“My speech?” Cece’s voice rose to an impossible treble. She blew out a breath and shook her head. “I can’t imagine you want me giving any sort of speech after the one I unwittingly gave last night. Everyone who means anything witnessed my horrible behavior. Why would they take a word I say seriously?”
“Because you stood out,” Henrietta explained. “Because you spoke aloud thoughts that most women are condemned to keep locked inside of them. Do you know how many women wish they could express the things you did last night? How many ache to have a chance to tell the men in their lives, the men who neglect and belittle them, just what they think?”
Cece closed her mouth, pressing her lips into a line, before saying, “It was not my intention to speak for those who cannot speak.”
“Perhaps not last night, but wouldn’t you love to be their voice going forward?”
The question hit its mark and sank deep into Cece’s heart, finding a wellspring of determination underneath her shame and regret. Once tapped, that spring flooded her with a world of new emotions.
“Yes,” she said, bursting into a smile. “Yes, I would like to be that voice.”
“Perfect,” Henrietta said, a wicked grin settling on her lips. “Now, let’s talk about those lovers we would like to have.”
Rupert stomped from one end of the study in Campbell House to the other, his footfalls heavy and his brow knit in a dark scowl. His head throbbed after barely sleeping a wink the night before. It didn’t matter how vast and comfortable Campbell House was, it wasn’t his home. The expansive bed wasn’t his own. Most annoyingly of all, Cece wasn’t there with him.
“It’s damnably unfair,” he said, crossing back through the gauntlet of sofas that faced each other in the center of the room.
“Life is never fair,” Reese said with a sullen look, his arms crossed.
“You can say that again,” Freddy agreed from the other side of the same sofa.
His two friends exchanged a quick look before dragging their eyes away from each other and following the course of Rupert’s pacing.
“What isn’t fair about it?” Fergus asked from the other sofa. Unlike Reese and Freddy, he seemed perfectly at ease, stretched out across the sofa with a cup of coffee in one hand. “You’re the one who put your foot in it last night.”
Rupert stopped just past the sofas and turned to glare at him. “I put my foot in it?” he demanded, incredulous. “Cecelia was the one who broke off our engagement in front of hundreds of people in the most humiliating way possible.”
Fergus’s mouth twitched and his green eyes danced with Irish mirth. “Were the two of you actually engaged to begin with? From the way I understand it, the promise between you was only ever implied.”
Heat rose up Rupert’s neck and he resumed pacing. He only got as far as Malcolm’s desk before turning back and marching to the sofas to defend himself. “So what if there wasn’t a formally stated engagement. Cece knows that we were meant for each other. We’ve had an understanding for years. It was outrageous of her to contradict me the way she did.”
His statement was met by silence from his friends. Silence and averted looks. Not one of them was willing to look him in the eye, nod, and agree with him. Instead, they peeked nervously at each other, appearing almost embarrassed.
“I am right to be furious, aren’t I?” he asked, his certainty slipping.
Reese cleared his throat. Freddy chewed his nails. Fergus chuckled and shook his head.
“Come on, gents,” Rupert said. “Tell me I am the wronged party here.”
At last, slowly, reluctantly, his friends glanced in his direction.
“You could have handled the situation differently,” Reese said.
“After all, there really isn’t a formal engagement between the two of you, only an informal understanding,” Freddy agreed.
“You pushed her into it,” Fergus said, far more direct. “What was the poor woman supposed to do but assert herself? You dragged her up there and more or less announced to a crowd that you were the master and she the submissive female.”
A cold slither of guilt curled its way through Rupert’s gut. “But I am the master,” he said. “The man is always the master of the house. It’s always been that way and it always will be that way.”
Fergus laughed, sitting straighter. “You know who you sound like? My father.”
“What does your father have to do with anything?” Rupert grumbled, moving to the table where the coffee service was set up, although he really needed something stronger.
“My father is merciless,” Fergus said with surprising passion. “You should see the way he treats his tenants. They’re poor farmers, in a vulnerable position. Famine wiped out their father’s generation, and famine hit them all again in seventy-eight. But how did he handle it? Did he give them assistance and feed their starving children? Did he loosen the burdens on them and give so much as a thought to their plight? No. He idled away his time on his English estate, demanding more than they were capable of, and setting that bastard, Connolly, as overseer until every one of them was bled dry.”
“What does Irish politics have to do with Rupert’s female problems?” Reese asked, clearing his throat.
“It’s the same thing,” Fergus went on, his passion towering. “We have been placed in a position of power, and we abuse it. At home and abroad.”
“I’m not abusing a position of power where Cece is concerned,” Rupert argued. “I love her and she loves me.”
“And how do you show it?” Freddy asked, his voice far quieter and softer than Fergus’s.
“I….” Rupert’s mouth hung open. Come to think of it, what had he done to show Cece how much he loved her since returning home?
“Expressing love is the most difficult challenge any of us men face,” Reese said in a circumspect voice, staring at a spot on the carpet. “The feeling is so nebulous to begin with. How does one let their beloved know that the sun doesn’t truly rise until they enter the room? That it sets far too early when they leave and stay away? How does one convey the feeling that their heart is not truly alive within them except when they can be with their beloved? Especially when those feelings have been so inadequately expressed before.”
Silence followed Reese’s emotional speech.
At last, Freddy said, “That was beautiful.”
Reese glanced to him, but turned quickly away, his face red.
Rupert resumed his pacing, telling himself he hadn’t seen what he knew full well was right in front of his face where his friends were concerned. He had bigger things to worry about.
“So what if I did make a hash of things?” he asked in a reticent voice, stroking his moustache—the feature Cece abhorred so much. “What if it was my fault?”
“It was your fault,” Fergus said, leaning back against the sofa once more. “Make no mistake about it.”
“So what do I do about it?” he asked, turning to his friends and extending his arms as though appealing for answers.
“The same thing we did after being defeated by the Boers,” Fergus said with a shrug. “You retreat, which you’ve already done by moving here. You regroup your forces, which you’re doing, both by entertaining us and by conversing about the mess you made. And finally, you plan a new strategy and course of attack.”
“Are you suggesting I start over where Cece is concerned?” Rupert asked, both dreading the prospect of erasing the last five years of their relationship and wooing her all over again and knowing it was what he had to do.
“It seems fairly obvious,” Freddy said. “First you have to apologize for what you put her through.”
“What I put her through?” Rupert’s brow flew up.
“Then you have to show her that you truly do love her and that what you want more than anything is to make her happy,” Fergus went on, ignoring his incredulity.
“Spend time with her,” Reese suggested. “That’s the best way I know of to express how much you care. Do the thing
s she wants to do.”
“How do I know what women like to do?” Rupert asked in a huff.
“I’m beginning to understand why Lady Cecelia was so upset,” Freddy said with a teasing grin.
Rupert frowned at him, but he knew what Freddy meant. He knew what all of his friends meant. He was being a prick, letting his pride get in the way of his good sense. But he’d spent years fighting for what he believed was right and noble, fancying himself a hero, nearly dying in the process. It was a rude homecoming not to be congratulated for his efforts, even if it was arrogant of him to expect nothing but praise for a job well done.
At last, he let out a breath and flopped onto the sofa beside Fergus.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll start over. I’ll pay more attention to Cece. If she’ll see me. I’ll try to find out what things she likes, and, heaven help me, I’ll do them. But if I end up sitting beside a fire, holding yarn on my hands while she winds it into a ball, not one of you has the right to laugh at me for it.”
“We won’t need to,” Fergus said. “We’re already laughing at you for being a stubborn stick-in-the-mud.”
“You might actually find that you like the same things she does,” Reese said.
“You won’t know until you try,” Freddy said, summing everything up succinctly.
“I guess not,” Rupert said. Though it was vastly uncomfortable to set out into the uncharted waters of the feminine world.
Chapter 5
St. James’s Park felt far cooler than Cece thought it should for early May when she arrived at the rally several days later. Grey clouds skittered across the sky, matching the gusts of winds that blew at Cece’s sturdy, caramel-colored walking dress. She’d had no idea what one wore to a rally about Irish Home Rule in St. James’s Park, but since a bouquet of cream-colored orchids had arrived at her house that morning, signaling a change in decoration for the May Flowers, Cece had dressed to match.
“There are so many people here,” she commented to Henrietta shortly after arriving and glancing around at the increasing crowd.
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous?” Henrietta said with an excited smile. “It shows that people care about the Irish and about the issues that face them.”
“Or that they believe those of us defending them are ridiculous and they want to see our downfall,” Cece replied in a barely-audible voice.
There were quite a few fashionably-dressed women with orchids pinned to their bodices, which indicated she wasn’t alone with Henrietta in the cause. Not all of them looked pleased, though. Several glanced up at the cloudy sky, murmuring to their friends about rain. Some eyed the growing crowd of middle-class men who had come to observe the debate with wary looks. And a few studied Cece with disapproval.
One of those was Lady Claudia Denbigh.
“I thought we had decided the entire group must approve of any new members,” she said, gripping the handle of her elaborate, French parasol so hard Cece was surprised the ivory didn’t crumble in her hands. With the sun behind clouds, there was no reason for the woman to carry the thing except to show off how terribly expensive it was.
Henrietta’s smile didn’t diminish by a hair as she greeted Lady Claudia. “I felt as though we could make an exception,” she said with a simple gesture, as though it were obvious. “Lady Cecelia has shown herself to be a powerful voice in London society.”
Lady Claudia barked an ugly laugh. “Lady Cecelia has shown herself to be a scandalous harridan.” She sniffed and looked down her nose at Cece.
Cece gulped, scrambling to find a way to handle the situation with the sort of grace Henrietta displayed. She settled on smiling and saying, “You look quite lovely today, Lady Claudia. And what a beautiful parasol.”
Lady Claudia’s face pinched, as though she had no idea what to do with a compliment when she’d expected confrontation. “Thank you,” she said with a superior air, giving her parasol a twirl. “My brother, Charles, the Earl of Basingstoke, gave it to me. It cost five pounds. But then, Charles always was generous. I’m his favorite sister, you know. And his Irish estates have been so profitable since he hired that new man, Johnson or Jameson or something like that, to manage them for him.” She fixed Cece with a smile as if daring her to top that.
Cece kept her smile in place and said, “You’re so very fortunate.”
She was spared having to make further conversation with Lady Claudia as a well-dressed man who didn’t quite look like an aristocrat stepped up onto a small dais and announced in a booming voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?”
“This is it,” Henrietta whispered, resting a hand on Cece’s arm. Her eyes glowed with excitement as she watched the man on the dais. “That’s Mr. Henry Shaw. He’s a close friend of Charles Stewart Parnell himself.”
“What is the Irish Question?” Mr. Shaw asked as his increasing audience quieted. “Is it the question of whether our Irish neighbors should govern themselves?”
A few voices in the crowd shouted, “No!” They were largely ignored as everyone continued to focus on Mr. Shaw.
“Is it a response to the dreadful situation in Ireland in the last decade, in the forties, and now? Is it a pesky annoyance that takes up Parliament’s time with endless filibusters?”
“Yes!” someone in the crowd shouted and was met with a round of laughter.
“No,” Mr. Shaw went on. “The Irish Question is the defining moment of morality in the British Empire. It is the kernel at the heart of our duty toward our subjects. It is the single most important issue that faces this nation today.”
“It’s a bloody nuisance,” someone else yelled. They were met by cheers of agreement.
Mr. Shaw continued to ignore them. “Today, we will hear from representatives of the core of British morality. For who better to guide our consciences and show us the way than the women which form the backbone of everything we are?”
His question was met by a combination of derisive snorts and cheers of approval that made Cece’s blood feel as though it were rushing through her in a cold panic. That feeling only intensified when Mr. Shaw went on.
He glanced briefly at a paper in his hand, then announced. “Our first speaker this morning will be a new voice of reason and sensibility, Lady Cecelia Campbell.” He gestured toward Henrietta, who pointed subtly to Cece.
Cece’s heart shuddered within her as a smattering of applause broke out in the crowd. Her mouth dropped open as she glanced to Henrietta with wide eyes.
“Go on,” Henrietta encouraged her, hooking a hand under her elbow and escorting her forward. “You have so much to say.”
“I can’t say it,” Cece whispered tightly. “I’m not prepared. I haven’t written a speech or anything.”
“You don’t need a written speech,” Henrietta assured her. “All you need is to speak your mind. You’re only expected to say a few words to warm the crowd up for Mr. Dillon.”
Cece had heard the name Dillon before, but her mind was scattered into too many pieces for her to match the name to how she had heard of him. Henrietta ushered her up to the dais, and when they reached it, Mr. Shaw offered a hand and helped her to step up.
The moment Cece stared out at a sea of faces from the dais—some curious, some hostile, some leering—her throat squeezed so tight that she didn’t think she could whisper a prayer, let alone speak out in favor of Irish Home Rule. Up until the disastrous ball the week before, she’d never so much as stood in front of a group larger than her family and close friends to sing or recite. The task Henrietta had pushed her into was daunting, to say the least.
“What do you think of the Irish being granted the ability to govern themselves, Lady Cecelia?” Mr. Shaw asked, prompting her to say something.
“I—” The single word came out as a croak. Prickles broke out down her back, and her hands went completely numb.
But then she saw him. Rupert was standing at the far edge of the crowd, Lord O’Shea by his side. He wore a look of surprise that bor
dered on disbelief. And it rankled.
Cece let her shoulders drop as she let out a breath. How dare Rupert just stand there, waiting for her to fail. Did he think her incapable of speaking to a crowd? Did he, like too many of the other men arrayed in front of her, think that a woman’s opinion meant nothing? Did they think that women had no opinions at all? Her father hadn’t raised her to be a weak and simpering mouse. She was the daughter of Lord Malcolm Campbell, and she would behave accordingly.
“Thank you, Mr. Shaw,” she began in a loud, clear voice, turning to nod at Mr. Shaw. “You are quite right when you say that the Irish Question is at the very heart of our nation at this moment. And I will answer the questions you posed.”
She turned toward the audience, glancing across the expectant faces staring back at her. She caught sight of Henrietta’s encouraging smile out of the corner of her eye and Rupert’s dazed look of shock.
“It is absolutely essential that Ireland be given control of its domestic politics,” she said, her confidence rising. It was a revelation to have so many people, so many men, listening to her. “On the one hand, as great as our nation is, we have been woefully inadequate in our reactions and responses to crises so close to our own shores. If we cannot respond with speed and efficiency to our closest colony, how can we effectively administrate the rest of our empire? On the other hand, who knows the needs and concerns of the Irish people better than they do?”
“The Irish are incompetent,” a middle-class man shouted from the crowd. “They’re illiterate animals without the mental faculties to govern a potato, much less a nation.”
On instinct alone, Cece answered, “And you know this from personal experience of speaking to every Irishman?” A few chuckles followed before she went on with, “If the men are as incompetent as you believe them to be, perhaps we should allow Ireland to be governed by its women.”
An even louder chorus of laughter rose from the crowd. It wasn’t entirely mocking either. Quite a few of the men listening to her appeared to like what she was saying. It filled Cece with a sense of power, a sense of possibility. It made her feel as though she truly did have a voice. Now all she had to do was use it.
A Lady’s First Scandal Page 5