by Evie Dunmore
Mr. Barnes eyed her warily. “It’s the board,” he said, “the editorial board is currently trying to understand why you would be interested in taking over magazines such as the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Lady’s Magazine.”
“Not taking over, but co-owning,” Lucie corrected, “and my reasons are the same as before: the magazines have a wide reach within a broad readership, and there is still obvious growth potential. And the fact that you publish the Pocketful of Poems line shows that London Print is not afraid to innovate. Everyone with an eye on publishing is interested, Mr. Barnes.”
The small format and intelligent marketing of the poetry book had been the one aspect about the publisher that wasn’t dusty, a promising silver lining when one secretly plotted to steer the entire enterprise toward the twentieth century. More importantly, there were only two other shareholders, both owning twenty-five percent of London Print each, both living abroad. She’d have as good as nothing standing in the way of her decision making.
“All this is quite true,” the director said, “but the board did not know until our last meeting that you were behind the investment consortium.”
“I don’t see how that changes our deal.”
“Well . . . because it is you.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t follow,” she said.
Mr. Barnes tugged at his necktie. His bald pate had the telltale shine of nervous perspiration.
Invariably, she had that effect on people—making them nervous. It’s because you always have a plan and a purpose, Hattie had explained to her. Perhaps you should smile more to frighten them less.
Experimentally, she bared her teeth at Mr. Barnes.
He only looked more alarmed.
He took off his small round glasses and made a production of folding them up before finally meeting her eyes. “My lady. Allow me to be frank.”
“Please,” she said. Frankness was her preferred mode of communication. It was, perhaps regrettably, her only mode.
“You are quite active in politics,” Mr. Barnes ventured.
“I’m a leader of the British suffragist movement.”
“Indeed. And you must know that as such, you are a controversial figure. In fact, a recent article in the Times called you exactly that.”
“I believe that article used the words ‘nefarious nag’ and ‘troublesome termagant.’”
“Quite right,” Mr. Barnes said awkwardly. “So naturally, the board is wondering why someone with the aim to overturn the present social order would have an interest in owning such wholesome magazines, never mind a line of romantic poetry.”
“Why, it almost sounds as though the board fears that I have ulterior motives, Mr. Barnes,” she said mildly. “That I am not, in fact, keen on a good business opportunity, but that I shall start a revolution among respectable middle-class women through the Home Counties Weekly.”
“Ha ha.” Mr. Barnes laughed. Clearly that was precisely what he feared. “Well, no,” he then said, “you’d lose readers by the droves.”
She gave a grim little nod. “Exactly. We shall leave the revolutionary efforts to The Female Citizen, shall we not?”
Mr. Barnes winced at the mention of the radical feminist pamphlet.
He recovered swiftly enough. “Be that as it may, publishing requires a certain passion for the subject matter, an intimate knowledge of the market. These magazines are focused on women’s issues, especially the Discerning Lady.”
“Which should pose no problem,” Lucie said, “considering I’m a woman myself.” Unlike you, Mr Barnes.
The man looked genuinely confused. “But these magazines focus on healthy feminine qualities and pursuits, such as . . . fashion . . . homemaking . . . a warm, happy family life. Do they not, Beatrix?”
“Why yes, Father,” Miss Barnes said at once. Clearly she had hung on every word.
Lucie turned toward her. “Miss Barnes, do you read the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Lady’s Magazine?”
“Of course, my lady, every issue.”
“And are you married?”
Miss Barnes’s apple cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “No, my lady.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Lucie said. “If you were, you would not be allowed to come here every morning to earn your own money by employing your skills at the typewriter. You would be kept at home, entirely dependent upon your husband’s wages. And yet”—she turned back to Mr. Barnes—“Miss Barnes is a keen reader of both magazines. Being a single woman apparently does not preclude an interest in healthy feminine pursuits.”
Now he was clearly at a loss. “But my lady . . . surely you agree that there’s a fundamental difference: my daughter would be interested because she has the prospect of having all these things in the near future.”
Ah.
Whereas she, Lucie, did not have that prospect.
Fashion. A home. A family.
She found her train of thought briefly derailed. Odd, because it shouldn’t have been. What Barnes said was only true. She did not possess the attributes that enticed a man, like the softly curving figure and gentle eyes of Miss Barnes; even if she did, she was a political activist, and she was rapidly approaching the age of thirty. She was not just left on the shelf; she was the shelf. There wouldn’t be a single gentleman in England interested in giving her a warm, happy home. And that was a good thing. She had a printing press in her reception room, and cared for a demanding cat—there was hardly space for a nursery in her house, or her life. And besides, marriage would all but destroy her credibility at this point. Her most prominent campaign was to see the Married Women’s Property Act amended. As long as the act was in place and women lost their property and personhood to their husbands upon marriage, she could not marry, even if she wanted to. She did not want to marry. What she wanted was a voice in London Print, and it seemed they were not going to give it to her.
Cold determination gripped her. She hadn’t personally cajoled twenty-and-three well-heeled women into investing in this enterprise only to tell them she had failed shortly before the finish line. Was Barnes aware how near deuced impossible it was to find even ten women of means who could spend their money as they wished?
Still, she loathed what she had to say next. Her voice emerged coolly: “The Duchess of Montgomery is a sponsor behind this deal, as you know.”
Mr. Barnes gave a startled little leap in his chair. “Indeed.”
She gave him a grave stare. “I will call on her in a little while to inform her of our progress. I’m afraid she will be . . . distressed to find her investment was not deemed good enough.”
And a distressed duchess meant a displeased duke. A very powerful displeased duke, whose reach extended all the way to India.
Mr. Barnes produced a large white handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at his forehead. “I will present your, erm, arguments to the board,” he said. “I am sure this will adequately clarify all their questions.”
“You do just that.”
“I suggest we meet again in a week.”
“I shall see you next Tuesday, then, Mr. Barnes.”
* * *
Oxford’s spires and steeples were blurring into the fading sky when she exited the train station. Normally, the sight of the ancient city she had made her home soothed her. Oxford’s timeless golden sandstone structures wore every season well, the wispy pale pink cherry blossoms of spring, the lush greens and cotton ball clouds of summer, crisp blues skies and swirling autumn leaves, the light dusting of snow on gray lead roofs and cupolas in winter. Tonight, the air had the mellow warmth of a dusky evening in May, somewhere between the cooler days of spring and summer.
And yet, some dark emotion was crawling beneath her skin. She tried to evade it by walking the two miles to Norham Gardens at record speed. Still, her body wanted more when she arrived at her door
step. The muscles in her thighs and calves were fretful, demanding complete exhaustion. She could walk back to St. John’s College to see if Catriona was still awake, poring over some ancient script, and tell her about the spineless Mr. Barnes. No. Talking to a friend would not ease her restlessness. In these moments, it would be best to have Thunder nearby. A good long ride would take care of twitchy limbs. But she hadn’t seen her horse in nine, ten years, she mused as she wandered through her dim hallway toward her sitting room. Not since her father had declared her persona non grata and she had walked out of Wycliffe Hall. She really should stop using her title; she had been a lady in name only for a long time.
Her lips curved in wry amusement as she surveyed her drawing room when the gaslight had finally guttered to life. The vast, chairless table in the middle of the room, used for studying maps and preparing suffragist pamphlets, and the sewing machine, now a mere shadow near the wall, its main purpose to make banners and sashes. The newspaper clippings plastered around the cold fireplace. Dozens of letters on her desk, each of them a story of some woman’s woes. And there was still the dead plant the size of a man in the left-hand corner. Indeed, every lady worth her salt would abandon this place as fast as her corset allowed.
Small paws drummed on the floorboards as a streak of black fur shot toward her. Boudicca rushed up the outside of her skirt and settled on her left shoulder.
Lucie turned her face into the sleek fur. “Hello, puss.”
Boudicca bumped her nose against the top of her head.
“Did you have a fine day?” Lucie cooed.
Another bump, a purr. Satisfied thusly, Boudicca plunged back to the floor and strutted to her corner by the fireplace, her tail with the distinct white tip straight up like an exclamation mark.
Lucie slid her satchel off her shoulder and groaned in half relief, half pain. It was best to not get too comfortable yet. She still had to finish yet another petition letter on the Married Women’s Property Act. A tea would be nice, but her housekeeper, Mrs. Heath, had long gone to bed, and she’d probably forget there was water boiling on the stove once she settled down to write. She closed the curtains of the bay window before her desk and lit her writing lamp.
She had just found a comfortable position in her chair when the sound of laughter reached her through the window. She frowned. That high-pitched giggle belonged to Mabel, fellow suffragist and tenant of the adjacent half of the house she rented. And knowing Mabel, there was only one reason why the widow would be tittering like a maiden. Sure enough, there followed the low, seductive hum of a male baritone.
Lucie’s fountain pen began scratching over the paper. What Mabel did should not concern her. If brazen enough, a wealthy widow could take liberties with men that no unwed woman would dare, and from what she had had to overhear through the shared bedroom wall, Mabel dared it once in a while. And why should she not? After all, most gentlemen took their pleasure whenever an opportunity presented itself . . .
An excited feminine squeak rang through the curtains. She put down her pen. Wealthy widow or not, Mabel was not beyond scandal. Unlike her, Mabel was a student at Oxford, and anything that besmirched her reputation besmirched her fellow female students. The flirtatious pair might be shielded by the large rhododendron bush before her window, but still . . . She rose, rounded her desk, and yanked back the curtains, and movement exploded before her.
She leveled a cool stare at the two shadowy figures that had sprung apart. Faces turned toward her.
Oh. By Hades, no.
The light from her room revealed, unsurprisingly, a disheveled Lady Mabel. But the man . . . there was only one man in England with such masterfully high-cut cheekbones.
Without thinking, she pushed up the window.
“You,” she ground out.
Photograph by the author
Debut author Evie Dunmore wrote Bringing Down the Duke, inspired by the magical scenery of Oxford and her passion for romance, women pioneers, and all things Victorian. In her civilian life, she is a consultant with a M.Sc. in Diplomacy from Oxford. She is a member of the British Romantic Novelists’ Association (RNA). Evie lives in Berlin and pours her fascination with nineteenth-century Britain into her writing.
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