An Ideal Duchess (37 page)

             
“Shame! Leave the women alone!” Cried the man with the belt.

             
Anthony struggled between the policeman and the suffragettes, his hat knocked from his head and the sleeves of his expertly tailored tailcoat pulled into a myriad of directions until he heard the seams begin to rip. Someone wrenched his arm around and he winced, only later realizing the policeman had begun to pull his wrists into handcuffs.

             
“Say, you can’t do this!” He shouted, once he realized he too was being arrested.

             
“Shut your gob,” The bobby muttered as he began pulling him towards another maria.

             
And so, Anthony Challoner, Liberal MP for Rendcomb found himself tossed into a police van with other radical suffragettes and carted off to gaol.

*          *          *

              Anthony didn’t feel very dignified, nor did he look it the following morning as he sat stiffly and carefully in the dock of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court, plagued as he was with the difficulty seeing from one bruised, puffy eye. The seats inside the court were filled with men and women, half of them gawking spectators, and the other supporters, based on their purple, white, and green buttons or sashes.

             
His mouth quirked with surprise when his eye landed on the exotic redhead who accosted Bron in the Central Lobby all those years ago. She scribbled furiously on a notepad, her delicate features smoothed with the distant look of a journalist capturing the scene. He rolled his one good eye towards Jessica and her fellow miscreants, who stood beside him, facing the empty magistrate’s box.

             
Even with one eye, he could discern the proud, straight line of her bearing, and when she turned her head to look directly at him, his blurry memories of their first meeting sharpened and he found her even more attractive and vital. She turned away from him when the magistrate entered the court in billowing black robes and moved to his raised chair on the dais.

             
He stood up in the dock when the session began and placed his hand on the metal bar. “Your Honour, I should like to plead our case for the court.”

             
Jessica frowned at him, and the other suffragettes began to whisper heatedly amongst themselves, but the Magistrate’s voice pulled their attention away from one another.

             
“Young women, is he to be your advocate?” asked the Magistrate.

             
“Yes—”

             
“No.” Jessica interrupted. “We, or rather I, shall defend the four of us.”

             
“Jessica—Miss Trant,” He hissed. “I am a barrister.”

             
“We don’t need your assistance,” She said coldly and then turned back to the Magistrate. “May we proceed, Your Honor?”

             
The Magistrate lifted his silver brows at Anthony, and he gave the magistrate a jerky nod of acceptance. The magistrate presented his charges in a crisp, even tone, his utter disinterest, or perhaps disdain, of the proceedings dripping from every syllable.

             
The magistrate’s reaction was even more apparent when Jessica stood to speak, to plead the case for herself and her fellow suffragettes. Anthony grew transfixed as her voice soared and lowered at the proper points, her gestures both measured and imploring even as she radiated with fervent confidence. The magistrate himself found it difficult to retain his expression of impassivity, leaning forward in his chair when Jessica leaned forward over the railing of the dock. By Jove, if women could take the silk, even F.E. Smith would quail in his boots at the sight of her.

             
“We have tried every way. We have presented larger petitions than were ever presented before for any other reform, we have succeeded in holding greater public meetings than men have ever had for any reform. We have faced hostile mobs at street corners, because we were told that we could not have that representation for our taxes, which men have won unless we converted the whole country to our side. Because we have done this we have been misrepresented, we have been ridiculed, and we have had contempt poured upon us...”                             Jessica’s chest was heaving with the effort of her monologue.

             
“Well, sir, that is all I have to say to you. We are not here because we are law-breakers; we are here in our efforts to become law-makers!”

             
At that, her suffragettes and supporters began cheering and stamping their feet. The bailiffs quickly attempted to obtain order, and the magistrate’s expression shifted from interest to disapproval.

             
“A pretty speech, Miss Trant, but nevertheless, you and your cohorts trespassed in the House of Commons, and when you were ejected, you continued to disturb the peace by assaulting police officers attempting to guard our esteemed members of Parliament from harm during their session.” The Magistrate raked a chilly glance over the suffragettes in the dock. “Mr. Challoner, I fine you twenty-five shillings for somehow being entangled in the fracas, but you Miss Trant are to be fined £5, to be paid immediately. That goes for the other three suffragists as well.”

             
“We won’t pay,” Jessica said just as coldly.

             
“I beg your pardon, young lady?”

             
“We refuse to pay our fines, Your Honor.”

             
Jessica!
Anthony released a breath of frustration over her stubbornness, wanting to wring her neck, but refrained from making a fool of himself by leaping back up to her defense.

             
“You are aware that failure to pay a fine ordered by the court results in a gaol sentence?”

             
“We are aware—more than aware,” Jessica reached a hand to the suffragette standing beside her.

             
All four women then linked their arms in solidarity. Jessica lifted her chin higher in the air. The Magistrate eyed them.

             
“Very well then,” He said crisply. “Miss Jessica Trant, Mrs. William Rokeby, Miss Laura Islington, and Miss Harriet Camden, I hereby sentence the four of you to one month in Holloway. Bailiff, please take them into custody.”

             
Anthony had never felt more impotent in his life. He stood, his mouth tightening in anger and despair as he watched the bailiff place the heavy iron handcuffs to each woman’s wrists and lead them away. Jessica walked stiffly, proudly in custody, but before she disappeared through the door leading to the black maria that would take them to Holloway, she turned to give him one last look…and winked.

*          *          *

Bledington

             
It was the prerogative of the lady of the house to have breakfast in bed, and though Amanda was neither the lady of the house nor particularly hungry, she relished this brief moment in her day where she was free of Ursula’s disapproving scrutiny, free of Viola’s passive, yet accusing eyes, and mostly, free of Malvern’s diffidence towards her.

             
When he finally unburdened himself about his brother’s death she assumed they had turned a new corner in their marriage, that they would grow closer and perhaps mend the early aggravations of their union. It was no to be, and in fact, after his abrupt shift in manner regarding his “backing her” (that made her want to laugh—as though she were a prize thoroughbred or a prizefighter!), Malvern  appeared to pretend he had not confided in her at all, that his passionate lovemaking, which had seemed a balm to her hurt pride, was nothing more than a right of a husband to have access to his wife’s body.

             
It hurt her more than she imagined, and combined with her mother-in-law’s shift in temperament, the servants’ disdain of her orders, and her relative isolation, Bledington Park grew more and more like a jail of unhappiness.

             
Her only sources of consolation were her boys, now four and both so intelligent, and Maggie’s friendship. What she would do without Maggie’s adoration and support, she did not know, but she was anxious to retain it for the sake of her sanity. She pushed herself into a sitting position and fluffed her pillows up high behind her back when she heard her bedroom door open. Maggie tiptoed in, carrying a tray laden with covered dishes, a small spirit lamp, and a teacup and saucer.

             
“Good morning, Your Grace,”

             
“Good morning, Maggie,” Amanda folded her blanket flat in her lap and pushed her braid over her shoulder as Maggie carefully lowered the tray onto the bed. “What has Mrs. Alcock cooked today?”

             
“Kidneys, Béchamel eggs, scones, and fresh raspberry jam,” Maggie said proudly as she lifted the lids. “Shall I pour your tea, Your Grace?”

             
“No, I shall do it,” Amanda busied herself with her breakfast, slathering the jam on her scones. “Sit and tell me what you’ve been doing all morning.”

             
“The same as every day, Your Grace,” Maggie giggled. “Though, now that I am your lady’s maid, I find myself with time on my hands.”

             
“I’m a dreadful mistress,” She said after taking a few bites of her scone. “I don’t entertain or go out very much, so you have little to do besides mend my clothing.”

             
“Oh no, Your Grace, I prefer it this way. All quiet and restful like.”

             
Amanda lowered her eyes to her empty teacup. Maggie’s response was no doubt intended to reassure her, but it still felt like an accusation, a reminder of her last reckless moment of fun. She sighed and began preparing her tea from the spirit lamp as Maggie moved towards her wardrobe to lay out her clothing for the day.

             
“My red walking suit, Maggie—the Lucile design,” She called after drinking her tea. “Her Grace and I are going on a visit to the local grammar school.”

             
“And the red hat?” Maggie’s eyes gleamed. “With the crimson ostrich feathers?”

             
“You have such exquisite taste,” Amanda laughed and set her cup down. “Did you bring my newspaper?”

             
“I tucked it under the small cover, Your Grace,” Maggie replied from the depths of the wardrobe.

             
Amanda lifted the small and found, instead of food, a newspaper folded up tightly into a small rectangle. She unfolded her illicit copy of the
Daily Chronicle
, a morning paper with rather Liberal and Radical leanings, and smiled slightly at her subterfuge. Since Malvern’s falling out with Bim, he took a hard line against the family and the staff at Bledington Park reading anything that did not toe the Conservative line. Out went the
Westminster Gazette
and the
Daily Graphic
, and in came
The Morning Post
and
The Pall Mall Gazette
.

             
It was really quite absurd, as though the simple act of denying access to Liberal-leaning newspapers would shut out the march towards progress. Amanda would have openly defied Malvern’s edict by reading the newspaper in his presence had she not worried that Maggie’s complicity in her defiance would place her position in jeopardy.

             
She was in the motion of turning the page when her eye fell in a small headline:

MP ARRESTED IN SUFFRAGE DEMONSTRATION AT WESTMINSTER.

              She scanned the article, her lips moving—as they did when she read—,and then emitted a peal of laughter.
Bim arrested! And in support of women’s suffrage!
It was too amusing and encouraging, and she made a mental note to send him a letter about his newfound position on the matter. She rose from the bed as Maggie came to stand near it, her hands folded as she waited to commence her duties for the day, and Amanda smiled thoughtfully at Bim’s brush with notoriety. The chiming of the grandfather clock placed down the hall tore her thoughts away from Bim and towards the present reality, and she submitted herself to Maggie’s attentions in helping her dress for the day. She sat on the bed to pull on her boots and fastened the rows of tiny buttons up the sides, and then drew the white gloves Maggie extended to her over her hands, flexing her fingers to loosen the starch stiffened kidskin.

             
She darted a quick look at the mirror over her dressing table—she pinched her cheeks to give them a spot of color; she daren’t shock Ursula with actual rouge—where she straightened her hat over her hair. She then stuck a hatpin in to keep it affixed throughout the day, and then she was off with a nod of thanks to Maggie.

             
The housemaids she encountered on her way downstairs bobbed deep curtseys when she passed, and though she was always taken aback by this action, she was grateful at least this respect was accorded to her. Once down the staircase, she walked into the drawing room just off the Saloon and found Malvern of all people seated at the small davenport desk against the window facing the South Lawn. He closed the top of the desk the moment she entered and twisted the key into its lock, standing to face her as he slid the key into a pocket of his tweed jacket.