Page 48 of A Treacherous Trade
I’d bet my Mahoney name that somewhere in her veins ran the blood of an Irishwoman.
Before I had a chance to recover, an older man in an expensive grey suit and wearing a signet ring the size of a royal diamond set his whisky on the table with audible contempt. He stood, watching as the snarling vicar was “escorted” from the premises. “I say, Mrs. Chamberlain, certainly there was no cause for such flagrantly violent behavior. ’Tis unseemly for a lady to show such unbridled anger.”
“I’m no lady, Lord Litchfield.” Beatrice whirled on him, shaking her gloved hand as if it still stung. “I am a woman, and my anger is righteous. Besides, it is my duty to protect my employees and my patrons. It would be a shame if the reverend would take it upon himself to spread slanderous gossip to your constituents, would it not?”
He blanched, but rheumy eyes slid to the Bible smoldering in the flames.
What was worse to Lord Litchfield, I wondered? Blasphemy or scandal?
“It occurs to me, Mrs. Chamberlain, what with the lack of leadership of a man here… that duty does, indeed, fall to you… regrettably.” Litchfield smoothed his hand down his vest and checked his watch nervously. “In that case, I have decided you’re correct.”
“I don’t need you to tell me I’m right for it to be so,” Beatrice replied.
His shoulders tensed as an outraged sputter filtered through his silver beard. “You are intolerably forward, madam.”
“Or perhaps everyone else is insufferablybackward,” she said with a saucy toss of her head. “Now, I do believe you were here to take Belle upstairs and be about the business before you really aggravate me and I decide to reconsider your membership here.”
Without waiting for his reply, she stabbed a finger in my direction, pulling my spine ramrod straight. “I’ll have a word with you.”
The hem of her dress swished behind her, making incensed, circuitous noises in the astounded stillness of the room.
With an encouraging little squeeze, Izzy dropped my hand so I could follow.
Even though Beatrice Chamberlain was neither my bawd nor my keeper, I still couldn’t fight an absurd spurt of nerves as I approached her parlor. However, once I peeked around the doorway, I noted that her good spirits seemed to have miraculously returned as she rifled through her secretary drawers in search of something.
“Beware false prophets who come to you in sheep’s clothing but in their hearts, they are ravening wolves.” She chuckled a little as she extracted a long cigarette holder and a match. “His curate gets his cock sucked here at least twice a week,” she quipped out of the corner of her mouth that held the cigarette stable.
I might have laughed if the trauma of my own brush with zealotry hadn’t been so fresh. “I—I don’t mean to overstep my bounds here, Mrs. Chamberlain—"
“Won’t you call me Bea?” she asked, touching the lit match to the end of her cigarette until glowing embers crawled up the paper. “All my girls do.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Yes, but… our employment relationship is a little different than theirs, and I was raised to be respectful of my—”
“If you say elders, I’m going to be cross,” she teased. “And surely we are accomplices, you and I. Two businesswomen after the same thing. Revenge against those who wronged our loved ones. Justice for those girls out there who would find none without us. The wolvesareat our door, Fiona, and I was not speaking out of turn when I said I consider it my duty to keep them at bay.”
Strange, that the idiom regarding wolves had been used in my presence twice within the half-hour. And stranger still that those whom Beatrice considered wolves and whom the working women considered wolves seemed to be two separate species of male.
“I feel… prompted to warn you of those particular wolves,” I said. “History has taught us the dangers of Christian fanatics, and I’ve my own—Well, in my experience, they are the most likely to use the word of God as an excuse to do harm. To destroy without remorse. There is nothing so dangerous as a zealot who thinks he knows the will of a violent, vengeful God. I’d hate for you or your girls to be the one unlucky enough to garner their holy wrath.”
She watched me for the space of a breath before silently offering me one of her cigarettes. I declined with a wave of my hand.
“Your concern does you credit, my dear,” she finally replied. “But it ismyexperience that wolves don't kill unlucky deer. They kill the weak ones, and I’m anything but that. If a zealot wants to take me on, I’m happy to make him a martyr for his God.”
Admiration at her ruthlessness welled within me. “Do you truly fear nothing?”
She threw her head back and laughed, making the violet feather in her coiffure tremble with her merriment. “Don’t be silly. Only an idiot is fearless. But I’ve learned that if a leader shows fear, everyone beneath them—the ground beneath their very feet—will fall away.”
I nodded, understanding her position. The same could be said for men in situations of power. I could only imagine how much more a woman must bear to keep her seat at the head of the table. How much more strength was expected of her.
Because no one respected softness.
“Is there a Mr. Chamberlain?” I asked, suddenly finding myself very curious about this woman.
“There was.”
“You are… widowed, then?”
“Separated, actually,” she said, without remorse or regret. “I realized early on in my marriage that I should not endure a man who would be ruled by me. Nor could I endure the rule of a man. And so, marriage to one is not for me.” She shrugged, moving to a sideboard to tap her cigarette into a crystal dish. “My husband is a good man, or at least he tried to be. But good people can still bring out the worst in each other…” Her eyes became distant for a moment, and she crossed an arm over her middle, a gesture I’d come to recognize as protective. “He resides somewhere in the South of France. Or Monaco, perhaps. I’ve no care to keep in touch.”
