“Perhaps your guests would be most comfortable in the bronze sitting room,” Carter suggested. Amanda almost sent him a grateful smile before she remembered that sitting room was at the rear of the townhouse, its windows only facing into the backyard. Less chance of anyone seeing the motley group in the duke’s home.
Still, it was a comfortable room. “Yes.” She turned to lead the women back. “Please have refreshments sent up,” she told Carter, her voice airy, as though she gave orders to servants every day of the year. She could feel his disgust burning into her back.
The Ladies’ Society settled themselves on the settees. Mrs. Fry sat on the armrest, her leg swinging. “We didn’t expect to find a fellow reformer in the home of a duke.” Leaning forward, she picked up a Venetian glass bowl and turned it in her hands. When she casually flipped it over, Amanda’s heart lodged in her throat. She didn’t know how valuable the bowl was, but knowing the duke’s tastes, she could guess it was worth more than she was.
She gently pried the bowl from Mrs. Fry and placed it back on the table. Out of the woman’s reach. “What was it you wanted to discuss? I believe I laid out all my views in the two piecesThe Timespublished. I don’t think I have much more to say on the matter.”
The woman with the flowers in her hat scooted to the end of her seat. “Nothing more needs to be said. It’s action that is called for.”
Mrs. Fry sighed. “Perhaps we should start with introductions. The firebrand over there is Miss Bernice Shaw. The one next to her is Mrs. Jane Smuthers.” The redhead nodded a greeting. “And the two sisters”—Mrs. Fry pointed to the two women with strikingly similar features on the other settee—“are Gladys McGuire and Gwyneth Bartlett.” She poked her parasol into the floor. “The six of us are going to end capital punishment in England.”
Amanda counted, and counted again. “Do you have another member?”
“Of course.”
Amanda’s shoulders sagged with relief.
The parasol poked at the air by Amanda’s chest. “You are the sixth member of the Ladies’ Society for Prison Reform,” Mrs. Fry said.
“Women Standing Together Can Break the Chains of Bondage,” Miss Shaw muttered.
Amanda blinked rapidly. “I’m really not one for joining groups.”
“Nonsense. The cause needs you.”
“Then the cause is in trouble.” Perching on the edge of an armchair, Amanda linked her fingers together, the tips turning white. “In case you haven’t yet read the morning papers, I am the last spokeswoman your cause needs.”
“Rubbish.” Mrs. Fry slashed her parasol through the air, the tip knocking a brass box off a side table. Cigars spilled across the Aubusson carpet.
One of the sisters popped up and put it all to rights. She tucked a lock of her short ash blond hair behind her ear and gave Amanda a small smile.
“You are exactly what we need.” Mrs. Fry leaned forward. “A woman who’s faced the devil. Who’s felt the burn of the noose against her neck, only for the government to later realize its mistake.”
Amanda laid her hand on her throat. Rope had never encircled it, thank goodness, but after Mrs. Fry’s impassioned statement she could almost feel the sting. She’d have to tell Julius her neck was off limits to his rope.
“Only a person who has escaped the Tyburn Tree has the true authority borne of experience to speak of reform.” Mrs. Fry stabbed the air. “You are exactly what we need.”
Amanda shrank back from the make-shift rapier. The reformer would be wicked in a duel.
“And you’ve already brought such consciousness to the issue,” Mrs. Smuthers said. “All of our efforts combined haven’t garnered as much attention as your two pieces. And you’ve even made that despicable Lord Hanford try to defend himself.”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Fry stood and paced the room, a bundle of bright colors and contained energy. Grey was just beginning to encroach on the hair at her temples, and Amanda was surprised the woman didn’t demand its retreat. She seemed much too indomitable to submit to anything, even time. “By responding to you, Lord Hanford has given you credibility. People have to listen. I think we should call for a public debate.”
One of the sisters, Gladys perhaps, clapped her hands. “Ooh, that’s a lovely idea. Where should we hold it? On the front steps of Parliament? Or perhaps The Queen’s Palace?”
Amanda curled back into her chair. She shot a longing glance at the door. Why had she contradicted Carter and let these women in the door? She licked her lips. “I’m sure a debate would be most informative. And I think you should do it. You. Not me. Never me.”
Five rounded sets of eyes landed on her. “Of course, you must do it,” Miss Shaw said. “You against Lord Hanford. It’s the only partnering that makes sense.”
Amanda smothered a hysterical chuckle and pressed her fingers against her lips. Ever since she’d awoken this morning, nothing had made sense. The idea of her, in public, debating a marquess …. That was the exact opposite of sense.
She gripped her skirts. “I’m sorry you’ve come all this way, but that just isn’t possible. You’ve wasted your time.”
“Hogwash.” Mrs. Fry had as many colorful interjections as patches on her dress. “We can help you prepare, of course. And we’ll advertise it in other papers to ensure a large audience. But it must be you to debate. Surely you see that.”
What Amanda saw were five dotty women who actually thought they had a chance at getting a debate with a member of the House of Lords. Who thought that Amanda was as mad as they were, that she’d join in their insanity.
Amanda firmed her voice. “It’s not possible,” she repeated. The back of her throat burned with restrained emotion. Had she a typical childhood, a loving parent, would her answer have been different? If she’d never set foot in Newgate Prison, would she have had the courage of these women? Stood in front of hundreds of people and spoken her mind?
