“I do like your dress,” came the comment from behind her.
Emma whirled, pulling her train in and out of the way. Two women stood before her. One of them was nearly as tall as Emma, with a plain, round face and spectacles, a high forehead and soft, pretty brown eyes. The other lady had masses of black, curly hair, piled onto the top and back of her head, and a sharp pointed chin. It was the shorter lady who had spoken, for she smiled at Emma, and added, “I know it’s frightfully rude to speak to someone to whom one hasn’t been formally introduced. Only everyone seems to have forgotten ye haven’t been introduced to everyone. So, we thought we would dispense with all that and say hello. Is that alright?”
Emma let out a sigh. “It is perfectly fine by me,” she confessed. “As long as you do not drop into Gaelic the next time you speak.”
“It is a bit of a bother when they do that, isn’t it?” the woman with pretty eyes said. “I only know enough Gaelic to just barely hold my own in a conversation.”
“You’re English,” Emma said thankfully.
“Lydia is touring Scotland at the moment,” the other said. “Oh, I suppose we should exchange names, shouldn’t we? This is Miss Lydia Becker. I am Mrs. Helen Campbell.”
“I am Emma Wardell,” Emma said.
“Of course you are,” Helen Campbell said. “That’s why we’re all here tonight, silly.”
Emma could feel her cheeks heating. “I suppose, yes. I’m not accustomed to attending dinner parties in my honor.”
“You should be thankful. I can never eat when everyone is looking at me expectantly, the way they do when I’m the special guest,” Lydia Becker replied. “This is the first dinner party I have attended in the Highlands where the guests haven’t asked me to say a few words afterwards.”
Helen Campbell laughed. “She is an excellent speaker. Everyone loves listening to her.”
Emma hesitated. How offended would the lady be if she asked why she spoke in public? It seemed an extraordinary thing to do. Only, she could not carry on the conversation without knowing that much. “What do you speak about?” she asked Lydia Becker.
Neither woman looked affronted, which was a good thing, Emma supposed. “I have been living in London for so many years, you see…” she added.
Lydia pushed her glasses back up her nose, resettling them. “As Viscount Rothmere’s youngest sister, it is understandable that you have no knowledge of affairs beyond your own small social circle.”
Emma blinked, trying to unravel if the woman was criticizing society, or if she was really attempting to be empathetic. Emma decided to assume Lydia was being kind.
“Lydia is one of the foremost speakers in England,” Helen Campbell added. “Her understanding of women’s rights is second to none.”
Politics. Emma’s middle cramped. Politics was the province of men. It was one of the most boring subjects on earth—at least it seemed to be when men attempted to explain it to her.
“There, now, see that look?” Helen said to Lydia. “That is the look I was trying to explain to ye.”
Lydia nodded. Her gaze settled on Emma. “Please tell me what you were just thinking, Miss Wardell. Your exact thoughts. I would really like to know why so many young ladies are utterly uninterested in improving their lives.”
“Improving?” Emma repeated, startled. “How does politics improve one’s life?”
“Women’s lives,” Lydia corrected her. “If you were able to vote, you could select the politician who would make changes which enhanced your life.”
Emma frowned. “I’m afraid I do not understand that at all.”
Helen nodded. “That is because you are not used to thinking in such ways. Lydia has had a great deal of practice, of course. It is very obvious to her.”
“Wages,” Lydia said quietly, in a prompting tone.
Helen nodded. “Consider one’s weekly wages, then.”
“I do not work for money,” Emma pointed out, just a bit shocked at the idea.
Helen hesitated. “No, of course you do not.” She glanced around the room with a desperate expression, then her face lit up. “Why, your sister-in-law! How silly of me. We’re all so used to Lady Rothmere’s ways I completely forgot.”
Emma braced herself. Bridget led such a shocking life, mixed up with business and money, of which the local people must disapprove strongly.
“Have you observed Lady Rothmere conducting business?” Helen asked.
“I have,” Emma said coolly.
“Have you ever seen her writing cheques?”
Emma frowned. “She has my cousin Morgan take care of financial matters.”
“Yes, because she cannot,” Lydia Becker replied.
“Well, that is the law,” Emma said, feeling more confusion.
Helen nodded. “What if the law was changed?”
“Changed?” Emma echoed. “Why would they change it?”
“Because it would allow women like Lady Rothmere to conduct matters of business in their own names,” Lydia Becker replied. “There are laws which prevent women from owning property, opening banks accounts—”
“Except for widows,” Helen Campbell said, her tone complacent, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
“Yes, except for widows,” Lydia Becker added. She leaned closer to Emma. “When you marry, you cease to exist as a legal person. You and your husband are fused together. He acquires your property, your money. He owns your body.”
“That is the role of a lady,” Emma said. She had heard similar sentiments before. Matrons, leaders of society, Mrs. Beaton, even the Queen, spoke of the Angel in the House, who was the pillar of the family, rearing her children and supporting her husband. Only the way those people described marriage made it sound like a wonderful proposition, something Emma should aspire to, while Lydia Becker made it sound…well, not attractive. “It is challenging work,” Emma said firmly, “but it is essential if England is to remain the empire it is. Why, every woman in my family has found contentment in marriage.”
“Have they?” Helen asked, her tone sober. “Your sister-in-law, Lady Rothmere…?”
“Bridget is one of the happiest and most contented matrons I’ve ever known,” Emma said stoutly.
“Yet she willfully breaks the law in order to live her fulfilling life,” Helen replied. “If women could vote, they could choose politicians and leaders who would change the laws which inhibit us.”
Emma looked at the two disparate women, her mind reeling. “My Aunt Annalies used to speak a lot about equality, when she was working to have Girton College opened…”
Lydia Becker’s eyes opened. “Oh my goodness. The Princess Annalies is your aunt?”
“Honorary aunt,” Emma corrected, “but yes. I live—once lived—at Marblethorpe, which is her current residence.”
Lydia rolled her eyes and glanced at Helen. “Miss Wardell has no need of education. She has learned at the knee of a giant. The Princess Annalies Benedickta of Saxe-Weiden, of the royal house Saxe-Coburg-Weiden…why, she was one of the champions of Girton College! She campaigned and argued and wrote hundreds of letters. She visited every member of the House of Lords who resisted the vote…why, Girton would not have opened without her help. Then she refused to be acknowledged as one of the founders!”
Emma smiled. “Aunt Annalies felt her name would take away from the ladies who had done all the real work.” She could remember Aunt Annalies saying in her droll voice, “Everyone reading the honor roll will come to my name and see ‘Princess’ and get stars in their eyes. They won’t remember anyone else and that isn’t fair, Rhys!”
Helen Campbell looked impressed. “And you don’t feel as your aunt does, that women should have access to the same education men do?”
“I suppose…I don’t know that I’ve considered it before,” Emma confessed. She put the distasteful madeira on the mantel shelf. “The ladies of our family…well, I suppose all our family…well, we tend to do what we want, anyway. Despite the law. Bridget is only a mi
ld example. My mother—” She halted, for Mama Elisa was not her mother and she had just remembered that fact. She dismissed the reminder. “My mother was a scandal-maker when she was young. My Aunt Natasha, too. My older cousins have all had adventures…why, Morgan’s sister, Sadie, traveled to America when she was only nineteen, and she traveled alone. She is still there to this day, making a name for herself in New York. My sister Mairin traveled alone to Paris when it was under siege by the Prussians. That is just my family, you see…” Emma trailed off.
“Our family looks out for each other and shields their excesses from public view,” Morgan added, making Emma jump. She had not noticed him approach the group.
Both women turned with little jerks. He had surprised them, too.
“Mr. Davies, I had no idea your mother was the Princess Annalies,” Lydia Becker said.
“She is,” Morgan said with a small smile. “The title dies with her, though. I am a commoner, through and through.” He gave them a sardonic bow.
“Oh, but the Princess is such a wonderful advocate for women’s rights,” Lydia continued. “Have you heard me speak on the matter, Mr. Davies?”
“I have read the reports of your appearances in the newspapers,” Morgan assured her.
“The women in your family are to be envied, Mr. Davies,” Helen Campbell added. “They enjoy an extraordinary freedom, thanks to the tolerance of its men.”
“What if every woman could live such colorful lives?” Lydia Becker added. “Without the need to hide behind male guardians because they are breaking the law?”
Helen’s gaze met Emma’s. “As a member of such a great family, ye must have such glorious ambitions of ye own.”
Emma could only stare at her. Ambitions? Had she ever had ambitions? It seemed to her that she had spent years trying to force society to accept her even though she had not been—and never would be—presented at court. She had only wanted the same right given to every debutante as a matter of course: To be accepted by the ton and to find a husband.
Only to say so to these two women, who seemed to think marriage was a heinous institution, would diminish Emma in their eyes. They had spent the last few minutes praising her family for their forward ways and delighting over her cousins’ and aunts’ adventures. They showered her with a shared glory that felt wonderful. She didn’t want to lose that sensation. Not right now.
So Emma shook her head. “I am between ambitions right now.”
“And in search of another,” Helen said, her tone dreamy. “How delightful! So many delicious opportunities!”
Morgan merely watched her with narrowed eyes, as if he had read every thought as it passed through her mind.
Emma shook off the little spurt of fear the idea generated and smiled at the two women. “Tell me more.”
“More?”
“About rights for women,” Emma urged them.
Morgan gave a small shake of his head and moved away.
Emma lowered her voice. “I have a…a question for you, Miss Becker. It is completely made up, something I just thought of.”
“A theoretical question?” Lydia Becker asked. “Go on.”
“If the right gentleman was elected to parliament—”
“Or woman,” Helen added.
“Elect women?” Emma breathed, shocked.
“Why not?” Lydia asked. “If we can vote for men who will change the laws to favor women, why could they not change laws so women can be elected, too?”
“Good lord!” Emma breathed. “The possibilities…!” Her heart gave a little strum.
“Your theoretical question?” Helen prompted.
“Can any law be changed?” She hurried on. “Say, the law which decides who…who is allowed to marry whom, who is to be presented at court, who is—”
“Who can divorce whom,” Helen Campbell finished, nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. A man can divorce a lady simply because she dallies with another, while he is free to conduct affairs and relationships with as many women he wants, and the wife can do nothing about it. It is completely unfair and unethical and even immoral.”
Lydia Becker’s soft brown eyes settled on Emma’s face. “Any law can be changed,” she said gently. “A law is just a law. None of them are holy script. We’ve all been fooled into thinking they are, that’s all.”
“Because men benefit from them too much to consider changing them, you mean,” Helen added.
Emma groped for the madeira, her heart thundering. “I should like to hear you speak, Miss Becker. When is your next appearance?”
Chapter Five
Even though she had brought four trunks of clothing and possessions with her, Emma still found herself without basic personal items. They had been overlooked in the hasty packing and departure from London. The most problematic item was a simple hairbrush.
When she approached Bridget about acquiring a brush, Bridget had sympathized. “No, you cannot go on with a simple comb at all. They are good for arranging hair, but not for untangling it at night.” She patted her own thick coils. “I would lend you one of my own, but I only have the one. There are all manner of shops on the High Street, though, and I am sure one of them will sell hairbrushes.”
When Bridget set out on her rounds that morning, Emma went with her in the carriage. The top was up today, for it had rained steadily for more than a week. Rain in the highlands was not the heavy downpour London experienced. The rain was more like a mist—fine drops which hung in the air and dampened everything, including clothes and hair. Mist did rise from the damp ground, to swirl around the carriage wheels and the hocks of the horses. Looking through the window was like looking upon a white lake, with the carriage a boat which carried them across the surface.
“When the rain does stop, the sun will come out and the temperature will soar. You will wish for the rain back, then,” Bridget warned Emma.
Lucas halted the carriage at the top end of the High Street.
“I don’t know how long I might be,” Bridget began.
“Is there a local hack I can use, instead of having you worry about returning?” Emma asked.
“Two or three,” Bridget admitted. “Most people walk,” she added.
“Then, if I cannot find one of the three cabs, I will walk, too.”
“It is five miles to Kirkaldy,” Bridget pointed out.
“And I am badly in need of exercise,” Emma replied. “I used to walk to the Park and walk along the Row every day, twice in either direction. I believe that might be nearly five miles, right there.”
Bridget looked relieved. “Very well, then.” She patted the door, to let Lucas know he could move on.
Emma watched the carriage roll away, as she opened her umbrella. So did other pedestrians, she noted. Perhaps they recognized the conveyance. Will was the lord of the manor, after all.
She moved along the row of shops and peered in the windows, looking for one which sold ladies’ goods. The range of goods available was a surprise to her. Haberdashers displayed bolts of silk and braids imported from China and India. Grocers’ windows were stuffed full of teas and delicacies. A leather worker’s shop showed purses and satchels, reticules and other luxuries. A divine pair of lady’s boots with pink uppers sat in the center of the window, which made Emma pause for long minutes to consider them.
Pink was not a color which suited her. If she’d had brown eyes to go with her brown hair, then it might. Only, her eyes were a frank gray color, which she could make appear blue by wearing blue near them.
Regretfully, she moved on to the next store, which was another haberdasher with a display of colorful ribbons, some of them luxurious velvet and others bearing dots and stripes. Emma stepped inside, drawn by the pretty things.
While the shopkeeper cut a yard of each ribbon she selected, Emma chose more colors. When she had a dozen reels upon the counter, she waited for the shopkeeper to wrap them. He scratched his temple as he totted up the cost.
“Can you send the ribbons and
the bill to Kirkaldy?” Emma asked him.
“You’re a guest of ‘is Lordship, my Lady?”
“I am his sister,” Emma said. It was a habit built from a lifetime of thinking she really was Will’s sister. As far as Will knew, she still was.
The shopkeeper hesitated, as the shop door opened and closed.
“Miss Wardell, it is you!”
Emma turned. Helen Campbell stood at the door, brushing off drops of rain from her sensible dark gabardine suit.
“I find myself in need of a hairbrush,” Emma confessed.
Helen Campbell nodded at the shopkeeper. “Mr. Finch, how are ye today?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Campbell. You and the young lady know each other, then?”
“Yes, of course we do. Miss Wardell is Lord Rothmere’s youngest sister.” Helen came over to the counter and glanced at the wound ribbons. “A hairbrush, ye said?” she asked, lifting her brow at Emma.
Emma gave a self-conscious laugh. “I saw them in the window…”
Mr. Finch, the shopkeeper, quickly wrapped the ribbons in brown paper. “I’ll be happy to have them sent out to Kirkaldy for you, Miss Wardell, although I’m afraid I don’t have hairbrushes.”
“Mrs. Epstein’s establishment, three down from here, will have brushes,” Helen said. “I would be happy to take ye there.”
They stepped out of the shop once more, and Emma raised her umbrella.
“Oh, how very French,” Helen said, examining it.
“They are useful,” Emma pointed out. “Although if you wish to remain dry, you should walk a little closer.”
Helen did, and slid her arm around Emma’s. She looked up at the canopy of the umbrella. “How remarkable. They really do stop the rain. Here, this is the store.”
Mrs. Epstein’s establishment was an emporium of goods which would take a full day to explore. Mrs. Epstein herself was a little woman with sparkling eyes and gnarled fingers. She produced a silver-backed boar-bristle brush and turned it over and over for Emma to inspect. She was quite happy to have the brush sent to Kirkaldy, too.
As they stepped out of the store once more, Helen looked up at the low clouds and shivered. “My house is only a little way on from here. Would ye care to take tea with me?”
Year of Folly Page 4
