“What about Marx?” she murmured. “He’d say you’re so wealthy because you keep your workers poor. Have you read his work?”
“Some of it,” he said. “Agreed with his criticisms, disagreed with his premises. But even he’d say there’s room between a hypocrite and living in a barrel—what was his name, the philosopher’s name, who did this?”
She smiled. “Diogenes.”
“Right. Well, what ills of the world did he solve, there in his barrel, celebrating poverty?”
“None, I presume.”
She felt his hand on her hip, heavy and warm, and her body softened in response. How fortunate, to have a husband who knew how to settle her.
Anne’s bruised little foot flashed before her eyes. She raised her head. “Do you really believe a nation can abolish poverty?”
“Relative poverty?” His arm tightened around her. “No. But absolute poverty? The destitution on every street corner, the workhouses, the slums? Piss-poor housing for workers? Yes. We will make it so.”
A warm emotion welled from the depths of her and spread and spread until it felt she might burst from it. Her chest ached. Her lungs burned. She was trembling quietly in the dark. I’m in love with him, she thought. Help me, I’m in love with him.
Chapter 28
They both rose early the next morning because Hattie had decided it was important to breakfast with Mr. Matthews, since the poor man was still stuck at the inn after the constant rainfall had flooded the southbound railway tracks. She looked civilized for the first time in five days, neatly dressed and coiffed thanks to Mhairi’s help, though Mhairi kept biting her cheeks to keep from smiling as she twisted and pinned the braids into place. Clearly the entire inn had taken note that the Blackstones had finally begun their honeymoon in earnest. There were more covert glances when the blond waitress served them breakfast, and Hattie wanted to disappear under the table. Mr. Matthews, thank goodness, seemed oblivious, and simply ordered some smoked salmon and black coffee. Treacherously ravenous, Hattie ordered a full Scottish breakfast—scrambled eggs, mushrooms, cooked tomatoes, bacon rashers, and spicy sausages …
“The lads brought the mail from Auchtermuchty,” the waitress said when she returned with the laden tray. “There was a letter for you, ma’am.” She took the small envelope from the tray and placed it on the table.
A thrill of excitement rushed up Hattie’s spine. “A reply from Lucie,” she said. “Gentlemen, do you mind?” She was already breaking the seal.
Oxford, October 4th, 1880
My dear Hattie,
Your letter filled me with relief, pride, and contrition; relief because you are well; pride because you are promoting the cause in a place as remote as a Scottish coalfield; contrition because indeed, we must make a greater effort at approaching the women’s labor unions.
Here are my thoughts on the matter, for now: You call the mining women a formidable army, but an army marches on their stomach. We cannot, with good conscience, rouse those women of Britain who live hand-to-mouth and then demand they spend their wages on train fares and meals away from home to take part in gatherings and picketing campaigns. We must not even expect them to pay for stamps. If we want an army, we need the funds for such a thing. Hence, the first task would be to devise a campaign for raising the money to pay for our troops’ logistics and meals, at least hot tea and rolls upon their arrival in a place of action. Is there a campaign possible and grand enough for such a thing? We must put our heads together, but I can tell you now that it shan’t be easy. Nevertheless, it shall be done; it is necessary for our greater vision—equality for all women before the law and in marriage.
It is an odd thought, isn’t it, that there are specific rules for us women just because we are women, only for the rules to differ again depending on the clothes we wear and how much wealth we have to our name. If I were to leave a carriage as Lady Lucinda, men would rush to lift me from the vehicle; if I were to dress in the pit-brow clothes and went by plain Miss Lucie, they wouldn’t worry too much about having me pull coal tubs like a pony. It reminds me of a letter from one of our American sisters, who realized this after reading a speech by a Black American suffragist called Sojourner Truth—Mrs. Truth, rightly, pointed out that some of the same men who insisted on carrying some women over ditches would not do the same for her because of the color of her skin—to which she purportedly said, “and ain’t I a woman?” Hattie, never doubt that how women’s bodies are prized and categorized depends on their social standing, and, accordingly, the different uses （think: brood mare, mistress, or workhorse） our men, or even our fellow women, have in mind for them.