Bite Me, Your Grace by Brooklyn Ann
Dedicated to my mother, Karen Ann
6-11-62 ~ 2-14-09
You were the first person to believe in me.
Every day I strive to make you proud.
And to Damian.
Thank you for never giving up on me.
One
London 1821
“Ruined.” Angelica Winthrop tasted the word on her tongue and found it to be delicious. “Ruined,” she whispered once more and allowed a smile to creep to her lips despite her choking bitterness. “Placed on the shelf; rendered unmarriageable for the rest of one’s days.”
Her smile faded and the stony lump in her throat returned as she looked at the remains of her favorite book in the fireplace. All that was left were a corner of the cover and a few charred pages that would crumble at a touch. This time her mother had gone too far. She’d come into Angelica’s room, snatched the book from her grasp, taken one look at the title, and emitted a strangled gasp of outrage.
“I cannot have you reading such trash,” Margaret Winthrop had said when she threw A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft into the fireplace.
“How can you call it trash?” Angelica had demanded, fighting back tears. “It’s a logical treatise on the subject of our sex being capable of rational thought. As a woman, how can you not be aware of that?”
Margaret snorted indelicately. “The author bore an illegitimate child then married an anarchist! I’ll not have that book in my house.” Her face was nearly as red as her curls. “It is bad enough that you are a veritable bluestocking. But if anyone knew you were a radical, your reputation would be blackened beyond redemption, with all hope of an advantageous marriage turned to refuse.”
The sight of the book being burned thrust like a rapier through Angelica’s heart. Her mother might as well have ripped away her spirit and cast it into the flames.
“Maybe I want my reputation to be ruined, Mother,” Angelica had said, unable to hold back her ire… or her elation with the concept, once uttered. “Maybe I don’t want to be a broodmare for some inane boor while he spends my dowry on his mistresses and… Ouch!” She gasped when her mother pinched her.
Lady Margaret hissed, “If we were not going to the Wentworth ball tonight I would slap you. A lady does not speak of such things.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now stop these hysterics immediately! I suggest you compose yourself while I fetch Liza to bring your gown and fix your hair.”
After her mother left, Angelica rubbed her burning eyes, meagerly proud that she had managed not to give her mother the satisfaction of tears. Needing reassurance on the state of the rest of her collection, she peeked under her bed. At least her copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein: Or, The Modern Prometheus was safe. Mary Shelley, daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, was Angelica’s personal hero. If Margaret had burned Frankenstein, Angelica would have screamed.
She frowned at the growing pile of books languishing in the dark recesses. A better hiding place for them was in order, but she didn’t dare move them now. This is completely unfair! Angelica quivered in outrage and despair. Literature was a precious gift. One shouldn’t have to hide it from others. The written word should be revered and shared by all, no matter their sex or station in life. Her gaze strayed back to the fireplace, rage curling in her belly at the destruction of a precious book.
“I will do it,” Angelica vowed to the ashes. “I will ruin my reputation and gain my freedom.” Her voice quavered and she felt like she could taste the smoldering paper.
She turned from the scene of the crime and approached her writing desk, stopping for a moment to caress the polished mahogany surface, resisting the urge to open the secret compartment and look upon her other hidden and oppressed rebellion… the pages of her ghost stories.
Ever since she could pick up a quill, Angelica had loved to write. The falsehoods of fiction were much preferable to those of society. Her father encouraged her talent, but her mother, naturally, despised her writing and her father’s support of a habit that she deigned “for the lower classes.”
“You inherited such common traits from him!” she complained constantly. “I swear I shall always regret marrying a mere mister instead of a title. Perhaps then I would not have had such an unnatural daughter.”