by Evie Dunmore
Lucie gave her a weak smile. How could she not have considered it? The suggestion was thrust upon her at frequent intervals.
“If fashionable clothes and pretty smiles wielded any significant influence, surely our bankers, dukes, and politicians would be strutting around impeccably dressed and grinning like Cheshire cats,” she said. “But they don’t.”
“Ah, but then the weapons of men and women are not quite the same.” Lady Salisbury’s tone was well-meaning. “See, a woman overtly grasping for power is a most vulgar creature—it helps when she looks lovely while she does it. And it so confuses the demagogues.”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid the idea that a woman is a person, whether married or not, is so inherently radical no matter which way I present it I shall be considered a nuisance.”
More than a nuisance. An outright challenge, a threat. For if a woman was a person in her own right, one could conclude she was also in possession of a mind and a heart of her own, and thus had needs of her own. But the unwearyingly self-sacrificing good mother and wife must not have needs, or, as Patmore’s perseveringly popular poem put it: Man must be pleased; but him to please / Is woman’s pleasure . . .
“Ghastly business,” the countess repeated, and shook her head. “I can tell it is taking a toll on you—you look awfully tired. Here, have a biscuit.”
“I lost track of time while reading letters last night,” Lucie said. “Or perhaps I am getting old.” Now, this had slipped her lips unintended.
The countess drew back, her brows arching high. “Old, you! Do not say so, for it would mean I was practically dead and gone. No, dear, take it from a truly old woman: you are still of a good age. Certainly too young to have such lines between your brows. Say, do you have a special friend?”
Lucie’s brows promptly pulled together. “I have three close friends. They are in residence here during term time, in the apartments on the first floor.”
“Well, how lovely.” Lady Salisbury took a delicate sip from her cup. “But what I meant is: have you a suitor in your life?”
Oh. She gave the countess a bemused look. “I do not.”
“I see.”
“I lead the campaign against the Married Women’s Property Act—I doubt I could marry and remain credible.”
Lady Salisbury gave a shrug. “Millicent Fawcett is married, and she is well-regarded by everyone in the movement.”
“I suppose it helps that her husband was a suffragist long before they met,” murmured Lucie. It was a little bewildering. In her current position, she was a rare creature—an independent woman. She had a modest but secure income, and yet she belonged neither to a father nor a husband. Usually, only widowhood gave a woman such freedom. Why would Lady Salisbury suggest she give this up?
“I was not speaking of quite such a formal arrangement in any case.” Lady Salisbury leaned closer, a conspiring gleam dancing in her eyes. “I was speaking of a beau, as they called them in my time. A lover.”
A lover?
She eyed the lady’s cup with suspicion. Was the countess having the sherry for breakfast?
The lady chuckled. “My, what a look of consternation. Surely you must know there is joy to be had from a man, on occasion—it is vital to discern between the individual and the politics that be. And you are certainly not old; look, you are blushing at the mere mentioning of lovers.”
Her cheeks did feel warm. This was verging on bawdy talk, and why, oh why was it Tristan’s arrogantly bored countenance that had just sprung to mind?
Lady Salisbury reached across the table and patted Lucie’s hand. “Never mind. Lonely are the brave, it’s always been thus. I do hope we buy this publishing house. You must know that we are all putting our faith in you. You carry the torch for all those of us who can’t.”
“Right,” Lucie said absently. “I shall do my very best.”
“Lord knows I won’t see the changes in my lifetime,” Lady Salisbury said, “but I have high hopes for my Athena. And it is invigorating, having a cause. My lawyer still thinks I used the money for a new hat collection.” She cackled with glee. “How many hats does the man think a woman needs?”
* * *
Hattie’s apartment on the hotel’s first floor was usually guarded by her protection officer, a Mr. Graves. Today, there were two of the kind lurking in the shadows, men pretending to be footmen, their faces notably bland. Of course. These days, Annabelle was being followed, too. One of several disadvantages of being married to a duke. She supposed they had to be grateful Montgomery permitted his new wife to continue her studies of the classics at all.
She crossed the thickly carpeted corridor on soundless feet, wondering about the silence greeting her. The open wing doors to the drawing room revealed a cozy tableau: the Venetian glass chandelier cast a glittering light over the low-legged tea table and the surrounding settees. The tiered platter for the scones and lemon tarts towered on the table and, astonishingly, there were some pastries left. Her friends were huddled close on the yellow settee with their heads, one red, one black, one brunette, stuck together over a periodical. Hence, the absence of chatter. One could hear the fire crackling softly on the grate. Above the fireplace hung the canvas emblazoned with their most pressing mission:
Amend the Married Women’s Property Act
One of those ubiquitous portraits of an elderly gentleman in a powdered wig had had to make way for the canvas. The gent was now leaned against a sideboard, at the ready to be put back in place when Hattie’s parents came to visit, because the wealthy banker family wouldn’t approve of her activism. Hattie’s live-in, chaperoning great-aunt was too shortsighted to take any notice. Presumably, Aunty was currently napping, allowing the young women to shamelessly overstay the fifteen minutes of a social call.
What a curious place Oxford was, Lucie thought, watching her friends. Without much ado, the university had united on the same settee a banking heiress studying the fine arts, a Scottish lady working as a research assistant for her professor father, and a vicar’s daughter, now a duchess, studying the classics.
“Goodness, Lucie, you spook us, just standing there.” Hattie had glanced up and jumped to her feet, the red curls tumbling from her coiffure bouncing around her face.
“The contract has not been drawn up,” she said quickly. Annabelle and Catriona, who had also made to rise, sank back down onto the settee.
“It’s you, isn’t it,” Annabelle said, her green gaze assessing as Lucie approached.
“Apparently.” She sprawled unladylike on the velvet divan. “I understand the board took notice of me being listed in the consortium’s legal papers. Now they rightly suspect that I shall corrupt London Print, and they are advising Mr. Barnes not to sell us his shares.”
Hattie stopped in the process of pouring her a tea, her round brown eyes rounder with worry.
“He hardly has to take their advice, has he?” she asked.
“He is a nervous man.”
“So what shall we do?”
She gave a little shrug. “What we always do. We wait.”
Catriona took off her glasses, her blue eyes serious. “Don’t blame yourself,” she said, her Scottish lilt more pronounced, which meant her emotions were heightened. “We considered all options—having you at the helm during this undertaking was the least worst option out of various bad options.”
“Why, thanks,” Lucie said wryly. In truth, since her last visit with Mr. Barnes, she secretly wondered whether the entire plan was perhaps a trifle harebrained. When she had first had the idea to acquire a publishing house to publish a suffrage report attacking the Married Women’s Property Act, the idea had made terrific sense. After all, sometimes, one had to meet great challenges with equally great artillery. However, it had been easy to become lost in the tasks at hand, such as assembling an investment consortium under special constraints, and understanding the legal works
, rather than think all possible consequences through to the end. Ruined reputations and plummeting goodwill toward the already largely unpopular suffrage movement were but a few of the risks. Easily ignored, when shares in a suitable publishing house had unexpectedly become available a month ago. But now, on the line between victory and unanticipated defeat at the very last moment, she felt the weight of the enormity of her plan. I’m a little worried, she wanted to tell her friends. I’m worried I may have bitten off more than I can chew. She would, of course, say no such thing. A dithering leader was about as useful as a wet blanket. Besides, the whole movement depended on women acting before they felt ready.
She turned to Annabelle. “I’m afraid I had to threaten Barnes with the wrath of the House of Montgomery. I know it is a delicate time to use your name in potentially scandalous activities, but I felt it was my last chance.”
The Duke of Montgomery was a powerful man, but his social standing had suffered when he had married Annabelle a few months ago—the upper ten thousand had not taken kindly to his decision to take the daughter of a vicar for a wife, nor his switch of party affiliation. He had largely avoided society since.
“I don’t believe it will do us harm,” Annabelle said. “And by the time the report is published, we shall have wiped all traces of my involvement.”
“You are too gracious.”
Annabelle, very graciously, inclined her head. A jewel on her hairpin caught the light and sparked a rainbow in her mahogany hair. A remarkable thing about dukes? No scandal was ever large enough to bankrupt them.
Hattie, meanwhile, was piling scones and tarts onto her plate. “Does Lady Salisbury have any advice on the matter?”
Yes. That I go and take a lover so as to ease the frown lines on my brow.
“Only the usual,” she said, “I should be less of me and more of a paragon to make the movement more likable.” She reached for a scone, then proceeded to crumble it between her fingers. “It never ceases to puzzle me. I understand it’s easily forgotten within our small, and, dare I say, enlightened, circle, but the truth remains: before the law, once we are married, we have the same rights as children and prisoners, namely none. And yet,” she said, ignoring Hattie’s reprimanding stare at the demolished scone, “and yet there are people who believe being fashionable and pleasant shall make a difference. I understand how being pleasant can keep the peace, but how will it win a war?”
Both Annabelle, well versed on the wars of antiquity, and Catriona, well versed on any topic, regarded her with mild amusement. Very well. She took a deep breath. She was feeling unusually flustered. There was the matter of uncertainty regarding London Print, and Tristan’s appearance before her window the other night prowled circles at the back of her mind. Briefly, she considered telling her friends about her fast-approaching meeting at Blackwell’s, but the truth was, Ballentine should not preoccupy her at all.
“What if there is some truth to the merits of likability,” Hattie suggested. “Dripping water hollows the stone—Ovid said so, I believe.”
Annabelle nodded. “He did.”
“It only takes a thousand years, doesn’t it,” Lucie said dryly.
“While we proceed with the hollowing, we may as well look fashionable,” Hattie said unperturbed. “If you wished to try Lady Salisbury’s strategy, perhaps you could start with being seen at social events. In fact, we were just talking about Montgomery’s house party.” Her smile was dazzling. “Wouldn’t it be fabulous if you joined us for once?”
Lucie blinked. “I haven’t attended a house party since the incident with the Spanish ambassador and the fork.”
“It appears to be high time, then. We could shop dresses together.” Hattie nudged the periodical they had studied earlier across the table—a fashion magazine, depicting a woman in an impossibly narrow skirt and a tiny hat.
“Is it time yet for a house party,” Lucie said quickly, “considering Montgomery’s current position?”
“It may strike some as too soon,” Annabelle admitted, “but the Prince of Wales invited himself to Claremont for some grouse hunting. We decided to make him the guest of honor at a house party.”
“Isn’t it terribly clever,” Hattie said.
It was. With the Prince of Wales in attendance, not even Montgomery’s opponents would decline the invitation; they’d send a son in their stead, perhaps, but every family of consequence would be represented. The prince himself was probably doing it to needle Her Majesty the queen, who was highly unamused by her son’s libertine antics. Altogether, it could do wonders for Montgomery’s rehabilitation.
“I thank you for the invitation,” she told Annabelle. “But it strikes me as imprudent to have me among the guests if Montgomery wants to leave scandal behind.”
Annabelle shook her head. “You are my friend. Frankly, I shall need my friends there. Everyone else is just vying to see a social-climbing upstart make a fool of herself.”
Bother. She hadn’t considered that Annabelle might require a helping hand.
Hattie gave her a coy look. “Wouldn’t Annabelle’s first Claremont house party be a worthy occasion for a visit to the modiste?”
As an artist and a romantic young woman, Hattie held strong opinions on colors, cuts, and compositions—and behind the girl’s upturned nose and readily smiling mouth lurked a stubbornness vastly superior to Lucie’s ability to patiently weather an argument.
“Hattie, I am not denying that fashion’s allure is a weapon of sorts in a lady’s hands. What I object to is the fact that it is the only weapon we may wield in public without suffering scrutiny . . .”
“. . . and refusing to use it is a statement, I know, I know,” Hattie said. “And I like to choose my weapons, and frumpiness is not one of them—how lucky you are to not have a mother who picks your gowns! The things you could wear!”
“I have plenty of dresses.”
“Your dresses are fine,” Hattie said unconvincingly. “But they are all . . . gray.”
“They are.”
“And they all . . . look the same.”
“Because it saves me half an hour a day, not needing to think about assembling an outfit.”
Besides, gray was a practical color for a woman whose daily activities invited dust and ink splats onto her garments. Garments she and Mrs. Heath had to painstakingly clean every Saturday. She caught Catriona’s harangued gaze; no doubt she had been besieged by Hattie prior to her arrival. Heiress to a Scottish earldom or not, Catriona felt most comfortable wrapped in her old Clan Campbell tartan shawl, with her black hair in a plain bun and her nose buried in a Byzantine parchment. Poor Hattie.
It took not twenty seconds for the girl to throw up her hands. “Lemon yellow,” she cried. “With your coloring, you should wear lemon yellow, perhaps for a morning dress. Mauve, and light blue and powder blue for an elegant walking dress, at most a soft dove gray, but never this dreary shade of slate. Cerise for a striking evening gown. Consider crimson for the most stunning entrance at a ball. No intricate patterns for you, but clean lines—I’d recommend adding touches of softness with plush textures instead. Truly, Lucie, I see such potential!”
“You overwhelm me, my dear.”
“Be careful if you do go shopping with her,” said Annabelle. “The last time I let her choose my gown, I found myself wearing magenta and scandalized the ballroom.”
Hattie gave her a smug look. “And then a duke fell hopelessly in love with you and made you his duchess. Indeed, I’m a terrible friend.”
A glance at the advancing hour on the tall pendulum clock made Lucie feel queasy. She put down her cup.
He should not preoccupy her, but she might as well come prepared.
“Hattie—”
“Yes?” Hattie’s expression was immediately hopeful.
“I have a query about Lord Ballentine—”
Hattie raised a h
and to her mouth in delighted shock. “The Lord Ballentine, rake extraordinaire?”
“The very same. He recently received the Victoria Cross.”
“Yes?”
“What act of bravery did he commit? Do you know?”
This prompted a mildly offended look. “Of course. He ran toward danger instead of away from it.”
“Every soldier does so.”
Hattie shook no. “Apparently, he went above and beyond. I understand his battalion had become trapped against a rock face in an ambush, with only scarce cover, and his captain had been shot.”
Annabelle’s mouth turned downward. “How dreadful.”
“Indeed—and worse, the men could not recover the captain because the place where he lay was still in a direct line of fire—and they knew they would soon be picked off one by one, too, as they could not quite determine where the attack came from.”
Skepticism was written plain on Catriona’s face. “How did Lord Ballentine escape the trap, then?”
Hattie’s cheeks reddened. “Apparently, there was an element of chance. He had been trailing behind—there are rumors he was missing without leave.” Her voice dropped to a hush. “He had been taking a bath in a nearby stream . . . now, this was not in the papers, but I heard Mrs. Heathecote-Gough say he was not even fully clothed when the incident occurred.”
“Typical,” muttered Lucie.
“Lord Ballentine, upon hearing the gunfire, very recklessly and in a state of undress, set out to locate the hidden source of the attack and approached the post from a dead angle. Then he proceeded to eliminate as many as he could with just a revolver until he ran out of bullets, and by then he was upon them and vanquished the rest of them in close combat—but then, when he tried to recover the captain, he was shot through the shoulder by an ambusher he had not effectively dispatched after all.”
“So he was careless,” Lucie said. “Also typical.”
Hattie’s eyes widened with disapproval. “He saved lives, Lucie. He shielded the captain with his own body while his comrades rallied and overwhelmed the shooter. Then he led them to safety through enemy territory while wounded. That said,” she allowed, “he is still a rogue for bothering Annabelle at the winter ball.”
