board is currently trying to understand why you would be interested in taking over magazines such as the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Lady’s Magazine.”
“Not taking over, but co-owning,” Lucie corrected, “and my reasons are the same as before: the magazines have a wide reach within a broad readership, and there is still obvious growth potential. And the fact that you publish the Pocketful of Poems line shows that London Print is not afraid to innovate. Everyone with an eye on publishing is interested, Mr. Barnes.”
The small format and intelligent marketing of the poetry book had been the one aspect about the publisher that wasn’t dusty, a promising silver lining when one secretly plotted to steer the entire enterprise toward the twentieth century. More importantly, there were only two other shareholders, both owning twenty-five percent of London Print each, both living abroad. She’d have as good as nothing standing in the way of her decision making.
“All this is quite true,” the director said, “but the board did not know until our last meeting that you were behind the investment consortium.”
“I don’t see how that changes our deal.”
“Well . . . because it is you.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t follow,” she said.
Mr. Barnes tugged at his necktie. His bald pate had the telltale shine of nervous perspiration.
Invariably, she had that effect on people—making them nervous. It’s because you always have a plan and a purpose, Hattie had explained to her. Perhaps you should smile more to frighten them less.
Experimentally, she bared her teeth at Mr. Barnes.
He only looked more alarmed.
He took off his small round glasses and made a production of folding them up before finally meeting her eyes. “My lady. Allow me to be frank.”
“Please,” she said. Frankness was her preferred mode of communication. It was, perhaps regrettably, her only mode.
“You are quite active in politics,” Mr. Barnes ventured.
“I’m a leader of the British suffragist movement.”
“Indeed. And you must know that as such, you are a controversial figure. In fact, a recent article in the Times called you exactly that.”
“I believe that article used the words ‘nefarious nag’ and ‘troublesome termagant.’”
“Quite right,” Mr. Barnes said awkwardly. “So naturally, the board is wondering why someone with the aim to overturn the present social order would have an interest in owning such wholesome magazines, never mind a line of romantic poetry.”
“Why, it almost sounds as though the board fears that I have ulterior motives, Mr. Barnes,” she said mildly. “That I am not, in fact, keen on a good business opportunity, but that I shall start a revolution among respectable middle-class women through the Home Counties Weekly.”
“Ha ha.” Mr. Barnes laughed. Clearly that was precisely what he feared. “Well, no,” he then said, “you’d lose readers by the droves.”
She gave a grim little nod. “Exactly. We shall leave the revolutionary efforts to The Female Citizen, shall we not?”
Mr. Barnes winced at the mention of the radical feminist pamphlet.
He recovered swiftly enough. “Be that as it may, publishing requires a certain passion for the subject matter, an intimate knowledge of the market. These magazines are focused on women’s issues, especially the Discerning Lady.”
“Which should pose no problem,” Lucie said, “considering I’m a woman myself.” Unlike you, Mr Barnes.
The man looked genuinely confused. “But these magazines focus on healthy feminine qualities and pursuits, such as . . . fashion . . . homemaking . . . a warm, happy family life. Do they not, Beatrix?”
“Why yes, Father,” Miss Barnes said at once. Clearly she had hung on every word.
Lucie turned toward her. “Miss Barnes, do you read the Home Counties Weekly and the Discerning Lady’s Magazine?”
“Of course, my lady, every issue.”
“And are you married?”
Miss Barnes’s apple cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “No, my lady.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Lucie said. “If you were, you would not be allowed to come here every morning to earn your own money by employing your skills at the typewriter. You would be kept at home, entirely dependent upon your husband’s wages. And yet”—she turned back to Mr. Barnes—“Miss Barnes is a keen reader of both magazines. Being a single woman apparently does not preclude an interest in healthy feminine pursuits.”
Now he was clearly at a loss. “But my lady . . . surely you agree that there’s a fundamental difference: my daughter would be interested because she has the prospect of having all these things in the near future.”
Ah.
Whereas she, Lucie, did not have that prospect.
Fashion. A home. A family.
She found her train of thought briefly derailed. Odd,