He was quiet for a long moment.
“Could we discuss that after we return to London?” he then said, his voice surprisingly tired. She felt the same fatigue, deep in her bones.
She sighed. “Very well.” She rested her forehead on her knees, overstimulated and exhausted.
“Allow me to carry you to the bed,” she heard him say after a pause.
She raised her head warily.
“I’ll not bother you with my attentions,” he said, sounding sarcastic, but the expression in his eyes was sincere.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured. “Being petty is surprisingly taxing—I’ve tried my utmost in the past few days, but I don’t think it suits me much.”
“Believe me, you were a natural.”
She avoided looking at his face when he scooped her up. Secretly, she marveled at how effortlessly he carried her, and why a deep, instinctual part of her would be so at ease in his arms.
Chapter 21
The next morning, Harriet woke when Lucian exited the side room, fully dressed and prepared to begin a productive day. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. “I should like to come along.”
He halted in his tracks, his gaze roaming over her nightgown. “Whatever for?”
“To talk to the women,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I thought about it, last night before I fell asleep.”
His dark brows rose. “Why?”
She yawned behind the back of her hand. The room was filled with the bright light of a sunny morning, but it was far too early for her liking, no later than seven, surely. “Because I trust that the women are responsible for the household and the children.”
“They are, yes.”
“We must speak to them, not just to the menfolk, to know how to assist the community.”
Lucian’s brow furrowed in a frown. “We talked to a few women yesterday, Wright and I.”
She padded closer, aware that she was in her nightgown and that her hair was spilling down to her waist in tangles. “Our suffrage work shows that women are more inclined to talk about female issues to other women,” she said, “and female issues are family issues, and families make a community.”
Lucian seemed to attempt to hide some displeasure, and he at last achieved a merely mildly surly expression. “I tried to explain it yesterday but I didn’t do it well,” he said. “These women, you see, they, too, are not your playthings. They don’t exist for you to feel useful … or for you to indulge in the warm glow of your benevolence.”
It stung. She had to swallow hard before she could speak again. “Am I to not have any purpose, then?” she asked in a low tone. “Because I happened to have been born Hattie Greenfield, I must forever be idle?”
This seemed to take him by surprise. “No,” he said. “But what do you offer that they couldn’t do better themselves? They’ll have to take precious time out of their day to explain their circumstances to you.”
“I know how to organize,” she said quickly. “I help Lucie prepare suffrage meetings and demonstrations, so I could conduct a survey of the women’s needs and orderly collect and record opinions. I’m acquainted with the leaders of charities and societies in London that provide funds and expert knowledge.”
He still looked skeptical. “You said you aren’t good at writing—how would you take notes?”
“I can write, Lucian,” she said, although the mere thought of standing at a blackboard made her die a little inside. “Or do you think the women here will do it better?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Unless they are union members?” She only thought of this now. “In which case, they would know all about organizing themselves.”
“They’re not, but I’d like them to be,” he said, looking quite keen now. “Why don’t you speak to them about that, joining the union.”
She eyed him curiously. “Wouldn’t that run counter to your interests?”
A cynical look passed behind his eyes. “No. I like to know when enough is enough.”
What a strange man she had married. “What of recruiting the women to the suffrage cause?” she asked.
“They’ll let you know what they think about that,” he said with a smirk.
The shadows were lengthening and the air had cooled by the time she went to the village. Mhairi had suggested visiting community spokeswoman Rosie Fraser after the day’s shift to request a meeting with the women of Drummuir. To Hattie’s embarrassment, the main door of Mrs. Fraser’s cottage opened straight to the small kitchen, and they barged right into communal cooking activities. A wall of warm, damp air greeted them, and the chatter of seven or eight women and the rapid chopping of vegetables around the crowded table ceased. Assessing eyes narrowed beneath sweat-gleaming brows.