“To keep the brigade well-prepared? I felt rotten, having to cancel,” Hattie said. “If only I could offer them a replacement. Lucie is already standing in for Lady Henley.”
Catriona shifted around on the upholstery as her legs became restless. “What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
At least it wouldn’t split her day down the middle and render it useless.
“I shall replace you,” she ground out. “This one time.”
After their meeting ended and they had said their goodbyes, Catriona rushed down the grand staircase to shake off some of the tension in her limbs. She would have to research the Writ for Restitution of Conjugal Rights. In addition to dealing with Elias Khoury, and supporting the women’s fire brigade, and attending a London dinner on Friday.
Her resolution to stay away from all distractions was going so well.
She was about to leave the hotel foyer when quick footsteps sounded behind her on the polished floor.
“Catriona.”
Hattie had dashed after her and her face was pink from the effort. She pulled Catriona aside, out of earshot from the bellboys.
“There’s something you ought to know—” She paused and worried her bottom lip with her pearly teeth.
“You have found a new spiritualist and want me to attend a séance with you, don’t you?” Catriona said. “The answer is no.”
“Goodness, no,” said Hattie, and scrunched up her face. “I don’t dabble in that . . . anymore.” She ducked her head. “Lord Peregrin is in residence at St. John’s. He’s back for the summer, doing some work in the archives. I thought you might wish to be prepared. In case you cross paths.”
Catriona’s belly hollowed at the sound of his name. A name that had been entwined with nervous nausea and daydreaming for too long to not have an effect.
“It’s fine,” she assured Hattie. “I knew he’d be here.” It was one of the reasons she had left in the first place. There was no chance of bumping into men who made her feel awkward in Applecross. Or so she had thought.
Hattie gave her hand a quick squeeze. “That’s good, then.”
“Say, is there anyone who isn’t aware of my silly crush on him?”
“Yes,” said Hattie, “Lord Peregrin.”
If only. “Do you remember when he called me a ‘good chap’ to my face?”
“Oh well, that was ghastly.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t give me a few hearty slaps on my back, from lad to lad. He knew. He was kind enough to make the situation clear at once.”
“Not at once, though,” Hattie remarked. “Only after you had helped him hide from his brother for months.”
“。 . . I suppose.”
“Lord Peregrin is a boy,” Hattie said earnestly. “A charming, clever boy, but boys have nothing to recommend them over proper men.”
Catriona grimaced. Hattie was a few years younger than her, Peregrin’s age to be exact, but since her marriage to Mr. Blackstone, she took on an almost maternal air sometimes, like a plush ruddy mother hen eager to spread protective wings. It was odd to be at the receiving end of such care when one was older and almost certainly more twisted.
“Let’s meet at the St. John’s porter’s lodge tomorrow morning,” Hattie suggested. “We could go to the fire drill together.”
“I thought you can’t attend the drill.”
“I can’t handle the equipment,” Hattie said with a shifty sideways glance. “I can, however, bring provisions and good cheer.”
“Very well. Are you certain you haven’t changed anything about your appearance?”
“A new hat,” Hattie replied, which solved nothing, because Hattie always had a new hat. Today’s headwear was amethyst velvet that matched her dress, decorated with silk flowers and imitations of various foliage.
Catriona walked back to St. John’s College barely perceiving her surroundings. Her weeks were now overfull. Of course, liberated womanhood would benefit her academic ambitions, too. In a cruel paradox, the whole process of getting women liberation left very few hours for said ambitions. For the last five years, she had split her time between co-publishing with Wester Ross, hoping to build a reputation on his coattails, and the Cause. She had corresponded, picketed, fund-raised, and written essays in support of women’s rights. She had studied the voting records and convictions of men of influence to better persuade them, and she had traveled between Oxford, Manchester, and London more times than she could count. But there were suffragists who traveled to the United States to foster the Cause, and those who had decided to forgo marriage and motherhood or broken with their parents just so that they could campaign without distraction. Her sacrifice was paltry in comparison. But when was enough actually enough? Twelve years ago, the Manchester chapter had achieved the current Married Women’s Property Act after a decade of relentless politicking. It had reined in some of the most oppressive stipulations of coverture, but as Lucie said, it was still crumbs, and any attempts to improve the act further had since failed. So, here they were, over twenty years’ worth of effort later, still fighting. A lifetime was dust in the wind when pitted against the centuries-old machine of laws and mores that kept women chained in place. Sometimes, tending to her personal interests instead of someone else’s counted as an act of sabotage against the machine, too. Or so she told herself.