Chapter Twenty-Six
Jeffrey escorted five ladies to the Dennington’s party that evening. While they were each perfectly delightful, and he loved them with his entire heart, he wished that he had another woman on his arm—one that he sought out the moment he arrived at the house that was but two streets away.
It was not an official event and therefore all of his sisters were in attendance, and Rebecca was determined that she would spend the entire night on the dance floor, that all of the men would be so eager to fill up the list on her dance cards. Jeffrey hoped it was true. His sisters were all beautiful women, but they were also known for causing a bit of trouble—with the exception of Viola, of course. It would be up to him to help them find men who were worthy of them and yet could handle them as well. It wasn’t a task he was looking forward to, but he wouldn’t entrust it to any other person, either.
Jeffrey scanned the crowd now, looking for the dark, midnight curls of Phoebe’s hair, but while there were many beauties with dark hair, he couldn’t find the stunning woman who so held his attention. He sighed, hopeful she was simply late, as he made his way through the crowds to find a drink. Once his brandy was in hand, the Duke of Clarence found him leaning against one of the four pillars that held up the ceiling, which was painted in a scene of what he supposed was to be heaven.
“Berkley.”
“Clarence.”
They tipped their drinks at one another before taking a sip. They made a bit of conversation about nothing and everything before Jeffrey left to find Viola, hoping she had perhaps seen Phoebe as she traipsed around the room with her friends.
“Vi,” he said, snagging her arm as she walked past, and he was both intrigued and pleased to see a few scrawls on her dance card.
She must not have heard him, however, for she continued on, and Jeffrey was waylaid for a moment by acquaintances who wanted a word of hello. By the time he caught up with his sister, she was engaged in conversation with a circle of her closest friends.
“What do you think of it?” he heard one of the women ask, and a tangle of voices responded, but Jeffrey heard the voice of his sister above the rest.
“I think it is an intriguing prospect,” Viola said. “To have the Marriage Act changed? Why, the lives of women would never be the same. Women would have responsibility, would have the ability to actually make choices for themselves, without fear of what marriage could possibly mean for them.”
He heard a rustle beside him, and Ambrose appeared. Jeffrey rolled his eyes but held up a finger to silence him, wanting to hear more of this conversation. For once, Ambrose blessedly did Jeffrey’s bidding.
“And what did the article suggest to change?” One of the young women asked, to which another responded, “Simply that when a woman marries, all of her possessions must not necessarily be given directly to the man. That she might have her own finances, her own possessions that she keeps for herself. There would still be a dowry, to be sure, but she would no longer have to sacrifice all.”
“Do you believe that would be wise?”
“I do,” Viola affirmed. “For then, a woman need not be so fearful of entering into marriage. She would not only know then that a man truly loves her, but she would also be able to build a life for herself and keep it. Think of women who work, who have earned for themselves. They must be so fearful that marriage would take all away from them. They could now enter a union willingly, without that fear.”
Ambrose snorted beside him, and Viola turned quickly, catching both of them in her gaze. Jeffrey felt his face warm slightly at being caught eavesdropping, but nonetheless, he smiled at his sister.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said to the other women, all who stared at him with doting faces. The title of a marquess did bring that about. “Vi,” he said, leaning toward his sister, “I do not suppose you have seen Lady Phoebe this evening?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nor have I heard that she is to be in attendance. Now,” her look darkened as she glared at her brothers. “Will you kindly stop listening to my private conversations? You, Jeffrey, have developed a very un-noble habit of eavesdropping as of late.”
She was absolutely right, and he felt like a chastised schoolboy for having been caught. He continued on his way with Ambrose trailing behind him, and he wondered what it was his brother wanted. Ambrose had clearly not been pleased with him the other day, though Jeffrey doubted he was here to beg his forgiveness.
“I hope you are making progress in bringing down that awful newspaper,” Ambrose said, once they were a fair bit away, and Jeffrey turned to him with surprise.
“I was not aware that you had an opinion on the subject either way,” he said, and Ambrose shrugged.
“Can you imagine a woman keeping funds to herself? Whatever would she do with them? Purchase more hats and ballgowns? It is laughable, really.”
Jeffrey was silent for a moment. The words coming from the mouths of his siblings tonight—first Viola’s sensible thoughts and now Ambrose’s bluster—had him thinking. The opinion Viola brought forth on The Marriage Act was actually somewhat valid, as much as he didn’t want to admit it. It would cause uproar were anything to ever change, that was true, but it would not altogether upset the order of society. Another point of discussion to be had with this publisher, he thought ruefully, and Ambrose narrowed his eyes at him.
“You are following through, are you not?”
“Absolutely,” he said, which was not a lie. He was following up on the situation. He just didn’t know to what extent. “In fact, I have a meeting with the publisher tomorrow.”
“Oh, good,” Ambrose said. “Give him—or her—hell, Jeffrey.” He placed a hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder, looking at him with eyes that were like a reflection of his own. “It’s what father would have wanted. He’d be proud of you.”
And with a wink, he was gone, leaving Jeffrey to wonder what his brother was up to.
Ambrose had been right. His father would be proud to know he was taking down such a paper. But his mother—would she feel the same? Or his sisters? And most of all, Phoebe?
He sighed and downed his drink, lamenting the late hour and the fact that Phoebe hadn’t yet arrived, meaning she likely wouldn’t at all. It was going to be a long night.
*
Jeffrey knocked on the door of 53 Fleet Street the next day at precisely two o’clock, and the grey-haired woman—Mrs. Ellis, if he remembered correctly from the day before—ushered him in. Her face was pleasant, but it certainly didn’t seem as though she were smiling at him, but rather was, perhaps, a bit anxious. Clearly, she didn’t believe his story from the other day of becoming a supporter of the paper, and nor did he blame her. He knew he wasn’t overly convincing.
She didn’t say much as she led him down the short corridor, stopping in front of the small room he had entered during his previous visit, the office being that of the publisher. Mrs. Ellis extended her arm, gesturing for him to enter the small office. There wasn’t much to look at, its owner clearly not having occupied it for long. A square window let some light in through the glass, which had obviously been scrubbed, though streaks remained, apparently resisting the effort. This time he noticed the ugliest chair he had ever seen in his life sitting behind the scarred oak desk, while a chair so rickety he didn’t dare chance it sat in front of the desk. An old, lopsided bookshelf in the corner held stacks of papers and a few odds and ends.
Mrs. Ellis caught his gaze and smiled slightly. “We haven’t been here long and this furniture remains from the previous tenants,” she said, slightly apologetically. “We are awaiting the new furnishings to arrive.”
He nodded in understanding.
“The publisher will be with you in just a few moments, my lord,” she said, then turned and continued down the hallway, her footsteps echoing behind her, and as Jeffrey waited, he contemplated what he was going to say. Initially, when he had begun this quest, he had been determined to shut down this damn paper. He still felt that it was somewhat of a nuisance, but between Phoebe and his sisters, he had become swayed toward the idea that perhaps it wasn’t entirely fair for him—or any man really—to take away the opportunity for women to have something of their own. As his sisters had pointed out, there were articles within the paper regarding fashion, advice, and other endeavors that gentlemen would hardly be interested in.
It was the articles that incited change, that suggested women should challenge the very fabric of society that had held them together for years, that bothered him somewhat. If he could reason with the publisher, convince her to be slightly less controversial, then all could co-exist peacefully, could they not?
Jeffrey stood waiting, his hands behind his back, as he heard footsteps advancing down the hall ever so slowly, and he waited impatiently. What was taking the woman so long? For he assumed the publisher was a woman.
The oak door, which Mrs. Ellis had left slightly ajar, was pushed open wide. And Jeffrey could only stare in surprise.