Silence.
Lady Devin stepped in to mend the breach, and Honoria had the strangest sense that they understood each other entirely in this matter. “We women are more practical than we are given credit for, don’t you think, gentlemen?”
Mr. Browning nodded to her but then looked back at Honoria and prompted, “Dangerous, you say? How so?” he asked without accusation or affront, so it was easy to respond to him directly.
“It has to do with how expectations are shaped. Girls take these romantic fantasies and will not be content without them. Yet the function of marriage has historically been political, not personal. The entire history of British rule has been about establishing powerful alliances and protecting the English throne through political marriages. And those times when a monarch has given passion precedence over politics have been disastrous.” She continued in this vein with greater vehemence and detail, even as she saw one young miss barely hiding a yawn with her napkin. “And so here is my concern—when we train girls, and boys too, to expect that marriage is founded in a love match, we obscure how marriage weaves them into our social fabric. To put it more bluntly, marriage makes them hypnotized cogs in the machine.” When she finally stopped and caught her breath, she realized just how severe she sounded. “Present company excluded, of course. I didn’t mean anyone here was . . .”
She abruptly shut her mouth as she realized all of the married men at the table were, in fact, in marriages of love.
“Sounds like you’re fond of Karl Marx and his bosom friend Engels.” This from a gentleman across the table whose name she could not recall. He sounded accusatory.
“I have read their work, yes, and I find it thought-provoking.”
“Tell me,” the unnamed man continued, “do you not feel complicit then in your own role as merchant? Do you not actively feed the machine by parting customers from their hard-earned shillings?”
It seemed no one would step in. But then, at least no one else was on the attack.
“I am as much a cog as anyone, I admit. But I strive to spread knowledge, to foster learning, to perpetuate the history of civilization. Until someone makes it possible to give such knowledge away freely and still feed and clothe and house themselves, I suppose I have to accept my place and my limitations within the current system.”
Having stated her situation so baldly, she felt a tremendous opportunity to shift the group’s attention to real, serious problems.
“We are not animals at the mercy of our instincts. We are rational and spiritual beings, with both the privilege and responsibility of building a society better than the one before us. We can only do that if we know where we are, who we are, how we fit. If we know what goes on around us.”
“Of course, but—”
“Tell me, sir. Do you know how many children have died working in the Featherbury factory this past year alone?”
“I—no, but—”
“Twelve in just these past six months. More than half of them were the age of five. They should be clinging to their mother’s skirts and playing Ring around the Rosy in a field. Instead, they died in a dark, dank dungeon—starved, filthy, beaten, and choking from ash.” She stifled a cry and realized her voice had risen sharply. She was near hysterical. “My deepest apologies to Lady Devin and to all of you for introducing such unpleasantness into the evening. I hope you may understand somewhat my reluctance to speculate about fanciful notions of love when I am preoccupied with matters so very different.”
“Nothing to apologize for, dear Mrs. Duchamp,” Lady Devin announced graciously. And her statement was enough to shake the others loose of the dark turn of discussion. They turned to Marx and Engels and various assessments of these radical theories.
“ ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ Pshaw!” said the gentleman who could not be named. “If that were the case, I’d be entirely useless in this society, unless whistling, tying a cravat, and riding a horse count as abilities to sustain a nation. London society is not meant to be productive.”
He laughed at himself, and many at the table joined in, nodding and adding their own useless talents. She gradually slipped into more ease.
“Have you heard Mr. Marx’s view of our beloved Great Exhibition?” he asked the table.
“I heard he denigrates it as an obscene spectacle of English commodification,” an essayist responded from the far end of the room. “My impression is that he objects to the way the Exhibition treats the labor and ingenuity of so many nations as a sales opportunity.”
“Heathen!” said another. “That Exhibition shows the world how very advanced and all-encompassing England is today. No society has progressed as far as ours. And no society embraces and celebrates the achievements of other nations as exuberantly as ours does.”
“Spoken like a well-oiled cog in the machine.” Honoria, who’d remained silent through this part of the discussion, glanced up from her plate as her words echoed back at her. Lord Devin, for whatever reason, had joined the fray by parroting her words. “Well, you must admit,” he continued, “Sir Dawson is not wrong in that assessment. That’s exactly the purpose of the show—to display to the world what great advances and trappings of wealth England has wrought and how superior England is to the rest of the world.”
“There’s nothing to be done, then, but go and see it,” Sir Dawson responded. “One cannot determine the Exhibition’s success or value without firsthand experience.”
“What a splendid idea!” Lady Devin spoke up from the head of the table. “We should all take a tour of the Great Exhibition! Oh, Mrs. Duchamp, do say you’ll join me.”
What could anyone say when Lady Devin focused her gentle hazel eyes and embracing manner in their direction but “Yes, of course, Lady Devin. I would be delighted.”
Chapter Five
Evans Principle 5: Beware of extravagant offers. They come with hidden costs that are often too dear.
“D
arling Alex,” Lady Devin said as everyone rose from the dinner table, “everyone else here has seen the library before. I am certain they would all understand if we indulge Mrs. Duchamp’s professional interest in the special editions. Be so kind as to give her the tour.”
No one demurred, although a young Miss Spenser looked longingly toward Lord Devin, then at her mother. No, such a proper girl of the ton could not be so forward, could not make her matrimonial aspirations so blatant, even though it must be clear every marriageable girl in attendance had to have her eye on his lordship, by necessity. Significantly, no one called into question his escort of Mrs. Duchamp to the library without a chaperone. Her age and station put her outside of concerns about maidenly propriety; theirs would be a purely business interaction, as his mother made clear.
The library was what one would expect of such a house, and Alex knew its secrets would be irresistible to a bibliophile like Mrs. Duchamp. Bookshelves lined three walls, ceiling to floor, and were completely full. Decorative paneled columns on each wall broke up the visual monotony. A writing desk and chair stood between the windows on the far wall, and a heavily upholstered settee sat askew in one corner. Two long tablelike display cases ran perpendicular to the windows. The room was lit only by sconces behind the desk.
“This is inappropriate, you know,” she said. Yet she appeared drawn to the nearest display case, captivated by the sight of leather and parchment. “You should not be here with me, unaccompanied, in a dark room, no matter what your mother said.”
When she described it like that, he could imagine all sorts of inappropriate reasons exactly why he should be here with her in this dark room, lit only by a few candles. It was also conveniently out of earshot from the evening’s festivities. He could see her comment was an idle one, though; she made no move to open the door. She knew all too well this was a business matter between a lord and a merchant, best handled behind closed doors, just as everyone would perceive it. So he shifted his thoughts to business, particularly in light of her dark observations at dinner about the Featherbury deaths. He’d given the sample printed sheet from her shop to Withersby to demonstrate his meager progress. It was time for him to do more extensive archaeology of her professional work, but he had to do so delicately, or she’d startle and bolt like a cat.
“I did not think you would come this evening,” he admitted wryly, as he stood at a corner shelf pouring brandy. Silently, he held a glass out to her.
She gave a tight smile, shook her head, and said, “I was given to understand that I didn’t have much choice.” She tilted her head as she added, “Very adroitly implied, I should say.”
“True, but you do not seem the type to cave to the demands of others.”
“On the contrary, my profession, like most commerce, inherently defers to the demands of the customer. I am at the mercy of customers on one end and suppliers on the other. Of course, I have to cave in some areas.”
“So, if you would agree that you caved to the invitation, why the change of heart when you were so clearly not interested in attending?”
“Your mother’s request, for one. I am not foolish enough to offend a viscount and his lady mother by rejecting an explicit invitation. My curiosity, for another. Why little old me? What could I possibly bring to such an occasion that would warrant said invitation? And, of course, I am a businesswoman first. To sit at a table with some of the finest living writers of our time, how could I ignore that opportunity?”
“My mother has taken a liking to you, as I suspected she would. You two are kindred. I could see she was shaken to the core over those factory children you mentioned. I would not be surprised if she convinces many of her friends to contribute to the cause, however ineffectually.”
She looked at him for a long moment, skeptical, before returning her attention to the displays, fingertips on the edge of a display case to balance herself as she leaned in.
“Anyone not made of adamant would be shaken,” she said. “Lady Devin is very kind and altogether exceedingly generous and gracious. She does seem so familiar . . . in the best possible sense.” She trailed off, confused at her own susceptibility to this family. “I’m not so sure I acquitted myself well professionally with the guests, though.”
Her progress along the display case was arrested. Her eyes focused sharply, and she leaned close to the glass top.
“Are these Blake illustrations authentic?”
He nodded.
“They’re beautiful. The pairings make such a thought-provoking contrast . . . the Lamb and the Tyger . . . the chimney-sweeps.” She continued to follow the line of the display, observing each piece carefully, appreciative of the obvious care taken with all of them. Without looking at him, she added, “I’m sure your mother makes everyone feel favored. She seems to have a special gift for making guests feel she is entirely in sympathy with them.”
“True, but she is really quite selective with her inner sanctum, metaphorically speaking.” He could see her trying to extricate herself from the discussion about his mother and let her go. He stood and shifted topics, delving ever so delicately into his mission. “How did you know about the children? One hears about random accidents, but you had very specific information, even down to the children’s ages.”
“I am fortunate that some investigative journalists trust me to publish their work anonymously. Those tracts you purchased, for example. You may have guessed that the authors use noms de guerre and pseudonyms for their subjects to defend against retribution.”
“How do you know then that these authors are . . . forthright?”
“I know them personally, not just by name. I know and admire their legitimate work. I know and trust their characters. They are sincere, upstanding citizens, devoted to aiding the weak and defenseless.”
He believed her. More than that, he wanted, he realized sharply, for her to talk about him with that same unwavering faith and admiration. Even as he tried to shut down her work. Here she was essentially explaining outright a process by which she could attack prominent manufacturers. She made no pretense otherwise. This hypocritical snare left a bitter taste in his mouth that the brandy couldn’t wash away.
“This map is beautiful!” she said, her attention riveted to the wall display.
He groaned inwardly. The map was impossible to miss, large as it was, and positioned so centrally—behind the desk, between the windows. Upon entering the library, most people noticed it first. A bookseller, on the other hand, would naturally be drawn to the displays. He still hated the map, but his mother loved it. His siblings cherished it. Everyone who saw it marveled at it.
“Ah, yes, the map.”
“You disagree?”
He shrugged. “It is just a map.”
“What do all these dots represent?” Leave it to her to scrutinize it so intently.
“Those are pinholes my father made. He used to put pins in to note the places he visited.”
“But there are so many. He couldn’t possibly have traveled to all these places, could he? It would take years.”
“He was an explorer for as long as I can recall. When I was younger, I suspected he was Ponce de León reincarnated, still seeking the secret to immortality. He wrote monographs about some of his travels. They are housed on the shelf over here, along with notebooks he kept on each of his journeys.” The shelf he pointed to was filled with irregularly shaped volumes, some immaculately bound and others worn, with oversized objects poking out the top. Most people would be impressed by his father’s body of work. Suddenly, he didn’t want her to be one of them.
“Have you been to any of these places?”
He laughed mirthlessly. “No, I had no interest in following my father’s shadow. I leave that to my brother and sister.”
“Where are they these days?”
“My mother has not told you about them already? I suppose the opportunity has not yet arisen. She is ever so fond of relating their adventures. Amelia is married to an Italian baron and now living happily in Florence. Before they had children, they traveled every summer. Mother tries to visit them at least twice a year.”