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“Hold a moment.” Lady Henrietta nearly spilled her wine. “You kissed him?”
“Viola.” Beatrice fixed her friend with a stern look. “You weren’t supposed to mention it.”
“Well?” Isobel prompted. “What was it like?”
Beatrice closed her eyes. “It was like discovering a new word. Rolling the unfamiliar syllables around on your tongue, searching for meaning only to find that it resists all attempts at classification. Instead, this word changes you, makes you redefine yourself. Like a medieval alchemist, its goal is transmutation. Everything he touches turns golden. Dreamlike.”
“Oh dear,” said Viola.
Beatrice opened her eyes to find all three ladies gazing at her with the same worried expression.
“That wasn’t just a kiss.” Isobel pointed her wineglass at Beatrice. “You’re halfway in love with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Beatrice. “Enough talking about men. Let’s find a new name for the league, since we’ll be moving out of Mayfair soon.”
“A very good idea,” said Viola. “What about The Muses Society. It’s innocuous enough that it won’t call too much attention to us, while we would know that it meant we were each other’s muses.”
“I like that.” Isobel placed her chin on her fist. “But it might be too commonly used? I was thinking something a little more daring. What about... The Virago Club.”
“I see where you’re going with that, Isobel,” Beatrice said. “You want to reclaim the word, just as the bluestockings did. But I think the colloquial usage is too negative. Even though the Latin means exemplary and heroic qualities, everyone associates the word with the definition put forth by Mr. Johnson, which ended with the unfortunate summation, ‘an impudent turbulent woman.’”
“I’d like to keep my position as music instructor,” Viola said. “I don’t want to reveal our true purpose to the world just yet.”
“Why should we have to hide under the cover of domestic pursuits?” Isobel asked. “The world is changing and perhaps, if we reveal our ambitions, we may speed it along.”
Beatrice didn’t think the world was ready to allow females to attend schools of law, but if anyone could clear that new pathway for women, it would be Isobel. “Let’s revisit the matter of the name at another meeting. We’ll put it to a vote. There’s a piano for you to play at the clubhouse, Viola. You can go there to compose your works without fear of being overheard.”
“This is splendid news,” said Viola.
“There’s also a courtyard in back that may be used in fair weather by the Duchess of Ravenwood for training ladies in the art of self-defense. My sister-in-law, Mina, will also be helpful in that department. And we will have a lending library replete with books of interest to females, with particular attention paid to female authors.”
“Bravo,” said Lady Henrietta.
“The property comes with a jovial and competent housekeeper who thinks tea cures all ails andis under contract through next year but will most likely wish to continue her employment,” Beatrice continued. “As well as a rather dour octogenarian man of all work who, I may gently suggest, might be past the age for a well-compensated retirement to the countryside. There’s only one obstacle to our plans, ladies, and it’s a large one.”
“There’s always an obstacle to a lady’s goals,” observed Lady Henrietta.
“A London builder and developer named Foxton wants the property. He owns the buildings on either side and plans to join them into a manufactory. He visited the shop while I was there and was most unpleasant. He’s been quiet lately but I don’t trust his silence. He’s plotting something.”
“We won’t let him take it from us,” said Isobel.
“We’ll find a way to keep it,” Viola agreed.
Beatrice rose from her chair. She raised her wineglass in grand elocutionary style. “It’s utterly imperative that we don’t allow Foxton to win. I own the bookshop. He can’t have it. He’s a symbol, that’s what he is. A symbol of every man that’s ever stood in our way, denigrated our goals, told us to stay home, or tried to take away our freedom.”
“Huzzah,” the ladies cried, rising to their feet and raising their glasses.
The meeting concluded shortly thereafter due, in no small part, to the wine running out.
Beatrice offered to give Viola a ride home in her carriage.
“Have you guessed the secret meaning your aunt was hinting at in her letter yet?” Viola asked.
“I still haven’t. Her language was so odd. She wrote, ‘I hope you will divine my meaning and that this Revelation of Love helps you to be brave, and not hide yourself away.’ Revelation and love were capitalized.”
“Like the title of a book.”
Beatrice stared at her friend. “What did you say?”
