Читать книгу The Scandalous Suffragette - Eliza Redgold, Eliza Redgold - Страница 12

‘Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.’

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

Violet’s mouth fell open as she stared at Adam Beaufort. ‘You’ve come to propose to me?’

He turned on his heel and this time bowed directly towards her. There was the merest upturning of the corners of his mouth. ‘Indeed.’

‘Marriage?’ she gasped. Was that really what he meant? Had her ears deceived her? They had only met once. Well, twice, if she counted tumbling off the balcony into his arms and that meeting couldn’t be considered a formal introduction. And now he was suggesting they wed? Surely it could not be so.

The upturning of Adam Beaufort’s mouth grew more pronounced. A dent appeared in his left cheek, then vanished as he spoke. ‘I can think of no other proposal I would make, Miss Coombes.’

‘Marriage!’ her mother and father repeated at the same time, her mother breathless, and her father’s voice a stunned bellow.

‘Upon my soul!’ added Mr Coombes.

‘I realise this is unusual,’ Adam said. ‘And quite sudden. I believe that is the phrase, in such circumstances. But the circumstances are unusual, to say the least.’

‘They certainly are.’ Violet found her voice was as breathless as her mama’s. She put her hand to her bodice. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.

‘Marriage to a Beaufort!’ Mrs Coombes reached for her fan. ‘Oh, my...’

Mr Coombes clutched his chest. He staggered and reached for the side table to right himself, sending a tin of Floral Creams flying.

‘Papa!’ Violet rushed to help him. ‘You must sit down.’

Mrs Coombes hurried to her husband’s side. ‘Reginald!’

‘I’m all right,’ he insisted, leaning heavily on the table, his breath coming in puffs.

Violet steered him to the wing chair by the fireplace. Her papa sank on to it, half-raised himself up, then sank back again. His normally florid cheeks turned a sickly colour, sweat beaded his forehead.

‘Are you quite well, sir?’ Adam Beaufort asked, concerned.

Mrs Coombes wrung her handkerchief in distress. ‘It’s his heart.’

Panting heavily, Mr Coombes waved away their alarm. ‘I get the odd turn. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Shall I call for a doctor?’ Adam asked.

‘No need, no need.’ Mr Coombes puffed. ‘I’ve seen all the best quacks. There’s nothing they can do.’

Violet moved swiftly to the drinks tray. ‘Stay still, Papa. I’ll pour you a glass of water.’

‘Give it a bit of colour, won’t you? For medicinal purposes.’

‘You know you ought not to drink spirits when you’ve had a turn.’

‘I’ll be all the better for a spot of whisky.’

She shook her head and added the merest drop of whisky to the water glass. There was no point in agitating him further. The doctors had been clear—the best medicine for him was peace and quiet.

Violet’s hand tightened on the whisky bottle. Clearly the morning’s events had upset him greatly.

It was all her fault.

Adam Beaufort frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t wish me to fetch medical help?’

‘I’ll be right as rain in a moment,’ Mr Coombes assured him, his voice already stronger. ‘I always am. Where’s that drink, Violet?’

‘Here you are, Papa.’ Violet gave her father the weak whisky and water and propped a cushion behind him.

Mr Coombes took a sip. ‘Ah, that’s it.’

Violet turned to her mother, who was still wringing her hands. She looked about to cry.

‘Sit down, Mama,’ Violet said gently.

Mrs Coombes picked up her fan. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Reginald.’

‘I’m quite well, Adeline,’ Mr Coombes said stoutly. ‘Do as Violet says.’

Violet tucked her mother beneath a silk shawl. Going back to her papa, she took his wrist, counted and waited. His pulse was faster than usual, but it wasn’t as bad as some of his turns had been in the past, as far as she could make out.

She straightened her back and glanced at Adam Beaufort. His expression was inscrutable. He was a man who controlled his emotions. He’d moved out of her way as she helped her mother and father. Now he stood by the fireplace, a tall but surprisingly comforting presence.

He stayed calm in a crisis. That was it. She’d witnessed it before, when he’d caught her under his balcony. She liked that about him.

‘Would you care for a whisky?’ she asked him.

In an unhurried movement, he took out a pocket watch. ‘It’s rather early in the day for spirits.’

‘But in the circumstances...’ Violet prompted.

His mouth cornered into a smile. ‘Indeed.’

She poured a large measure into the cut-crystal glass. ‘Water?’

He inclined his dark head.

‘Don’t drown it as you did mine, Violet,’ said Mr Coombes from the wing chair.

‘You ought not to be having whisky at all, Papa,’ she retorted, pleased that he appeared to be rallying. But her hand shook as she poured some water into Adam Beaufort’s glass, spilling it on to the drinks tray. Her papa had been so angry. He’d never said such things to her before.

She blotted the spilt water. Crossing the room, she gave Adam Beaufort his glass of whisky.

His fingers grazed hers as he took it. They were warm and dry. ‘Thank you.’

His touch seemed to stay on her skin, steadying her as she returned to the tray and poured herself a generous finger of whisky. She threw it back, straight, letting the fire scorch the back of her throat, only to find Adam Beaufort surveying her over the rim of his glass.

The heavy crystal clanked as she replaced it on the silver tray. Young ladies were not supposed to drink spirits, let alone before luncheon. Yet another rule for women that did not apply to men. How it irked her.

Heading over to her father’s chair, she took away his empty glass. The colour had returned to his cheeks, she noted with relief. He always recovered quickly from his turns, as he called them, but she was sure they were becoming more frequent.

‘How are you feeling now, Papa?’ she asked.

He patted her hand. His anger seemed to have abated. ‘No harm done.’

‘Would you like some more water?’

‘Not unless you are going to give it a bit more colour this time.’

‘Certainly not,’ she retorted.

Mr Coombes gave a slight guffaw and clambered to his feet. He puffed out his chest, but stayed upright.

‘Won’t you rest a little longer, Reginald?’ Mrs Coombes pleaded from the sofa.

‘I’m quite well now, Adeline. No need to fret.’ Mr Coombes took one step forward, one step back across the carpet, as if testing his strength.

Violet and her mama exchanged worried glances. Her papa loathed a fuss to be made about his health, but his turns terrified all of them.

A pang of pain clutched deep in her own chest. For her parents’ sake, she had to stop the scandal.

‘Now then.’ Her papa’s voice lacked its usual ring as he stopped on the carpet and studied Adam Beaufort. ‘Let’s get down to business. Are you serious in proposing marriage to my daughter?’

Adam drained his whisky glass. ‘Quite so, sir.’

Mr Coombes tucked his hands into the lapels of his checked waistcoat. His elbows jutted out. ‘You think a marriage announcement could halt this suffragette business. Is that it?’

‘I believe it would stop the scandalmongers if attention was diverted towards an engagement,’ Adam replied. ‘The Beaufort name will halt adverse gossip. We’re an old family. Well connected.’

‘At court!’ Mrs Coombes put in from the sofa, still fanning herself rapidly. ‘To royalty!’

Adam smiled at Violet’s mother, not appearing to mind her mentioning it. ‘There are a few overlapping branches in the family tree.’

He turned back to Mr Coombes. ‘If we act in time, I hope we can ensure your commercial dealings are not adversely affected.’

‘Do you believe the reputation of my company might be damaged by this stunt of Violet’s?’ Mr Coombes demanded.

‘Surely not!’ Violet put in.

‘I’m afraid so, Miss Coombes.’ Adam spoke quietly, but his tone was firm.

Mr Coombes looked suddenly deflated. ‘I agree. Customers can take such things very badly.’

‘My being a suffragette won’t stop people eating Coombes Chocolates,’ Violet said, incredulous.

‘You have insulted the Crown. Fortunes have been lost for less.’ Adam gave her a direct look that reminded her of their discussion the night before. He knew about such matters, she recalled with a sinking heart.

‘What of the Royal Warrant?’ From the sofa her mother’s voice was hushed.

Her father shook his head. ‘No chance of a Royal Warrant now. No chance at all.’

Violet clutched her corset. The painful pang in her chest moved to squeeze her stomach, as if she’d eaten too many sweets at the factory. She’d done so once, as a small girl.

The Royal Warrant. Chocolate Manufacturers to the King. It had been her father’s abiding goal in life for as long as she could remember. Now the scandal she’d created could dash his dream.

How had it come to this? She struggled for breath. She’d never meant to insult the royal family, never once imagined that her passion for the Cause could risk what her father had worked so hard to build. Yet she couldn’t regret her deed. It was the suffragette motto after all. Perhaps she’d gone too far with the banners at the ball, but she would never give up her beliefs.

‘What do you think needs to be done?’ Mr Coombes was asking Adam Beaufort.

‘Make a formal announcement as soon as possible,’ he replied. ‘Notify The Times.’

Mr Coombes tucked his hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his spotted handkerchief. ‘What you’re proposing might work. It just might work.’

‘But why would you do this for us, Mr Beaufort?’ Mrs Coombes asked, bewildered, from her seat on the sofa. Her fan still fluttered at a rapid rate, like wings of a startled bird.

Violet met Adam’s eye. He raised an eyebrow.

An unspoken communication passed between them.

She held his gaze. In return, his was steadfast. To her surprise, she felt reassured. She had experienced the same security when they’d danced at the ball, after he’d rescued her from being a wallflower. He’d caught her safely when she’d fallen from the balcony, too.

‘Mama. Papa.’ Violet took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Beaufort, alone.’

‘What?’ Elbows out, Mr Coombes gazed from one to the other. ‘Surely a marriage proposal is a matter for your father to consider.’

Violet lifted her chin. ‘I refuse to be discussed like cattle in the market place. No matter how unusual the circumstances.’

The dent appeared in Adam Beaufort’s cheek, as if he were trying not to chuckle.

Mr Coombes wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was still breathing heavily, Violet noticed with alarm, but his eyes were alert. Beneath his handkerchief he appeared to be summing Mr Beaufort up in his shrewd gaze, the way Violet had seen him assess potential buyers for the chocolate factory. She could almost hear his brain whirring, as fast as her own. Finally he tucked the handkerchief away.

‘Very well, Violet. We’ll leave you to consider this.’ Wheezing slightly, he reached for her hands. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you so harshly earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.’

‘We were all upset.’

‘You mustn’t feel any pressure,’ her father said now. ‘Whatever happens, it will be your decision. We would never force you into anything. I hope you know that.’

Violet’s throat choked. ‘Thank you, Papa.’

He gave her hands another squeeze before letting them go, but she could still see the worry in his eyes. Worse than that. There was a despondency she’d never witnessed in him before. In spite of his health concerns, he was always so cheerful.

Her stomach lurched. She’d hurt the people she loved most in the world.

‘Come along, Adeline.’ Mr Coombes held out his hand to his wife.

‘Ought Violet be left without a chaperon?’ Mrs Coombes asked doubtfully, as she got up from the sofa with a rustle of taffeta.

‘We’ve strayed beyond all kinds of proprieties this morning, Mama, in the space of a quarter of an hour,’ Violet replied.

This time she heard Adam Beaufort’s chuckle escape.

Her papa steered her mother towards the door. It closed behind them.

Silence fell, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. She picked up the tin of Floral Creams that still lay on the Turkish carpet. Her father had knocked them off the table when he had his turn.

She clasped the tin to her bodice.

They always kept Coombes Chocolates in the drawing room. There were tins of Floral Creams in every bedroom, too. It was a point of pride for her family.

She looked down at the lid, with its swirled font and bouquet of flowers. Now it might never be adorned with the royal warrant they all wanted so much. Her papa had even left room for it in the design, believing that aiming high was the best method for success.

‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them.’ Her papa often quoted that. She’d been raised on the philosophy of Samuel Smiles, the author of her father’s favourite book, Self-Help. There was a handsome leather-bound copy of the book in pride of place at the factory office. It had been given to her papa by his employees one Christmas, after their annual party. Over two thousand people, men and women, worked at the Coombes factory. Violet knew each and every one of them. They all relied on their wages, for the well-being of their homes and families.

Now it was all at risk. The factory. Her papa’s health. Her mama’s happiness. The cost of being a suffragette had proved far greater than she had ever imagined.

She stared at the tin of chocolates. Its outline blurred before her eyes.

‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,’ she reminded herself.

The scent of cocoa and flowers wafted up as she opened the lid and held it out towards Adam Beaufort. ‘Would you like a chocolate fondant?’

He appeared startled, then smiled. ‘Perhaps later. I’m afraid my nanny drummed into me that sweets before luncheon were the road to ruin.’

Violet smiled back, the threat of tears retreating. He had a knack of lightening the mood of a situation.

She popped a violet cream into her mouth. The familiar taste, with its dark, almost spicy chocolate, the sugar-coated violet petal on top and the contrasting smoothness of the sweet fondant inside, gave her a surge of vigour.

Replacing the tin on the table, she ran her finger over the embossed picture of roses, violets, lavender and pansies. Her mother had confided once that they had planned a whole nursery full of children, the girls to be named after the flowers that had made their fortune and the first boy, her mother had said, would be named Reginald, after her papa. Those other children had never come. Violet hadn’t felt lonely on her own, so she’d not missed sisters and brothers. She’d never known that her father felt the loss of a son so keenly. Not until today.

Her papa didn’t have the heir he wanted. Instead, he had a daughter who had brought disrepute to the family name.

A pain stabbed at her heart.

She glanced at Adam Beaufort. His back half-turned, he stared out the window, seeming to sense she needed time to collect her thoughts. The noon sunshine coming in from between the velvet curtains outlined his profile. His jaw was strong, but there was no cruelty in it. Perhaps she ought to feel intimidated being alone with him, one of the most eligible men in London society, but she didn’t. She never dreamed she’d find herself in the drawing room discussing marriage with him. She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to check she was awake.

The cherub clock chimed. Yes, she was awake. Adam Beaufort was standing by the window in real life, not in a dream, staring out into that peculiar soft London sunshine that made the streets and buildings shine like marigolds. In spite of their lack of welcome by society, in some ways Violet had enjoyed being in the capital. She’d walked to Parliament Square and listened to Big Ben while gazing at the Houses of Parliament, dreaming of laws that might be changed inside its hallowed walls.

Votes for Women! Now her papa had forbidden her to be a suffragette, all that must be stopped. She couldn’t defy him now. She had already caused enough distress.

Yet the thought of giving up the Cause...

Violet moved towards to Adam Beaufort. ‘Shall we have some plain speaking?’

He turned to face her. There was no doubting his smile this time. His teeth gleamed white. ‘Do you speak any other way, Miss Coombes?’

‘I prefer it,’ she admitted. ‘I would very much like to hear more of your plan.’

His grin widened. ‘It isn’t a plan I’ve refined yet, as you may have realised. I haven’t been following you in the dark of night, plotting to catch you from balconies. And it’s not the reason I asked you to dance at the ball.’

‘Oh.’ Violet felt more pleased than she expected at his saying so. The sense of being safe with him returned.

‘It was an idea that came to me when I heard of your trouble. A moment of inspiration. Or perhaps it is an ill-conceived notion, something we ought to forget I ever mentioned.’

‘Oh, no,’ Violet said quickly. ‘I’d very much like to explore your suggestion.’

Adam Beaufort inclined his head. ‘Certainly.’

Violet took some air from deep in her chest, as far as her corset would allow. The breathlessness she’d experienced when he first proposed had returned, but she forced her voice to firmness. ‘Would you propose marriage to me if I didn’t have a fortune?’