Chapter 11
Thomas had alerted Logan to the meeting tonight. His secretary had offered to attend in his stead, but he’d waved Thomas home. Tonight was Thomas’s first year anniversary, and Logan didn’t want to interfere with the occasion. Besides, it would do him good to see the Scottish Ladies National Association in person. He had yet to allow their petition to be voted on in council. Perhaps this meeting would give him a little more insight into the character of the group.
To his surprise—and why should he be surprised, when she was at the center of his thoughts lately?—Mairi Sinclair was the featured speaker.
Nearly a quarter of the large audience was men. Evidently, they found something of value in the SLNA. His curiosity grew along with his discomfort about being recognized.
Since he didn’t want to give the audience members the idea that he approved of the organization’s purpose or even this meeting, he pulled Mrs. MacPherson aside and explained that he was here personally and not in his position as Lord Provost.
Mrs. MacPherson smiled at him, revealing a charm that some much younger women would do well to emulate.
“I have just the spot for you, Provost Harrison,” she said.
She led him to an alcove not far from the entrance to the ballroom. From here he could easily see the stage as well as the audience, yet be hidden from their view.
“We call it the nest,” she said, “for girls who are not old enough to attend a ball. Here they can sit and watch the proceedings without being seen.”
He thanked her, and once again she smiled, her beauty evident despite her age.
Mairi was already seated, along with two women he didn’t know. She stared out at the audience dispassionately, as if she were bored with the proceedings. He wondered if that was the case or whether she was just better, in a public forum, at hiding her feelings.
She didn’t try to mask what she felt around him.
Mairi sat on the straight-back wooden chair on the back of the stage hoping her panic did not show to the audience. Her face was arranged in a rictus of composure; she could feel the strain in the muscles of her jaw. Beside her were two women to whom she’d been introduced but whose names she couldn’t remember now.
She was lucky to be able to recall her own at the moment.
Tonight she had dressed in dark brown, not because it was a color that favored her, although it did. The shade was also sober, making her appear more like a matron than a single woman.
Sound carried very well in the ballroom where she sat, a necessity for the small orchestra normally arranged on this stage. She could hear bits of conversation, scraps of talk between the audience members, none of which referred to her or even the topic for tonight’s speech.
No one had told her that the gathering would be quite so large.
There were at least two hundred people here. She had thought a few dozen would attend. At the most, perhaps fifty. Instead, Josephine MacPherson’s ballroom was filled with a sea of chairs, now occupied by people slowly turning to stare at the stage where she sat.
If they were expecting her to faint, they were going to be sorely disappointed. She’d never fainted in her life. Now might be the ideal time, however. Her hands were cold, her breath shallow, and her pulse was racing so quickly she wondered if she would even be able to speak.
Mrs. MacPherson, the woman hosting this meeting of the Scottish Ladies National Association, was moving to stand at the front of the stage. The woman was well known in Edinburgh, being a philanthropist of sorts. The widow of a wealthy cotton mill owner in Glasgow, she’d moved to Edinburgh to be closer to family. In the last year, she’d embraced the cause of women’s equality with open arms and reticule.
A fine web of wrinkles covered her face, but you didn’t think of age when talking to Mrs. MacPherson as much as humor. Her mouth was always curved in a smile, and the expression in her soft blue eyes was filled with wisdom and understanding. Her crown of brilliant white hair made her appear taller and younger than her seventy odd years.
Her voice, soft yet resonant, calmed the audience immediately. People leaned forward to hear her better.
The SLNA had been turned down for every hall they wanted to rent for the occasion, which was why they were meeting in Mrs. MacPherson’s ballroom. Still, it felt a little odd to be delivering an address on such a serious topic when above her was a mural featuring scantily clad gods and goddesses cavorting among the clouds.
She was abruptly reminded of Logan Harrison.
The very last person she needed to be thinking about was the Lord Provost, especially since she was trying to compose herself.
Someone had a liking for fresh air and opened the windows along one wall despite the fact that it had only just stopped sleeting. The cold dampness seeped into her skin and made a disaster of her hair. Why was she concerned about whether her hair frizzed? People had not come here to see her. Instead, they wanted to know what she thought. At least, she hoped they did.
She looked down at her notes, realizing she couldn’t focus on what she’d written. She’d spent hours rehearsing her speech and couldn’t remember one single point.
A smattering of polite applause sent Mairi’s stomach to her toes. It was time. She would have to stand, walk the few feet to the front of the stage without tripping and falling.
Moving to Mrs. MacPherson’s side, she thanked the woman for her kindness and the fulsome introduction. She hadn’t heard a word of it, and hopefully Mrs. MacPherson hadn’t expanded on her qualifications too much.
She cleared her throat, looked out at all the faces staring back at her, and realized she couldn’t address this many people. She could, however, talk to one person, so she selected one in the third row, a young woman who’d untied the ribbon of her bonnet as if it chafed her under the chin.
Mairi had done that so many times she felt an instant kinship.
“I was born Mairi Anne Sinclair, in Edinburgh. I have always been proud to call myself a Scot. My family has lived in Edinburgh for as long as there was a city.”
She straightened her shoulders.
“When I was a little girl, I was conscious of the fact that my brother and I were different. Not only in the way we looked and how we wished to play, but in our futures.
“My father assumed my brother was going to run the paper when he got older. I was going to marry and have children. I didn’t see anything wrong with that future, but it hasn’t come to pass. There was no other option for me. That’s what I was told. That’s what I was shown.”
She cleared her throat again.
“When my father died, and my brother no longer expressed an interest in the paper, I took it over. I became the editor of the Edinburgh Gazette and worked very hard to ensure the paper survived. I worked in a job that was considered a man’s position. I did the job well even though there were many times when I had to pretend to be a man.”
She saw many women nod their heads.
“I’m here tonight to tell you my story. To explain that I am like a great many women who have taken on jobs that are not considered proper for our sex. None of us, I believe, want approbation for our actions. We do not wish to be lauded for what we are doing, only to be allowed to continue to do it.”
The room seemed to grow quieter, as if she’d caught their attention.
“But we are not martyrs to our cause. We do not wish to toil in anonymity and merely be grateful to be given a chance to earn a living. What we wish is to be treated like any other citizen of Edinburgh, of Scotland. We want to matter. We want to be able to choose, to take our place with other citizens.
“Right now, if I disagree with a politician, I have no recourse. If I am married, I might try to convince my husband of my thoughts. If I am not married, I am disenfranchised. I am invisible. I am one of the anonymous people who labor in the shadows.
“It is time for women to stand in the sunlight, to say to every single man, ‘Look at me. I count. I matter. I think, therefore my thoughts should be heard.’ ”
She hadn’t much practice in public speaking. Logan could tell that from the moment she opened her mouth. Instead of the husky voice he remembered so well, her tone was high-pitched and almost shrill.
If she would accept his help, he could give her some advice. He’d given a thousand speeches in his life.
He found himself listening to her words, not the way they were delivered. She spoke simply, telling the audience who she was, neither elevating herself nor claiming false modesty. Her reasons for wanting the vote were sympathetic, her arguments well thought out.
He wasn’t against the vote for women. What rankled him was when a group demanded that the status quo be overturned without due deliberation. Or claimed that he had deliberately deprived them of their rights. He’d done nothing of the sort. Nor had any other man of his acquaintance. If they were guilty of anything, it was of following the law.
If the women of Scotland believed they deserved the vote, there was a way to change the law. Petition the government, convince representatives, sway Parliament, anything constructive.
It occurred to him that perhaps he’d misjudged the SLNA, because it looked as if they were attempting to do just that. Mairi’s speech was impressive. Her words were capable of winning over the men and women in the audience.
Four men suddenly appeared in the doorway behind him. Dressed as workmen with short coats, scarves knotted at their necks, and hats pulled low over their foreheads, they began speaking loudly. Their language was so foul that several of the women turned and glared, outraged, at the intruders.
He didn’t have a good feeling about this.
One man would have been bad enough, but four men hinted at the beginnings of a mob.
In the last several weeks, the SLNA gatherings had served as galvanizing points. Several people, both men and women, had been injured.
If he wasn’t mistaken, a brawl was about to begin.
He slipped out of the alcove and headed toward the back, intent on assisting the two burly men wearing the MacPherson livery.
Mairi was conscious of noises in the back of the room, a commotion she deliberately tried to block out as she finished her speech. But a man’s voice rose louder than the others, causing her to break off in mid-sentence.
She’d first heard those words from a hawker her father employed. The poor lad couldn’t speak for swearing, and her father finally had to let him go. Only after much coaxing would Macrath tell her what the words meant, and even then she stared at him, disbelieving.
“Why would they make swear words from a lady’s parts?” she asked.
Her brother had shrugged, red-faced. “Some men do, that’s all.”
The idea that a man might only think of her as different sections confused, then angered her.
A man shouted something she couldn’t understand. He was challenged by another male, and in seconds they were pummeling each other. Two other men joined in as people in the back of the room began to stand, moving away from the scuffle.
It looked as if she wasn’t going to get the chance to finish her speech. Nor did she have to worry about questions from the audience, even though she’d been told to expect them. No one was remaining around to ask her anything. The ballroom was emptying fast.
Somewhere in the back of the room a woman screamed, and both of her companions on the stage stood, following the rest of the crowd.
At least a dozen men were fighting now, and as she watched, a half dozen more joined in.
Her breath was tight, her thoughts disjointed. Should she escape as her companions had? The answer was taken from her when a man raced down the center aisle, heading directly for the stage. She took a few cautionary steps back just as he was caught by the collar by one of the men she’d met this evening. The two of them went at each other, the heavy thump of fists hitting flesh making her step back even farther. The grunting, swearing, wet slap of blows and the ugliness of it all made her sick.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stay composed.
She was instantly back in her childhood when they’d been one step up from the poorest inhabitants of Old Town. Their father had worked hard for his meager living. Being the proprietor of a struggling newspaper had meant they sometimes did without. They’d never known how poor they were until later, after their father died and Macrath was the head of the family while still little more than a child. Then, they’d worried about their next meal, shoes with holes, and threadbare clothing.
She knew what it was like to be pointed out and laughed at, to feel her stomach sour with anxiety at the thought of having to go to the shops or anywhere where someone might see her.
Once Macrath had become wealthy, no one mocked her. Not until today.
What had she done to deserve such treatment?
She’d dared to tell the truth.