A Rogue of One's Own

For something she, Lucie, could never go without again.

She looked her mother in the eye. “For freedom.”

This time, no one followed her.

* * *

The copies of The Female Citizen were gone from her vanity table. Someone had positioned a few of the Discerning Ladies’ Magazines in their place. Well. Whoever had tried to sabotage her, they had succeeded.

Her carpetbag and the travel trunk were stowed in the dressing chamber. Mechanically, she began pulling gowns and petticoats into her arms, carried them to the bed, and dumped them on the counterpane. Her senses were still overheightened, her blood still racing.

Years ago, when she had been new to activism, she had wondered how the other ladies who were taking up the Cause retained their positions and people’s good graces. Their families usually displayed unusual degrees of tolerance. But most ladies also stayed clear of the truly ugly matters and left them to the activists from the middle classes. And usually, they were more patient than her, and contented themselves with gradually carving out space for a project here or there. Another foundling home, another school for girls, an academy for fallen women. A position as policy advisor on health matters thanks to personal connections, as Florence Nightingale had done. All valuable work, none of it enough. And she, Lucie, was greedy. She found the endless waiting difficult. She wanted to see women advisors in the Ministry of Economics. She wanted fewer academies for fallen women, and more changes to the circumstances that made women fall. Her mother was right—she was selfish. She was indulging her impatience and wanted too much, too fast.

She pulled the flowers from her hair and tossed them onto the disorderly heap of clothing. Masculine nature. How many of them had been laughing behind her back at her attempts to look nice?

She began stuffing the dresses into the trunk, crushing velvet and silk.

A soft but determined knock sounded on her door.

“Enter,” she said without interrupting the packing.

Annabelle appeared on the doorstep. At a glance, she took in the pile of clothes on the bed and the open trunk.

She closed the door behind her. “Surely you are not thinking about leaving?”

“I think it would be best, considering the circumstances.”

Annabelle drew closer. “What makes you think so?”

“Please. Everyone thinks it was me. Including you.” Forgivable in her mother, who had never known her much at all. So hurtful in a friend, she couldn’t breathe, thinking about it.

“I do not think you did it.”

She glanced up. Annabelle was staring at her with hurt in her eyes.

Lucie swiped a dislodged lock of hair behind her ear. “I saw how you looked at me when I came into the breakfast room.”

Annabelle shook her head. “It would be stupid, and disloyal, and you are neither.”

It didn’t soothe the jagged emotion stabbing away in her chest.

“I’m glad. But I would have appreciated a warning before I walked into Antarctica.”

Annabelle blew out a breath. “I could hardly leave Montgomery’s side—we were busy pretending that everything was fine.” She hesitated. “But it is true that I had seen the pamphlets on your vanity table yesterday morning. And . . .”

“Yes?”

“And I know that you are not fond of Montgomery.”

Lucie gave a nod. “It is true. I’m not fond of him.”

“He is not hindering our cause now,” Annabelle said calmly. “In fact, he is fighting in our corner.”

“Is it still our corner?”

A look of surprise passed over Annabelle’s face. “Of course—why would you even say such a thing?”

Because you have everything a woman supposedly should have, and it shall be a matter of time before it keeps you from pursuing masculine activities.

Lucie shrugged. “I suppose I do not like how the duke is changing you.”

“Changing me? Whatever do you mean?”

It would be unwise to keep talking. So naturally, she did keep talking. “You are not really part of the student body anymore, and are only present at Oxford two, at best three days a week, when studying the classics used to be your dream.”

Annabelle gave a baffled shake. “I’m a married woman now. I cannot live apart from my husband seven days a week—I do not wish to, either.”

“Precisely. It just strikes me as a lost opportunity, considering how few women have access to anything resembling a higher education.”

“Lucie, Oxford does not even allow women to fully matriculate.”

“Oh, I’m aware of that—I am writing a letter a week and speak to more bigots than I care for to change that. It means we have to fight harder, not withdraw.”

“But I’m not withdrawing—I’m compromising. Just because I am married does not mean I shall ever give up the fight.”

“It usually means exactly that.”

Annabelle regarded her warily, as though uncertain what had got into her friend. “Presently, Oxford does not allow us to take the same final exams as men, and they teach us in the upstairs room of a bakery. We are not deemed fit to enter the same lecture halls as the men. You can hardly expect me to strain my relationship with Montgomery for their disregard and a third-class diploma, especially not when I am perfectly capable of fulfilling much of my coursework from afar.”

She was right, of course. “Still,” something possessed Lucie to say, “you do not walk with us as much anymore because your gowns are too constraining. And your speech is changing—is he making you take elocution lessons?”

And she had gone too far, she knew even before she heard her friend’s sharp intake of breath.

“I should not have said that,” she murmured, a sinking feeling in her chest.

“No,” Annabelle said quietly. Her beautiful face was white. “You should not have.”

“I’m a beastly friend.”

“You are not being fair.” Annabelle crossed her arms, the air around her crackling with the sparks of her own temper. “Has my life changed? Why, yes, it has. I have changed the constraints of poverty to the constraints of protocol—guess which I prefer? I enjoy being safe and well fed. I prefer constraining gowns over having to mend my old ones, over and over, worrying how I would replace them before they turned into rags. I like having strength and resources at my disposal for matters beyond my immediate survival. I am of much more use to the Cause as I am now than I was before. But none of that signifies—what signifies is that Montgomery gave up near everything he once considered important to be with me. And I would have shared my life in a hovel with him. Because there is no one who sees me better, and no one I trust more.”

Lucie was cringing. “I apologize.”

“How could he possibly give me any more? He could lay down his life for me, but I daresay he would do so without blinking if required.” Annabelle’s eyes were blazing like emeralds on fire. She had worked herself into a right mood, and Lucie could hardly blame her.

“I apologize,” she repeated, feeling dreadful. “Truly, I spoke out of turn.”

Annabelle’s arms remained firmly crossed.

Lucie sank onto the bed next to the tangle of remaining gowns.

This was worse than what had just transpired in the breakfast room. Worse than the confrontation with Lady Wycliffe. She was unraveling in some fashion, had been so for days, with resentment sprawling destructively around her like the arms of a kraken. Could she blame her friends for having doubts?

She raised solemn eyes to Annabelle. “It does not excuse my tirade, but for what it’s worth, I felt hurt.” It made her feel queasy to say this out loud, as if she were revealing a soft, pale flank to a marksman. “I was ghastly to you because I felt hurt when I thought you thought it was me. I would never try and embarrass you, in your own home no less.”

Annabelle’s face fell. She rushed to settle next to her and clasped Lucie’s hand in hers.

“I’m sorry, too.” The green of her eyes was muted again, all temper gone out of her. “Please believe me.” She gave Lucie’s hand a squeeze. “I never meant to give you this feeling.”

Lucie shrugged. “It’s all these years of me being known as a troublemaker. It’s bound to confuse people.”

Annabelle’s eyes looked suspiciously shiny. “I’m not people, I’m your friend. My emotions are running high—will you accept my apology?”

Lucie sighed. How could she not?

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, and gave Annabelle’s hand a squeeze in turn. “And I’m happy for you. I am.”

Even when contrite, with her regal posture and proud cheekbones, Annabelle looked as though she had always been destined to be someone. Poise and pride were in her marrow. It was just a bitter pill to swallow that it had taken the money and the protection of a man to help her achieve her destiny. But that was how it was. And perhaps, she, Lucie, was turning into a bitter old crone before her time.

Annabelle toyed with a tassel on the belt of her dress. “If you must know,” she said, “I don’t relish constraints of any kind, be they gowns, protection officers, or protocol. But Lucie.” She raised her eyes, and the depths of emotion in them stunned Lucie for a moment. “Lucie, I have never been so happy. Perhaps I am greedy, but I wish to believe I can do both: be a wife to the man I love, and work for women’s liberty.”