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“What. On. Earth. Is. This?”
Artemis inwardly cursed. Phoebe was holding Mary Wollstonecraft’sA Vindication of the Rights of Womanaloft as though itwereactually something a cat had dragged in. “It’s a book,” Artemis replied matter-of-factly.
“Don’t tell me you are a champion of this woman’s outlandish beliefs.” Phoebe shuddered. “I should cast her so-called book into the fire.”
Good Lord. Was everyone in London set against Mary Wollstonecraft? The poor woman had been dead nigh on sixty years.
“There’s nothing wrong with advocating for a woman’s right to receive a decent education,” returned Artemis with studied calmness. “I was a teacher after all. And please don’t burn my book.”
Phoebe huffed indignantly and tossed the tome onto the bed. “According to Aunt Roberta, Mary Wollstonecraft was godless and clearly not of sound mind. She had affairs with numerous men, bore children out of wedlock, and even attempted suicide several times according to her very own husband. She has no moral let alone intellectual standing whatsoever.”
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion,” muttered Artemis, squeezing the water out of her hair with considerable vigor. “And while I appreciate your help, I’ll unpack the rest of my carpetbag.”
Rising from the bathwater, she reached for a towel from the washstand and wrapped it around herself. She didn’t want Phoebe to dig deeper and discover her half-drunk bottle of sherry and Richard Carlile’sEvery Woman’s Book, which was a manual detailing the ins and outs of sexual congress and methods to prevent conception. Or any of Lydia Lovelace’s books, including her latest wicked manuscript. Lady Mirabella’s amorous exploits with the midnight monk would surely give Phoebe a fit of the vapors. No one in her family knew of her second, scandalous occupation. And it must remain that way.
“As you wish. However…” Phoebe turned to face her, hands on hips, her expression uncharacteristically stern. “You must promise me that you won’t espouse your controversial views on womanhood this Season. I won’t have you bringing shame upon us and spoiling our chances at finding husbands, not when I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for so long. Besides, what would Aunt Roberta say if she knew you were a devotee of Mary Wollstonecraft?”
“What, you’d think she’d be surprised that her oldest niece is a rebellious bluestocking? A godless, amoral hussy?” Artemis stepped out of the bath and grabbed another towel to wrap about her wet hair. She understood Phoebe’s concerns, but the idea that she was somehow “not quite right”—someone to be ashamed of—irritated her no end. “I can’t change who I fundamentally am or what I believe in. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to remain a spinster.”
“Oh, Artemis, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. But you’ve just left the Avon Academy, so I’d assumed your views on getting married had changed too.” Phoebe sighed, then waved a hand around the luxurious room. “You probably think I have everything, but I don’t. And despite the fact our parents were miserable, I know marriage doesn’thaveto be like that. Idowant a loving husband. I want children. I want a full and happy life. I’m tired of feeling like a bird trapped inside a beautiful cage. It’s as though I’m waiting for something to happen. And I thought it was about to because you’ve come back to London.” Phoebe’s eyes suddenly glimmered with tears. “Please don’t ruin this chance for me.”
Artemis donned one of her sister’s satin robes, cinching the tie with jerky movements. She hated seeing Phoebe so upset. “Aunt Roberta is the one who’s always set on ruining everything. For both of us,” she said as gently as she could, given the remorse and anger and resentment bubbling around inside her. “But I won’t be controlled by her and neither will you. Not anymore. Her tyranny must end. While I still don’t want to marry, I’ll do everything in my power to help you. We can outwit her. I promise.”
Phoebe nodded, her expression pensive. “I have to ask… What precipitated your sudden change of heart? You’ve avoided having another Season for years, so I’m a bit perplexed.” Her eyes widened and panic flared across her countenance. “Were you dismissed?”
“No. I wasn’t. The truth is…” Artemis paused. Now was the time to tell her sister everything. Hetty had quit the bedroom, so Artemis inhaled a fortifying breath and continued. “I resigned because Lucy Bertram wrote to me. She urgently needs my help.” Ignoring the uncomfortable knots in her belly, Artemis explained the substance of her friend’s letter. “But upon reflection, I think I can make this situation work so that everyone will benefit. I’m sure we’ll all be invited to the same society events. While I’m shooing suitors away from Lucy, I can send them in your direction. Actually, the more I think about it, the more feasible it sounds. As long as Aunt Roberta doesn’t find out what I’m up to—that I’m not really looking for a husband—all will be well. Everyone will get what they want.”
Phoebe gnawed at her lower lip. “And what about you, Artemis? If you really are set on remaining a spinster, what doyouwant? What will you do when the Season ends? Are you going to return to the Avon Academy?”
“No…” Artemis lowered herself onto the stool before the rosewood dressing table and reached for a comb. But instead of teasing the snarls from her wet hair, she fiddled with the ivory teeth. “Mrs. Parsons was not altogether happy with me, so I doubt she’d have me back.” Considering she’d told the headmistress exactly what she thought of the academy’s curriculum during their last encounter—that it belonged at the bottom of a dustheap—she was absolutely certain she wouldn’t even get a reference.
“Not that I want to return anyway. I…” She met her sister’s gaze directly in the mirror. “I want to start my own school. Not a finishing school but an academic ladies’ college along the lines of the esteemed Queen’s College or the Ladies’ College in Bedford Square. And while you’re hunting for a husband, I hope to discreetly find a sponsor. A benefactress.”
Phoebe blinked. “Your own academic college? For women? You’ll think me awful for saying this, but you sound a little mad. I really don’t understand why anyone would want to attend. It’s not as though women could then study at Oxford or Cambridge. Or become a doctor or solicitor. It’s just not done.”
“But what if wecould, Phoebe? If women can meet the entry requirements of any university, why shouldn’t we be able to study for a scientific or medical or law degree or whatever we want to? We are not intellectually inferior to men, and I’m determined to prove it. And instead of carefully scrimping and saving for years, I hope to attract the interest of a wealthy patroness.”
“Artemis, I can see by the determined look in your eyes that you’re quite set on this course,” said Phoebe. “And while I don’t understand your passion, I promise I won’t say anything to Aunt Roberta. But please be careful. If she finds out what you’re up to…” She shuddered.
“I know.” Artemis grimaced. “There’ll be hell to pay.”
Phoebe quit the room to get ready for dinner, and Artemis turned back to the mirror. As she loosened the tangles from her unruly hair, she eyed her reflection and sighed. Perhaps she was a little mad but not in the way Phoebe meant it.
Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to get Mr. Disapproving Byronic Hero out of her head. As soon as she found a spare moment, she’d return to Lady Mirabella’s bath scene and use her handsome stranger as a muse. If she was going to be afflicted with a strange obsession, she may as well make use of it. She’d also compose messages for both Lucy and Jane to let them know they could reconvene their Byronic Book Club meetings.
Now that was something she could definitely look forward to.
