Perhaps. But if all those circumstances had been met, she most likely wouldn’t have given the topic of capital punishment a second thought. She would have been married off to a country vicar, or a man of business, and taken the views of her husband.
She pursed her lips. Either way, these women expected too much. But she did want to help their cause. “I can’t debate Lord Hanford in public, but I will respond to his article in the paper. If the editor will publish it, now that my identity is known.”
Mrs. Fry scoffed. “Of course, he will publish it. Do you know how many people will buy his paper now that an admitted murderess is writing for it? You should demand a percentage of his profits.”
Amanda’s eyes widened. “I admitted to killing my father, but murderess goes a bit far. I was defending—”
Swishing the parasol inches from Amanda’s face, the reformer cut her silent. “Irrelevant. The point is that capital punishment shouldn’t exist for anyone. Getting the law passed eliminating it for children is merely a start.” She sat on the coffee table, her knees bumping Amanda’s. “Your letters are all very well and good. As a first step. But the next step is confronting the men responsible for that archaic policy. You simply must agree to the debate.”
Amanda freed the Venetian glass bowl from under the woman’s skirts. She ground her jaw. Her admiration for the Ladies’ Society for Prison Reform was swiftly declining. “The debate that doesn’t exist? Lord Hanford would never debate any of us. There is no benefit to him. And I will say for the last time that my leaving this house to enter into any debate is impossible.”
Gladys, or perhaps Gwyneth, piped up. “You’ve already engaged his interest enough to respond to your letter. Is it really so outrageous to think you might lead him to a debate?”
“Very well said, Gwyneth. Now”—Mrs. Fry tapped the ground between her feet with the tip of the parasol—“about your debate.”
“There. Is. No. Debate.” Amanda breathed deeply through her nose, trying to calm her irritation. “I will send another letter to the editor, and that is all I’ll agree to.” And she was beginning to regret even that commitment. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I should get started on my response to Lord Hanford.” She stood and strode to the door.
Mrs. Fry flattened her mouth into a hard line. Using the handle of her parasol, she pushed to standing, and the rest of the women followed suit. “Very well. I look forward to reading your next piece.”
Miss Shaw pressed a folded piece of paper into Amanda’s hand as she passed. “We meet every Tuesday evening at Gwynnie’s house. Her husband is bedridden, so doesn’t mind us in his sitting room. Come if you’re able.”
“Thank you.” She led the group to the front door and waited as the footman pulled it open. “I wish your group much success.” But she wouldn’t be part of it. Lord, was that how she sounded to Julius when she discussed her ideas? Like a zealot? Mrs. Fry’s passion, while admirable, was also highly provoking.
She should refrain from discussing her next piece with Julius. He could wait to hear her ideas when they were published, like everyone else.
Mrs. Fry halted on the top step and thrust open the parasol. As it was neither raining at the moment, nor sunny, Amanda didn’t quite see the point. The reformer tilted up her chin. “If we can get Lord Hanford to accede to a public debate, will you agree?”
Clutching the door frame, Amanda shook her head.
“You will agree to at least think about it,” Mrs. Smuthers said. She tossed the end of her shawl over her shoulder. “Reasonable people at least think of all the possibilities before refusing. And I know from your writing that you’re reasonable.”
“Well, of course I’m reasonable—”
“Good. It’s settled.” Mrs. Fry took the steps at a parade march. “We’ll let you know what we hear from Lord Hanford.”
Amanda watched their backs as they filed down to the sidewalk and turned left at the street. It was several moments after they’d disappeared from sight that Amanda stepped back inside the house. “You can tell Mr. Carter to cancel the refreshments for my guests,” she told the footman.
He twisted his lips before giving her a quick nod, and Amanda knew that no tea service had been prepared. Not for her and her irregular company. The disrespect was rising to intolerable levels, and she pondered telling Julius. But he’d just dismiss all the servants, and then where would she and Lady Mary be? Amanda didn’t know how to cook and she doubted the aunt of a duke did, either.
Sighing, she strolled back to the breakfast room and poked her head inside. Empty of the older woman. ButThe Timesstill lay on the table. Amanda scooped it up and carried it back to her room. She would need to reread Lord Hanford’s arguments now that she’d agreed to try to refute them.
Pulling open the drapes of her bedroom window to let in the grey light, she leaned against the sill and gathered her nerve. Reading the attacks, the insults to her person wasn’t easy. But considering she refused to debate in person, it was the least she could do.
She might not be a firebrand, but she could still help the cause. She opened her window for some fresh air, then settled at her small escritoire and began to write.
Chapter Fifteen
Julius tapped the folded papers against his thigh and waited for his horse to be brought around. Glancing back at the closed front door, he swore he could feel Amanda’s presence behind it. Leaning against the barrier, yearning to come out.
He’d thought after their trip to the newspaper office, she’d be eager to leave the house again, but she’d flatly refused his invitation. She didn’t seem any closer to ending her exile than before.
She’d written again. Under her own name this time. If he weren’t so worried he’d have been proud. He’d tried to blackmail her again, threatening not to deliver the letter unless she accompanied him. But the attempt had been half-hearted, and they’d both known it. Amanda needed to want to come out on her own.
Tucking the missive into the inside pocket of his coat, he grabbed the saddle of the horse a stable boy led before him and swung himself up. He tugged the thoroughbred’s head around and dug his heels into its flanks.
And pulled up short.
He should burn the letter. Tell Amanda he’d delivered it to the paper, and they refused to publish it. That’s what was best for his assignment.
