neither, she’d have to do without. Such a small thing couldn’t intimidate her. Wearing her most severely cut pelisse and plainest bonnet, she set out.
It wasn’t difficult to find a cab. She flagged one down and climbed in, giving the address with an anticipatory thrill.
“Are you sure about that, miss?” the driver said. “It’s down amongst the clubs.”
“Quite sure,” she replied.
He slapped the reins, and they moved off. Two turns later, the hack was driving down a busy street clogged with vehicles and riders. The clop of so many hooves was very loud. At the sides, hawkers cried their wares and tried to thrust products upon pedestrians who pushed along in both directions. There was a smell of fish and horses and drains. Verity stared out at the frenetic scene. It was probably like this in the marvelous bazaars of the East, she decided, only more so. She gathered all her sensations together and recorded them in her customary way, adding this moment to her collection. One became used to the clamor, no doubt. After a few days, one wouldn’t feel assaulted by it at all.
The driver maneuvered past a large construction works. The pounding of hammers and shouts of the workers added to the noise. “Piccadilly Circus, that’s to be,” the driver called down. “If they ever finish, and stop blocking the road.”
Beyond was a wide gracious avenue, a little less crowded, with large stone buildings on either side. The driver turned down it and pulled up before an imposing gray edifice. “Here you are, miss,” he said.
Heart thudding, Verity paid her fare and got down at Twelve Waterloo Place. Great arched windows on the ground floor looked back at her. Above, a pillared portico loomed. The door stood under a round window with an ornately carved surround.
The cab clattered off. Verity gathered her resolve and went inside.
She was greeted—or rather halted—in the entry by a liveried man with grizzled hair and a sour expression. “You must have the wrong address, miss.”
“Isn’t this Twelve Waterloo Place?” She said it aloud, as she’d said it to herself since she read the news.
“Yes, miss.” The man glowered at her.
“The Travellers Club?”
“Yes, miss, but—”
“I understand there are lectures planned, by those who have explored the…the far reaches of the globe. I hoped to obtain a schedule.”
“No ladies are allowed inside,” he replied. “Particularly young ladies.”
“Not even for the talks?”
“Never, miss.”
“Are you sure?” He was only a servant after all, not a member of the newly established club.
“Heard Lord Aberdeen say so” was the smug reply.
This was a setback. Verity had looked forward to the travelers’ tales, as well as the chance to meet a kindred spirit. “Perhaps I could leave a note—”
The guardian frowned. “This is a gentlemen’s club, not a post office.”
Verity peered past him to the inner doors. She’d read about the club’s recent establishment “for gentlemen who had traveled out of the British Isles to a distance of at least five hundred miles from London in a direct line.” Foreign visitors and diplomats posted to London were also invited. Lord Castlereagh was one of the founders, along with the Earl of Aberdeen and Lord Auckland, whose name graced a town on the other side of the world. These men had chosen the head of Ulysses as their device. Verity knew that his epic voyage was fictional, the marvels he’d seen unreal, but the choice had fired her imagination. She’d so often dreamed of sailing to unknown shores.
“I’ve read all of Cook’s journals,” she tried. “I’m an admirer of Alexander von Humboldt. I know a great deal about—”
“No ladies,” the door warden interrupted, hostilely uninterested. “Particularly not the sort looking to write to gentlemen they don’t know. You’ll have to get out now.” His expression was stiff and closed.
Verity gritted her teeth and turned away. Clearly, this fellow was no use. He knew nothing but orders. And insults; those seemed to come easily to him.
Outside, she considered loitering by the entrance and trying to speak to a member going in or out. Immediately, she rejected the idea. She wasn’t some feeble petitioner. She wasn’t going to be brushed off in the street. She’d have to find another way to meet the sort of man she wanted. Why must they make it so difficult?
Angry, she turned right and strode off. She wanted to dissipate some of her irritation before she found another cab, and movement generally made her feel better. That was the point of life, wasn’t it? To move, to