Kitteridge House sat atop a slight promontory, panoramically overlooking the surrounding low, green hills and shallow valley through which flowed the Kitter River. At the back of the classical, five-storied Palladian mansion, constructed from pale stone and topped with a gray slate roof, sprawled the vast, formal gardens, and the outbuildings of the estate. Large gates protected the grand mansion, and a wide avenue lined with trees and parkland wound up to the big circular gravel drive which brought visitors to the manor.

Inside the beautiful mansion, Alice was humming to herself as Betty helped her dress to join her family for breakfast. The sun was already beginning to shine brightly through the large windows of her bedchambers, its first rays lighting the yellow velvet drapes adorning Alice’s four-poster bed past

The oak vanity table, Alice’s matching dressers, and her mahogany writing desk rested on plush Turkey carpeting. Her bedchambers truly were her sanctuary, and they made the perfect place for her writing.

 The brightness and warmth of the room made her feel much less as though she was hiding her secret career from her family. It seemed much more a private world that included only herself and Betty.

She glanced at Betty in the mirror as the maid began working on her hair. Betty’s own dark hair had begun to slip down into her face, and she idly blew it away with a small puff of her breath. It would be a little while yet before Betty finished readying her mistress for the day, and Alice was anxious to discuss something with the maid before she joined her family downstairs.

“I read Father’s copy of The London Times yesterday,” she said, excited but humble.

The maid nodded eagerly, much to Alice’s relief. Alice hated bragging about her accomplishments, as arrogant people did, but she could not help being proud. It felt wonderful to know her maid understood her and supported her efforts in the way she did.

“I caught a few peeks at the paper myself, my lady,” she said, grinning widely. “It would seem that a certain Mr. Tristram Tattersall has very quickly made a big impression on many of England’s readers. In fact, Londoners cannot cease their raving about Tattersall’s first book.”

Alice covered her mouth to stifle a giddy squeal. She turned to her maid, taking her hands in her own and giving them an enthusiastic squeeze.

“Can you believe it?” she asked, sighing dreamily. “I have dreamt of being a novelist for so long, and now I see my dream coming to fruition.”

Betty nodded knowingly.

“Of course, I can believe it, Lady Alice,” she said. “You are a very talented writer. I can think of no one who is as deserving of such recognition and fond praise as yourself.”

Alice beamed, sighing again. It was true the book London seemed to love so dearly bore a masculine name that was not her own, a nom de plume, as the French called it. For aristocratic ladies such as herself were not supposed to be novelists, successful or otherwise, and sometimes, she was saddened by the necessity for the subterfuge.

But she knew that if she simply continued working at her writing and captured the literary heart of London society’s peers, one day, she would be able to publish a work under her own name and receive the same kind of acclaim openly that the fictional Tristram Tattersall now received.

No one could deny her talent after having so highly praised her work. She knew that one day, everyone would accept her, just as they had Mr. Tattersall.

Alice sighed again, unable to keep still as Betty continued her work.

“Oh, and the sum of the royalties is quite incredible,” she said. “I had no idea that I could ever earn so much money, simply for doing something I love to do.”

Betty’s eyes widened. She paused, stepping to Alice’s side to look her directly in the eyes.

“What will you do about collecting those royalties?” she asked. “Mr. Dickens will no doubt be expecting a gentleman to come to his office to receive the payment. And you are far too lovely to pass off as a man.”

Alice giggled at the idea of her dressing as a man, and she blushed at her maid’s compliment. She tilted her head, thinking for a moment. She realized she had been so excited about the novel’s success, and the opportunities abroad her publisher mentioned, that she had not given proper thought as to how she would collect her royalties.

Money had never been a major concern for her when it came to her writing. She had only ever wanted to make enough to become financially independent, so that she would never have to rely on a husband for money. Therefore, she had not considered what she would do when it came time to receive the payments for any work she published.

“Perhaps I could write to him and ask that a courier deliver the money to me,” she mused.

Betty grew thoughtful, chewing on her lip.

“Forgive me, milady,” she said, “I do not wish to overstep myself, but I am not certain that any businessman would ever entrust such a large sum to a mere courier. That poses the risk that both you and the publishing company could lose it all, should the courier choose to defect with it.”

Alice smiled reassuringly at her maid. Betty knew she need never fear speaking out of turn or place with Alice, but she was still mindful enough to afford her mistress that respect. Then, she frowned. Betty was right. Having money transported in such a manner was indeed too risky, and she doubted that the publisher would ever agree to such an arrangement.

“You are quite right, Betty,” she said, biting her own lip. “If any such thing were feasible, Father would surely follow the practice himself.”

Betty nodded. Then, she smiled.

“Oh, but has he not sent your brother to fetch and make payments in his stead many times?” she asked. “When he returns from York, we could ask him if he would do the same for you.”

Alice shook her head slowly.

“George cannot know about my secret writing,” she said. “I am unsure of whether he would approve. And, even if he did, merely knowing about it would put him at risk of Father’s disapproval just as much as myself. I cannot place him in such a position, even if he should happen to agree to it.”

Betty’s head rose and fell with understanding. The two women were silent for a moment, deep in thought. Betty quickly finished helping Alice get ready, then she sat down beside her. Alice was perplexed, as the collection of the royalties presented a problem she had not considered properly previously. But she was far from distressed. She knew that, between herself and her maid, they would come up with a viable solution to the problem.

After another long pause, she turned back to Betty.

“Do you think that I could get away with dressing as a man to collect the money?” she asked, rather more seriously than she had at the first suggestion she might do such a daring thing.

Betty chuckled, shaking her head.

“No, your ladyship,” she said. “Even if I could successfully dress you to appear convincing as a man, how would we ever slip you out of the house dressed in such a fashion?”

Alice winced, cursing herself for having not considered that. Her parents would certainly notice her stealing through the house if she were dressed like a gentleman. And there would be no possible way to explain herself.

Even if it were only one of the servants who saw her, she could not be sure they would not report the incident to her parents, especially if they started inquiring as to her whereabouts. It was too risky, she knew, so she dismissed the idea once and for all. Until that was, a moment later, when another idea occurred to her.

“Very well,” she said, excitement filling her once more. “Then what if I pretend to be someone else, like myself, for instance?”

Betty looked at her in confusion.

“Someone else?” she asked. “Your ladyship, I do not understand. How could you pretend to be yourself when you are yourself?”

Alice giggled at how silly her idea sounded coming from her maid’s lips. She nodded firmly, determination filling her.

“I will explain,” she said, patting her maid’s hand. “The publisher believes that Tristram Tattersall is a real person. But he knows nothing of anyone Mr. Tattersall might have in his life. So, I could write Mr. Dickens a letter, from Mr. Tattersall, as always, and notify him that I am sending one of my employees to collect my payment. And that employee’s name would just happen to be Alice Kitteridge.”

Betty’s eyes lit up with understanding. She giggled, as Alice had, at how nonsensical the plan had at first sounded. She thought for a moment, and then nodded.

“I believe that would work,” she said. “And you, of course, would have all the necessary information about Mr. Tattersall, should Mr. Dickens ask any questions.”

Alice nodded, glad she seemed to have at last found a viable plan.

“And I could take the letter about the second novel and the payment as proof that I am, indeed, acting personally for Mr. Tattersall,” she said.

The two women dissolved into giggles at referring to Alice as both herself and the fictional author. To Alice, the plan sounded as if it belonged in the plot of one of the novels she consumed, like those she herself hoped to write one day.

Perhaps she would put a similar theme in one of her own stories one day? Ideas flashed through her mind as to what sorts of conflicts could arise in such a story. And, with her own experiences of her writing career to draw upon, she thought she would be able to narrate such conflicts adeptly.

As the possibilities floated through Alice’s mind, a new conflict occurred to her. She gasped, so loudly and suddenly that Betty jumped beside her.

“What is it?” she asked, putting a hand on her mistress’s shoulder.

Alice looked at her maid with disappointment in her eyes.

“There is still one problem to do with me going to collect the money as Mr. Tattersall’s agent,” she said. “I will have to go to London.”

At first, Betty looked confused, as though she did not see what Alice meant. Then, all at once, it dawned on her, and her face fell a little, too.

“Oh, dear,” she said with a sigh. “Your mother would surely wish to go with you, even with me as your escort.”

Alice nodded sadly.

“Oh, if only I could tell my family about my writing and my success,” she said. “Then none of this would be a problem.”

Betty nodded, looking at Alice with serious eyes.

“Perhaps it is time that you tell them,” she said.

Alice shook her head.

“I feel terrible guilt about keeping such a big secret from Mother and George,” she admitted. “But in their hands, no such secret would ever be safe from Father. And he will never support the idea of me being a lady novelist. Not even if I should promise to always use a male nom de plume.”

Betty frowned sympathetically.

“Of course, I do not wish to see such conflict within your family,” she said, “but I do hate seeing you so distressed by the trouble all this secrecy causes. Perhaps you could at least speak about it with your mother privately? You need not tell her everything but sound her out, discover how much you might safely tell her. Perhaps then, she would help you enough to cease your worrying about things like collecting your royalties.”

Alice chewed her lip, considering her maid’s words. It would be the perfect solution—if only she could trust her mother. But she knew well that her mother would without fail tell her father. All the earl would have to do was to ask his wife the right questions, and she would tell him whatever he wanted to know.

“Lying and deception do not come naturally to me, Betty, as you well know,” she said. “And this situation is, indeed, quite a strain on me. Especially keeping things from my mother. But I must continue in secret, at least until I have well established myself as a successful novelist. Father is not above disowning me, I am sure. It is not safe to speak a word to any of them just now. Oh, if only he would see reason.”

Betty nodded again, understanding her mistress’s plight.

“Well, for now, do not forget that you are well on your way to the success you seek,” she said, her smile beginning to return. “That letter from your publisher was very promising, and you shall soon have a second book to increase your popularity.”

Alice, too, began to grin, covering her mouth with her hand.

“You mean the success of one Mr. Tattersall,” she said.

The two women giggled again.

A few moments later, Betty escorted Alice downstairs to join her family for breakfast. By the time Alice had bid her maid farewell, leaving Betty to join the servants in the kitchen, her spirits were high once more. She put aside solving the riddle of how to obtain her money until later, as well as the thought of how much easier life would be if she could tell her family about her secret writing career without any adverse repercussions.

But, as Betty had pointed out, she had already made great progress in gaining the success necessary before abandoning the secrecy. For the time being, she could be satisfied with that.