Chapter 6 #2
"But even here in London," Anthony continued, clearly working through something uncomfortable, "the conditions in many factories are far from ideal.
Children working terrible hours for terrible pay.
Women in dangerous situations. It is how the system was built, Alex.
It troubles me sometimes, but..." He trailed off, his expression genuinely conflicted.
"What can a single person do to change something so vast? "
Alexander looked at his cousin — at the honest distress in Anthony's face, the genuine moral discomfort of a good man trapped in a system he had not built but benefited from nonetheless.
Anthony was not the enemy. He was simply one of thousands who had never been forced to see what their comfort actually required.
"Do not trouble yourself, cousin," Alexander said, his voice gentler than it had been. "I know how things are. The best we can do, for now, is ensure that our profits are directed toward good causes. Toward helping those who need it most."
Anthony looked relieved at this easy answer, this simple solution that required nothing more difficult than charitable donations. "Yes," he said. "Yes, that seems the right approach."
◆◆◆
Two weeks passed.
Catherine attended three dinner parties, two afternoon teas, and one interminable musical performance during which she caught herself thinking about Alexander Harrington no fewer than seventeen times.
Each social gathering felt increasingly hollow, increasingly performative, increasingly like time wasted when there was actual work to be done.
The secret meetings with Lady Beatrice provided the only relief from the tedium. Tonight the discussion had focused on their ongoing efforts to establish a clinic for factory workers in Southwark, though as often happened, the conversation had meandered into broader territory.
"The conditions in the textile mills grow worse each day," Mrs. Jenkins was saying, her calloused hands folded in her lap.
"The owners care nothing for the workers' welfare, only for their profit margins.
Meanwhile they live in grand houses and attend lavish balls, completely insulated from the suffering they cause. "
"Speaking of lavish balls," Miss Collins interjected with a meaningful look, "I suppose you have all read about the mysterious Duke of Wexford. The newspapers can speak of nothing else."
Several women nodded. Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks as the conversation turned toward the very man who had occupied far too many of her thoughts lately.
"Another spoiled aristocrat with too much money and too little conscience," muttered Mrs. Patterson, whose husband had died in a factory accident three years prior. "No doubt he spent his missing years in comfortable exile and has now returned to claim his inheritance."
"Actually," Catherine said quietly, "I met him. At his ball."
The room fell silent. Every eye turned to Catherine with expressions of shock and sharp interest.
"You met the Duke of Wexford?" Lady Beatrice asked, leaning forward. "And what was your impression?"
Catherine chose her words with care, aware that anything she said would be examined from every angle by this assembly of intelligent, skeptical women. "We spoke at length about various topics. He seemed to share many of the same concerns about social injustice that we discuss here."
"Seemed?" Lady Beatrice pressed, noting the careful phrasing.
"That is precisely the difficulty," Catherine admitted. "He appears to have the same values we do, to see the same problems with our society. But I cannot determine whether he was speaking genuine conviction or simply telling me what I wished to hear as part of his social performance."
The women exchanged knowing looks. They had all encountered men who paid lip service to progressive ideals when it suited their purposes, only to abandon such principles when actual action was required.
"Men of his class are trained from birth in the art of mirroring," Miss Collins observed dryly. "They learn to reflect the opinions of their audience, to make everyone feel understood and valued. It is a survival skill in their world."
"What does your heart tell you?" Lady Beatrice asked, her grey eyes fixed intently on Catherine's face. "Forget what your rational mind says about finding allies among the aristocracy. How did you feel you when you spoke with him?"
Catherine was quiet for a moment, remembering the intensity in Alexander's eyes, the way his voice had dropped when he spoke of injustice, the careful way he had protected her from embarrassment when her words had been too bold.
"My heart tells me he spoke the truth," she said finally. "There was something authentic in his manner that I do not believe could be feigned so thoroughly."
Lady Beatrice nodded slowly. "Then trust that.
Your instincts led you to us, after all, and they have not yet failed you.
" She paused, something thoughtful crossing her features.
"I confess I hope to meet this enigmatic Duke myself one day.
If he truly shares our convictions, he could prove a powerful ally. "
"Or a dangerous enemy if we are wrong about him," Mrs. Jenkins added with her usual pragmatism.
Catherine glanced at the mantel clock and started. "I must go. Anna is waiting for me, and I am already quite late."
There were the usual murmured farewells, the gathering of cloaks and reticules, and within a few minutes the others had filed out into the night as well — until only Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Jenkins remained by the dying fire.
Beatrice did not move from her chair. Her gaze remained on the door through which Catherine had gone.
"There is something I need you to do," she said at last. "Our friend at the press.
Go to him directly, and ask him plainly what they have on the Duke of Wexford — every rumor, every line they have considered printing and held back.
" She paused. "And ask him whether any of it touches her.
She was at his ball. They spoke, at length, in front of half of society.
If there is a story forming, I want to know its shape before it is in print, not after. "
Mrs. Jenkins nodded slowly. "I will go in the morning." She studied the older woman for a moment, the calloused hands folding in her lap. "You are very concerned about her."
"I am."
"More than the work requires." It was not quite a question. "You might trust her a little more, you know. She has earned it. Three weeks, and she volunteered for the mill when she knew exactly what it would cost her if she were caught."
"I do trust her." Beatrice's eyes had not left the door.
"That is precisely why I am concerned. She is braver than nearly anyone in this circle — and she is brave because she chooses to be here, when she is the one among us with the most to lose.
The rest of you have already lost. She has not.
She still has everything, and she risks it anyway.
" A faint, dry warmth crossed her face. "That is either the finest quality a person can possess or the most dangerous.
I have never been able to decide which."
"Do you think she understands what is at stake?"
"She understands the danger." Beatrice was quiet a moment.
"What she does not yet understand — what one cannot understand until it has happened — is that some prices, once paid, are never returned to you.
A reputation. A future. The shape a life was meant to take.
" She smoothed an invisible crease from her skirt, a small, exact gesture.
"She thinks of the risk as something one survives and walks away from.
She does not yet know that some doors, once closed, stay closed. "
Mrs. Jenkins said nothing. She had been in this circle a long time. She knew, without being told and without ever having spoken of it, precisely which doors Lady Beatrice meant, and what stood behind them, and what the silver in her hair had cost to earn.
"I want better for her than that," Beatrice said.
"I want her to have what I could not — the cause and a life.
Both. Not the choice between them that this world forces on women like us, as though we must purchase our convictions with everything else we might have wanted.
" She finally turned from the door, and her composure was entirely restored, the brief opening folded away.
"She should not have to choose. I intend to see that she does not. "
Mrs. Jenkins rose, gathering her shawl. At the door she paused.
"You would have made a formidable mother, you know," she said — gently, the only acknowledgment either of them would ever permit.
"I had a great many children," Beatrice replied, dry as ever. "They simply came to me already grown, and far too opinionated. You among them."
Mrs. Jenkins almost smiled. Then she was gone, and Beatrice sat alone by the fire a while longer, watching the place where the door had closed.
◆◆◆
Twenty minutes later, Catherine rushed into the elegant fitting room at Madame Rousseau's exclusive dress shop, where Anna stood before a three-way mirror in a gown of deep burgundy silk.
"Finally!" Anna exclaimed, spinning to face her with obvious irritation. "I have tried on half the dresses in London, and you promised you would be here an hour ago."
"I am so sorry," Catherine apologized breathlessly. "My visit with the sick friend ran considerably longer than expected."
Anna's expression softened slightly, though suspicion lingered in her green eyes. "Your mysterious friend requires an extraordinary amount of attention lately. I am beginning to think she does not exist at all."
Catherine busied herself examining the burgundy gown, grateful for the distraction. "This dress is absolutely perfect on you. The color brings out the warmth in your hair, and the cut is extremely flattering."