Gladys's kind face filled with immediate concern. She stepped closer, her sensible shoes making no sound on the plush Aubusson carpet. "Ines, are you okay?" she asked, her voice low and serious. She placed a comforting hand on Ines's arm.
Ines pulled away from the touch, not out of anger, but out of a deep, unsettling shame. She walked to the center of the room, her lavender skirts whispering around her ankles. She felt trapped, not just in the room, but in her own ignorance.
"I can't think of anything," Ines said, her voice flat with defeat. She looked at Gladys, her eyes pleading for understanding. "There are no new ideas. I sit with the quill in my hand, and the page stays blank. Doris and Stefan… they are starting to feel like strangers to me now. I've been in that stable scene for a month now, Gladys."
"But you wrote the first volume so well," Gladys countered gently. "The way you described their first meeting, the stolen glances, the longing… it was magnificent. Our readers thought so, too."
"But that was different!" Ines exclaimed, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. "That was written by referencing the contents of all the books I have ever read. Stolen glances, a trembling hand, a secret sigh—I have read those scenes a hundred times in a hundred novels! I can write what I have read. But now… now they are in the stables, Gladys. He is taking off his shirt. And I…" She stopped, her cheeks growing warm. "I have nothing to reference. Without experience, my imagination has its limits. I need real-life experiences to make it feel true."
Gladys's mouth formed a perfect 'O' of shock. Her eyes, usually so calm and intelligent, were wide with alarm.
"Ines!" she gasped, her hand flying to her chest as if to calm a suddenly frantic heart. "You don't mean to say… you want to gain that kind of experience, do you?"
The implication hung in the air between them, scandalous and unthinkable. Gladys pictured a scandalous scene, the sheltered sister of a Duke, sneaking out to meet a man, all in the name of research. The thought was horrifying.
Realizing what Gladys meant, Ines's face bloomed into a deep, mortified crimson.
"N-no! Of course not!" she stammered, her hands fluttering in the air as if trying to physically bat the implication away. "I didn't mean it that way. I would never… I was just saying that… well, I don't know what I was saying." She finished lamely, dropping her hands to her sides. She felt foolish and childish.
Gladys's expression softened from shock to a mixture of relief and sympathy. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. She understood, perhaps better than Ines did herself, the strange prison of being a well-bred, unmarried woman. They were expected to be innocent as lambs, yet somehow understand the world of men. It was an impossible task.
"Let's head over to the library for your lessons," Gladys said, her voice calm once more. She picked up her satchel of books, her composure restored. "We will work on your German translation. We can discuss… your dilemma after that."
Ines nodded, grateful for the change of subject. She could not bear to look Gladys in the eye.
They walked out of the bedroom and down the long, silent hallway. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Tapestries of ancient hunts and stoic ancestors lined the walls, their woven eyes seeming to follow her. As they walked, Ines stared at the polished floorboards, her mind a whirlwind of frustration.
I've heard that there are such women, she thought, the idea both fascinating and terrifying. Women who live hedonistically, without being married. Courtesans, harlots, actresses… women who know things. I want to hear someone's vivid experiences, even if I cannot experience them myself.
She glanced at Gladys's back. The severe bun, the practical dress, the straight-backed posture of a woman who had worked for her living her entire life.
Gladys also hasn't experienced a relationship with a man, Ines realized with a pang of sorrow. She is as ignorant as I am. I cannot ask her. There is no one I can ask.
A sigh built in her chest, but she held it in. What was the use? No one had ever spoken to her about these things. Her mother had died when she was young. Her governesses had taught her needlepoint and watercolors, how to curtsy and manage a household, but they had never taught her about the nature of desire. They had certainly never explained what happens when a man takes off his shirt in a stable.
Would it have been easier if I were married? The thought was a disloyal one. She did not want to be married, to be shackled to one of the boring, predictable men of the ton. But as a writer, the idea was a temptation. If I had a real relationship with a man, I might have been able to write with more emotion. I would understand the racing heart, the stolen touch. I would be able to connect with my characters, and have them connect with my readers. My writing would feel real, not like a pale copy of someone else's words.
They reached the grand, carved doors of the library. Gladys paused, her hand on the brass handle, and turned to wait for Ines.
"Gladys," Ines spoke out, the decision forming on her lips as she said the name. She had to put an end to this. She could not let her personal turmoil interfere with their enterprise, with Gladys's livelihood.
She lifted her head, forcing a bright, unconcerned expression onto her face.
Gladys turned fully, her brow furrowed slightly. "Hmmm?"
"Don't worry about what I said earlier, about experience," Ines said, her voice light and airy. It was a terrible performance, but she hoped it would be convincing enough. "It was a silly joke. I was feeling dramatic. I will try to speed up the writing. I will finish it today, I promise. You can collect the manuscript tomorrow."
Gladys stared at her, confused by the sudden change in demeanor. One moment, Ines was on the verge of tears, confessing a deep creative and emotional crisis. The next, she was dismissing it as a joke and making an impossible promise.
Gladys knew it was a lie, a brave front, but she also knew her friend. When Ines built a wall, it was pointless to try and knock it down. One had to wait for her to open the gate herself.
"Okay, Ines," she said, offering a small, encouraging smile. She decided to brush it off, for now. "I am sure you will."
They entered the library, the comforting scent of old paper and beeswax enveloping them. Ines walked towards the large table, the lie she had just told echoing in her mind.
Finish it today.
She had no idea how. Her imagination was a barren wasteland. Her hero and heroine were frozen in the stables, waiting for a knowledge she simply did not possess.