Page 92 of Hearts of Briarwall

Spencer had explained the bulk of his business plan during the first and second courses and had been answering questions—mostly from Cyril, Violet, and Florrie—through the third. Mrs. Whittemore had reached such an understanding of his idea that she, too, endeavored to answer questions as they came up. Indeed, she had a sharp mind for organization, and the way she prodded Violet to consider the possibilities impressed him. He’d also disclosed his father’s history, come what may.

During a pause that allowed him to take a few bites of his meal, Mrs. Whittemore leaned toward him, her voice lowered. “Thank you, Mr. Hayes, for being so transparent with your family’s plight and leaving it to us to judge. Not an easy thing to do, but admirable.”

He’d had many opportunities to be square with Andrew, and he’d been cowardly. Look where it had gotten him. “I’m learning, Mrs. Whittemore.”

“We all are, dear boy. We all are.” She sat up. “Now,” her voice resumed company-level volume, “I should like to know one more thing, Mr. Hayes.”

He swallowed a bite of his duck and crabapple stuffing. “Yes?”

“How do you feel about the women’s movement?”

All discussion ceased. Even the servants froze.

He cleared his throat. “The women’s movement?”

“Yes. I should like to know if you would take issue with a bevy of female investors who also happen to wear sashes, march on the capitols, and raise their voices to demand a vote.”

Spencer set down his knife and fork and patted his mouth with his napkin, his mind scrambling as to how to answer the question with tact.

Mrs. Whittemore’s brows remained lifted in expectation.

He squeezed his hands together in his lap. “Any female investors would be treated with the same respect and gratitude as their male counterparts, with the same returns, and with the same understanding that the shops’ name, branding, and quality not be brandished for use in politics, social leveraging, or illegal gain. It is in the contracts, Mrs. Whittemore.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed.

“Tell her what you told me.”

Spencer looked down the table where Lydia leaned toward him, her eyes meeting his for the first time that evening. Her russet-and-gold gown set off her brown eyes and the soft highlights in her hair. He’d allowed himself only a glance earlier and could hardly remove that glance once placed. But he had. And here she was, addressing him directly. And he could only take in her dark eyes. Her pert mouth. The heightened color of her cheeks.

“Tell her,” she repeated. “About women and motorcars.”

All eyes turned to him, pulling him out of his daze. “Yes,” he said, remembering. He addressed Mrs. Whittemore, shifting in his seat. “I believe, with everything in me, that women are an inevitable part of the future of the motorcar industry.” He looked about at the women around the table. “Musicians, shopkeepers, teachers, secretaries, nurses, farmers, artists, cooks, sporting enthusiasts, archaeologists,shareholders, you know I can go on—”

Mrs. Whittemore smiled wryly at him as he took a breath.

“These women will earn money and buy motorcars and use them as they are intended to be used: as a quicker, more efficient means of getting from point A to point B and back again. And who knows, with the interest some of these women show”—he glanced at Lydia, and once again was held by her gaze—“that they won’t be installing the auto parts themselves—”

“Or owning the companies that make them,” Violet interjected.

He gave her a nod. “That’s right—simply because they are capable of it?”

Lydia finally dropped her gaze, and Spencer exhaled.

“Well said, Mr. Hayes.” Mrs. Whittemore drew his attention, and she began to clap her hands. “Very well said.”

The applause spread, even from the men, and Spencer felt the knot in his chest begin to ease. For the first time in a very long time, he felt that the odds of succeeding might just be tipped in his favor.

He glanced at Lydia, whose eyes remained lowered.

At least in matters of business.

Chapter 18

The ninetieth weekly meeting of the Wendy League took place in Florrie’s private sitting room at Grantmore Hill. The minutes had been read, but the arrival of the post had drawn everything to a halt. The air was more subdued than usual.

Lydia had just learned that her “arranged understanding” between her and Sir Lawrence had been dissolved and the Piedmonts would no longer be regular guests for dinner at Briarwall. Her brother’s missive had been short and to the point, ending with a plea for her to return home soon. To say she was dazed would be accurate. To say the news was not enough would be an absolute understatement.

The letter hung limply in her hand as the girls lounged in the plush pink furnishings of the room. The tall windows were open and, though framed with heavy cream damask that reached the towering ceiling, light sheer drapes swayed in the breeze all the way to the marble floor. Florrie had put a record on the Victrola, and Lily Elsie sweetly lilted through love songs that Lydia tried not to apply to a certain gentleman with clear hazel eyes.

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