Chapter Eighteen
Get skin under your fingernails… She’d tried. She’d failed. She sank beneath the steaming surface of the bathwater as though it could shield her from the shame.
She’d had no impact at all. Of the lords who even bothered to face the crowd and enter the building—to do their literal blasted job—none had had the grace to look her in the eye, let alone promise to help. They’d had no interest in what she’d had to say at all.
As the day wore on, and she’d realized that those in power weren’t interested in the plight of a few, she’d turned her attention to those who walked past, who craned their necks to see what the kerfuffle was about.
Maybe if she and her colleagues could convince the public to join the protest, the duke and his blasted cronies would have to listen.
But the vast majority of the people who passed picked up their pace instead of joining in solidarity. They were sympathetic until they were asked to give some of their time, or their money, or their groceries so that those who were out of a job could put food on the table.
A few were even scathing, suggesting that the compositors should have “seen this coming,” or should have “chosen a more secure career” or “were overpaid to begin with.” Others expressed support initially but were soon asking questions like, “Does this mean The Lady will be delivered more frequently?” or “Do you think these changes will happen by Christmas? It costs a fortune to buy books for all my nieces and nephews.”
She wanted to fight, truly she did, but by the end of the day, her energy was spent and she’d made no progress.
Stupid Eleanor. How could you read when you were four years old and still have no way with words?
How could you think you’d convince a duke to take action when you could never convince your cousins to come in for tea?
Lillian had spent most of her time interrogating the police officers who monitored the crowd, peppering them with questions.
Mabel had chosen not to attend at all, uncomfortable with the protest’s collective anger.
Eleanor had no wish to talk to either about the sense of utter defeat she was feeling.
The only person she wanted to talk to was the Captain.
She wanted his compassion. She wanted his steady assurance. She needed the joy his letters brought her, and she needed that in greater quantities than words on paper could bring.
She returned to the surface, gasping for breath. Baskerville had his paws on the edge of the tub and was staring intently. He dodged the dripping scratch she tried to give him and meowed.
“You’re right, kitten.” She grabbed the towel from the chair beside the tub, climbed out, and padded to the desk. Her hand was still damp and it warped the page, but she didn’t care.
Dear Captain,
Let’s meet.