“I’ll kill myself, or more likely you, first. Where’s Penny? Why doesn’t she have to endure this?”
“She wanted to spend a bit of time with her brother, understandably,” Simon replied.
Malcolm’s gaze darkened, knowing now what Penny had been through recently. Simon added, “Besides, she said she wasn’t really salon material.”
Malcolm snorted. “And I am?”
“You’re our poetry expert, Malcolm. Plus, you’re tall and handsome and Scottish. Quite the showpiece.” Simon led the way to the door and shoved it open. The warm damp of a crowd and the cloying scent of opium assaulted them. A few flushed faces turned their way, seeking familiarity or recognition, but then returned to their previous activities.
The dour Scotsman gazed over the crowd and leaned toward Simon. “I don’t detect a ripple of awe at your appearance.”
“They’re all quite intoxicated.” Simon helped Kate with her jacket and removed his own, along with his hat and gloves. No butler came forward, so he draped the coats over his arm.
“It’s mainly women,” Simon observed.
“What are they doing?” Malcolm’s brows knit together.
Most of the people, who were gathered in small groups, visible in the flickering candlelight, in the large greeting room or through the wide doorway of a parlor, were young women. However, there was no idle female activity such as needlepoint or tea sipping as in country homes. They were animated in discussion, and many held books, reading from them or referencing passages for their friends. Several of them were smoking pipes, whether tobacco or opium was unclear, but either was unusual in a public place. Men sat with them, almost as afterthoughts, and hardly the centers of attention.
Kate replied dryly, “It looks as if they are thinking and speaking. I can see how that might come as a shock.”
The Scotsman looked at her, surprised by her sarcasm.
She raised an eyebrow. “It is amazing to see how you are both surprised and confounded by the mere sight of women partaking equally in society.” The two men started to object, but she continued, “Please don’t. If these were men talking seriously, reading, smoking, ignoring you, it would have made no impression. But since they are women, you are nonplussed, as if you’ve walked into a room on Mars.”
Simon chuckled. “It appears Kate has shot past Whiggish reform, pushed through July Terror, and is bound for Wollstonecraft utopianism. But,” he admitted thoughtfully, “she is quite right. I think nothing of women laboring equally in our unique community, but I still fall back on old ways elsewhere. I’m ashamed before you, Kate. Again.”
“Well, I’m not ashamed,” Malcolm growled. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
Simon turned to the Scotsman. “You see, Mary Wollstonecraft is—”
“I know that bit, you pompous ass. You think I spent my time at university in the Grassmarket pubs?”
Simon looked contemplative, then saw an unusual sight across the crowded room. There were two people, obviously a couple. A large man and a small woman, at least small compared to him. Simon recognized the man. It was the ambassador from the United States, Mansfield by name. They had met briefly at various parties and balls. Ambassador Mansfield was a large man, not fat, but powerful, with a chest like a draft horse. He was a pleasant enough fellow.
The woman Simon had never met nor seen before. She must have been the fabled Mary Mansfield, the ambassador’s wife. Little was known about her and she had become a bit of a legend in social circles since Mansfield presented his credentials to the Court of St. James last year. The fact that she rarely attended social events, which would seem a requirement for an ambassador’s wife, was a topic of much speculation. And even more notable, when she did make the odd appearance, it was always an odd appearance indeed. And tonight was no exception.