself that teach you about your own strength and capabilities. You are not just your children, Philippa."
Yet for six years, she'd existed as nothing more than a woman whose sole purpose had been to birth babes. To her husband, she'd ceased to matter. She stared absently at the floor-length window. Mayhap, she never had. And now with Lord Winston gone, she was free to begin again. To speak and laugh and move without fear of recrimination. "Thank you," she said quietly.
Leaning forward, Jane rested her hand on Philippa's. "There is no need to thank me. You are my sister," she said simply. "If you'll excuse me?" She climbed to her feet. "I've a meeting shortly regarding the hiring of a new headmistress."
"Wait!" Philippa called out as her sister-in-law turned to go. She jumped to her feet and held out the book.
Jane held her palms up. "It is yours. Judicious books enlarge the mind and improve the heart."
Philippa started. "That is beautiful."
Gabriel's wife waggled her blonde eyebrows. "That is Mrs. Wollstonecraft."
As the lady turned and took her leave, Philippa returned her attention to the book in her hands. Her mother would, of course, expect her to be present while she received her guests and any other time in her life she would have remained an obedient daughter with her hands primly folded, speaking on the weather and every other dull topic expected of a lady.
Pulling the gift given her by Jane close to her chest, Philippa started for the door.
She was going out.
Chapter 8
A short while later, with her recently asserted literary independence, Philippa stood alongside the lake in Hyde Park, that same book lying on the blanket behind her.
There was not a soul present in Hyde Park. At least, not any nearby. She closed her eyes briefly and drew deep of the late spring air, filling her lungs with it. There was something so very thrilling in being away from the scrutiny of her family. And the questions of the gossips. And to just simply … be.
Stepping closer to the shore, she took in the smooth glass-like quality of the water. Even. Smooth. Placid. Not unlike herself.