Francesca read that paragraph twice.
It was not, she told herself, a Society event. It was not Almack’s. It was not a ball. It was, in the most literal sense, a meeting. Men met to speak of matters of consequence all thetime; only ladies were expected to pretend that consequence did not exist.
However, she knew very well what Sir Percival would say. He would say she must not go alone. He would say she must not go at all. He would say that she had no right to expose herself to such censure merely to make a point, as if such people—who were intent on making the world a better place—were dangerous.
Francesca had made points all her life, and survived the making of them. She would not begin to shrink now.
Her thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to the memory of Arch Manners’ eyes upon her the previous evening. They had been neither warm nor indulgent. Rather, they had been alert, as if he had been trained to look for the second meaning beneath the first.
“I shall go,” she said aloud, and was faintly vexed that her voice sounded as though she were challenging someone.
Nelly, behind her, made a quiet sound that might have been approval or alarm. “To what, miss?”
Francesca kept her eyes on the letter. “A salon,” she said smoothly, “but not a fashionable one.”
Nelly came nearer. She did not pretend not to listen; she had never done so. “Will Sir Percival be attending?”
“No.” Francesca turned her head a little. “I shall go alone, with you to lend me countenance.”
Nelly’s mouth twitched.
“This is Bloomsbury, not a ballroom. It is not an evening party of the Beau Monde.”
“Then you will not take a chaperone,” Nelly said, not as a question.
Francesca tapped the blotting-paper once with her pen. “I shall take you.”
Nelly’s expression softened into something like resignation. “I am honoured, miss, although I believe a maid is not sufficient escort for such company in London.”
“Tush,” Francesca said, keeping her eyes lowered.
By the time afternoon arrived, the decision to go had become a fact, and facts were easier to live with than hesitations. Francesca dressed with deliberate simplicity: a dark blue gown of good cloth, not new but well cut; a plain bonnet with modest trimming, and gloves that would not advertise her fortune. Nelly approved of the practicality and yet fussed over details all the same because she could not help herself. Francesca allowed it because it was a kind of tenderness, and she needed tenderness more than she liked to admit.
“You will not speak of this to Sir Percival,” Francesca said, as Nelly fastened the cloak.
Nelly’s brows lifted. “And when he finds out?”
“He will scold,” Francesca said, with forced cheer, “and I will endure it. He has endured my obstinacy; he may endure it still.”
Nelly did not smile. “If anyone makes you uncomfortable, miss, you will leave at once.”
“If anything is disturbing, we will go,” Francesca agreed.
They left the house with quiet haste, hoping they would not encounter Sir Percival, though he spent most days at Parliament or his club. Francesca had her own carriage, of course, yet she instructed the coachman to set them down a street away from the address, because she did not wish to arrive like agrande damecome to patronize a cause. She wanted, for once, to be merely Francesca Vale, a woman with ideas and the means to put them into practice.
Bloomsbury received her with a different air than Mayfair. The streets were narrower, the houses respectable but not ostentatious, the noise less glittering and more human. She saw women with baskets on their arms; she saw the occasionalgentleman hurrying with his collar turned up against the cold. There was none of the languid entitlement of fashionable London. There was, instead, a sense of purpose.
Mr. Tidd’s home was a tall brick house with steps worn slightly at the edges. Francesca’s stomach fluttered with the strange sensation of entering a room where she might be welcomed for herself.
A maid admitted them and took their cloaks. Francesca followed the sound of voices to a drawing room that had been cleared of the usual furniture to make space for chairs arranged in a half-circle. A table at the back held tea and biscuits. The room smelled of warm bodies and the coal fire. The people within were not the sorts she had met in Lord Upton’s dining room.
There were gentlemen, yes, but not gentlemen with polished smiles and ambitions. These were gentlemen with ink-stained fingers: men whose coats were good but not exquisite; men who looked as though they worked for a living. There were a few women scattered among them too: one older lady with spectacles; another woman of perhaps Francesca’s age, dressed plainly, her hair arranged in a neat chignon; and a third with an infant asleep against her shoulder, as if she had refused to let motherhood prevent her from greater purpose.
Francesca felt, unexpectedly, her shoulders ease.
Someone noticed her at once. An older bespectacled gentleman rose, his face brightening good-naturedly. He appeared to have recognized her. “Miss Vale?”
“Yes,” Francesca replied, stepping forward. “I do not believe we have met?”
