The meeting hall was cloaked in shadows, the dim light from scattered candles doing little to dispel the gloom. The air smelled faintly of damp wool, wax, and the lingering chill of the London evening. Outside, the cobbled streets were slick with rain, the occasional rumble of a carriage passing by muffled through the thick stone walls. Inside, however, the room was alive with low, urgent voices and the rustle of skirts as women shifted on their mismatched chairs and benches, huddled close to discuss the movement that had brought them together.
Nell Hastings sat near the back, her gloved fingers tightly knotted in her lap. Her heart had not stopped racing since she'd slipped out of her family's townhouse, slipping past the watchful eyes of the staff and climbing into the hired cab she'd ordered under an assumed name. She had pressed herself into the corner of the carriage the entire ride, her pulse thrumming with the possibility of being caught. If her father—or worse, her mother—found out where she was tonight, the carefully constructed life she had spent years perfecting would crumble. But even knowing that, she couldn't stay away.
The women around her spoke in hushed tones, their voices low but filled with fervor. Nell listened, her ears straining to catch snippets of their conversation: mentions of rallies, pamphlets, arrests, and strikes. Some of the women were seamstresses, their hands visibly calloused from long hours at their work; others, like the older woman sitting two rows ahead, wore dresses of finer material, their presence a sign that this fight extended far beyond class. For many of them, their purpose was clear. Their resolve was palpable. Nell envied it.
She wasn't sure why she had come here. A vague, restless need had driven her—a desire for something more than the suffocating constraints of her life, the endless tea parties and forced smiles, the looming expectation of an arranged courtship to a man she barely knew. But now that she was here, sitting in the shadows of these bold, determined women, she felt like an imposter. What am I doing here? she thought, her chest tightening with doubt.
A sudden silence fell over the room, and all heads turned toward the small makeshift stage at the front. Nell followed their gaze, her breath catching as a woman stepped into the weak pool of candlelight.
Clara Whitmore.
Even before she spoke, Clara's presence filled the room. She was not beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp, her cheekbones high, her auburn hair pinned back loosely as if she had more important things to do than fuss over her appearance. But there was something arresting about her. The fire in her dark eyes seemed to burn brighter than the candlelight, and her posture—upright and unflinching—radiated confidence. The dimly lit room suddenly felt warmer, charged with an energy that hadn't been there a moment before.
"Good evening, sisters," Clara began, her voice clear and steady, carrying easily over the room. She spoke with the ease of someone accustomed to being heard, her tone warm but laced with steel. "Tonight, we speak not of what we are allowed, but of what we deserve."
Nell felt herself leaning forward instinctively, captivated by the sheer force of Clara's presence. Her words were a spark, igniting something in the air, something dangerous and exhilarating.
"The system has told us to wait," Clara continued, her voice rising with passion. "To wait for votes. To wait for wages. To wait for freedom. I say: we wait no longer."
The room erupted into soft applause and murmurs of agreement, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. Nell clapped too, almost without realizing it, her chest tightening with a feeling she didn't yet have a name for.
Clara's gaze swept over the room, her dark eyes seeming to linger on every face. "Every day," she said, her voice softer now, almost intimate. "They tell us to lower our eyes. To keep our thoughts silent, our hands idle. But why should we? Who among us is not tired of being told who we are allowed to be? And who among us is not ready to fight for something more?"
A cheer broke out, louder this time, and Nell felt herself swept up in it. She clapped harder, a rush of emotion rising in her chest. She's right, Nell thought, her pulse quickening. I'm tired too.
For the rest of Clara's speech, Nell could barely breathe. The way Clara spoke—directly, passionately, unapologetically—was unlike anything she had ever heard. This wasn't the polite activism of drawing-room debates or charity fundraisers. This was something raw, urgent, and real.
When Clara finally stepped down from the stage, the women began breaking into small groups, their voices rising again as they discussed the practicalities of distributing pamphlets and organizing meetings. Nell sat frozen in her seat, her gloves clenched tightly in her lap. She felt as though she had been struck by lightning, every nerve in her body alive with a mixture of awe and uncertainty.
She was just reaching for her gloves, thinking it might be better to slip out unnoticed, when a voice startled her.
"You're new here."
Nell turned sharply, her cheeks heating as she found herself face-to-face with Clara Whitmore. Up close, Clara was even more disarming. Her eyes, dark and intense, seemed to see straight through her, and the faint curve of her lips hinted at a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
"Yes, I…" Nell faltered, suddenly aware of how out of place she must seem. Her coat was fine wool, her gloves expensive leather—not the attire of someone accustomed to rebellion. "I've read some of your pamphlets," she managed. "I thought I should—well, I thought it was time to get involved."
Clara's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Good," she said simply. "The more women who step forward, the stronger we are." She extended her hand. "What's your name?"
"Nell Hastings," Nell said softly, glancing around the room as though someone might overhear.
"Well, Nell Hastings," Clara said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, "what are you willing to risk for the cause? Because this isn't just tea and talk, you know. This is work. Dangerous work."
Nell's heart raced, but she lifted her chin, a flicker of defiance rising within her. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't ready."
Clara studied her for a moment, her gaze searching as though measuring the truth of Nell's words. Then, slowly, she extended her hand again. "In that case," she said, her voice steady, "welcome to the fight."
Nell took Clara's hand, her palm warm and slightly rough against her own. The touch sent an unexpected jolt through her—a spark of connection that left her breathless. Their eyes met, and for a brief, charged moment, the noise of the room seemed to fade into nothing.
"Thank you," Nell said softly, her voice steadier than she expected.
Clara's grip lingered a moment longer before she released her, her expression unreadable. "Stick close tonight," she said, her voice carrying a hint of warmth. "I'll show you the ropes."
As Clara moved on to speak with another woman, Nell sat back in her chair, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed them together. She had come here looking for purpose, for a way to rebel against the life laid out for her.
Instead, she had found Clara Whitmore.
And for the first time in her life, Nell felt that she was exactly where she needed to be.