“That I was a marchioness?” Amelia interrupted. “Or that women might possess intellectual interests beyond sewing tables?”
Waverley reddened. “I only meant—”
“I’m quite aware of what you meant, Lord Waverley.” She slipped her notebook into her reticule. “Good day.”
She moved toward the exit, unwilling to wait for Charles. His tepid answers still rankled, despite the logic she reluctantly acknowledged might underpin them. Outside, a light rain had begun to fall, forcing her to seek shelter beneath Westminster’s arched entrance while awaiting a hackney.
“You’re angry with me,” Charles’ voice came from behind her, not a question but an observation.
She didn’t turn. “I’m disappointed. You know better than most thehuman cost of unsafe conditions, yet you continue to advocate for ‘gradual change’ that maintains your investors’ profits.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” he said, moving to stand beside her, close enough that she could detect the faint scent of sandalwood from his shaving soap. “Rigid things break, Amelia. I’m trying to mold, not shatter.”
“While people die waiting for your molding to take effect,” she countered, the bitter words escaping before she could temper them.
“And how many more would die if these factories closed because they couldn’t afford immediate implementation?” His voice held no defensiveness, only a quiet intensity that made her finally look at him. “Change requires strategy, not just righteous indignation.”
“You’re giving those greedy men an excuse to evade investing in safety.” Before she could elaborate on this accusation, a messenger boy approached, his cap pulled low against the rain.
“Lady Hereford? Message from Miss Bennett.”
Amelia accepted the folded note, reading it quickly. “Miss Bennett is ill and cannot teach tonight,” she said, more to herself than Charles. “Elisha is visiting Lancaster’s family in Hampshire…”
She bit her lip, calculating her limited options. Thursday evenings meant the literacy program for factory children, but she was already behind on tomorrow’s edition after spending the afternoon at Westminster.
“A difficulty with your charitable work?” Charles asked with sympathy in his voice.
“The children’s literacy program,” she explained reluctantly. “I must set the type for tomorrow’s issue. We’ll have to cancel the lesson portion, though the children can still receive their meal.” She sighed. “Most come as much for the reading as for the food.”
Charles studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I will pay if you wish to hire extra hands to help you. I do not condone my wife returning home so late at night.”
Amelia stared at him, caught off guard by this offer. “Truly? You will?”
“Of course.”
A thought struck her then. “With the income from your salacious literature business?”
Charles’ eyes widened, and for once, he appeared genuinely surprised. “I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked. You likely heard from Elisha Lancaster.”
“Yes. The duke passed it onto you when he tied the knot, didn’t he? And yet, here you are, still operating the disreputable business as if you had no wife to consider.”
Hereford’s lips curved into that familiar smirk that both irritated and intrigued her. “Should you consider yourself my wife, I shall take due consideration about the literature business. You may wish to learn more about it before you hurt your neck looking down your nose at it.”
“Next you’ll tell me it’s a secret charity,” she retorted, though something in his expression gave her pause.
“It is,” he replied simply. “I don’t take a penny from it. The income earned is distributed to the writers, who are all women who have fallen on hard times or women who pleasure men but want to leave the profession.” He crossed his arms and regarded her with unexpected seriousness. “Sometimes, Lady Hereford, you’re as rigid as that leg of yours and just as pretentious.”
Amelia felt heat rise to her cheeks, not from anger but from the shame of misjudging him yet again. She had rationalized her contribution to the salacious business by using the funds to invest in her literature program. It hadn’t occurred to her that her husband might have a selfless motive.
“Since you have decided long ago I was useless except for entertaining the ladies, I hate to disappoint,” he continued. “However, for those students who are determined to learn, I could teach the lesson.”
Amelia’s head snapped up to meet his eyes, her embarrassment forgotten. “You?”
“You needn’t sound quite so incredulous,” he said, a hint of amusement warming his eyes. “I read fluently on good days. I believe I can manage one class.”
“It’s not a question of capability,” she said, a surprised laugh escaping her. “These are factory children, Charles. They come straight from work, unwashed, exhausted—”
“Children nonetheless,” he interrupted gently. “Children who deserve the opportunity to lose themselves in adventure for an hour before returning to their labors.”
