Forever Your Earl Read Online Free Page A

the surface. Or else they wear disguises of one form or another, all to obscure purposes at which this modest publication can only guess . . .
    The Hawk’s Eye , May 4, 1816
    A s Eleanor entered through the side door of the Imperial Theater late the following afternoon, she found everything in the usual state of colorful, barely organized chaos. Kingston, the stage manager, ran hither and yon, clutching his ever-­present sheaf of documents and shouting at anyone and anything that crossed his path. Rehearsals were inevitably pandemonium. Costumed dancers wafted off the stage, complaining in the foulest language about the choreographer’s impossible demands. There were only so many joints in the human leg, after all. As the dancers left the stage, they were replaced by a comedic duo in loud trousers and waistcoats, clearly hoping that if their jests didn’t amuse the audience, their outrageous outfits might.
    The air smelled thickly of lamp oil, sweat, and greasepaint. Chatter and music filled the air. Eleanor stopped in the wings and took a deep breath. Ah, these were her ­people. She’d lived her whole life on the very fringes of respectability, rubbing elbows with theater folk, musicians, writers, confidence artists, and the generally disreputable. It was her other self—­publisher, businesswoman—­that sometimes felt more unfamiliar.
    A world apart from Lord Ashford.
    As she stood in the wings, watching the comedic duo torture puns, a dark-­haired woman crossed her path, then stopped.
    â€œHere to murder one of my plays, Eleanor?” She planted her hands on her hips.
    â€œYou manage that all on your own, Maggie,” Eleanor answered.
    Maggie drew her arm through Eleanor’s. They slowly ambled through the anarchy backstage. “Did you see the review for Love’s Revolution in the Times ? ‘It is the humble opinion of this reviewer that Mrs. Margaret Delamere’s latest theatrical opus, while adequately entertaining, suffers from a surfeit of radical sensibility. Once again she challenges our notion that the social orders should remain distinct, a notion that could lead to a revolt not unlike what transpired in France. I can only imagine that such naiveté must be a result of her gender.’ ”
    â€œHow dare you challenge hundreds of years of rigidly enforced hierarchy, madam!” Eleanor said haughtily. “Surely you must remain content with your lot, particularly as a woman.”
    â€œIndeed, I should.” Maggie sighed. “Or tell ’em all to go to blazes and just keep writing what I want to write.”
    Both women chuckled. The life of a writer was never one of ease and accolade—­or money—­but both Eleanor and Maggie had, from birth, been marked by the same curse. Womanhood. It was nigh impossible for their work to be judged of the same value as their male compatriots’. Or, worse, they would be shoved into writing about “proper” and “domestic” topics such as babies and other homespun dramas—­things that interested neither Maggie nor Eleanor.
    But Maggie was brave and published her work under her own name, rather than using a masculine pseudonym. Eleanor hid behind her first initial, never outright claiming her gender or refuting it, either.
    Because the Imperial did not have a royal patent, like Drury Lane or Covent Garden, it could not perform anything that was strictly spoken word. Few theaters could compete with this two-­sided monopoly. But the Imperial had gotten around this proviso by having music accompany every piece they put on. The works were a cross between operas and plays—­known as “burlettas”—­and often addressed subject matter that other theaters wouldn’t dare touch.
    Maggie had found a home here for her writing because Drury Lane and Covent Garden—­and the Haymarket during the summer—­hardly ever put on