To Catch a Rake by Sally Orr Page A

something is a thing that only some people understand.”
    Blank stares appeared on the faces of several ladies.
    Clara tried to clarify the situation. “The metaphor alludes to when a young lady becomes…becomes fallen .” She lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “Carnal knowledge.”
    The ladies either gasped or giggled.
    “Let me explain,” Grizel said, turning to Sybella. “When a single man and a woman are destined to be lovers, the author foreshadows this event by…” She too lowered her voice.
    All of the ladies around the marble table leaned toward the center to catch her words.
    Grizel whispered, “The lady will bleed at some point in the book. A small amount of blood is a metaphor for the blood sometimes found when a virgin becomes fallen .”
    This time more giggles than gasps were heard.
    “I remember that now.” Bethia smiled, appearing younger than her gray hair implied. “You clever ladies discovered that in all novels of the romantic type, the heroines always bleed in the vicinity of the young man they are destined to wed. Of course, if there is no young man standing about, then it’s just bleeding.”
    Lady Sarah laughed. “Yes, but in a scene with a young, single gentleman nearby, the lady might prick her finger at a picnic or hit her head at the opera—”
    “Yes, yes,” Clara said. “Young women are extremely clumsy in most three-volume novels and spend a great deal of their daytime hours bleeding all over London and the countryside.”
    Each lady replied in turn.
    “Remember when the young man’s horsewhip hit her in the leg?”
    “Or the one that tripped over a rake?”
    Ten seconds of silence followed.
    “An it rake and not a he rake, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    “Obviously.”
    “We knew that.”
    “Actually,” Clara said, “any poking object is dangerous to virgin ladies with an eligible man nearby.”
    “Not poke bonnets,” Sybella said.
    Lady Sarah frowned at Sybella, then placed her hands on the table. “Remember that lurid one we discussed last year, where the lady pricks herself on the gentleman’s sword?”
    Bethia’s eyes widened. “Oh dear, oh dear, I’m going to faint.”
    “You don’t tell people you are going to faint,” Grizel said. “You just faint. Otherwise, it’s not fainting, it’s acting.”
    “No, it’s lounging,” one lady corrected.
    Bethia appeared quite pleased with herself. “I tell people I’m going to faint, so they will be sure to catch me.”
    Meta’s impatience grew. “If you warn people, it’s not fainting, it’s purposeful reclining.” She checked herself. Her request was too important to lose her temper.
    Lady Sarah straightened in her chair. “I firmly believe that one day in the future, women novelists will be able to forgo metaphors and write freely—about any subject—even the subject of amorous congress.”
    Several gasps were heard.
    “If true,” Grizel remarked with a certain tinge of northern fatalism, “I think those vulgar books will then mark the end of society as we know it.”
    “Authorial freedom to that extent will never happen. Too dangerous,” Clara remarked.
    Several ladies added, “That’s true.”
    “Will never happen.”
    The newest member of the Learned Ladies leaned over the table and remarked, “I never imagined how amusing a book discussion could be.”
    “Or how fast they can disintegrate into nonsense,” Grizel said.
    “Ladies, please,” Meta said. “The field guide does not resemble these vulgar books. It’s merely satire, an exaggeration of feminine romantic behavior for the amusement of men. Mr. Drexel is a gentleman. His cause is a good one and the tunnel will benefit many. That is the main purpose behind the Learned Ladies Society, is it not? All I request is that you put the matter before your husbands, fathers, or man of business if you are a widow, for their consideration.”
    “My dear Meta,” Lady Sarah said, “from your defense of the man, it