Page 22 of Betrothal Between Enemies

Ismay had two glasses nearly finished when Alistair rejoined her. ‘I’m ready to leave now. Are you?’ He gave a sharp nod to the empty flutes. ‘Perhaps we’ll need a carriage after all.’

‘I’m fine,’ she protested indignantly, but Alistair noted she didn’t mind the extra support that came with taking his arm as they navigated the stairs.

They stepped out onto the street amid the press of other shoppers continuing their errands after riposo, Alistair offering firm guidance through the crowds, making sure Ismay didn’t trip. They made their way to the Piazza del Plebiscito and took a moment to enjoy the views of the bay before Ismay engaged the conversation.

‘How was Professor Loughty? I’m almost afraid to ask. The conversation looked rather intense from where I stood. But I need to know since I will have to deal with the fallout.’ Alistair heard the scold in that for him. He’d started a war with Loughty, but he’d be leaving if all went well. She’d be left behind to clean up.

‘Oh, you are right about him. He’s a narrow-minded, pompous fool. I tried to persuade him, anyway.’ He recounted the conversation for her. ‘I suggested that such exclusion bordered on deliberate censorship. He had no answer except stammering outrage.’

‘It’s quite a coup that you brought him to blustering. He won’t like you for it.’ Ismay raised a hand to steady her hat against an errant gust off the water. He felt the wind move through his own hair. ‘Thank you for standing up for me.’ She smiled at him then, and the smile lit her whole face. It lit him, too, to think that he was the cause of it.

She laughed. ‘You look very Saxon today with the wind pushing your hair back. My own Saxon warrior.’ She cocked her head. ‘Do you remember the time we tried to take down the broadsword from over the fireplace at Sessile Oaks?’

Alistair grinned. The Burke-Prices were proud of that heritage. ‘It was one of the few times a prank failed. That sword was heavy.’

‘I do appreciate the motive behind what you did, Alistair, although I don’t know if any good will come of it,’ she began gently as they left the piazza behind and began the walk home. ‘But it was not necessary. I can fight my own battles.’

He covered her hand where it rested on his arm. ‘Not to be disrespectful of your efforts, Ismay, but how is that going? Your work was not printed in the journal because Loughty thinks a woman can’t think or write about science. You are breaking yourself against a rock that cannot be moved.’

‘Rocks erode.’ She gave a weary sigh.

‘Over time. Over centuries. Do you have that kind of time? In England, Mary Moser was one of the original founders of the Royal Academy of Arts. She died last year. The academy has no intentions of replacing her with another woman, although there has been at least one female artist that I know of who is more than capable—Artemisia Stansfield. Last December, her application for admission was considered and summarily rejected, or at least it will be. They’ve given her a probationary period to prove herself, but it’s only because she raised a fuss and rightfully pointed out she more than met the qualifications. Short of establishing an academy of her own to compete with the RA, she is stuck. There is no pathway there for her.’

‘I don’t think I like your story.’ Ismay stopped walking and faced him, her eyes blazing. ‘Are you saying it’s hopeless without a man to back me?’

He made a strategic retreat. That’s not where he meant this conversation to lead. ‘I am saying it’s all right to need help, to climb on the shoulders of others, especially when they are willing to lift you up. I am also saying you are not alone. You are not the only woman in the fight. Some women win. Your mother, for instance. She’s a respected cellist and symphony composer.’

‘Because she’s married. Lady Thomas Rose is successful,’ Ismay said, dismissing the argument. ‘I want to stand on my own merits. I don’t want to be accepted because Lady or Mistress is in front of my name, which won’t even be my name, since a woman takes her husband’s name. It becomes her identity. Think about how letters arrive for your mother. She is Mrs Hugh Burke-Price to Society. I want to be Ismay Rose. Forever. Just like you get to be Alistair Burke-Price for your entire life.’

‘I’d never thought of it that way.’ Ismay had a point. He wondered how he would feel if he had to change his name? What if he had to become Mr Ismay Rose? He’d not thought of it before.

‘Of course not. Men don’t. It never occurs to them that a woman isn’t grateful to give up her rights and her name to be their wife, to rise or fall on their efforts.’

They started up the gradini of the Petraio. Alistair waited while Ismay gathered her skirts to keep them from the mud. ‘That’s another reason I didn’t want you to speak to Loughty. If anything good comes from it, it will be your doing, not mine.’

‘Was my gallantry misplaced, then?’ He had acted on her behalf today, and she was scolding him for it. ‘Only fools rush in?’ he said, quoting from Pope. Perhaps he had been a fool today—her fool.

‘No, Alistair, don’t think that,’ she rushed to assure him. ‘The sentiment was well-meant. No one has ever done such a thing for me before.’

‘Not even Edward Ashford?’ His pride couldn’t help but ask. A man liked to know.

She gave a hard laugh. ‘Especially not Edward. He would say I deserved rejection for my folly.’

‘I hate him all the more, then.’ What a dolt Ashford must have been not to appreciate her mind, and what damage he had done to a young, impressionable, eighteen-year-old woman still finding her wings. That damage was still being done, in Alistair’s opinion.

‘Truly, Alistair, I don’t want you to think I am ungrateful for your intervention.’

‘I understand. I have a tendency to rush in, to act on good intentions that are often impractical in the long run.’

She squeezed his arm affectionately, making him feel less vulnerable with his confession. ‘I know. Remember, I was there for all your summer pranks.’

‘Those mostly turned out fine,’ he defended himself with a laugh. ‘But I didn’t outgrow it.’ If he wanted to tell her about his idea for a journal, he had to tell her about the cartel first. He needed her to understand that. ‘When I was twenty-five, I was eager to try my hand at making money like my father did. Up until then, all of my business pursuits had been participating in my father’s ventures and benefiting from being under the aegis of his expertise. I wanted to strike out for myself. I had a small inheritance from a great-aunt that I pledged for the venture. I wanted to start a clotted cream cartel that united the dairy industry in our area and ship clotted cream to London.’

‘How would you keep it from souring? Sessile Oaks is nearly four days from London. Maybe you could ship in the winter?’ Ismay’s mind was already working, her brow furrowing over the problem. ‘Ice would be expensive and would add to overhead.’

‘That was my question exactly. How to get it there intact.’ Alistair smiled. ‘Time was of the essence. So I designed a relay system that cut the delivery time to two days. It worked, but it wasn’t sustainable. The overhead on the ice and the horses was not cost-effective. We had to charge five times the amount the cream was worth just to break even, which decreased the number of customers who would be able to buy the product.’ He shook his head, remembering those days, the struggle to succeed, and then ultimately needing to admit to the failure.

‘We’d thought to appeal to the middle and upper classes in the beginning. But when that was not possible, we promoted ourselves as a subscription for exclusive households. We raised the price and targeted wealthy homes. We felt we had a better chance of regularly shipping to them than to cast a wide net working with grocers and food providers for the general public.’