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Being able to get a word in during meetings had always been a trial, as most of the men barely seemed to notice whenever any of the female members tried to speak, but Sylvia had been so angry that she’d stood up and interrupted. At that moment she hadn’t cared about being liked or perceived as polite, tactics the other women members maintained were important so that they were taken seriously. Sylvia only wanted to be heard. And on that point she had succeeded. Her statement had caused such an uproar that the meeting was dismissed early. Sylvia could still feel the thrill that had run through her, born of both rage and righteousness. While she had always found it difficult to speak up for herself, advocating for others had given her a purpose. But then she had looked to Bernard sitting next to her and saw the embarrassment in his eyes. It was then she truly understood that it didn’t matter how sound her argument was. These men, for all their posturing as thinkers driven by logic, still refused to see the humanity in every person who didn’t look exactly like they did. For then they would be forced to truly accept them as equals, and that would be a direct threat to their own superiority.
But Sylvia too had been driven by emotion over logic, for she still rendezvoused with Bernard later that night, had still believed they had a future together, and had still expected his arrival a week later when she sat in that stinking jail cell.
“Careful, miss!”
The sudden shout pulled Sylvia from her memories, and she turned abruptly to the speaker. A man was pointing toward a gnarled patch of brambles not a foot in front of her. Sylvia hadn’t realized she had diverged off the path. She let out a short laugh at the absurd scene she must have created and shook her head.
“I’m so sorry. I—I don’t know what came over me.”
The man removed his cap, revealing a head full of chestnut hair, and approached her. Based on the dirt spots on his knees and the shovel he gripped in one hand, Sylvia guessed he was some kind of gardener. And a handsome one at that.
“Ah, it looked like you were deep in thought,” he offered in a rich brogue that washed over her.
“Yes, I was. Still no excuse for nearly walking into a bush.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he seemed like the kind of man who did so often. There was an easiness about him that reminded her of Rafe. As someone who had never felt entirely comfortable in her own skin, it was always fascinating to encounter others who were. She wondered if she would ever learn the secret.
“Perhaps you could help me,” she began, managing what she hoped was a coquettish smile. “I was told there was a path near here that ran through the woods.”
“Aye. It begins a little ways back there,” he said, pointing toward the tree line. Then he raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t planning to walk it alone, are ye?”
“Well, yes. Is it not safe?”
Sylvia couldn’t explain that she had walked all over London, often by herself. Mostly without incident. She was perfectly capable of an afternoon jaunt through the woods.
He shrugged and leaned against the shovel’s handle. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing his exceptionally well-muscled forearms. “If you were my lass I wouldn’t say so. All kinds of creatures could be roaming these woods, man and beast alike.”
Despite herself, Sylvia’s cheeks heated. “I’ll be careful,” she insisted.
He stuck the shovel into the ground and came closer, until she could smell the fresh earth upon him mixed with sweat. “Here.” He withdrew something from his pocket. “For my own peace of mind.” In his open palm was a small pocketknife.
Sylvia shook her head. “I can’t take that from you.”
“Return it before you leave, then. I can miss it for a few days.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to use it.”
“Just jab at the soft parts,” he said with a wink. “That should be enough.”
Sylvia let out a startled laugh. “Yes, I’d imagine so.”
He held out the knife. “Please.”
Sylvia’s resolve weakened at his soft tone and the plaintive look in his green eyes. It had been ages since anyone aside from Georgiana had exhibited such concern for her well-being.
“If you insist,” she said as she took the knife. In London she had carried a hatpin to ward off any unwanted advances, but this was much bulkier. And could do far more damage. He then showed her how to release the blade, his thick, rough fingers brushing against hers more than once. Afterward, he stepped back and donned his cap.
“You must tell me your name,” Sylvia said, breaking the tension that had suddenly thickened between them.
“I go by Brodie.”
“Brodie,” Sylvia repeated.
“And you’re Miss Sparrow, the lady secretary.”
The blunt description made her laugh. “I suppose it is a rather odd position for a woman.”
“No, I think it’s admirable. You’re making your own way in the world.”
