Page 1 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)
Chapter
One
ROSEHAVEN HOUSE, LONDON
THE SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF WOMEN
T he members of the Society for the Advancement of Women had assembled in the Rosehaven House drawing room to hear the long-awaited response from the House of Lords.
Sofas, settees, and wingbacks had been rearranged into clusters, sunlight spilling across the carpet in golden stripes, though no one spared a glance for the view. I stood behind my makeshift podium—a small round table usually reserved for flowers—my notes stacked neatly before me.
“We have received word regarding our petition for woman suffrage,” I announced. “I’m sorry to report it has been rejected.”
As expected, the room erupted in a flurry of indignation, whispered outrage, sharp gasps, and the furious snapping of fans. Even Lady Anne let slip a rather unladylike oath—her comfortable spinster’s fortune affording her the freedom to swear when she pleased.
“Pray tell,” Lady Pembroke inquired coolly, “what reason did they give?”
“We are, according to them, already represented by the Lords themselves.”
“What poppycock!” Lady Hale’s voice cracked like a whip. “As if the gentlemen in our families know the first thing about what it means to be female.”
“Hardly,” Lady Pembroke said with a dry snort. “Half the peers I know wouldn’t consult their wives on the color of the dining room wallpaper, let alone on legislation.”
I couldn’t have staged a better beginning if I’d tried.
“Quite,” I said. “This rejection of our firmly held beliefs is but a setback which we’ll use to strengthen our resolve,” I said firmly.
“We need to show them—clearly, forcefully—that women’s experiences are not identical to their husbands’, their fathers’.
That no man, no matter how well-meaning, can fully represent a woman’s voice in Parliament. ”
Lady Hale’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of determination lighting behind the frustration.
I drew in a slow, steadying breath. “They may not take us seriously now. But next year, they will.”
Lady Pembroke shot me a sharp glance. “And how will we manage that?”
“We show them that women are not passive extensions of their husbands. That we differ from the men in our families—in thought, in conviction, in experience. And we make it clear that no man can fully represent what it means to be a woman in this country without espousing our point of view. Not in the courts, not in the factories, and most particularly, not in Parliament.”
Lady Bellamy pressed a hand to her chest, a flicker of hope lighting her expression. “You really think we can shift their thinking?”
“We have to,” I said firmly. “Next year, we’ll meet their excuses head-on. We won’t let them turn us aside so easily.”
Lady Whitworth, flushed with indignation, burst out from the edge of a settee. “But what’s to say they won’t just come up with yet another excuse? Why, my Wilbur says a woman’s place is in the home, minding her children, not at the ballot box. How are we supposed to convince men like him?”
I offered her a faint, steady smile. “We will revise our petition, sharpen our arguments, and most importantly, we will build new alliances. Men listen to other men. We must identify the Lords who are sympathetic to our cause—men who carry weight in the House of Lords and convince them to espouse our cause.”
“Such as the Duke of Steele?” Lady Yarmouth quipped, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. A recent addition to the Society, she seemed more interested in gossip than the advancement of women’s issues.
I ignored the bait. “And others like him.”
From her armchair near the fire, Mrs. Gresham gave a soft, disdainful sniff, folding her hands with exacting care. “We’ll all be gray-haired before they ever listen.”
“Speak for yourself,” murmured the Dowager Countess of Sheffield, drawing notice to her silver hair gleaming softly in the lamplight. A ripple of gentle laughter ran through the room, easing the tension, though only slightly.
“I suggest we form a strategy committee,” I continued, sliding a blank sheet of paper toward the front of the table and setting a pencil beside it. “Those who would like to contribute to this effort, please jot your names down. Lady Hale, would you be willing to chair the committee?”
“With pleasure,” she said at once.
“Thank you. And Lady Bellamy, would you co-chair it?”
“Me?” she said, blinking in surprise.
“We need your calming voice, dear,” the dowager countess added with an approving nod.
“You really think I could help, Lady Rosalynd?”
“I do.”
Lady Bellamy squared her shoulders as a quiet smile bloomed across her face. “Then yes, I would be happy to.”
“Thank you, Ladies,” I said. “I will arrange for a time for us to gather, sometime before our next full meeting.” A round of quiet consents circled the room.
Satisfied the subject of the rejected petition had been dealt with, I allowed the moment to settle before lifting the next page of my notes.
“Let us turn, then, to the second item on today’s agenda.
St. Agnes, the Home for Unwed Mothers, has sent word.
They humbly beg for an increase in Society support. ”
Immediately, the mood in the room sharpened. Lady Broadbottom’s spine stiffened before she even spoke.
“I must object,” she said crisply. “We already contribute to that place. Why should we give them more?”
“Because their expenses have gone up, Lady Broadbottom,” I answered calmly. “They are taking in more expectant mothers than before, and their needs are greater.”
“What exactly do they do?” asked a soft voice from near the window—Miss Lavinia Woodworth, a new member with a neatly composed bonnet and a look of keen interest.
“St. Agnes offers shelter, food, and medical care to expectant mothers—most abandoned by their families or the fathers of their children—throughout their pregnancies,” I explained.
“They ensure safe deliveries and place the children with vetted foster families or arrange adoptions to good homes. The mothers are helped into employment, often in service or shop work.”
Miss Woodworth’s brow creased. “So no child is abandoned?”
“None,” I said firmly.
Lady Broadbottom’s mouth pursed. “I wonder if we are not approving the consequences of indiscretion. What’s to stop others from following their example?”
Lady Constance, an octogenarian in high standing, stirred at once, her voice cool but unyielding. “Perhaps, Lady Broadbottom, we might remember that many of these women were preyed upon, not willfully sinful. And even if they were, would you have us punish their children for their mistakes?”
The debate flared—compassion against propriety—until I raised my hand. “We are not here to judge. We are here to help. If we claim to advance women, that must mean all women, not only those of fortune and rank.”
For a moment, silence. Then Lady Constance began to clap. “Hear, hear.” Soon, others joined her.
The motion passed, with only a few holdouts.
Before I could call the meeting to a close, Mrs. Fletcher—round, pleasant, and always practical—said, “Might it be wise for one of us to visit St. Agnes? Just to ensure the home is managing the increased demand?” She flicked a glance at Lady Broadbottom.
“An excellent idea,” Lady Broadbottom said, her smile sharpening. “As president, you would be the most suitable person to go, Lady Rosalynd.”
I inclined my head smoothly. “I’ll arrange a visit in the coming days and report at our next meeting.”
Miss Woodworth beamed. Lady Constance’s smile was approving. Lady Broadbottom’s satisfaction was unmistakable.
By late afternoon, the carriages had rolled away, leaving Rosehaven House in its familiar quiet. I stood by the little round table, my notes stacked, gazing out at the pale spring light.
Today was a win: more funds for St. Agnes, a plan to regroup on suffrage, and fifteen members for the new strategy committee—including the Duchess of Comingford, whose influence in the Lords was worth her weight in gold.
And yet . . .
I folded my arms. The Lords were not our only obstacle. Some of our own members required as much managing as the men we meant to persuade.
And I, as president, was expected to hold it all together.