“You should address your concerns with your unions,” he said, before she could voice her disappointment. “If they haven’t done the job they’re supposed to, that is on them, not on me. You are not my responsibility.”
Eleanor scrubbed at her face before pointing to the man wearing Peter’s face who was still swanning around in costume. “Thatis our local union representative. A more foolish man could not be found. By the time he fully appreciates the situation, it will be too late.”
Blast, these people had gotten themselves into a right mess. “Then this predicament is of your own making. If you hire someone so unserious to represent you, then you cannot be shocked when the outcome is not what you wish.”
She could not be reasoned with. He would no longer try. Hewaved to an officer, pointing at her and then to the outer edge of the crowd to demand she be forced away from the danger. “Go home, Miss Wright.”
She struggled as the officer took hold of her arms.
“You cannot just walk away.”
He hated the tremor in her voice. It triggered more grief than anything going on around them. “What do you want of me, Miss Wright?”
“There must be some safety net. The government must legislate support for this kind of situation.”
She expected him to be the one to make it happen, when he was already treading the edge of his influence convincing his peers to vote for Irish home rule, women’s suffrage, and the expansion of sanitation services. It would take months of preparation and debate, and it would help none of those protesting now. She was asking the impossible.
“The sitting calendar is full. Good day, Miss Wright.”
Chapter Eighteen
Get skin under your fingernails…She’d tried. She’d failed. She sank beneath the steaming surface of the bathwater as though it could shield her from the shame.
She’d had no impact at all. Of the lords who even bothered to face the crowd and enter the building—to do their literal blasted job—none had had the grace to look her in the eye, let alone promise to help. They’d had no interest in what she’d had to say at all.
As the day wore on, and she’d realized that those in power weren’t interested in the plight of a few, she’d turned her attention to those who walked past, who craned their necks to see what the kerfuffle was about. Maybe if she and her colleagues could convince the public to join the protest, the duke and his blasted cronies wouldhaveto listen.
But the vast majority of the people who passed picked up their pace instead of joining in solidarity. They were sympathetic until they were asked to give some of their time, or their money, or their groceries so that those who were out of a job could put food on the table.
A few were even scathing, suggesting that the compositors should have “seen this coming,” or should have “chosen amore secure career” or “were overpaid to begin with.” Others expressed support initially but were soon asking questions like, “Does this meanThe Ladywill be delivered more frequently?” or “Do you think these changes will happen by Christmas? It costs a fortune to buy books for all my nieces and nephews.”
She wanted to fight, truly she did, but by the end of the day, her energy was spent and she’d made no progress.Stupid Eleanor. How could you read when you were four years old and still have no way with words? How could you think you’d convince a duke to take action when you could never convince your cousins to come in for tea?
Lillian had spent most of her time interrogating the police officers who monitored the crowd, peppering them with questions. Mabel had chosen not to attend at all, uncomfortable with the protest’s collective anger. Eleanor had no wish to talk to either about the sense of utter defeat she was feeling.
The only person she wanted to talk to was the Captain.
She wanted his compassion. She wanted his steady assurance. She needed the joy his letters brought her, and she needed that in greater quantities than words on paper could bring.
She returned to the surface, gasping for breath. Baskerville had his paws on the edge of the tub and was staring intently. He dodged the dripping scratch she tried to give him and meowed.
“You’re right, kitten.” She grabbed the towel from the chair beside the tub, climbed out, and padded to the desk. Her hand was still damp and it warped the page, but she didn’t care.
Dear Captain,
Let’s meet.
Chapter Nineteen
“Why here, brother? There are plenty of splendid restaurants just a few streets over.” Winnie craned her neck as she watched a couple stroll down the other side of the road, arm in arm. “Have either of you even been to this part of town?”
Andrew shook his head. Peter sighed. “Bowen’s Kitchen offers us a modicum of privacy. We couldn’t dine three streets over without all of London knowing about it.”
Bowen’s Kitchen was respectable, but it was approximately five hundred feet too far from St. James’s Street to beton.
Winnietsked. “Are you embarrassed by her already, brother? That does not bode well.”
Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am not embarrassed by her.” What was there to be embarrassed by? She was intelligent, and sweet, and kind, and optimistic. She was light itself when recent days had been decidedly grim. How could he be embarrassed by light?
