The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,76
creating an endeavor that was pleasurable. Whereas Emma? She’d been crafting lectures and taking notes. How were they to have ever competed with Charles’s innovative approach? One that combined true learning and literature that women were eagerly reading?
“Our society is enjoyable,” Lila said belatedly. “How dare they presume otherwise?”
“Yes, just because we take ourselves seriously does not mean the women who attended were not enjoying their time here,” Isla piped in . . . before blushing, as the irony and truth became clear.
Had they truly appreciated their time with the Mismatch Society and the discussions and enlightenment that had occurred here more than what was taking place at Charles’s, they’d not have defected in the first place.
Cora cleared her throat. “Well, I needn’t frills and fluff to add to my enlightenment. I need nothing more than the stimulating discourse of my fellow women, who make me think.” The young lady brought back her shoulders. “And if that wasn’t, isn’t, and cannot be enough for some women? Then I say it is their loss.”
Murmurs of assent went up, and as one, the ladies all stomped their feet in a rolling applause.
With the exception of Emma . . . Emma, who couldn’t even muster for herself false confidence or cheer or anything beyond this crushing . . . hurt.
And if it weren’t blasphemy, she’d have cursed the late, great writer Jane Austen. After all, it was hardly Miss Austen’s fault that her works were being used in ways that she’d likely not expected. Emma’s lips pulled in a grimace. And by a man, at that.
How were they to compete with that great writer’s works and all the women who wished to read them?
“What is it, Emma?” Sylvia asked gently when the room had settled once more.
Of course, their fearless, astute leader should have seen and known Emma’s lack of enthusiasm. Emma folded her hands on her lap. “I don’t disagree with Cora,” she began, glancing at the older Kearsley sister, who smiled at that acknowledgment, “and yet, at the same time . . . our goal, our mission is to encourage women to think freely.”
“And you’re making the assumption they aren’t doing that with Lord Scarsdale’s society?” Sylvia asked, without inflection.
“Yes. No.” Emma emitted a sound of frustration. “I don’t . . . know.” And that was the honest truth where Charles was concerned. From their meeting at Regent Street to the Old Corner Bookshop with his nephew? She didn’t know how to make heads or tails of him. “I simply know that if we’re only speaking to like-minded individuals who already believe in the advancement of women’s rights and goals and dreams and aspirations, then . . . it is as though we are shouting into a like void, where those thoughts can never take greater root and grow and spread as we so hoped.” Then she was the same woman she’d always been . . . on the fringes, raging only in her head at the injustices, all the while not really contributing anything of real import.
Sylvia, the eternal optimist who’d fought for their society from the start, persisted. “Just because some have left”—Most. Most have.—“does not mean they won’t find their way back. Or that others shan’t find their way to us.”
“But will they?” Emma persisted. “Will they, when Lord Scarsdale’s group not only affords them a similar setting, with similar goals as ours, and does so in a way that is thrilling because the men present”—Annalee’s face pulled—“and their proper mamas and papas all approve?”
Sylvia held up a palm. “I do believe it bears pointing out that we aren’t in competition with Lord Scarsdale and his members.”
Emma firmed her jaw. Like hell they weren’t. She agreed with the viscountess on much. Nearly everything. But not on this.
“As I see it,” the viscountess said, “we aren’t shutting them down. So we can either bemoan their existence”—the regal hostess glanced around, touching her gaze upon each woman, before speaking—“or we can focus on restructuring ours.”
Restructuring . . .
“What, exactly, does that mean?”
“It means whatever it was that once brought women into our fold . . . we need to find that magic again,” Valerie said quietly.
“But . . . but . . . we are magical,” Isla moaned.
Except they weren’t.
“I motion that we entrust our rebuilding where it belongs, with the woman responsible for the creation of the society,” the viscountess suggested, and Emma directed her focus on that person who would lead them.