I leaned close, glancing through the fronds to be sure no one lingered near. “Richard, there are countless numbers of women in England—in Manchester alone—trapped in abominable circumstances, practically owned by men who are meant to protect them but who do exactly the opposite. Good, kind women. Clever ones. And they cannot do a thing about it, the way the law is. Their money, their children, even their own bodies legally belong to husbands or fathers or guardians, and they can decide nothing for their own lives. No one sees or pities these women because they’re wealthy, materially provided for, but they’re broken and poor in spirit. Crushed by the men who have charge over their lives.”

“And what do you propose to do about it, break them out of their gilded cage?”

“Why . . . yes, actually.”

He puffed out a breath, hand on his forehead. “You’ve no idea what you’re suggesting. That requires finding them respectable lodging. Positions. Possibly a way of escape, and a great deal more support along the way. Not to mention the legal and moral battles you’d face . . . inquests . . .”

I straightened. “Why do you believe that because a thing is hard, I cannot do it?”

He sobered. “I’m certain you are capable of doing a great many things, and perhaps you could become a fine friend to these women, if nothing else. What you’re suggesting, though, would take a great deal of the one thing you, my lady of many talents, do not have—money.”

My fingers stiffened on the palm frond.

“Forgive the vulgar topic, but I’m merely trying to be realistic. I think it’s a fine ambition, but not for you. You’re a young, unmarried woman without resources or protection.”

“But with a great big God,” I whispered, looking out at the happy facades in the room. The practical always overlooked that resource.

“I suppose so.” He blinked. “You’ve never spoken this way before. I had no idea you had such leanings.”

“I’ve always attended church. You know that.”

“So do most people. But they do not speak that way about God.”

I averted my gaze. How did I explain my relationship with God? I couldn’t think of him as a father, for the word had always made me cringe. He began more as an imaginary friend in my childhood, his undeniable presence filling that cramped little larder every time Father locked me in, and I one day realized this imaginary, always-present ally who sat with me in the dark was quite real. And that he’d come looking for me. I’d leaned on him in the privacy of my heart ever since.

Yet how did a full-grown woman put such a relationship into words?

He sighed. “I simply don’t know why you’d go to such effort. Why you care so deeply about women you don’t even know, whose troubles are none of your concern.”