The Vigilance Society
They did not, in fact, return to Dasborough Park.
With little explanation, and quite suddenly, Dash had abandoned his intention to leave London—which meant that Beatrice could proceed with her plans.
Therefore, two days later, and under the guise of a perfectly ordinary afternoon tea, seven young ladies gathered at Bare Hall.
Lady Barrington, most conveniently, was otherwise engaged.
Lark and Lady Theodosia had worked quickly, settling on names and sending out invitations within the day. Beatrice, who had not exactly spent the Season cultivating friendships over lemonade, had invited Lady Persephone Rensleight—who then invited her younger sister, Lady Calliope.
Beatrice hadn’t exactly been enthused about Lady Calliope’s inclusion, not after the girl had gossiped so readily about the incident with Lord Longstaffe. But Persephone had insisted and promised her sister’s silence.
There would be seven of them. For now.
Lady Theodosia, serving as official hostess, presided at the head of the table. Lark sat to her right, Beatrice beside her, with Lady Persephone Rensleight tucked close at Beatrice’s elbow.
Across from them, Lady Calliope had arranged herself with effortless grace between Rebecca Harcourt, niece to the Earl of Densleigh, and Miss Mary Finch, whose merchant father had recently come into both fortune and favor.
Not intimate friends, precisely, but familiar enough.
All of them were presented with a generous spread of sandwiches, pastries, small cakes, and puddings.
Beatrice had no appetite for any of it.
She was nervous.
But it was a focused sort of nervousness, the kind that sharpened rather than muddled.
Lady Theodosia had extracted promises from each of their guests that even if they did not agree… they would not betray what was said here. They had been told only that the matter was serious. The rest—that was up to Beatrice to explain.
At the head of the table, Lady Theodosia set aside her teacup.
She was as lovely as ever, her brown hair drawn neatly back, willowy figure held with quiet precision, and green eyes sharp and watchful despite her otherwise gentle manner.
“Ladies,” she said.
The soft murmur of the room stilled at once.
“I thank you for attending on such short notice. I am aware the invitation may have seemed… unusual.”
A faint, polite ripple of acknowledgment.
““Let me begin by saying that no one was invited here by accident. Every lady present is known to possess sense. Discretion.” A slight pause. “And is capable of understanding when a matter requires both.”
Her gaze moved briefly from one face to the next.
“I shall not presume to speak on the matter myself,” she continued. “My good friend, Lady Beatrice Beckman, has given it far more thought than I.”
And then, with the smallest shift of her hand—
“Lady Beatrice.”
Beatrice glanced once more at the notes in her lap, then set them aside.
Better to speak plainly.
Drawing in a breath, she lifted her gaze.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said. “I would like to thank all of you for coming as well. Especially with so little notice.”
A few faint smiles. A shift or two in chairs.
But Lady Theodosia had already gone over the niceties. It was time to get to the heart of this meeting.
“As many of you will have heard, Miss Whitcombe was recently compromised.”
A few of them winced. They all nodded.
“I will not speak of the particulars,” she went on. “Only that she was found in a situation not of her choosing… and that the consequences now rest entirely upon her.”
A pause.
“There are, of course, occasions in which a lady may enter into a private understanding willingly,” she added, carefully. “That is not what I speak of today.”
Her gaze moved from one face to another.
“I speak of those moments in which the choice is taken from her.”
For the briefest instant, Beatrice felt it again—that unwelcome pressure, the helplessness of it—but she forced the memory aside.
“We are told,” she continued, her voice steady though her fingers had gone cold, “from a very young age, that we are protected. That our fathers, our brothers, our companions will see us safely through every assembly.”
A faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.
“We are warned, certainly, to avoid certain situations. But we are also instructed to be agreeable. To smile. To encourage conversation. To avoid giving offense.”
Her gaze moved across the table.
“To speak softly. To yield. To trust.”
She let those words settle.
“And so when a gentleman behaves… improperly—”
A few murmurs rose. Beatrice continued anyway.
“It falls to the lady to… dissuade him.” Her gaze moved around the table. “She is expected to do so politely. Quietly. Without causing embarrassment. Without damaging his pride. Without making matters worse for herself.”
Her hand tightened in her lap.
“And if she fails…”
Beatrice did not finish the thought.
She did not need to.
If a lady failed, she might be forced to marry the very man who had frightened her. Or cornered her. Or touched her without permission.
And if marriage could not be arranged—then she was left to bear the consequences alone.
The whispers. The shame. The ruined future.
The… pain.
Always the lady.
Always.
Beatrice drew a slow breath.
“So if we are expected to manage such gentlemen,” she said, “then it seems only sensible that we learn how to do it effectively.”
Now, at last, the table shifted. A glance here. A lifted brow there.
“Which brings me to why we’ve invited you here today,” she said. “We’d like to form a society where ladies learn and teach better methods of… dissuading."
Miss Harcourt leaned forward, her brow faintly creased. “What do you mean, exactly, by dissuading? Using words? Or in a more physical sense? It sounds practical in theory. And noble, perhaps, but most gentlemen are considerably larger than we are.”
Beatrice nodded.
“Both. In fact, there are several things a lady may do before matters require… forceful measures,” she said. “She may learn when to interrupt. When to refuse. When to leave. How to avoid being maneuvered toward a terrace or corridor. How to stand so that retreat remains possible.”
The ladies listened intently.
“And if retreat is not possible,” Beatrice continued, “then there are ways to make escape more likely. A larger opponent’s strength can sometimes be used against him.”
Lady Persephone, who had once found herself grateful for Beatrice’s intervention, nodded slowly.
“But none of us have been taught such things,” Miss Finch said.
“That is true,” Beatrice admitted. “Which is why we have arranged for lessons.”
Lady Calliope’s eyes widened. “Lessons?”
“In dissuasion,” Beatrice said firmly. And then clarified, “Not to encourage recklessness. Quite the opposite. The ideal is to avoid a physical struggle entirely. But if a lady is seized, cornered, or prevented from leaving, she ought not be helpless simply because the gentleman is stronger.”
The room had gone very quiet.
“I have secured a tutor,” she added. “Someone who understands both the risks and how to counter them.”
She did not name Gideon. Not yet.
“But this must be about more than learning to defend ourselves as individuals.” Her voice softened, though she kept it steady. “What I truly want is for us to learn how to protect one another.”
She looked around the table, at each of them in turn.
“When a woman is alone, when no one else is paying attention, that is where much of the danger lies. So we pay attention. If one of us sees something, she acts. If one of us is in difficulty, she is not left alone to manage it.”
The truth of it was utterly practical, actually.
“And in time,” Beatrice finished, “perhaps we make it more difficult for such situations to occur at all.”
The ladies began to glance at one another. Searching looks. Silent questions.
Finally, Lady Theodosia nodded. “What shall we call ourselves?”
Here, it was Lark who spoke up. “The Vigilance Society.”