Catriona was watching her with her usual quiet attentiveness. “Don’t you think they would approve?”
They would say no one in this room would be able to tell their arse from an ax.
Hattie giggled. “They approved all content,” she said. “I’m certainly hopeful that they will approve of the substantial sum that I shall deposit in Drummuir’s community account.”
“If you wish to sell the work at a good price,” Annabelle said, “I think the duke would be an interested buyer.”
The Duke of Montgomery was near the refreshment table, his straight shoulders and the glint of his white-blond hair in the shadows unmistakable. As was Lord Ballentine’s remarkably tall form, next to the duke. Lucian had joined them, and Hattie would have loved to be a fly on the wall next to the unlikely trio—the men’s icy, smug, and brooding temperaments, respectively, had to make for terrible company. But enabling people who had little in common to cross paths and influence one another was one of the most important side effects of events such as this exhibition. Lucian certainly had to speak to Montgomery about his strategy for the Married Women’s Property Act.
Tenderness stirred in her chest as she watched Lucian in conversation. A few days ago, he had gone down on one knee and had asked her to marry him again. She had relished her yes like a luscious piece of nougat.
“Behold,” came a faintly mocking voice, “it’s the artist herself.”
Aoife Byrne. Lucian’s friend had company; a young blond woman in pink taffeta hung on her arm. Aoife placed a protective hand on top of her companion’s. “This is my friend Miss Susan Patterson,” she introduced the lady, and to Hattie, said, “Miss Patterson is a grand admirer of your work.”
Miss Patterson smiled shyly. With her finely drawn mouth and perfect blond ringlets, she looked angelic.
“Your work is remarkable,” she said. Her voice was cultured and soft. “I attend quite a few of such exhibitions, and to see hope and grace instead of only misery is good. And the juxtaposition of portraits and hands—very good.”
Hattie felt her heart swell a little. “Thank you. The concept was inspired by Mrs. Rosie Fraser.”
“I read her name on the poster,” Miss Patterson said.
Aoife took two champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray and handed one to Miss Patterson. “What she really wants to speak to you about is your charitable projects.”
“Which one?”
“I understand you and Mrs. van der Waal have created an ethical investment committee,” said Miss Patterson.
“Word has spread fast, it seems,” Hattie said, feeling pleased.
The committee used rooms in one of Lucian’s surplus houses as a headquarters. Julien Greenfield had offered his assistance, keen to make amends because he wished for Hattie to return to the dining table on Fridays, but she had chosen Zachary instead. Her brother, who would forever feel guilty over keeping secrets from her, had eagerly committed himself to the task. He was even warming to Lucian now that she had chosen him.
“We are still in the process of defining the criteria for ethical investments,” Hattie told Miss Patterson.
The young woman looked curious. “And how do you do that?”
“We are currently in close exchange with the Quaker community in Oxford—we noticed they don’t invest in enterprises linked to arms production or arms trade.”
“I’m intrigued,” said Miss Patterson. “I come from cotton; perhaps my experiences could be of use.”
Hattie’s eyes grew round. “You are of the textile Pattersons?”
“She was,” Aoife murmured, “she was, until she joined her father’s workers’ union.”
The sentence contained a whole story, and Lucie had sensed it, too. She planted herself in front of the pair. “Could I interest you in joining the suffrage movement, by any chance?”
“What I’m interested in is whether one can improve the ills of the world with the same system that’s been causing them,” Aoife Byrne said. “Reform or revolution, that’s the question.”
“I like her,” Lucie said to Hattie, looking keen. “Where did you find her?”
Hattie sensed a familiar presence at her shoulder, and when she turned, she met Lucian’s calm gaze. He raised his pocket watch. “Time for your speech,” he said. “Five minutes.”
Her heart dropped for a beat. Then she remembered to breathe. She had taught chemistry to a full classroom. She had stared into the eye of a pistol. She was wearing a new favorite outfit: an adorable little hat and a snugly fitted, elegant one-piece in purple satin, hemmed and trimmed with pearl-embroidered velvet. Her speech would be utterly fabulous.