An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,83

is said that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But I reckon that hell hath no fury like a man with an ego wounded by a woman or a man who fears losing to a woman,” Harriet said drily.

It had been none other than Sam Connor, Dalton’s right-hand man, who had started the fire and who had been behind all the acts of vandalism. Beatrice had suspected Mr. Stevens or her own brother to be behind it. But Dalton’s right-hand man?

She wished she were more surprised.

What really burned—and she did not use the word lightly—was that all her ambition and accomplishments had been undone by some man with a chip on his shoulder, who only saw what he stood to lose and who didn’t think that the world was big enough for both Dalton’s and Goodwin’s.

Beatrice was shaken to her core. In pursuing her dreams, she had stoked the anger of men, unleashed their fury, and provided a brilliant, beautiful, feminine target for them to make their point. She had dragged her friends into the spotlight with her, making them targets, as well. She felt wretched.

“The police have him in custody. The evidence of his guilt is damning and I expect that he won’t see the light of day outside a prison wall for a long, long time,” said Arabella, who was one of the first female lawyers in the city. Her words provided some relief.

But what the Ladies of Liberty knew but dare not say: such men were like roaches. One might lock up one, but a million remained crawling through the city, disturbing one’s equilibrium and ruining their days.

“Good riddance.”

“Detective Hyde is livid that after all her undercover investigative work she was home sick with a fever on the day they struck,” Beatrice said. “She is beside herself with guilt thinking she could have prevented it. I, as well.”

“A woman’s work is never done. She may never rest,” Adeline said with a sigh.

“Connor was determined. If only he’d applied himself to a more useful pursuit, other than revenge,” Harriet sniffed. “Like perhaps minding his own store’s business.”

“It is said that he thought Dalton wasn’t doing enough to compete with Goodwin’s.”

“Was Dalton behind it?”

“I don’t think so,” Beatrice said. “I can’t believe he would be.”

“Well, he did rush into the fire to save you, so I’m inclined to believe in his innocence,” Harriet said.

But still something sat heavy on Beatrice’s chest. It was guilt, like somehow this was all her fault.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted.

“Why on earth are you sorry?”

“Long ago, I made Dalton want revenge. And it was all he and Connor and been working toward for years, until I made Wes want to give it all up—and Connor feared he would lose everything he’d worked for. And now hundreds of shopgirls are without employment and wages. We have all lost our investment. We have lost the feminine space we have created. All because of my ambition. I should have just let them win.”

“You cannot dim your light, Beatrice,” Harriet said earnestly. She looked around the room at all the women gathered. “None of us can, especially not for any man. The world needs our light. It’s how we see what needs to be done to make the world a better place.”

“It just makes them so angry . . .” one woman said softly.

“If we lived in fear of men’s anger, we would never do anything at all,” Harriet said. It was the truth. If Beatrice were afraid of men and their anger, she would still be the Duchess of Montrose, choking on her own words and in a quiet and constant state of despair as she languished about the castle.

She supposed that was the point entirely. The threat of their violence was supposed to scare her into staying home and stay quiet and stay out of the way. To dim her light until it was extinguished entirely.

“So the question is, Beatrice, what will you do now?” Harriet asked. “I presume that you—and all of us—are constitutionally incapable of just letting a man get the last word. We are not women who sit idly by.”

A roomful of expectant faces looked at her, waiting. Expectantly. They waited for her to present the answers, along with a plan, a map, a seating chart, and a paper pattern for the dress to wear for the occasion.

If she could manage it, she would have smiled because she was reminded of herself just a few months earlier as she’d challenged Dalton: And