don’t believe I’ve ever asked one of my companions his feelings on the matter. Have you?”
Thomas looked from left to right, then down at his papers, almost as if he were torn, wanting to answer in the affirmative but being loath to lie in case Logan questioned him further.
He took pity on his secretary. “Perhaps in the future,” he said, “you might ask some of your associates how they feel.”
“I will, sir,” Thomas said.
“How do you feel, Thomas?”
“Me, sir?”
“Do you wish your wife could vote?”
Thomas’s eyes showed too much white. “I’ve never given it much thought,” he said.
A tactful answer, but then Thomas was a man with just the right answer for the right moment. He was the quintessential political being, someone who gave advice after weighing both sides and choosing the best option. Not necessarily the right thing to do but the most expedient.
Once, he would have considered himself fortunate to have a man with Thomas’s instincts working for him. Lately, however, Thomas was a barnacle on his backside.
The world wouldn’t end if he said the wrong thing at the wrong time or chose a position that might go against the mainstream. What was wrong with trying to convince others? What was wrong with being independent of thought and action?
According to Thomas, it would be a death knell to his political ambitions.
Even those were coming under scrutiny, but only his own. He wasn’t up to sharing his dissatisfaction with Thomas and being lectured hourly.
Thomas fumbled with his papers, withdrew one and advanced on his desk.
“I debated showing this to you, sir,” he said.
He extended his hand. “What is it?”
“A broadside, sir. Written by the woman you asked me to investigate.”
He scanned it quickly, then read it slower.
Now, Mairi Sinclair—there was a woman who would march through Edinburgh and say to hell with anyone who tried to challenge her.
Logan held the broadside in his hand and extended it the length of his arm. It didn’t get better at a distance.
Strange, he’d never been the subject of a broadside. She thought him a misogynist, did she? A man whose only intent was to keep women subservient to men?
When had women ever been subservient to men? They simply lived in a different world, one not occupied by meetings, negotiations, and conciliations. Their lives were concerned with fashion and gossip, filled with friends and laughter.
However, he’d enjoyed the columns she’d written under her pseudonyms. A test there, and one he’d spectacularly failed. He’d thought her a man. Nothing she’d written had sounded overtly feminine.
“I think someone should suggest she keep her opinions to herself, sir.”
“I don’t need a keeper. Or a protector, Thomas.”
Thomas’s face grew even more ratlike as his mouth pursed tightly.
Standing, Logan walked out from behind his desk, still clutching the broadside. He strode to the window and looked down at the square, finally turning and addressing his secretary.
“Give me an hour or two,” he said. “There’s nothing pressing on my agenda, is there?”
“You said something about wishing to talk to Miss Drummond’s father, sir.”
That could wait.
Logan’s every movement was dictated by expectations. Everyone’s but his. He countered his momentary irritation with the thought that he’d wanted this life, had done everything he could to obtain it. If the fit sometimes chafed, it was little enough to pay for the privileges of his rank.
“I need to take care of this matter,” he said.
“Sir, are you going to call on Miss Sinclair?”
He bit back his impatience and answered Thomas. “If I am?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to delegate the task to someone else?” Thomas asked. “That way you wouldn’t be accused of consorting with her type.”
Exactly what was her type? He realized he wanted to know, a comment he didn’t make to the other man.
“No, I think I’ll make the time to speak
Thomas looked from left to right, then down at his papers, almost as if he were torn, wanting to answer in the affirmative but being loath to lie in case Logan questioned him further.
He took pity on his secretary. “Perhaps in the future,” he said, “you might ask some of your associates how they feel.”
“I will, sir,” Thomas said.
“How do you feel, Thomas?”
“Me, sir?”
“Do you wish your wife could vote?”
Thomas’s eyes showed too much white. “I’ve never given it much thought,” he said.
A tactful answer, but then Thomas was a man with just the right answer for the right moment. He was the quintessential political being, someone who gave advice after weighing both sides and choosing the best option. Not necessarily the right thing to do but the most expedient.
Once, he would have considered himself fortunate to have a man with Thomas’s instincts working for him. Lately, however, Thomas was a barnacle on his backside.
The world wouldn’t end if he said the wrong thing at the wrong time or chose a position that might go against the mainstream. What was wrong with trying to convince others? What was wrong with being independent of thought and action?
According to Thomas, it would be a death knell to his political ambitions.
Even those were coming under scrutiny, but only his own. He wasn’t up to sharing his dissatisfaction with Thomas and being lectured hourly.
Thomas fumbled with his papers, withdrew one and advanced on his desk.
“I debated showing this to you, sir,” he said.
He extended his hand. “What is it?”
“A broadside, sir. Written by the woman you asked me to investigate.”
He scanned it quickly, then read it slower.
Now, Mairi Sinclair—there was a woman who would march through Edinburgh and say to hell with anyone who tried to challenge her.
Logan held the broadside in his hand and extended it the length of his arm. It didn’t get better at a distance.
Strange, he’d never been the subject of a broadside. She thought him a misogynist, did she? A man whose only intent was to keep women subservient to men?
When had women ever been subservient to men? They simply lived in a different world, one not occupied by meetings, negotiations, and conciliations. Their lives were concerned with fashion and gossip, filled with friends and laughter.
However, he’d enjoyed the columns she’d written under her pseudonyms. A test there, and one he’d spectacularly failed. He’d thought her a man. Nothing she’d written had sounded overtly feminine.
“I think someone should suggest she keep her opinions to herself, sir.”
“I don’t need a keeper. Or a protector, Thomas.”
Thomas’s face grew even more ratlike as his mouth pursed tightly.
Standing, Logan walked out from behind his desk, still clutching the broadside. He strode to the window and looked down at the square, finally turning and addressing his secretary.
“Give me an hour or two,” he said. “There’s nothing pressing on my agenda, is there?”
“You said something about wishing to talk to Miss Drummond’s father, sir.”
That could wait.
Logan’s every movement was dictated by expectations. Everyone’s but his. He countered his momentary irritation with the thought that he’d wanted this life, had done everything he could to obtain it. If the fit sometimes chafed, it was little enough to pay for the privileges of his rank.
“I need to take care of this matter,” he said.
“Sir, are you going to call on Miss Sinclair?”
He bit back his impatience and answered Thomas. “If I am?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to delegate the task to someone else?” Thomas asked. “That way you wouldn’t be accused of consorting with her type.”
Exactly what was her type? He realized he wanted to know, a comment he didn’t make to the other man.
“No, I think I’ll make the time to speak
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