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  Not stopping, she called back over her shoulder, "Why, to talk with those women, of course. I'd like to hear firsthand what their conditions are and, more to the point, for what improvements they're striking. Perhaps I can be of some help to them."

  He caught up beside her, made as if to grab hold of her elbow again but this time she moved away before he could. "Leave it alone, Callie."

  "Rubbish. I'll just dash over and chat for a few minutes and then we'll be on our way."

  "Not on your own, you won't."

  She whirled about, blocking him with a hand against his chest. "We are women. We settle things not by brawling, but by talking. It is men who use their fists to force their way whereas women employ reason to appeal to one another's sensibilities."

  He looked down at her hand, the palm flattened against his sternum. Even though they wore winter coats and gloves, the intimacy of the gesture, and the perfect ease with which she'd touched him, caught her off-guard. She took her hand away.

  "You are standing in the middle of Bow, Callie, not some Mayfair drawing room. I've known women who thought nothing of hammering away at one another like prize pugilists. Survival of the fittest is the only rule that applies here, or do you dismiss Origin of the Species outright simply because Darwin was a man?"

  "We shall see." Leaving him standing on the sidewalk, she turned and walked toward the factory's smoke-charred facade.

  Reaching it, she ran a practiced eye over the group congregated about the dustbin. It didn't take her more than a moment to pick out the leader, a rail-thin woman who stood slightly apart from the clutch of shivering bodies. Despite the blustery day, she wore a decades-old bonnet and only a thin calico shawl over her dress, but her air of authority was unmistakable.

  Callie cleared her throat, though the women's stiffened stances and wary expressions told her they were well aware of her approach. "Hullo there. May I inquire as to which one of you is acting in the capacity of leader?"

  Predictably, the woman with the calico shawl turned to face her. She might have been twenty-five or forty-five, it was impossible to tell. Lines bracketed the corners of her hard eyes and tightly drawn mouth, and the skin stretched over her sharp-boned face was the color of parchment.

  "That would be me." The woman planted a knobby fist on either hip and ran her gaze over Callie with a slow thoroughness calculated to intimidate. "Who is it that wants to know?"

  Callie stood her ground, the women in the circle stabbing her with hard, appraising stares that ran the gamut from envious to openly hostile. Plain and simple though her clothes might be, in this company they stood out as costly to the point of decadence. Then there was the matter of her name. While the Movement included women of all classes, there were still those working women who viewed the fight for suffrage as the pursuit of the privileged. If any of these women were of such a mind, then owning up to being Caledonia Rivers might well prove more liability than boon.

  "For now, perhaps you might think of me as an interested bystander."

  The woman scowled. "Then you'd best stand somewhere else. It's serious business we're about, and we've no time for curiosity seekers--or mealy-mouthed do-gooders, either . . ."

  The rest of whatever she'd meant to say erupted into a hacking cough. In the throes of it, she pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and, without apology, spat into the worn folds. She stuffed it back inside her pocket but not before Callie glimpsed the bright bloom of blood.

  Lifting her gaze to the woman's worn face, she said in her most matter-of-fact tone, "Fair enough. If I say that I am sympathetic to your plight and that I have some experience in organizing protests, would you speak to me then?"

  "She don't look like a strikebreaker, Mum."

  Callie looked down to the small girl tugging at her skirt. Wide, intelligent eyes peered up at her from a thin, white face.

  Addressing herself to the child, she answered, "That's because I'm not. I'm what people call a reformer--a person who works to try and make things better." Ignoring the snickers behind her, she squatted down until she was eye-level with the child. "And may I ask your name?"

  "I'm June Brown. And she's me mum." She pointed to the leader.

  Glancing back over her shoulder, Callie saw the mother's gaze soften as it rested on her child. She's the joy of her life, Callie thought and beyond all reason she felt a pang of envy.

  She turned back to the little girl. "I'm pleased to meet you, June Brown. I'm Caledonia. Caledonia Rivers."

  Sudden silence surrounded her, making it obvious they knew exactly who and what she was. Beneath her breath, one woman hissed, "Bloody suffragist," but Callie ignored her and held out her hand to the child.

  June laid her tiny hand trustingly inside, and Callie felt her heart squeeze in on itself. She could well understand why Mrs. Brown would resign herself to slaving in the living hell of the match factory to keep this precious being fed and clothed.

  "I'd be pleased if you'd call me Callie."

  Brown eyes solemn, June nodded. "All right then. I like Callie better anyway."

  "So do I." Smiling, Callie straightened and turned to face the women who'd moved in to form a circle about her. For a handful of seconds Hadrian's warning flashed through her mind, then she dismissed it. To a woman, the strikers were too tired, too dispirited, and, she suspected, too weak with hunger and despair to raise a hand in violence--particularly to someone who, though an outsider, was willing to help.

  The leader stepped toward Callie and extended her hand. "I'm Iris. Iris Brown."

  "Mrs. Brown, my pleasure." Callie grasped the roughened hand firmly in hers.

  Iris Brown looked down at their clasped hands for a long moment before letting go. Apparently coming to a decision, she turned to indicate the others. "This lot is Doris, Jenny, Annie, Martha, and Old Emma."

  "Ladies." Callie acknowledged each woman in turn, expensive kid leather joining hands with moth-eaten wool and bare, chapped skin. Breaking away from the last of the women, Callie asked, "May I ask then what terms you are proposing in order to resume work?"

  Iris produced a folded paper from beneath her shawl and passed it to Callie. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt for you to have a look. We've nothing to hide."

  "Thank you." Callie unfolded the limp paper and read through the list of demands, a half-dozen or so items scratched out in block letters and with the poor spelling and grammar characteristic of young children. Even so, the women were clear about what changes they wanted implemented. Elimination of the current system of fines--three pence to one shilling for talking, dropping matches, or going to the loo without the permission of the shift manager; a half-day's pay in punishment for lateness. Although the "offenses" were so minor as to be absurd, the fines didn't seem to Callie to be overly harsh . . . until someone explained that a week's wage was only five shillings.

  Five shillings! From the little she'd read of sweatshop labor, she'd understood that working conditions in the factories were substandard at best, abysmal at worst. Even so, she hadn't realized the situation was this bad.

  She skimmed the rest of the demands--a separate room in which to take meals so that the women wouldn't have to eat at their workbenches, an increase in pay to six shillings a week, and a half-day off every other Saturday so that they could spend more time at home with their families.

  Handing back the paper, she said, "These all seem quite reasonable. What did the factory owner say when you met with him to present your grievances?"

  Iris snorted. "I don't know as I'd call it a meeting exactly. Said he runs a business, not an almshouse, and that anyone who don't care for the way things are is free to go elsewhere. Then he fined me a week's wages for having the cheek to show my face at his office door. It meant June going without milk for a full week. Toward week's end, I had to keep her home from school; she hadn't the strength to walk."

  This time Callie couldn't hold back. "But that's . . . that's outrageous."

  Old Emma spoke up, "Hardcastle ai
n't exactly known for 'is Christian feeling, miss."

  "Mr. Hardcastle is the proprietor, I take it?"

  The women nodded in unison.

  Old Emma turned her head and spat into the gutter. "Aye, and a miserable unfeeling wretch he is, as was his father before him."

  The young woman introduced as Doris confided, "We call him Mr. Hard-Arse behind his back." She grinned broadly, revealing a patchwork of missing and brown teeth, a smile sadly out of step with her smooth, youthful face. "Why, when he caught Peg Yardley saying so, he docked her a full day's wages. Peg, God love her, said it was worth it to see the bugger's face go afire."

  Tepid laughter made the rounds, but there was no real mirth in the women's faces, only misery.

  A broad hand settled on her shoulder. "There are some things on which you can't put a price."

  Callie whipped about to find Hadrian standing behind her, so close that were she to back up a step, she would find herself pressed against him. That thought alone sent a little shock of electricity shooting down her spine, making her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

  Doris shook her head, liberal patches of pink scalp showing through her thin brown hair, yet another effect of the phosphorous poisoning or poor nutrition or perhaps both, Callie suspected. "If we strike and fail, this time it's sure to be the sack for all of us." She brightened. "Then again, as they say, 'naught ventured, naught gained'."

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Callie looked down at little June, who was stroking the top of Callie's kid leather glove with the reverence usually reserved for small, furry animals, and prayed the adage would hold true.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Wherever a noble deed is done, 'tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred. Wherever the right hath triumph won, there are the heroes' voices heard."

  --MARY LEE, South Australia Register, 1890

  Fair wages for women, now. Fair wages for women NOW!"

  Carrying makeshift placards, the women marched up and down the factory walk, their carrying voices beginning to attract the attention of passersby.

  From inside the gated entrance, the proprietor, Mr. Hardcastle shouted out, "Shove off or I'll call the bobbies on you bloody bitches, and don't think I won't."

  Balanced atop the vegetable crate that served as a makeshift speaker's platform, Callie called back, "We are on the public street, sir, and well within our rights. If anyone is disturbing the peace, it is you."

  "Is that so?" He elbowed the barrel-chested foreman next to him.

  With a grin, the foreman shoved away from the wall and sauntered though the open gate to the protestors. He stopped before Iris Brown and, reaching across, wrenched the sign out of her grasp. "Take this, bitch." He hefted the placard high and brought the end of the wooden handle down atop Iris's head.

  "Mum!" Screaming, June rushed over to her mother, who'd folded to her knees, blood spilling onto the cobbles.

  Mayhem broke out with more men pouring out from the factory doors, converging on the women with fists and clubs.

  Caught up in the chaos, Callie didn't see the shop foreman coming toward her until hard hands encircled her waist, pulling her off the crate and flush against his thighs. "What's a tasty bit o' crumpet like yourself about making mischief 'ere?" His thick-lipped mouth covered hers in a foul-breathed kiss.

  "No!" Callie drove her knee upward, catching her assaulter in the groin. With a howl, he dropped back to clutch himself.

  Looking beyond him, she searched the sea of flailing bodies for Hadrian, but he was nowhere to be found. She started forward but a dark shape blocked her way.

  The foreman hefted a heavy hand. "Bloody bitch, you'll get your comeuppance, I'll see to that." The backhanded blow caught her squarely across her cheek. She staggered, the gate at her back breaking her fall.

  "Bastard!"

  The fist whizzing past caused Callie to duck only this time the blow wasn't meant for her but for her attacker. Bare knuckles connected with the man's bulbous nose in a cartilage-crushing crunch that dropped him to his knees.

  Sidestepping the fallen man, Hadrian rushed to her side. "Come, we've got to get you out of here." Throwing an arm about her shoulders, he steered her away from the scene.

  Digging in her heels, she said, "But I can't just leave them. I--"

  Somewhere in the near distance a police siren blared. Hadrian tightened his hold. "Callie, for bloody once do as I say. Take hold of me and run. Run, Callie, run!"

  Hadrian led them through a maze of winding streets, concealed courtyards, and rubbish-strewn alleyways, navigating like a seasoned ship's captain charting his course around a storm. Later Callie would marvel at how he seemed to know without stopping to think just which way to turn--but for the moment all she could manage was to fill her lungs with great gulps of icy air and run for dear life.

  They ducked into a gin shop alley just as a police wagon sped by. Breathing hard, Hadrian leaned back against the crumbling stone wall. "I think we managed to give them the slip. We'll rest here . . . for . . . a moment."

  Callie fell back next to him, one hand pressed to the invisible knife stabbing at her side. "What . . . what just happened?"

  He turned to look at her. Like her, he'd lost his hat. Sweat streamed the side of his face, darkening the golden hair at his temples. "It seems Hardcastle made good on his threat and sent someone to call out the bobbies after all."

  "But that's outrageous. It was he who ordered those men to come after us. Oh, Hadrian, he must have planned it all along." And she, Callie, had stepped right into his trap, leading the other women to follow. She shoved away from the wall. "I have to go back and explain."

  He grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "Don't be a fool or a martyr either. You can't very well help if you're jailed alongside them, now can you? Tomorrow you can post bail, give a statement if you like. For now, leave it."

  Leave it. How many times in the span of the past few hours had he told her to do just that and how many times had she brushed aside his objection, assuming she knew what was best. Now instead of being at their liberty, Iris Brown and the others were beaten and on their way to incarceration.

  Thinking of June Brown cradling her mother's bleeding head in her small lap, she felt perilously close to crying. "I was only trying to help them and, dear Lord, look what I've done. Thanks to me, they're worse off than they ever were."

  "Hey, you." He wrapped an arm about her, his body an anchor of comfort against a world gone suddenly to sea. "It's not all bad."

  Fighting tears, she shook her head. "Isn't it?"

  Eyes fixed on her face, he said, "You gave those women hope, a sense of purpose. Because of you, they were able to stand tall and proud, perhaps for the first time in their lives. They may not have prevailed today but because of you they may do so tomorrow or the next. At least now they'll have the tools, the resolve, to try again."

  She fitted a hand to her forehead, damp with perspiration despite the raw air. "I doubt that will afford anyone much comfort tonight as they're lying on a hard jail floor with throbbing heads and empty stomachs."

  He looked at her with the same mixture of tenderness and weary resignation she might have shown little June. "Sometimes it's the beauty of the struggle that makes an action worthwhile. I should think a warrior princess such as you would own the truth in that."

  "I don't feel much like a warrior, even less a princess."

  He laid his hand along her cheek. Now that they'd stopped running, the place where she'd been hit had begun to throb. Tracing the bruise that was surely taking shape by now, he looked into her eyes and said, "My brave, beautiful Caledonia, whatever can I do to make you see the wonderful truth of who you are?"

  Callie didn't think first, only acted, a condition that was becoming more and more frequent since Hadrian had come into her life. "You could kiss me."

  "Could I now?" He smiled but his eyes boring into hers were disconcertingly sober.

  "Yes." Lifting her face to his, she fe
lt something cold and wet strike the tip of her nose.

  Hadrian must have felt it too. He pulled away to look up. She followed his gaze to the sliver of white sky visible through the arc of sagging rooftops. Blast, but it was snowing.

  Unwinding his woolen scarf, he wrapped it about her neck. "We'd best save that kiss for later. For now, I have to get you inside somewhere safe and dry until this business blows over. Fortunately I know just the place."

  It was coming on twilight when they reached Hadrian's friend, Sally's house. The streets in this part of the city were not only narrow and winding but poorly lit. The new electrical lights had yet to make it this far eastward, and from what Callie could see maintenance of the old gas fixtures was spotty at best. That left large patches of darkness relieved only by the odd lit window or doorway. In contrast, the gabled house Hadrian led her up to was glowing like a Christmas tree, Chinese lanterns festooning the gated entrance and the three tiers of windows, splashing their gaily colorful iridescence onto the bricked courtyard and cobbled street.

  Sally Potts was a prostitute, Callie could see that straightaway. Unlike the ragged, careworn creature she'd encountered in the market, the woman who answered Hadrian's knock, or rather three sharp raps, was plump and handsome, her low-cut taffeta gown suited for evening though it was barely four o'clock.

  They stepped inside the entrance hall, the walls decked with flocked paper and pier glasses, the etched glass sconces fired with electric, not gas. Closing the door behind him, Hadrian said, "Callie, this is an old friend of mine, Sally Potts. Sally, I'd like to introduce Miss Caledonia Rivers."

  Callie stared, she couldn't help it. Face paint, lots of it. A prodigious quantity of powdered bosom protruding from a square-cut bodice. Red hair, obviously dyed, elaborately curled and piled high with combs. Likely the woman was at best a few years Callie's senior, and yet the elaborate artifice made her seem at least a decade older.