Page 8 of A Lady of Conscience

“Miss Winthrop?” Hannah queried with a tentative smile. “How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you.” Miss Winthrop curtsied. “I’m pleased to meet you at last.”

Hannah curtsied in return. “And I you. I so rarely have the opportunity to meet my correspondents face to face.”

“Nor do I. Most of mine live in London or Paris or even America. I’ve long resigned myself that we shall never cross paths in person.” Miss Winthrop gestured to the table by the window. “Shall we sit down? We’ve much to discuss.”

Hannah took a seat. Outside the window, Milsom Street was still damp from this morning’s rain. Ladies and gentlemen in heavy cloaks and overcoats stepped over the puddles, undeterred, to visit the fashionable shops that lined the street.

It was doubtless the reason why Molland’s was so busy; everyone having dropped in to take the chill off. Hannah’s own pink cashmere pelisse remained buttoned to her chin as she drew her chair up to the table. She had brought a shawl as well, along with an umbrella, not willing to risk catching cold so close to her debut. She placed them on the seat beside her.

Ernsby settled herself nearby, availing herself of a cup of tea while Hannah and Miss Winthrop ordered for themselves.

“It’s a laudable undertaking,” Hannah said sometime later, after they’d been warmed by their tea and had dispensed with the necessary pleasantries. “I’ve thought so from the first, but…” She flipped through the pages of the slim journal that Miss Winthrop had paid a local printer to produce, examining the essays and illustrations with building admiration. “I hadn’t any idea it would look so impressive.”

Miss Winthrop beamed. “I aim for the Animal Advocate to be as well regarded as any journal produced by a traditional publisher.”

“It seems to me you’ve succeeded.” Turning another page, Hannah found her article on the benefit of horses to a person’s health and happiness. It was a short piece, not more than five hundred words, included among dozens of other essays, poems, and short stories written by animal welfare advocates. Among them, none of the authors were identified by gender. Only their first initial and surname were used. Hannah’s piece was attributed to H. Heywood.

Looking at it, she felt a swell of pride. “I’ve never seen my words in print before. Not with my real name attached to them.”

Miss Winthrop leaned across the table to examine the essay along with Hannah. “I hope I’ve done them justice.”

“Indeed, you have. They appear ever so much more commanding here than they did when I set them down with my quill.”

“Print has that effect. The only difficulty lies in establishing our authority for making such claims. A gentleman’s journal would cite the author’s full name and credentials. Whereas we ladies must strive to maintain our anonymity. Absent that, many of us dare not speak freely without risk of being labeled dangerous eccentrics.”

Hannah’s mouth compressed in a disapproving frown. “I refuse to believe that compassion can ever be equated to eccentricity.”

“But you must believe it, Miss Heywood. You of all people. A young lady making her debut can’t be too careful. I know. My own come out was tainted by gossip about my peculiarity.”

Hannah didn’t know anything about Miss Winthrop’s personal history, other than that she was the daughter of a clergyman in the nearby village of Locksmore. Their letters had largely been limited to the subject of animal welfare. “Did you make your debut in Bath?” she asked.

“Two years ago,” Miss Winthrop admitted grimly. “Had I the ability to go backward in time, I’d never have done it. It was a dreadful experience, and—as my father says—far too costly for so little return.” She paused for a moment before explaining, “I’m told that I talked too much on serious subjects, and was altogether too opinionated for people’s comfort. I’m also an abysmal dancer, which meant I served no purpose at parties, not even to make up numbers. By the close of my season, all the invitations had completely dried up.”

“I’m sincerely sorry to hear it,” Hannah said. “Social events are trying at the best of times. I know too well how easily things can all go wrong.”

Miss Winthrop pushed her spectacles further up on her nose. “Some of us are ill-suited for fashionable society. Both by aspect and by nature. I don’t refine on it too much. My attentions are better served elsewhere.”

“The journal does you credit.” Hannah resumed turning the pages. At the end of the thin publication, there were several small sketches of animals—two dogs, a cat, and even a donkey. The latter was distinguished by one white ear and one white fetlock. The words Lost or Stolen were emblazoned above. “Are these⁠—?”

“Reports of animals who have gone missing in the West Country. That one is Sweet William, a girl’s pet donkey taken from Fallkirk’s Farm six months ago in Bidbury, a village outside of Saltford. The Animal Advocate hasn’t a large list of subscribers at present, but it will help to get the word out. Perhaps he and the other missing pets can be found.”

“Poor little dears,” Hannah murmured. She couldn’t imagine the pain of losing one of her own pets. “When will you send out the first issue?”

“It went out in the post this morning. I’ll send the rest as orders come in.”

“I look forward to receiving my copy.”

“Take that one,” Miss Winthrop said. “I have others at home.”

Hannah accepted it gratefully. “Have you given any thought to your next issue?”

“Oh yes. If all goes to plan, the journal will go out monthly. I’ve already begun accepting contributions for the May issue.”

“You are ambitious,” Hannah said. “I admire you for it.”

“It is in a worthy cause.” Drawing on her gloves, Miss Winthrop moved to stand. “Perhaps we might meet again?”