Lucie arched a brow at her but turned her attention to Catriona. “What about the writ campaign?”
“Discouraging,” she replied, thinking of the last letters she had read. “I think it requires personal visits, not writing. I might as well put it aside for now, until a team supports me.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. At this pace, it shall take the usual fifty years before anything changes.”
Lucie’s frown lines ran deep as she looked from Hattie to Catriona. “What’s the matter this morning? Defeatist noises from both of you?”
“I’d call it realistic, to be honest, not defeatist,” Catriona said.
Lucie huffed. “They want us to not even try. Don’t fall for it.”
“They also want us to spend our precious time on nonsense, and this feels like a waste of my time. It’s not an unprecedented pattern: very few replies at all, and all of them negative.”
Lucie made a face that said Oh well, then. “I trust your judgment,” she said. “I just don’t think you have tried long enough to make this judgment.”
“I think the evidence is pretty conclusive.”
“You do put a lot of stock into patterns,” Hattie remarked as she flapped her fan. “There are advantages in being . . . open-minded.”
“Extrapolating is a rational method,” Catriona said with a frown. “It’s neither closed-nor open-minded.”
Hattie dropped back her head and made a guttural sound. “Human beings are not rational,” she said. “They are . . . a mess.”
Catriona’s eyes narrowed. “You’re still put out because I didn’t want to marry Elias Khoury, aren’t you.”
Great. She just couldn’t stop herself from sneaking in his name, could she? His face kept springing up before her mind’s eye, short-circuiting the flow of her thoughts. I won’t kiss you under your father’s roof again. That was what his mouth had said, at least. A stubborn thought returned: that it wasn’t truly over yet . . .
“Not at all,” Hattie said in a docile tone. “I just feel it’s important to think of some patterns as just that, a pattern—I wouldn’t treat them like a crystal ball. And yes, yes, I’m aware I have consulted actual crystal balls before. How is Mr. Khoury, though? Was your dinner with Mr. Leighton successful?”
Catriona simply shook her head because her voice might come out an octave too high.
Hattie stopped fanning and pursed her lips. “Bother. I had hoped for some good news.”
“Pattern of doom or not,” Lucie budged in, “perhaps we find a compromise, Catriona. I could allocate two or three suffragists to the writ campaign to support you, seeing that the Property Act looks promising.”
Catriona sat quietly in her chair, her body tense. I don’t want to, she thought. I want to just not see people for a while; I want to roll up on a bed and read a romantic novel and not think.
“Fine,” she muttered.
On the surface, she was present for the remainder of the conversation and nodded where required. Perhaps noticing the glum quality of her silence, Hattie took her hands in hers when they were saying their goodbyes. Her freckled face looked contrite. “I didn’t mean to call you closed-minded earlier,” she said. “It came out wrong.”
Catriona made to assure her she hadn’t understood it that way. Instead, she stared on while something clicked together in the depths of her mind.
“Of course,” she said.
“What!” Hattie looked startled.
Catriona grabbed her upper arms. “Hattie,” she said. “You are a genius.”
“What?”
“You’re right, a pattern is just that, a pattern. It describes a truth, but it isn’t the truth—not the whole truth, anyway, not necessarily. I was distracted by what is there—when I should have also looked at what isn’t there.”
Hattie exchanged a glance with Lucie. “I understand nothing—that’s a genius for you.”
Catriona flapped her hands. “We are trying to abolish the writ so that wives can’t be ordered back home by force, correct?”
“Correct,” said Lucie.
“But where are the husbands who are forced back home? In theory, the writ works both ways.”
Silence.
Lucie’s mouth curved with mild disdain. “What sane woman would wish to force an unwilling husband back home?”
“I don’t know,” Catriona said. “I haven’t a clue, but just picture it: a husband, languishing in jail, not because he refused to pay alimony, but because he refused to share a home with his wife again?”
“Well, well,” Hattie purred. “How the tables turn. Parliament would shut down in shock.”
Lucie was slowly shaking her head. “It would, but it’s a hypothetical case—I can’t think of ever having heard it applied this way round.”
“Then we have to make a case,” Catriona said, and began to pace. “A real one.”
Hattie looked stunned. “You mean, setting a precedent?”
“Manufacturing one, rather.”
“That would be brilliant,” Lucie said absently; the wheels were clearly spinning behind her eyes. “Blimey, I adore the idea, but I can’t see it happening in practice.”
The urgent beat in Catriona’s chest persisted. “We could try to convince a lady to do it. For a good cause. We’ve done it before; we’ve recruited a dozen lady investors for London Print.”
“Yes, yes,” Lucie said, pacing now, too, a hand on her chin. “But the investment consortium asked the ladies for money. What you suggest is asking a woman to stake her reputation.”
Hattie’s round shoulders sagged. “That’s true. Drat. What notable lady would invite such a scandal into her life?”
“Exactly, and it would have to be a lady, or rather, a husband with a standing,” Lucie said. “Otherwise, neither lawmakers nor the press will care.”
“Let’s try,” Catriona said. “There must be one who is above petty slander.”
“Petty slander?” asked Hattie. “?‘Ma’am, have you considered suing your husband into staying under your roof?’ Imagine the headlines—if he chooses jail over her company, she’ll forever be known as a proper dragon. That’s not petty slander, that’s . . .” She couldn’t even find the word.
“I don’t know any ladies who are unofficially separated,” Lucie said. “However, we don’t win if we don’t risk. Let’s ask in our chapter; someone will know of someone.”
A knot formed in Catriona’s stomach. A name had flashed across her mind, her brain already knowing before her heart was ready to admit to it.
Hattie and Lucie’s chatter bled together into a faint, indecipherable roar.
“I know a lady,” she said at last.
Lucie perked up. “Who?”
Catriona ran a hand over her face. Her palm was damp. “I can’t see her doing anything like it. She might know someone else in her situation, though—birds of a feather flocking together and such . . . It’s Lady Middleton—our neighbor, up in Applecross. She resides in London now.”
“Lovely,” Hattie said with an encouraging smile. “You are already acquainted.”