While she appreciated any feedback she could gather, she didn’t particularly care to hear this.
Trite? Whatever happened in the shipping world would affect everything that came and went through London. Everyone in the beau monde might like to think of themselves as high society, but they remained a port city and that fact impacted their entire world.
"Do you know what else isn’t true? Baron of Kenley,” said another lady passing by them. She spoke in a loud whisper Verity could just barely hear. She moved to the edge of her seat to listen. “He wasn’t avoiding his wife; he was truthfully horribly ill. He’s gone to Bath, my husband just learned.”
While knotting up the napkin in her lap with her fists, Verity gritted her teeth in frustration. Had she been wrong? She tried to remember where she had learned that piece, if it came from one of her sources of if she had heard it herself; she would need to review her notes back at home.
So that was what she did.
Verity left the soiree early, complaining of a headache and offering her apologies to the hostess, before taking her leave. After allowing herself time to stew over these matters in the carriage, she walked into her house with confidence she could fix everything.
If there is anything I can control, it is my writing.
She reviewed her notes. Eventually, she decided to make a correction that the baron was facing material problems as well as being ill. She left a note to gather more information before she posted about them again.
Then she started back through her past notes, finding a few names she always came back to.
William Ashbourne. Cassian Ashbourne. Dominic Mercer.
These names sat on different pieces of paper tied to different pieces of information. Some she had shared in the past, some she had not. Her heart lingered on the names with the feelings that arose. Sadness, estrangement, loss.
But I cannot write from emotion. I must have purpose.
For all that her eldest brother liked to keep to himself, Verity knew the household still and she knew her family.
And, recently, she knew what gossip went on about London.
Not only had Verity taken note of the awful things said and noted it all. She read the newspapers. And, after taking time to recall how Dominic had reacted about her speaking of her uncle… It seemed she had some more material to work with.
Uncle William’s passing was strange and unexpected. I don’t know why I never looked into it previously. Losing him already hurt so much. To consider torturing myself this way… But if there is something tied to it, to him, then I must find it out. What if he got caught in something dangerous? What if someone hurt him? They could hurt others.
“I must be careful,” she told herself as she put together pieces of information and wondered if they might make something whole. Scraps were littered everywhere on the sofa so she had to kneel on the ground to see it all. “I’ll have to keep names out of this one. There have been a few deaths, have there not? What if they were all…”
I can’t list names. Not specific details about death. Only… I can raise questions. Doubt in the minds of people. Enough to cause whispers because once people start whispering, they start talking. That is how ideas are found. That is how the truth comes out.
Verity worked through the night on her latest piece. It would be more of an essay than an expose, she realized, and only hoped that it would gather enough interest. But of course, it would have to. Sharing just enough details that a few people would surely recognize what she was saying would help start the movement she needed.
“Goodness gracious!”
Her entire body flinched as she whirled around, lying on the ground while propped up with an elbow. Shoes and stockings were gone. Her dress was wrinkled and the sunlight was suddenly in her eyes.
Wait, sunlight?
Hurrying over was her maid to gape at her. “Your Grace! Have you been awake all night?”
“It would… seem so.” Verity eyed the candles littered about. Eight of them. She recalled lighting more as she needed them. Only she hadn’t realized how much time must be passing to warrant their use. Her cheeks flushed. She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to go to bed, clearly.” Her maid bent over to tug her hand away. “After a bath. You’re covered in ink, Your Grace. I hope it was worth it.”
“Hmm? Perhaps. I do hope so.” Warmth glowed in her chest as she looked back at the piece with pride. Yes, it would do well.
Verity allowed her maid to usher her into a lukewarm bath, then into a dressing gown to get some rest. She slept through half the day before resuming her plans. Taking supper in her room, she read her piece one more time and then carried off with her maid to the printer.
“I don’t like it,” her maid said. “It sounds… dangerous. I don’t understand it, Your Grace.”
“Understanding it and liking it are too different things. But I have to do something. People in power can control the truth, they shape the news in our newspapers and tell us what we are allowed to know. I think they are wrong, and I think someone must speak up,” Verity said with passion.
Her maid huffed. “You really need to sleep more.”
