by Renée Dahlia
“Hello. You are late.” Rosalie tapped her wristwatch.
“Yes. My errands took a little longer than I anticipated. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
Rosalie pursed her lips. “No.”
“Why here?”
“The Ritz, specifically, or...” Rosalie glanced around. “We agreed to a hotel for this business meeting.” She emphasized the business part of her sentence.
Priya nodded. “Yes.” With a sharp breath, Priya realised this flutter in her stomach wasn’t anticipation. It was nerves. It’d been so long since she’d had a tryst with someone, she’d forgotten the etiquette around it all. “Should we confer in the lounge, or go direct to a room?”
“I rather think our discussion requires some confidentiality.”
“Excuse me.”
Priya whipped around at the masculine voice. “Yes?”
“Are you here to discuss the takeover plans outlined in the paper? I’m Mr Robertson with the Daily and I couldn’t help overhear you mention a confidential business discussion.”
“That is none of your business.” Rosalie’s voice tightened.
If Priya didn’t say something, this could go very wrong, and they’d already dedicated too much time to this nonsense. “I take it are referring to the invented story by Fraud Finder this morning. It’s such a shame that journalistic standards are slipping to the point where such obviously untrue nonsense can get published.”
“But you were seen together at The Goring and now this.”
“And if you’d been at your offices instead of following me around town, you would have seen the press release that explains it all.”
The man frowned. “One doesn’t find the news by sitting in an office. One has to go and search for the news.” His pretention made Priya want to roll her eyes, and only many years of being seen as a representative of her family in public stopped her.
“And yet, I delivered the news directly to you.”
“Can I at least have a quote?”
“Yes.” She waited for Mr Robertson to produce a pencil and notebook. “Carlingford Enterprises is very excited to be involved with the new charity and we are especially thrilled to be partnering with a bank of the standing of Sanderson and Sons to enable small business loans at low interest rates to help War Widows and their families thrive after so many years of dealing with the Great War.”
“This is all about some charity that will give money to widows? They already get paid a pension.” Technically he was correct; although the amount was abysmal. War widows were paid around sixteen shillings per week, but he failed to consider that a pound of bacon cost a shilling, and more importantly rents also had to be paid from the meagre amount meaning sixteen shillings a week wasn’t enough for the decent life. Mr Robertson missed the entire point. Merely giving someone a few coins to push away starvation wasn’t enough.
“You and I both know that widow’s pensions are grudgingly offered and are nowhere near the amount the soldier was paid.”
“They aren’t doing the work a soldier did. Why should they get paid for nothing?”
“The money is not for nothing. Being paid an amount that allows someone to survive is not the same as an opportunity to thrive.”
“There are more deserving causes than a widow who can just marry again.”
Priya knew he was only saying what most men thought and she shouldn’t let herself get riled up by him, but her pulse raced and she sneered at him. “Who? The war has led to a shortage of men.”
“Is that why you are unmarried, Miss Howick? Not enough men?” Mr Robertson squared his chin and Priya tried not to glance around the room. It wouldn’t do to show any weakness with this man. Her blood boiled as it galloped through her veins.
“Careful, Mr Robertson.” Rosalie’s calm voice sounded like whiskey poured over ice. “Our new charity has nothing to do with men, and to be honest, if you are the quality of men who survived the war it doesn’t take a genius to see why Miss Howick hasn’t found anyone worthy. Did you come here to insult us, Mr Robertson? Because that’s hardly a rational way to put your best foot forward.” Rosalie’s interruption allowed Priya to take a breath and re-centre the discussion on what mattered.
“If you want a quote, try this. The new charitable partnership between Sanderson and Sons and Carlingford Enterprises will provide safe housing for families who have lost their major wage earner in their service to this nation and will give new opportunities to the children and widows of those whose loved ones sacrificed everything for us. Don’t you think that’s better than merely surviving on a minimum payment?” The quote came easily because Priya was passionate about this cause. Women who’d done men’s jobs during the war had been paid only half the wage the men had for the same job, and now they were being shafted again by the system. Why shouldn’t women thrive?
“But why?”
“Why help the women and children left behind? Is that your question?”
“Yes. There are many returned soldiers who need upgraded housing and they actually fought.”
Priya made certain her most professional expression was painted on her face before she answered. “There are many charities as well as government funded organisations who prioritise our brave soldiers. One charity to assist women does not take anything away from all the other work people are doing. I believe that a society functions best when every member of it can contribute; and we are in a unique time in society where many families have been destroyed by war, leaving behind grieving women and children. Even if you, personally, can’t find it in your heart to care for women...” She drew in a breath, “And I pity your wife if that is your attitude... At least, you can surely understand that the children of our soldiers are the future of this nation and they need clean, sanitary housing so they can become educated citizens.”
“I see.” It was obvious that Mr Robertson didn’t really see. He was likely one of those men who saw suffrage as a threat; all those uppity women now able to vote and hold sway over the House of Commons. In two years, she’d be thirty and able to vote as well. She couldn’t wait to use her voice.
“I can see that you don’t understand, however, we don’t require your comprehension or permission to spend our money as we see fit.” Rosalie nodded her head to the reporter and Priya bit the inside of her cheek so she didn’t grin at his confusion. It was so good to have someone on her side, it made her almost giddy.
“If you’ll excuse us. We have work to do.” Priya turned to Rosalie with a nod. “Miss Sanderson and I need to have a long detailed conversation about how to structure the loan portion of this charity to give the most benefit to the most recipients.”
“I have another question.”
“Perhaps another time, Mr Robertson. We have work to do.” Rosalie dismissed the reporter and started to walk towards the grand staircase in the middle of the room. With a short nod of her chin to the reporter, Priya turned away from him and paced after Rosalie. They walked up the stairs in silence, and along the hallway to the unmanned lift that went to the private rooms. Once inside the elevator, Rosalie pulled the doors shut with a click, then pushed the button for the fourth floor.
“Men.”
“Yes. It does get tiresome.”
Rosalie tilted her head. “When we met, you said you preferred to take your pleasure with people who didn’t have power over you.”
“I think he illustrated my choice quite well. Look, some women have difficulty with women like myself who have no physical preference, but I trust that won’t be a problem?” Priya’s heart hadn’t slowed after their joist with Mr Robertson.
“It is no problem for me. I’ve booked my usual suite on the fourth floor.”
“Your usual?” The swift acceptance made Priya’s heart skip a beat. Was it acceptance or did Rosalie just not want to discuss it? She’d only discussed it with her friends Luciana and Therese, as Therese had previously been married to a man before she’d become Luciana’s lover. It wasn’t exact
ly a topic for public discussion given the way the church and society frowned upon it.
“Sanderson and Sons often has clients who require a room in London when visiting the bank to discuss their investments. Grandfather found himself caught short in 1905 when the King of Spain came to the Derby and there were no rooms to be found in London. He felt it was embarrassing for the bank that his clients had to compromise on quality, so when the Ritz was built, we invested to ensure we always had a room here when it was needed.”
“Very logical.” Priya was grateful for the change in subject to something less personal. Silence drifted between them as they walked along the corridor, with Rosalie a half-step in front of Priya. If Carlingford ever had a client of such worth who needed to stay in London for business, they offered them a room at one of their London homes. Most guests were honoured to stay with Lord Dalhinge and his extended family, which was an added bonus that allowed them to keep their main family home private. It didn’t matter how much time she spent listening to people who had less than her, there was always something she had in her life that she took for granted and didn’t realise that others didn’t have. It was one of the reasons that pushed her towards philanthropy. People should have a safe house to live in regardless of their circumstances, and enough income to allow them the space to make their own choices over their life. For Priya, the point of suffrage wasn’t merely to get all adults the vote, but to ensure that people had agency over their own life. The vote was a symbol of their personal choice; hence why it burned that she had to wait another two years before she could vote. She had many privileges, but not one that gave her choice over the laws that governed them all.
“Come in.” Rosalie turned a key and pushed open a door. The room opened up into a lounge with a small dining table and four elegant chairs. A large fireplace reminded Priya of her uncle’s estate in the country. Priya had stayed in the Ritz in Paris and the layout was familiar with two doors to the left, presumably for the bedroom and bathroom.
“Shall we?” Priya paused awkwardly. It was one thing to plan to come here and kiss Rosalie, and something entirely different to be here.
“Talk about the loan system for your charity?”
Priya held back a sigh. If she were with her friends, she’d flop onto the couch and let all this negativity swirling inside out. “I’m so bored of talking about it.” Priya cringed at her own selfish explanation; people already assumed she was a rich entitled brat and she’d just undone all her hard work proving she wasn’t. “Not the topic, per say, although the reporter downstairs reinforced how tedious it is to continually need to prove that women are worth consideration.” She stared out the window. Anything but glance at Rosalie. “I believe in my charity, Rowley’s Mile for War Widows, and all the other ones that I’m involved in. They are the least I can do in my position. But that’s the part I always cycle back to—how fortunate I am. Reporters continue to focus on me...” And the grubby source of her family’s income. “...it reminds me that I can never do enough and I’ll always have to justify why I’m not doing more.”
“I understand. You are tired of everyone’s fascination with you, particularly the newssheets.”
Priya breathed in deep then let out the sigh she’d previously kept inside. “I’m honestly not that fascinating. A spinster sister to my highly eligible brother. They sell newspapers by making me and my family sound more interesting than we are. I just want to spread my fortune around to as many people as I can. One person shouldn’t have this much, especially while others have to struggle to survive.”
“Many people aspire to have your life and your choices.”
Priya blinked once, with sarcastic purpose. “No. Many people aspire to have my money and they dream about spending it entirely on themselves.” There were too many others in her social circle who accumulated money for themselves without seeing how many they’d hurt in the process. Carlingford had built ships and weapons for the war, causing incalculable hurt, and she held it all inside her. Knowing that they had superior safety and wage conditions for their factory workers didn’t negate what they’d built.
“And that’s my point. You keep undermining your work and your huge heart and empathy for others, while too many people in your position do nothing to help others and only accumulate more for themselves.”
“That’s hardly a high standard to hold myself to.”
“I disagree. Not many of my major clients at the bank think about the cost of their wealth on other people. It ought to be standard and it’s not. I want to celebrate the work you do.”
“Thank you?” The compliment was nice but it didn’t really understand her dilemma.
“I wonder if you are bored with these reporters and their questions because they focus on the supposed glamour and wealth of your life, and not on the gritty interesting parts where you improve the lot of others.”
“It’s never enough.”
“It is enough. You are enough. Think of your money as fertiliser.” Rosalie brushed her lips across Priya’s forehead and she tried not to flinch. Not because it was unwelcome, but because she’d been so caught up in her own head, in her own guilt and drama, that she hadn’t notice Rosalie slowly walk closer and closer.
“Fertiliser?” An agriculture reference from a banker sent a rush of blood to her head. It was unexpected, just as Rosalie’s kiss had been.
“From everything you’ve said, and a few things you’ve left unsaid, you seem to think your family money is like dung.”
Priya stepped back and laughed, an awkward sound that caught in her throat. “Where are you going with this? It’s one thing to hear it from the press, quite another from you.”
Rosalie’s mouth quirked into a smile and her eyes danced with glee. “A sheep eats grass to grow wool on its back and in the process creates a waste product. Dung. Rather than seeing the Carlingford fortune as the wool, I think you see it as the waste product. Something to be swept off the woolshed floor and pushed aside as uncomfortable.”
“I didn’t realise you knew so much about sheep.”
Rosalie’s grin grew wider. “Many of Sanderson and Son’s clients are landowners whose primary income is in wool. Would you like to know my point?”
“Yes.”
“A sheep’s dung makes excellent fertiliser. Spread on pastures and vegetable gardens, it assists in new growth. If the Carlingford money is dung—smelly and distasteful to you—perhaps you should see your philanthropy as fertiliser. Take the money and spread it wide to help others grow.”
Priya’s heart thumped, steadier than before. “I rather like that analogy. I carry such a burden knowing how the money was made, and to think of it as an opportunity to fertilise the world is helpful.”
“Good. One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t believe the money is dung in this analogy. I think it is the sheep, and you need to find a way to see the wool as a useful product too.”
Priya hated this uncertainty. “Are you saying that I should enjoy the bi-products?”
“You already do. Look at the way you dress, the jewels you wear, the evenings at the theatre. All of that is the wool; and it’s not wrong to let yourself enjoy life. You are the least selfish person I’ve met, Priya Howick, and I wish you could see yourself as I do.”
She closed her eyes and breathed in Rosalie’s distinctive perfume. What would it be like to embrace life and not continually worry that she was a bad person for enjoying the little luxuries the Carlingford fortune provided? Before the war, she’d taken it as her due and she’d been happy. Now, it was all so tangled and complex, and she carried such a heavy weight, that she’d almost forgotten how to be truly happy. Content.
“What scent are you wearing?”
“Tabac Blond.”
“It’s delicious.” Or rather, Rosalie smelled delicious and Priya wanted to lick her. Could she let herself be free for a while? Like she used to be before the war. Like she had been the last time she’d kissed
Rosalie... She cleared her throat and tilted her head back. “Please kiss me.”
“I’d be honoured.” Rosalie leaned forward and brushed her lips against Priya’s mouth and the kiss was everything she remembered. Their kiss was soft and lovely. A gentle buzz skittered over her skin as if she’d reached out and touched the silk brocade on a cushion, all smooth and textural under her fingertips. Reassuring and homely, like she’d found the perfect place to be in the world. The kiss, the way their lips met on equal footing, was everything she yearned for. There was an acceptance in this kiss that welcomed her home.
Priya reached out and rested her hands on Rosalie’s waist. The texture of her closely woven woollen jacket was firm under her palms. Rosalie ran one hand up Priya’s spine, pulling them together, and Priya opened her eyes to gaze at Rosalie’s face as she kissed her. At first a gentle exploration, then slowly a deeper connection. A shared taste and touch that sent tingles down Priya’s spine. She’d read about people getting lost in a kiss. This kiss didn’t feel like that; quite the opposite, as if Rosalie’s kiss helped her find herself. Unleashed all her burdens, or perhaps just shared the load in carrying them, so she wasn’t as weighed down anymore.
Whatever it was, kissing Rosalie made her float, swept up in the rush of sensation coursing in her veins, like she could achieve everything she wanted. She was alive in this moment. It made her want to stare down the whole world who tried to put her in a box and tell them all that women were worth more than simply being a cipher for a man. Together with Rosalie, she could build new lives for women and that would be her legacy. Any arrogance at the notion of a legacy would always be tempered by the cost of war; and maybe, just maybe, with Rosalie at her side, her guilt would stop being something that mocked her. She could fertilise the world with her money. Nah, not the whole world, not the men who’d caused the war, or those who benefited without giving back. She could spread that fertiliser on the barren paddocks that were usually ignored and see them thrive. All the people of all creeds and backgrounds who weren’t seen by the current system would be given an opportunity to grow through safe housing and solid education. This kiss made her feel like she was arrogant enough to achieve the impossible; all she needed was someone to help her hold up the ideal as if it were a temple for equality.