Setting: A dimly lit meeting hall in London, 1888. The air is heavy with the scent of candle wax and damp wool. Around thirty women, ranging from seamstresses to society ladies, huddle on mismatched chairs and benches, their voices low as they discuss the movement's next steps. On a small makeshift stage at the front, Clara Whitmore prepares to address the group.
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Nell Hastings sat near the back of the room, her gloved fingers knotted together in her lap. She had slipped out of her family's townhouse an hour earlier, heart racing as she ducked into a hired cab. If her father knew she was here—if anyone knew—her carefully constructed life would crumble in an instant. But she couldn't stay away.
The women around her spoke in hushed, urgent tones, their faces lit with a fervor Nell envied but did not yet feel. She had come to the meeting out of a vague, restless need: for purpose, for escape, for something beyond the suffocating constraints of tea parties and arranged courtships.
A sudden silence fell over the room as Clara Whitmore stepped onto the stage.
Nell straightened in her seat, struck immediately by the woman's presence. Clara was not beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp and strong, her auburn hair loosely pinned as if she hadn't bothered much with her appearance. But there was a fire in her dark eyes, a vibrancy that made the dim room feel suddenly brighter.
"Good evening, sisters," Clara began, her voice clear and warm. She had the easy confidence of someone accustomed to commanding attention. "Tonight, we speak not of what we are allowed, but of what we deserve. The system has told us we must wait—for votes, for wages, for freedom. I say: we wait no longer."
The room erupted into soft applause and murmurs of agreement. Nell found herself leaning forward, captivated.
Clara continued, her voice rising with passion. "Every day, 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, and Nell clapped along before she realized what she was doing. She flushed, feeling suddenly out of place among these bold, fearless women.
As Clara stepped down from the stage, the women began to discuss plans for distributing pamphlets. Nell hesitated, unsure whether to stay or slip out unnoticed. She was reaching for her gloves when a voice startled her.
"You're new here."
Nell turned sharply to find Clara standing beside her, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. Up close, Clara's intensity was even more disarming.
"Yes, I—" Nell faltered, her cheeks heating. "I've read some of your pamphlets. I thought I should—well, I thought it was time to get involved."
Clara's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Good. The more women who step forward, the stronger we are. What's your name?"
"Nell Hastings," she 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. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't ready."
Clara studied her for a moment, as if measuring her sincerity, then extended her hand. "In that case, welcome to the fight."
When Nell took Clara's hand, a jolt of warmth shot through her, unexpected and exhilarating. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, the noise of the room faded into nothing.
"Thank you," Nell said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.
Clara's grip lingered just a second too long before she pulled away, her expression unreadable. "Stick close tonight. I'll show you the ropes."
As Clara moved on to speak with another woman, Nell pressed her hands together to stop their trembling. 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.