Betina Krahn (5 page)

“Oh? It’s a company now, is it?” Sir William leaned forward, intrigued.

“I am working to establish a business concern that will produce a decent and human alternative to the dangerous devices now in widespread use.”

“And just which ‘dangerous devices’ do you refer to,
Miss Duncan?” Sir William said, studying the clear, slightly flushed face turned up to him.

“Steel-boned corsets, unbending backboards, strangulating collars … heavy, unsanitary petticoats and bustle frames that distort the spine and collect every sort of dirt and vermin …” She saw the surprise on Sir William’s face and smiled apologetically. “Forgive my frankness, Your Honor, but things that are ‘not-to-be-spoken-of’ can never be changed. At virtually every social function in society there is at least one swoon caused by overlacing, and on warm days untold numbers of women are rendered unconscious by their desperate pursuit of the infamous eighteen-inch waist. Young girls who grow up with such brutal bindings never draw a free or normal breath. They have ribs broken and spines weakened by corseting and they suffer from air starvation and develop weak and unhealthy constitutions as a result. Their children are born small and sickly and their childbed experiences rank as unspeakable terrors, all because of the ridiculous whims of fashionmongers. I believe they should be given another choice, a healthy and gracious alternative. And corsets are but one of the horrors I mean to liberate my fellow humans from …”

“Just what do you propose women wear instead, Miss Duncan?”

“Female trousers, Your Honor,” Farnsworth blurted out. “
Bloomers!
She wants to dress women in absurd, indecent garments more suited to heathen harems than to decent London streets!”

“There is nothing indecent about such garments,” she declared, her voice rising.

“She would have women bare their arms and their … chests!”

“Only in summer, during the hottest weather. And somewhat less ‘chest’ than is revealed by
proper
debutantes in
proper
society.”

Open talk of petticoats, corsets, and “chests”—Cole
thought as he leaned forward—small wonder the old man was so keen to hear this case!

Madeline Duncan glared at the opposition and flung her cloak aside, baring her own garments. “I ask you, Your Honor, are these clothes indecent? offensive? apt to cause riots in the streets?”

Sounds of indrawn breaths were audible throughout the courtroom. Miss Duncan was clothed in what appeared to be a long scarlet jacket, superbly tailored, with offset front buttons and black velvet collar and cuffs. The garment skimmed her narrow waist and the contour of her hips and ended at her knees. Below it was what appeared to be a narrow black skirt—until she moved her feet and the garment parted. She wore trousers, cuffed at the bottom like a gentleman’s.

There was considerable murmuring as Sir William hoisted himself up and leaned across the bench for a better look. In the gallery Cole was on his feet and moving down to the railing for a better view.

Madeline Duncan’s tunic was a vibrant slash of red in that sea of austere robes and weathered oak. Her womanly silhouette seemed to glow in the hazy light coming from the high windows as she turned slowly, lifting her arms, inviting inspection.

Cole found himself accepting that bold invitation. With a connoisseur’s eye he examined her broad shoulders, narrow waist, and ripely curved bottom—which were free of frames and pads and weighty layers of petticoats. Her garments were tailored yet far from mannish—quite flattering to her figure. With mild surprise Cole realized that she was younger than he had first supposed. Certainly more curvaceous …

“See for yourself, Your Honor. If I hadn’t moved my feet, you wouldn’t have known I was wearing a bifurcated garment at all. There is nothing the slightest bit indecent about my clothing. In fact, it is the height of sensibility. I have arranged a demonstration for comparison’s sake. If you will indulge me for a moment …”

Despite objections from the other side, Sir William was of a mood to do just that. At his nod, she hurried to the rear of the courtroom to admit a young woman wearing a long cloak. Miss Duncan led her before the bench and removed the wrap. The young woman was clad in an elegant mauve and black satin ball gown made with beaded straps over the shoulders, a plunging neckline, a torturously narrow waist, and an elaborate bustle—the height of current fashion.

“I purchased this gown two weeks ago from one of the city’s leading dressmakers,” Miss Duncan declared. “It is precisely the sort of thing worn all over London for evening parties and social gatherings. Notice the depth of the neckline and how much skin is displayed. Notice also how the use of a corset thrusts the young lady’s … attributes … well, more into view.” No man in the courtroom could help noticing. Miss Duncan had cannily chosen her model to maximize the “more” that would be “thrust into view.” Cole’s eyes gleamed with sudden admiration for the intrepid Miss Duncan.

You sly thing. Flash them a bit of flesh for comparison, will you?
He propped his chin on his fist, on the railing, and stared at her.

“You may also note the rigid bodice and the elaborate and cumbersome bustle and train,” she went on, “that serve no purpose whatsoever except to emphasize and draw attention to the lower parts of a woman’s
anatomy
. Along with Mr. G. F. Watts, I loathe fashion’s suggestion that the feminine half of humanity is furnished with tails.” She nodded at the shocked murmurs her words elicited. “You might well take offense at my blunt words, good sirs, but they should shock you no more than this lady’s dress. This is the very sort of crippling garment women are routinely tricked up into, to be sent out among the throngs to display their ‘marital wares.’ ” She folded her hands with genteel determination.

“By contrast, I offer a wholesome aesthetic alternative. Which of us, Your Honor, shows more flesh?” She posed
beside her model. “Which of us shows more bodily parts?” When sufficient time had passed for them to draw the inevitable conclusion, she continued. “And from a practical standpoint, which of us is more capable of normal daily functions?” She dropped a handkerchief on the floor and waved the young woman to retrieve it.

When the model was unable to bend or do more than just look helpless, Miss Duncan stooped gracefully, her back straight, and picked it up.

“Come here, young woman. I want a closer look at those clothes,” Sir William ordered, using his gavel to wave her around the side of the court and up the steps to his bench. He enthusiastically set his hands to her waist and reported tartly: “For the record, Miss Duncan apparently practices what she preaches. She is not wearing a corset.” The mutters of outrage that wafted through the court became gasps when he lifted the bottom of her jacket and peered beneath it. “Can’t see an inch of flesh. Not even a glimpse of ankle. A pity, Miss Duncan.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Many a gentleman has been started on the path to the altar by a glimpse of a well-turned ankle.”

“Your Honor, we object most strenuously to this tawdry theatrical display!” Farnsworth erupted in a voice pitched faintly toward hysteria.

“Overruled!” Sir William snapped, and turned back to have one last peek under the hem of her jacket before dismissing her.

As she recrossed the dais, Madeline Duncan passed through a beam of late morning sun giving off a flash of red serge and burnished hair. For a moment Cole couldn’t seem to clear the sight of her from his vision. His hands fairly itched to investigate those unique garments, and he realized, looking around the court, that nearly every man present was suffering the same impulse.

Clever chit. What else do you have up your reformed sleeve?

“Your Honor, my clients’ refusal is not based solely on
the garments in question, but on how she means to produce them.” Farnsworth tried yet again to state his case, this time with better luck. Sir William’s attention shifted pointedly to him.

“What?” William the Conqueror snapped. “She intends to knit them all herself?”

Farnsworth paused to rein in his tongue and collect his composure, then proceeded. “Included in Miss Duncan’s inheritance was a small woolen mill in a dying village in East Sussex. A place called St. Crispin on Crewes. The place has long since been abandoned and has fallen into a pathetic state. There is no longer any demand for the coarse fabric it once produced, and the village itself has lost much of its able-bodied population. There is no longer an adequate supply of workers. The rail line passed the place by, leaving it without transportation suitable for manufactured goods. The village is dying.”

“Miss Duncan, however”—Dunwoody popped up again—“proposes to prolong its misery by pouring a great deal of her capital into the place. She wishes to reopen the mill and transport a throng of London rabble out to occupy the cottages and work in her factory. And that is only the start. She plans to fund new trades and services in the village, hire artisans and craftsmen to teach trades to these escapees from the London stews.”

“She intends to turn the place into a ‘worker’s paradise.’ ” Ecklesbery rose beside his partner with a disdainful air. “Speaks of guaranteeing them a wage, taking care of their dependents, hiring a physician, a schoolmaster.”

“In short, Your Honor,” Farnsworth declared, taking charge once more and giving his clients a glower, “she wants to build not only a garment factory, but an entire village, an ideal community, a
utopia.
”

“Utopia, eh?” Sir William stroked his chin. “Moneyed females gadding about the countryside, turning dying villages into utopias …” He scowled. “A disturbing prospect, I’ll
grant you. But not strictly illegal. What does the firm have against the building of a utopia? Or perhaps it is Sussex they object to.…”

Cole was watching the proceedings with an intensity he hadn’t felt in several months. It was pure sardonic pleasure to watch Sir William put fat, arrogant Farnsworth on edge and reduce him to saying what he meant in plain words. With age and infirmity, Uncle William had grown less tolerant of strained legal niceties and social restrictions. Cole glowered at his overweening former partner, realizing that he and Sir William shared both a hope of justice and a despair of the law.

Make him sweat, Uncle
.

“…  laudable impulses, certainly noble intentions. These are admirable ideals indeed.” Farnsworth pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his corpulent face. “But the scheme is doomed to fail and, in the process, to lay waste a goodly part of Miss Duncan’s worldly substance.”

“Doomed to fail, you say?” Sir William snatched up his gavel, propped his gouty leg onto the bench, and used the handle to scratch beneath its bandages. When he turned back to the proceedings, he was obviously in discomfort. “How so?”

“If it pleases Your Honor …” Ecklesbery stepped around the table with an expression of cloying concern. “The entire notion is the epitome of impracticality. The sort of people Miss Duncan intends to employ are unused to work of any kind. They are perennial hangers-on, crude, shiftless, and incapable of bettering themselves. Even if they could be taught, even if she could get them to work, the venture would still fail. Such a business enterprise requires acumen and efficient management. Ask her, Your Honor, who she intends to superintend this ‘factory.’ ”

Sir William did indeed put the question to her. She straightened her spine and stood her ground. “I intend to oversee the work myself, Your Honor. I am well acquainted with financial matters—I ran my aunt’s household quite efficiently
for a number of years. Since January I have read extensively on the subject of industrial processes and management. And I have already hired an experienced engineer and a number of carpenters and journeymen toolmakers to refit the factory.”

“Your Honor, she is a young, unmarried woman.” Farnsworth planted himself before the bench with his fists at his waist, demanding the court’s undivided attention. “What does she know of the daily workings of factory life or of the sort of people who work in factories? Factories require tending at all hours, in close confines, in close contact with men of the working class. A delicate young woman should be concerning herself with more seemly matters—social events and making suitable connections, possibly even matrimony.”

“How dare you?” Miss Duncan’s face reddened and her hands fell into fists at her sides as she faced first Farnsworth and then Sir William. “Finally we hear the truth of it, Your Honor. They refuse to release the money because they cannot abide the thought of a young
woman
living her life and running her business affairs without a man’s governance. If I were a
man
of twenty-five, would they murmur one word of opposition to my starting a business concern of my own?

“But because I am a woman they tell me not to ‘worry my pretty little head’ … to go plan a party or a holiday in Paris … to buy a new hat, a new dress, or a whole shop full of new dresses. My gentlemen solicitors wouldn’t bat an eye if I sent them bills for thousands of pounds spent on extravagant jewels and clothing. But let me speak of using that very same money to clothe ragged children and give them food and schoolbooks … let me propose creating honest, decent work for those same children’s parents and suddenly I’m impractical and ridiculous, a sentimental female, a cockeyed idealist!”

Dunwoody sprang up, ruddy with indignation. “What she proposes, Your Honor, is no less than a doomed social
experiment! She even speaks of having her workers run things—take over the place.”

“I simply want to give people a chance to work hard and make a better life,” she countered. “It has happened before—in the colonies—America, Australia. Poor people can learn to help themselves.”

“Help themselves to her money, she means,” Farnsworth growled.

Well, it is her money, after all, Cole thought.

“Well, it is my fortune, after all,” Madeline Duncan declared as if she had somehow perceived Cole’s musings.

Smart girl
. Cole focused on her, trying to make out whether her hair was truly red or if its vivid appearance was just the reflection of her audacious coat.
What would I argue next if I were in charge? The will itself, perhaps—could that be of any help?