Читать книгу The Scandalous Suffragette - Eliza Redgold - Страница 12

‘Shall Error in the round of time

Still father Truth?’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)

‘Whoa.’ Violet pulled the reins of the grey mare. All morning the mare had been frisky, playing up. It took all Violet’s strength to stop her breaking into a gallop in the middle of Hyde Park. It was a day to gallop, the sun golden in the summer sky. Around her all the flowers in the garden beds were in bloom, their colours as bright as ball gowns and their perfumed scents heady. Instead, Violet slowed to a sedate trot.

A groom from the riding school rode up to her. ‘That’s it, miss. Give me the reins now. I’ll lead you back to the others. That’s probably enough for today.’

Violet passed them over with her thanks. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Dancing at night and riding in the morning was strenuous exercise. Her tight-fitting blue-velvet riding habit, trimmed with a lace jabot at the neck, suddenly seemed much too hot. She’d have something made in a cooler fabric for the summer and try to prevent her mama from adding too much trimming. The riding habits of the other young ladies, all in black, seemed to have marked signs of wear, as if to emphasise use.

While the groom led her to the group, her mind roved over the events of the night before. It had been so unfortunate that the banner had unravelled from around her thigh before she had a chance to dance once more with Adam Beaufort. She would probably never have another opportunity to dance with him, to be swept across the floor in those powerful arms, after running away from him so publicly. He must have been insulted.

She sighed. She owed Adam Beaufort another apology and yet another explanation, if she ever saw him again. He must have wondered what made her run off in such a peculiar fashion, but she had to move quickly before the banner fell to the floor from beneath her ball dress. She had made it just in time. She dashed behind a pillar and whipped out the banner from beneath her petticoats, yanked one free and then the other. Quickly she seized the moment, did what she’d set out to do. She’d intended to wait until the end of the ball, to linger until the crowds dispersed, but with the banners released she grasped her opportunity while everyone else was in the ballroom. She had just completed the deed when her parents appeared, full of concern after seeing her leave the ballroom. Steering them away from the evidence of her activity, she pleaded a sudden fever, with her hand to her forehead. They called for the carriage instantly and took her home. She didn’t see Adam Beaufort again.

She released another sigh. He was the only person she had ever told about how strongly she believed in the suffrage cause. Had he been mocking her? As she replayed the conversation in her mind she decided not. She could only hope he’d keep his word and not betray her secret.

He’d trusted her with a secret, too. The lines of care on his face she’d noticed when they first met; she hadn’t mistaken those. She wondered what he might look like without the burdens he carried.

Their honest conversation had seemed to bring them closer together than the waltz. When she’d finally fallen asleep that night she had dreamed about him again. In the garden of that unidentifiable house, he called up to her at the window. She leaned out, almost tumbling from the window as she tried to hear what he said, but she couldn’t make it out.

When she awoke she’d puzzled over it. She recalled how he whispered in her ear, ‘I hope you dance as well as you climb.’ His deep voice had sent quivers through her. When she got out of bed she’d washed her face with cold water from the pitcher, instead of hot.

Even now, the next morning, in the sunshine of the park, thinking about him made her pulse flicker at her wrist under her riding glove. The night before as she lay in bed, she’d found herself lifting her fingertip to her mouth, remembering the look he gave her as he lowered his mouth so close to hers. Had he meant to kiss her? Was that blackness in the midnight of his eyes...desire?

If she were going to daydream about such matters, which of course she was not, he was the kind of man she would daydream about. But she had other matters to think about rather than waltzing with Adam Beaufort, no matter how extraordinarily wonderful it had been. Yet if she were scrupulously truthful, as she always tried to be, she had to admit her attraction to him. He was, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in London, or so her thrilled mama had enlightened her on the way home in the carriage.

‘He’s related to the royal family!’ her mama had gasped.

Whether Adam Beaufort was eligible or not, there was no point in daydreaming. She’d made her decision.

She took the reins from the groom.

He tipped his cap.

She halted next to the girl she had spotted the night before in the ballroom who sometimes chatted to her.

With a clip of her whip she moved her horse away from Violet’s.

Violet lifted her chin. It hadn’t been pleasant to be snubbed at the ball, nor was it pleasant to be snubbed now, and she wasn’t sure why. It seemed a more blatant cut than pretending not to see a waving hand from across the room. If Adam Beaufort hadn’t asked her the night before, she would have sat out every dance. It made her even sorrier that she had missed being whirled into another waltz. The way he danced with her would remain in her memory, but that was all.

The Cause was more important.

Deeds, not words. She must stay true to her purpose. Yet her heart gave another strange flinch as she turned her mare towards the park gates.

* * *

‘Mama?’ Violet pushed open the drawing-room door. ‘Where are you? There’s no one in the dining room. What’s happened to luncheon? I’m famished after riding. Will you allow me to come to the table before I change out of my riding habit?’

Her mother lay on the chaise longue. Her arm, clad in a ruffled sleeve, was flung over her face. She didn’t reply.

‘Mama?’ Violet stepped into the room. Her father was also in the drawing room, to her surprise. He faced the fireplace, his back to her. He wasn’t often home during the day. ‘Why, hello, Papa. Have you come home for luncheon? We’ll have to wake Mama. I think she’s asleep.’

‘I’m not asleep, Violet,’ her mother said in a strangled voice. ‘I’ve had a visit from some of the society ladies who invited us to the ball.’

‘Oh, how lovely, Mama.’ Violet cared little for such things, but she knew how much store her mother set by them and it mattered to her father, too, with his business ambitions. To have such ladies call on them was a step up the social ladder. Not that Violet had any inclination to climb it.

‘No.’ Her mother sat up. Her face was pale, except for two bright red patches on her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t lovely. It was dreadful!’

She burst into tears.

‘Mama!’ Violet rushed to her side. ‘Don’t cry so, please. What happened? What did they say to you?’

Her mother seized a lace-trimmed handkerchief. ‘They said... She said...’

‘You must have some idea, Violet.’ Her father spoke from his place by the fireplace. He didn’t turn around.

She shook her head. ‘No, Papa, I don’t. How dare they upset Mama so? What did they say?’

Her thoughts flew immediately to Adam Beaufort. Had there been gossip about them because she’d lingered on the balcony with him and then raced out of the ballroom? That near kiss...had someone seen them together?

Nerves fluttered in her stomach. ‘What is it?’

‘Someone draped a suffragette banner across a marble bust of Queen Victoria,’ her mother whispered, muffled by the handkerchief. ‘And the Prince Consort, too, God rest his soul.’

Violet tried to keep a straight face. It had been such a perfect opportunity.

Two legs. Two banners. Two marble busts. They’d been perched on plinths halfway up the wall, each set back in a gilt-scrolled niche. The banners had ballooned up and landed. Queen Victoria’s banner around her marble shoulders, like a shawl. Quite fitting for a monarch. Prince Albert’s on his head, falling over one eye, giving him a rakish look. She hadn’t been able to reach to fix it.

‘The ladies told me all about it.’ Her mother wrung her hands together. ‘At the end of the ball, when everyone came out into the hall, there they were, bold as brass. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

Laugh, Mama, Violet wanted to say. How she wished her mother shared her views about women’s suffrage, but her mother was content with her status as a wife and mother. She didn’t want to vote—she’d declared that on more than one occasion. Politics was the business of men and she had no interest in it. No, her mama would never understand.

Her father finally turned around from the fireplace. He appeared smaller than usual, almost deflated. It was because he wasn’t smiling. His jolly demeanour usually filled the room.

‘We know they were your banners, Violet.’

His tone shocked her. The usual warmth was quite gone.

‘I don’t intend to deny it, Papa,’ she said quietly. ‘They were my suffrage banners. I made them and I draped them across Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, too.’

‘Queen Victoria. Prince Albert,’ her mama echoed the names, reminding Violet of a parrot they kept for a while, when the birds had been fashionable. It had driven her papa quite cocky, he’d declared.

It wasn’t the moment to remind her parents of the parrot.

‘The parents of our King.’ Her father shook his head. ‘King Edward the Seventh.’

She nodded. She’d have draped a banner around a marble bust of King Edward, too, but there hadn’t been one, and in any case, she’d only had two banners.

‘Queen Victoria and Prince Albert are in their graves,’ her mama choked. ‘It’s unseemly. Disrespectful.’

‘Oh! I didn’t think of it that way,’ Violet said, horrified.

‘Why did you do it?’ her father asked, still in that empty voice.

Violet lifted her chin. ‘I’m a suffragette, Papa.’

‘A suffragette!’ came her mama’s echo.

‘Votes for women, eh?’ asked her papa.

With a gulp, she nodded.

Her father wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘So it’s all been for nothing.’

‘Papa,’ Violet whispered. Her throat constricted. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

He sank into the leather club chair by the fireplace. He appeared bewildered. ‘All we’ve done for you. All I’ve worked for. And you’re not grateful.’

Violet knelt beside him, seized his hand. ‘I am grateful, Papa. You’ve given me everything that anyone could ever dream of.’

‘They why did you do it?’

‘Surely you understand,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m like you. You’re a self-made man. Didn’t you long to be considered an equal, to make your way into the world? Look what you’ve achieved, the business you built. You started from nothing. Please listen to me. I just want the same opportunity as you, to contribute to the world.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s different for a man.’

‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ her mother said tremulously from the chaise longue.

‘I want more,’ Violet said simply.

Her father stared as if he hardly knew her.

‘I’ve never had cause to criticise you. I’ve always been proud of you, so proud.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But this. You’ve gone too far. You’ve become selfish, Violet.’

She fell back on her heels. Tears smarted in her eyes. ‘It’s not selfish to want to be part of the world. To vote. To become educated. To work. Why, there are even women working in factories now.’

‘No daughter of mine will ever set foot in a factory! That’s not why I worked day and night.’ He shook his head. ‘Your place is in the home. Your mama is right.’

‘The world is changing,’ Violet said. ‘There are new ideas. Not just votes for women, but opportunities for work, for education—’

Her father held up his hand. ‘Stop. I don’t want to hear such talk.’

‘A suffragette. How could you, Violet? We’ll be shunned in society.’ Her mother dabbed at her eyes. ‘The ladies made that quite clear this morning.’

‘Oh, Mama, we were shunned already,’ Violet replied wearily. It was made patent at the ball in their lack of welcome, except for Adam Beaufort, swirling her into his arms.

If they were no longer invited into London society, she’d definitely never see him again.

Her heart sank.

‘We’re ruined!’ exclaimed her mother.

‘Surely it’s not that dreadful.’ But it explained the outright snub from the girl at her riding lesson, Violet recalled uncomfortably.

Had she gone too far?

Her father breathed heavily. ‘I suppose we ought to leave London, before we’re run out.’

From the chaise longue came a muffled sob.

‘Leave London! Surely that isn’t necessary,’ Violet cried, aghast. What had she done?

‘Just when Violet had danced with a Beaufort,’ her mama mourned. ‘I never thought I’d see such a thing. Oh!’

If they left London...

‘We won’t be run out of London,’ Violet protested. ‘What does it matter what a few society people think?’

‘The Coombes are a respectable family,’ her father said. ‘We always took pride in that, more than anything else. You’ve taken our good name away.’

Full of remorse, Violet gripped her fingers together. ‘I’ll apologise to the ladies who invited us to the ball.’

‘Aye, you ought to do that. But the damage is done.’

‘Ruined,’ her mother repeated in a choked voice. ‘Ruined.’

Her father put his head in his hands.

Violet reached out to him. ‘Papa, please listen. Would it be so terrible to go back to Manchester? We were happier there, not trying to fit in with London society. I could learn to help you in the business, make your load lighter.’ Anything, she thought, her heart like a sinking stone, to make him smile again.

‘No, Violet. I told you. Your place isn’t in the factory.’

‘But, Papa...’

‘No!’

Violet jumped. Her father had never raised his voice at her before. Not once, in all her life.

He stood up, his elbows akimbo. ‘Men and women aren’t the same. If you’d been a son...’ His voice trailed off. ‘We pinned our hopes on you making a fine match. But now...’

‘Ruined,’ her mother chimed in from the chaise.

Violet’s throat choked. The lace jabot at her neck suddenly felt too tight. She tugged it loose. Never before had her father revealed such sentiments. But she’d suspected them all along, in her heart. It drove her to her daring acts, just as Adam Beaufort had guessed, at the ball.

‘I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll do anything to set it right.’

‘It’s too late,’ her mama sobbed. ‘Nothing can be done.’

A discreet knock came at the drawing room door. The butler entered.

‘What is it?’ her father asked. Having servants still made him nervous, Violet knew. At the chocolate factory her papa was the man in charge, but she often suspected both he and her mama’s preference would be to have only family at home, as it had been in the beginning.

‘Forgive the interruption, sir. But a gentleman has called and I thought you’d like to know.’

He held out a silver tray. On it was a small white card, edged with black.

Her father took the card. ‘Adam Beaufort, Esquire,’ he read aloud.

‘What?’ Her mama sat bolt upright.

Violet’s pulse skipped a beat.

‘What does he want?’ her father asked.

‘He didn’t say, sir,’ replied the butler. ‘But he’s in the hall. I took the liberty.’

On the chaise her mother frantically began to tidy her hair. She seized a small looking glass and dabbed at her tear-stained face with her handkerchief. ‘Tell him to come in.’

‘Do you know what he wants?’ her father asked Violet.

In bewilderment she shook her head. ‘No.’

She brushed back her own hair from her forehead. Wisps had escaped while on horseback and she was still in her blue-velvet riding habit.

The drawing room door opened.

* * *

Adam Beaufort took a step back as he entered the Coombes’s drawing room.

He’d never seen a room like it. Every inch of the vast room was decorated. Gilt-edged paintings of pink-cheeked children and pretty country maids jostled for space on the flock-papered walls. China ornaments, again with a bucolic theme, took up every table top, apart from those crammed with silver trinkets, lamps and ferns in jardinières. The furniture was red-brown mahogany, the soft furnishings skirted, trimmed and flounced so that the room had a peculiar cushioned effect.

On a velvet chaise longue sat Violet’s mother, whom he’d last seen attired in canary-yellow satin. She now wore a pink gown with many ruffles that didn’t manage to obscure the dazzling diamonds around her neck, wrists and fingers. He winced at the thought of what some society ladies would say at the sight of such diamonds worn before evening.

By the fire, Violet’s father stood robustly, belly thrust out in a loud, checked waistcoat. Yet the pair lacked the happiness that had been so apparent on their faces while dancing the night before.

Adam frowned.

‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed the man by the fireplace, with a slight inclination of his head. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I’m Adam Beaufort. How do you do?’

Reginald Coombes offered his hand. His handshake was firm. ‘I saw you dancing with my daughter last night. Most obliging of you.’

‘Indeed it was, Mr Beaufort,’ said Mrs Coombes faintly.

Adam bowed to her before turning to Violet, who stood silent, a still figure in sapphire-blue velvet by the fire. He couldn’t help notice how it sculpted her curvaceous figure. But her face was white and strained.

‘It was my pleasure,’ Adam said smoothly. ‘It’s unfortunate I didn’t have the opportunity for a second dance with Miss Coombes.’

He sent her a brief smile.

There was the faintest movement around her lips in return, but that was all.

Adam’s frown deepened. He felt oddly responsible for the whole fiasco. If he’d pulled the banners down in time...

‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed Violet’s father. ‘I’ve come about the incident at the ball last night.’

‘You know about that?’ Mrs Coombes squeaked.

‘Most of London knows about it,’ Adam said bluntly. ‘It didn’t help that you sewed your monogram on the banner,’ he added to Violet.

‘Your monogram?’ Reginald Coombes looked from one to the other.

Wordlessly Violet reached into a sewing basket and drew out a banner. It unfurled like a streamer in purple, green and white. She passed it to her father.

He stared at the tiny bloom embroidered in the corner, his fist clenched.

‘So that’s what happened to all the purple silk,’ Violet’s mother said in wonderment.

‘How many banners are there?’ Violet’s father demanded.

‘Half a dozen.’ Her throat was bare, white and swan-like as she swallowed. ‘Perhaps more.’

Her father hurled the banner into the fire.

‘Papa!’ Violet’s cry tore through Adam’s skin.

‘That’s the last one you’ll ever make,’ Reginald Coombes said fiercely. ‘Do you understand, Violet? This has got to stop.’

She made no answer. Her fingertips lifted to that pale throat, her gaze staying on the silk as it curled and burned. The scorched scent of it filled Adam’s nostrils.

‘Will you give up this cause, as you call it?’ her father demanded.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

‘Can’t?’ her father repeated, incredulous. His bright blue eyes were out on stalks.

‘I won’t hang any more banners.’ Violet lifted her chin. ‘But I can’t give up the Cause. It’s in me. It’s what I believe. I don’t know if I can change that.’

Adam studied her. Her head was high, her hands clenched. He had to admire her. There was no question of her convictions. He guessed her parents knew nothing of the extent of her activities. They’d have been appalled to have seen her climbing his balcony, teetering on the edge. At least he’d stopped her from such dangerous endeavours.

Reginald Coombes’s chin thrust out, just the same as his daughter’s. Adam wondered if he realised how alike they were. ‘I forbid this nonsense. Do you hear?’

His daughter’s eyes flashed vivid blue. ‘Being a suffragette isn’t nonsense.’

‘The shame of it. It’s a scandal,’ her mother cried.

‘It’s not a scandal,’ Violet scoffed, but her voice wavered.

‘Forgive me, Miss Coombes, I’m afraid it is.’ Adam intervened. He had no choice but to break it to her. ‘The scandal is all over London. I did my best to halt it, but I didn’t succeed. Doubtless it’s being discussed in every polite drawing room from Mayfair to Kensington. I understand it has reached the palace, though not yet the ears of the King.’

Violet’s mother released a muffled shriek. She appeared about to faint.

‘Where are your smelling salts, Adeline?’ her husband demanded.

‘The silver box,’ she puffed, using her handkerchief as a fan.

Violet’s father scrabbled among the multitude of silver boxes and china ornaments on the mahogany table and administered the salts. Once again Adam felt moved by the couple’s devotion to each other. It was rarer than they probably knew. And they loved their daughter, too. It was obvious, in spite of the current situation.

‘Everyone is overreacting. It’s ridiculous for there to be such an outcry,’ Violet said, low, but her voice was shaky. ‘It was a protest. A deed for the Cause. Not a crime.’

Adam shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is ridiculous. None the less, there are many people who are very upset by it.’

He glanced towards Violet’s mother. The woman quietened, but she remained pale, clutching her husband’s hand. Her distress was real, unmistakable. Violet, too, looked even paler than before, as if she were about to faint herself, though he suspected she was made of sterner stuff than her mother.

Adam shifted nearer to Violet by the fire.

‘You must know the King has a deep respect for his departed parents,’ he muttered in an undertone. ‘Your action may be considered more than disrespectful. It’s an insult, almost sacrilegious, in some court circles.’

She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t think of that. It wasn’t meant as an insult. Is it truly that bad?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Adam said quietly. His honour demanded he tell her the truth.

Her father stood up. He moved like a beaten man. ‘That’s it, then. We’ll have to go back to Manchester.’

Violet’s mother let out a sob. ‘Such a disgrace.’

Her daughter moved towards her as if to comfort her and then drew back. Her fingers were clenched together.

Reginald Coombes turned to Adam.

‘Thank you for coming to tell us,’ he said heavily. ‘I regret you’ve seen us like this, in such a sorry state. Perhaps you’ll come and visit us in the north should you ever be in our part of the country. We won’t be in London again I don’t expect.’

‘I trust that won’t be the case.’

‘We won’t be able to show our faces here,’ Mrs Coombes wept.

‘Not necessarily,’ Adam said slowly. His half-formed plan began to fully take shape in his head.

He glanced at Violet. She was breathing in gasps she tried to suppress, making her velvet bodice heave.

‘I came today with a plan,’ he said.

Beside him Violet stiffened.

‘A plan, eh?’ her father asked. ‘What’s that?’

Adam bowed. ‘With your permission, I’ve come to propose to your daughter.’