Break of Dawn (30 page)

Grieving for Cat was a daily process, that and coming to terms with the way her friend had died and that the man responsible had escaped justice. And so, when she heard about a Votes for Women rally being held in Hyde Park in the middle of June, she knew she had to go to represent Cat and her beliefs.

Sadie stared at her askance when she announced her intentions at the breakfast-table, the day of the rally. She had risen early and been downstairs at nine o’clock. Already the morning was hot, the sky blue and high. The perfect day for a rally, she told Sadie cheerfully.

When Sadie had realised she couldn’t dissuade Sophy from attending, she declared she was accompanying her and nothing Sophy said could convince her otherwise. So it was, at just after ten o’clock, the two women set off.

Huge crowds were jamming Hyde Park when they got there. Bugles blew and banners waved, and although most of the crowd seemed sympathetic to the cause, there was a minority of individuals who had clearly come to heckle the speakers. The leading speakers were positioned round the park on twenty different platforms wearing sashes in the campaign colours of purple, green and white, and each platform had a policeman or two beside it. The morning was bitter-sweet for Sophy. She was roused by the inspiring speeches of Christable Pankhurst and Annie Kenney, and the fellow-feeling in the crowds which encompassed women from all walks of life and all classes was like nothing she had experienced before, but Cat should have been there beside her, her lovely face aglow with passion for the cause and her voice joining in the cheers for the speakers. The sea of pretty hats and summer dresses worn by the tens of thousands of women present, the bright sunshine and the almost carnival atmosphere, brought home her loss even more, and Sadie must have been feeling the same because she whispered in Sophy’s ear, ‘She’s in a better place, ma’am, that’s what you’ve got to keep remembering,’ as she squeezed Sophy’s arm.

The rally finished with a resolution calling on the government to bring in an official Women’s Suffrage Bill without delay which was passed overwhelmingly, and although there were one or two ugly moments when trouble flared, the police came to the rescue immediately.

There were the usual groups of Hooray Henrys dotted about the fringe of the park as the rally broke up – rich, ineffectual young men who made a nuisance of themselves at such events because they had more money than sense, drank too much and had little respect for women outside their own class. Since Toby had become unemployable due to his drink and drug addiction, he had drifted into the company of such types now and again, but however freely he spent Sophy’s money, he was still unable to keep up with the
profligate lifestyle of most of them, who were recklessly extravagant and wild.

It was as Sophy and Sadie approached the line of horse-drawn cabs waiting for hire at the perimeter of the park that she heard her name bandied about by one such bunch of wastrels. ‘Hey, chaps, isn’t that Sophy Shawe the actress, good old Toby Shawe’s wife? She’s even more of a beauty close to, and willing to entertain, according to Toby.’

‘Ignore them, ma’am,’ Sadie murmured at her side.

Sophy nodded. The words had been spoken loudly, and clearly meant to reach her ears.

The next moment, the two women found themselves surrounded by a group of laughing young men who were eyeing Sophy in an insolent manner as they jostled each other. Aware that they only had a few yards before they reached the cabs, Sophy glanced at them coldly. ‘Please let us pass.’

Disregarding this, the foppish young man who seemed to be the ringleader and who had spoken before, swept his hat off his head in an exaggerated bow. ‘Let me introduce myself. Rupert Forester-Smythe at your service, Mrs Shawe.’

Sophy allowed no expression on her icy features. ‘I said, please let us pass.’

‘Hoity-toity.’

From the laughter which followed from his cohorts you’d have thought Forester-Smythe had said something extremely witty.

Sadie jabbed at the man nearest her with the end of her parasol, causing him to jump to one side. More laughter followed.

‘We have a mutual acquaintance, Mrs Shawe.’

Sophy had no intention of holding a conversation with Rupert Forester-Smythe and stared at him without speaking.

‘A certain Toby Shawe?’ he carried on, undeterred. ‘And he’s been very . . . vocal about your – shall we say
willingness
– to show a fellow a good time.’

This was too much for Sadie. Using her parasol again she lunged at Forester-Smythe and prodded him in the stomach. ‘Get away, you foul-mouthed creatures!’ she hissed furiously, before using the
light umbrella to clear a path to the first cab, the driver of which had jumped down from his seat behind the horse and was saying, ‘Can I be of any assistance, ladies?’

The group of young men were now hooting with laughter and blowing kisses to the two women as the cab driver assisted them into the carriage, but as it drew away Sophy caught a fleeting glimpse of Forester-Smythe’s face, and he wasn’t smiling like the others.

‘What are things coming to?’ Sadie was highly indignant and bristling like a porcupine. ‘I’d like to take their silver-topped canes and stick them where the sun don’t shine; that’d take the smiles off their silly faces and make their eyes pop, sure enough.’

Sophy had to smile. But the incident had shaken her. The more so now she had time to think about what the man had said. That Toby had been saying such things about her, hurt her to the quick – but perhaps she should have expected it.

She instructed the cab driver to take her straight to the theatre before he drove Sadie home, and as she was a little late she didn’t have time to dwell on the episode before the afternoon performance. In the interval before the evening show, several members of the cast, including Sophy, had a light meal brought in from a nearby restaurant, and the usual jocularity and clowning around from one or two of the younger members of the cast banished the last of her distress. If nothing else the incident had shown her she was right to distance herself from Toby, she told herself when she was back in her dressing room getting ready for the next performance. Not that she had doubted it. Yet, she asked herself, how could she have been so mistaken about the man with whom she had thought she would share the rest of her life? When she looked back over those first two or three years of their marriage, she could see a hundred different times when she should have realised what he was really like, but loving him as she had, she’d made countless excuses for him. Perhaps she herself had contributed to his decline into the habit which had mastered him body and soul? If she had challenged him earlier, forced him to get help, maybe he could have risen above his addiction? She had tried, heaven knows she had, but perhaps not hard enough . . .

The five-minute curtain call came and she mentally shook herself. Toby had made his decisions and nothing she had done or said could have persuaded him otherwise. She had loved him, she had genuinely adored him, but love hadn’t been enough.

No more heart-searching. She had to look forward now. But even as she thought it, she dreaded the fight which would undoubtedly ensue in the next months and years before she could gain her freedom.

The day had started dismally for Toby, like the ones before it since he had left the comfort of the house overlooking Berkeley Square. He didn’t remember coming back to his room at the club but when he awoke, fully clothed and lying on top of the covers, he could smell the vomit splattered on the floor at the side of the bed.

Dragging himself into a sitting position with his back resting against the iron bedhead, he lit his first cigarette of the day and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. Then he reached for the whisky bottle and glass on the bedside cabinet. He poured himself a good measure and drank it straight down, and after a minute or two his hands stopped shaking. Shutting his eyes, he finished the cigarette and lit another with the stub, and had another glass of whisky but he sipped this one, making it last. The bottle was almost empty.

The angle of the shafts of sunlight slanting in through the high window told him it must be late morning, and when he glanced at his watch he saw it was, in fact, two in the afternoon. He finished the last of the whisky in the bottle and sat for some time thinking of nothing in particular, his mind in the empty vacuum it retreated into these days.

After a while he stirred himself. There was a small washstand holding a bowl and a jug of cold water in the room, but the bathroom was at the end of the corridor and shared by anyone staying at the club. There were ten guest rooms in all, but only half of these were normally occupied at any one time.

He swung his legs out of bed on the side opposite to the mess. He’d have to clear it up before he went out. A housemaid came in every day to clean and straighten the rooms, but he had been warned by the manager of the establishment that if she reported finding puddles of vomit one more time he would be asked to leave the premises. Silly little scut. He straightened his aching back and glared around the room. It was her job to clean up after paying guests like himself, wasn’t it? To hell with her. To hell with all women.

He left the club at four o’clock and made straight for the barbers where he had a shave and a spruce-up. From there he made his way to a fashionable little café favoured by the young blades and those such as he, a place where gossip and character assassination was the order of the day. Ordering his first bottle of wine, he sat and drank it at one of the tables outside, half-asleep in the sunshine. He was about to call for a second bottle when he was clapped on the back by one of a group of young men who joined him, pulling up chairs and sitting down as they shouted to the proprietor to bring more bottles and glasses.

‘Toby, old fellow. We thought we might find you here.’ Rupert Forester-Smythe was all smiles, and as the owner of the café bustled out he took an opened bottle of wine from him and filled Toby’s glass to the brim.

The talk was inconsequential at first; it was only when Rupert refilled Toby’s glass that he said, ‘Saw your wife today, by the way. Did you know she was at the rally in Hyde Park? I’d have thought you’d have kept a tighter rein on her, old fellow. Doesn’t do to let their heads be filled with all this nonsense about women’s rights and the rest of it.’

Toby peered at Forester-Smythe. He had never liked the man, mainly because he felt that as far as Forester-Smythe was concerned,
he was an object of ridicule. The man had a way of making fun of folk and sometimes his derision was downright nasty. Did he know Sophy had thrown him out? Word was getting about. It would be just like him to rub a man’s nose in it. He drank half of his glass of wine before he said, ‘Nothing to do with me. I’ve had enough of her whoring. Washed my hands of her.’

‘Is that so?’ Rupert topped up Toby’s glass. ‘Now that’s a shame as I had a little proposition to put to you regarding the fair lady.’

‘Proposition?’

‘I thought you might persuade her to come to one of the supper clubs after the show tonight, one with a private room for a little . . . entertainment? She seems a spirited young baggage and I’m sure she could accommodate us all in turn without too much trouble.’

Toby stared at him. He knew what went on in some of these private rooms, he’d even been to one or two such escapades in his time. ‘She wouldn’t listen to me. We’re— I’m staying at my club.’

‘I see. Now that’s disappointing, very disappointing. I, we’ – his nod took in the group of smiling men – ‘would be prepared to pay handsomely for such pleasure as I’m sure she can give, but if you don’t think you can oblige us . . .’

Toby’s lower jaw moved from one side to the other as he thought rapidly. She’d thrown him out, humiliated him, ruined his life. He had been doing all right until he’d married her, and then it had been like she’d put a curse on him. She’d stood by when the theatres had refused to give him parts tailormade for him and hadn’t lifted a finger, and why? Because she was too busy having her fun with every Tom, Dick or Harry. He knew. He wasn’t as stupid as she thought he was. As for Gregory, she’d been his mistress for years, he could see it all now. She’d kept the man sweet and feathered her own nest along the way, and what did he – her lawful husband – have? A stinking room in his club and a notice of her intention to divorce him.

He glanced at Rupert. ‘How much is handsomely?’

Rupert smiled. He knew when he’d nailed his man. ‘Name your price, old fellow.’

Toby nodded. ‘All right, but like I said, she wouldn’t listen to me, supper club or no supper club. I’ve another suggestion, however.’

‘Oh yes? I’m all ears.’

Toby reached into his pocket and held aloft a key. ‘This opens my front door. You could be waiting for her when she gets back from the theatre and who’s to say she didn’t invite you home with her?’

Rupert liked it. If the baggage complained, it would be his word against hers that she hadn’t been game for a bit of hanky-panky, and who would take the side of an actress? They were teasers, all of them, and this one in particular. He was itching to bring her down a peg or two. She wouldn’t be so haughty when they’d finished with her.

‘She has a maid-cum-housekeeper living in – you’d have to deal with her.’

One of the other men guffawed. ‘An ageing crone? We met her this morning, didn’t we, Rupert,’ he added slyly.

Rupert scowled. His stomach was still tender from the steel tip of Sadie’s parasol. ‘We’ll deal with her, all right – we might even allow her to watch the fun. So’ – his hand reached for the key but Toby held it just out of reach – ‘what’s your price?’

An hour later the deal was done and Toby had his blood money. Rupert and his cronies had sauntered off, glancing back at him once and then sniggering as one of them murmured something. Toby watched them go as he finished the last of the wine they had left. Let them look down their aristocratic noses at him, he thought morosely. He didn’t care. If any of them traced their family tree back far enough they’d find they came from murderers and rapists and scoundrels; the aristocracy was littered with dubious ancestors.