Lucie regarded her with two vertical lines between her brows. “Go on.”
The words came haltingly. “You see … whenever you said wives were rightless and voiceless, I heard you. And I have read many letters of unhappy wives during our meetings, and never doubted the righteousness of our cause. But now I feel as though I hadn’t truly understood. Perhaps …”
“Perhaps?”
“I suppose it still felt as though these misfortunes were happening to other people. What I mean is, my life has always been pleasant despite me being a woman, and I must have expected it to just continue that way. My father, my brothers, my uncles—they can be pigheaded, but they are good and kind men and husbands …” Or so she had thought, until her father had single-handedly decided her betrothal. “I joined the cause because I wanted to have a cause, too,” she said thickly. “I wanted to feel useful. I enjoyed having new friends and being part of something radical. But I understand now. I … I was a silly fool.”
Lucie was shaking her head. “You are not a silly fool.”
“Then why am I so shocked?” She made to search her reticule for a handkerchief, only to remember that she had left the reticule back at the house.
Lucie walked to the desk and fetched a handkerchief from one of the drawers. “You were ignorant,” she said as she handed Hattie the neatly pressed white square. “Your personal good fortune has protected you from the consequences of the law thus far. Engaging with politics was a choice for you. For those who live with the consequences of injustice every day, political activism is not a choice. So I reckon the shock you feel now is your ignorance shattering—think of it as growing pains.”
Hattie pressed the handkerchief to her nose. It smelled of lemons, like Lucie’s soap. “You must have found me very annoying,” she murmured.
Lucie made a face. “I’m annoyed when you berate yourself.”
“But you must have noticed that I came for the company and cakes as much as for the cause. You were impatient with me sometimes.”
“Well, yes,” Lucie said, and paced in front of the couch. “Because impatience is one of my many vices. Hattie, I’d never expect your convictions to run as deep as mine.”
“N-no?”
“No. You’re a loyal activist, you have taken real risks for the cause, and you always cheer the troops. That’s plenty. If I expected every suffragist to feel exactly as I do, our army would be tiny in size and insufferable in disposition. Golly, don’t cry!”
She couldn’t help it: several weeks of pent-up emotional pressure burst out in a flood. Lucie cast a wild look around the room. “Would you like some brandy? A cigar? Ah, I wish Annabelle were here—I’m terrible at handling tears.”
Hattie squinted at her through a watery veil. “Lucie. He can do anything to me he wishes.”
All motion went out of Lucie then; for a moment, she was a like a statue. She approached slowly and knelt before the couch; her upturned face was as serious as Hattie had ever seen it. “Hattie,” she said, and placed a warm hand over hers. “I must ask: has he hurt you?”
He had. Somehow, Lucian had managed to wound her feelings. But that was not what Lucie was asking.
She shook her head. “He hasn’t. But he could.”
And he could parade his fancy women around the drawing room if he wished. She understood now that she’d rather bite off her tongue than seek refuge with her family and tell her mother or sisters about the woman in her house. In fact, it was why she had come here rather than set out for St. James’s. She glanced down at Lucie’s hand, protectively covering hers, and her heart swelled again with the pain of too much sudden gratitude. How fortunate she was to have such friends.
A knock on the door made her freeze.
“The tea,” Lucie said calmly.
Hattie glanced sideways at the young woman who pushed the cart into the room. She wore the neat white-and-blue London Print staff livery Hattie had designed when Lucie had taken over her share of London Print a few months ago. How pleased she had been to have been put in charge of the décor. Then Lucie had said to her, You have free rein. However, keep in mind this is an office building and not my great-aunt Honoria’s drawing room; no chintz, no kitten tapestries, please. She had quietly crossed chintz off her list of fabric options and decided to forget the hurtful comment because Lucie was brash with everyone. But she remembered it now as she sat here on the fainting couch, in need of advice like a hapless girl. Like a girl who would lean in.