“Lady Isabella,” Lady Kendrick said, stepping forward with a theatrical sweep of her arm, “would you do the honors?”
Isabella felt a flutter in her chest but nodded, stepping forward until she stood before the gathered crowd.
“Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice steady despite the multiple crimson-tinted cheeks and eager eyes fixed upon her. “Today marks the beginning of something we hope will offer freedom, purpose, and joy to every lady who wishes to join us.”
She exchanged a quick glance with Lady Kendrick.
The older woman nodded, and the footmen pulled on the strings.
The navy fabric fell away in a dramatic sweep, revealing a large wooden board upon which the emblem Isabella sketched had been placed, and above it, in bold golden letters, shone the name of the club.
“The Laurel Club,” a young lady read it out loud.
Gasps blossomed across the room, followed by applause.
“Our members,” Isabella continued with a smile, “shall be known as Laurels. A name symbolizing honor, victory, and knowledge.”
Lady Kendrick nodded proudly. “The purpose of the Laurel Club is simple, my beautiful ladies. It is a sanctuary where ladies may cultivate talents and passions ordinarily beyond their reach, all without inviting the slightest hint of scandal,” Lady Kendrick explained.
Several ladies nodded eagerly. A few seemed hesitant. One or two exchanged dubious glances, but none said a word. Isabella saw every reaction, and yet her confidence did not waver.
“For our very first session,” she said, “we shall begin with an introduction to fencing.”
More gasps—some shocked, some intrigued, some verging on horrified delight.
“We have hired a fencing instructor for the day. He will demonstrate basic footwork and positions. Those who wish to participate may do so. Those who do not may lend their support from the sidelines.”
Her gaze swept the room, not in challenge but in encouragement.
“We shall begin shortly.”
The footmen cleared a generous space at the center of the ballroom, just like the last time, setting up a faux stage for the ladies interested.
The fencing instructor, Mr. William, a tall, wiry man with steady eyes and a weathered face, stepped forward with a bow.
“Ladies,” he greeted in a voice that carried with ease, “fencing is an art of balance, precision, and control. It requires not strength but awareness.” He extended a hand toward Isabella. “Might I borrow Lady Isabella for a demonstration?”
She stepped forward without hesitation, her fingers light upon the wooden practice foil he placed in her hand.
“Now then,” he continued, positioning himself beside her, “we begin with stance. Feet apart, one before the other. Yes, excellent! The forward foot points ahead, the back foot angles outward. Shoulders relaxed.”
He guided her gently, never touching inappropriately, his movements simply what they were supposed to be.
“This position allows both stability and quick movement. Observe, ladies.” He lifted his foil slightly. “The simplest motion in fencing is not an attack—but a step.”
He demonstrated with Isabella, mirroring him, totally immersed in her work.
“Ahead… and back. Again. You see? The front foot leads, the back foot follows. Always maintaining balance.”
Murmurs flutter across the watching ladies.
“That seems manageable,” one whispered.
“Surprisingly elegant,” another breathed.
“It hardly looks ladylike,” yet another lady said, even as she leaned forward with curiosity.
Isabella, focused on her stance, could not help smiling faintly.
