CHAPTER3
“Thenerveof that man!”
Phoebe was describing to her aunt in great detail her entire conversation with the Marquess of Berkley. Her aunt, Lady Aurelia, was somewhat sympathetic to her plight, although her expression changed from one of understanding to horror when Phoebe told her of striking the marquess.
“Oh, Phoebe!” she exclaimed, her gloved hand coming up to cover her mouth, which was lined with deep wrinkles. She had never married, choosing to live as a spinster her entire life. Phoebe’s father, much younger than Aurelia, had loved his sister immensely and ensured she lived a comfortable life. One of the stipulations of Phoebe’s inheritance had been that she take her aunt in to live with her, a requirement with which Phoebe had no reservations.
After her encounter with the marquess, Phoebe had found Aurelia amongst the crowd and feigned a headache, requesting that they return home. She no longer had any desire for company — polite or otherwise. Seeing the look upon her face, her aunt had quickly agreed, bidding farewell to her acquaintances.
Now, sitting in the carriage together, Phoebe let all of the anger that had been building within steam out of her, and her aunt, silent for the most part, allowed her to vent.
Finished, Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into the squabs. Her aunt reached out a hand and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen out of her chignon and over her face.
“Phoebe, dear,” Aurelia began. “I am sorry that you had to listen to that, truly I am. I understand how you feel, you must know that. The marquess, however, is a powerful man, with many friends in high places, and he only speaks the truth of which he knows, the truth that most live within. I am not sure that he is a man of whom you should be making an enemy.”
Phoebe shrugged. “Does it really matter? It is not as though I am exactly beloved in social circles.”
“No, and I am not saying that you have to be,” her aunt said, shaking her head. “I am only saying to be careful, darling. And, while he is terribly wrong on much of what he said, there are some aspects of which he has the right of it.”
Phoebe opened her mouth to retort, aghast that her aunt, a woman who had shared many of the same thoughts regarding the female role in their world, would say such a thing.
Aurelia held up a hand before Phoebe could say anything further.
“Let me explain,” she said in a soft, but stern voice and Phoebe respectfully sat back to listen.
“He is correct in that this is the society in which we live. You can voice your displeasure to a few friends, but if you speak any louder, you will only be ostracized. Is that what you truly want?”
Phoebe waited a moment before responding. She had an idea — one that had begun to form when Sarah questioned whether anything would change if no one did anything about such views, if no one presented another option. Her thought was outrageous, now that she had time to consider it further, but … perhaps … an outrageous act was required.
“Aunt Aurelia,” she began, needing her aunt to understand, for in order for this to work, she would need her cooperation. “You read the newsletters and journals every day, just as I do, do you not?”
“Most of them,” her aunt said, the feather on the top of her velvet maroon hat bobbing as she nodded her head at Phoebe. “Though not nearly as many as you. I do not believe anyone in all of London reads as much as you do, my dear.”
“And of all that you read, who writes such publications?”
“A wide assortment of people I should say,” said Aurelia, looking at Phoebe quizzically. “We read the papers of the Whigs and the Tories, the gossips and the reformers. It is the only way to truly understand all that is happening in the world.”
“We do not read the words of an assortment ofpeople,” Phoebe said, holding a finger up to note one clear, particular distinction. “We read the words of an assortment ofmen. Men who use the power of the written word to portray their opinions, to shape the thoughts of those who read them. Men who are friends, or acquaintances, with those who influence their way of thinking. We are guided by the very people who want women to stay within their particular role. That is the problem, Aunt Aurelia.”
Aurelia cocked her head to the side, considering Phoebe’s words. “You are correct, darling, as you always are. And that’s all very well and good, but whatever are we supposed to do about it?”
“I’m so glad you asked,” said Phoebe with a triumphant smile. “For I actually have a solution.Ihave an opinion on the world as well. And I am going to share it.”
* * *
Shadowed by his large,unruly mutt, Maxwell, Jeffrey marched down the stairs of his London townhome the next morning with a weight in his chest. Last night had been a disaster. The woman had gotten into his head, and she wouldn’t leave it, no matter how hard he tried to shove her out of it. After his conversation with Clarence the previous night, Jeffrey had lost all interest in anything occurring around him at the party. In fact, he had found himself completely tired of the affair, as well as any others to come.
Suddenly all he could focus on was the fact that he repeated the same actions night after night. He spoke to the same people, had the same coy words whispered in his ear, was approached by the same women, none of whom seemed to have an original thought in their heads. What was the use of it all?
He sighed as he rounded the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, pushing his hair back off of his forehead. He was being ridiculous. He had never had thoughts like this before. Why one conversation withherwould make a difference, he had no idea whatsoever.
Well, it was a new day. A day in which he was sure, he thought with a wry grin crossing his face, that he would face many new challenges.
He was not disappointed, for when he entered the breakfast room, four beautiful, luminous, yet mischievous faces were grinning up at him, as though they had been waiting for him to appear. His mother — equally as beautiful and luminous, in his opinion — also looked on, contemplating her children.
“Jeffrey!” shouted Annie, the youngest, now sixteen. “We have been waiting for you.”
“So it would seem,” he said wryly. He loved his family — truly he did — but sometimes he wished they would allow him at least a few minutes to drink his coffee and clear his head in the mornings before they began shouting questions and making demands at him.