Page 2 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“Me?” she said, blinking in surprise.
“We need your calming voice, dear,” the dowager countess added with an approving nod.
“You really think I could help, Lady Rosalynd?”
“I do.”
Lady Bellamy squared her shoulders as a quiet smile bloomed across her face. “Then yes, I would be happy to.”
“Thank you, Ladies,” I said. “I will arrange for a time for us to gather, sometime before our next full meeting.” A round of quiet consents circled the room.
Satisfied the subject of the rejected petition had been dealt with, I allowed the moment to settle before lifting the next page of my notes. “Let us turn, then, to the second item on today’s agenda. St. Agnes, the Home for Unwed Mothers, has sent word. They humbly beg for an increase in Society support.”
Immediately, the mood in the room sharpened. Lady Broadbottom’s spine stiffened before she even spoke.
“I must object,” she said crisply. “We already contribute to that place. Why should we give them more?”
“Because their expenses have gone up, Lady Broadbottom,” I answered calmly. “They are taking in more expectant mothers than before, and their needs are greater.”
“What exactly do they do?” asked a soft voice from near the window—Miss Lavinia Woodworth, a new member with a neatly composed bonnet and a look of keen interest.
“St. Agnes offers shelter, food, and medical care to expectant mothers—most abandoned by their families or the fathers of their children—throughout their pregnancies,” I explained. “They ensure safe deliveries and place the children with vetted foster families or arrange adoptions to good homes. The mothers are helped into employment, often in service or shop work.”
Miss Woodworth’s brow creased. “So no child is abandoned?”
“None,” I said firmly.
Lady Broadbottom’s mouth pursed. “I wonder if we are not approving the consequences of indiscretion. What’s to stop others from following their example?”
Lady Constance, an octogenarian in high standing, stirred at once, her voice cool but unyielding. “Perhaps, Lady Broadbottom, we might remember that many of these women were preyed upon, not willfully sinful. And even if they were, would you have us punish their children for their mistakes?”
The debate flared—compassion against propriety—until I raised my hand. “We are not here to judge. We are here to help. If we claim to advance women, that must meanallwomen, not only those of fortune and rank.”
For a moment, silence. Then Lady Constance began to clap. “Hear, hear.” Soon, others joined her.
The motion passed, with only a few holdouts.
Before I could call the meeting to a close, Mrs. Fletcher—round, pleasant, and always practical—said, “Might it be wise for one of us to visit St. Agnes? Just to ensure the home is managing the increased demand?” She flicked a glance at Lady Broadbottom.
“An excellent idea,” Lady Broadbottom said, her smile sharpening. “As president, you would be the most suitable person to go, Lady Rosalynd.”
I inclined my head smoothly. “I’ll arrange a visit in the coming days and report at our next meeting.”
Miss Woodworth beamed. Lady Constance’s smile was approving. Lady Broadbottom’s satisfaction was unmistakable.
By late afternoon, the carriages had rolled away, leaving Rosehaven House in its familiar quiet. I stood by the little round table, my notes stacked, gazing out at the pale spring light.
Today was a win: more funds for St. Agnes, a plan to regroup on suffrage, and fifteen members for the new strategy committee—including the Duchess of Comingford, whose influence in the Lords was worth her weight in gold.
And yet . . .
I folded my arms. The Lords were not our only obstacle. Some of our own members required as much managing as the men we meant to persuade.
And I, as president, was expected to hold it all together.
Chapter
Two
