Flame Tree Road (20 page)

One student said loudly for her benefit, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, old chap. I’m all for women’s emancipation, just keep it below the waist, I say!” They jabbed one another in the ribs and laughed like hyenas.

Estelle was so enraged she wanted to hit them on the head with her umbrella, but all she could do was dig her fingernails into her glove and bite her lip. She fumed, thinking about the cowardice of the male race. When encountered alone, these same students would pass her by looking frosty and studious, but put them in a herd and they became crass and mindless. Something had happened a week ago to exacerbate this behavior. A crude effigy of a woman riding a bicycle and wearing bloomers had been found suspended above the Braxton and Beele bookshop in the middle of the town square. It was a student prank aimed to degrade the feminists and it created quite a ripple. The effigy was taken down by the college authorities but not before obscene jokes floated up and down the corridors.

“Why, good evening, Miss Lovelace!”

Estelle turned at the sound of the baritone voice and saw Professor Burton shaking out the raindrops from his umbrella. He was the visiting professor of philosophy at Girton—a delightful bespectacled man, with very bushy eyebrows, and an old friend of her father’s.

“You are here to attend the debate, I see,” he said. “Are you alone?”

“Well,” said Estelle, glancing around. “My friends were supposed to be here. They are running late, it seems.”

Professor Burton pulled out his gold chain watch. “You have another five minutes. I would go inside, if I were you. You are sitting up in the gallery, I presume?”

“That’s right.” Estelle sighed. “I better go in. I don’t suppose my friends are going to make it.”

“May I have the pleasure of sitting with you?” asked Professor Burton with a gallant little bow. “That is, if you don’t mind my crusty old company.”

“But of course,” said Estelle, warmed by his kindness. He was doing this for her protection, she could tell, knowing well that if she sat by herself the male students would heckle her.

They climbed the stairs together and took their seats in the gallery. Estelle leaned forward on the railing, chin on her hands. From where she sat, she had a clear view of the front of the chamber and the speakers. The hall was packed. There were at least three hundred in the audience. She scanned the gallery and counted five other women, and felt deeply grateful to Professor Burton. None of the male students in the gallery would dare to pass a single comment with him sitting beside her.

The bell rang and the debate officers and speakers filed in to take their seats. Estelle caught her breath and her belly gave a flutter when she spotted Biren. He looked tall and elegant in a dark frock coat. He had a distinct courtly manner about him, Estelle thought, an old-fashioned baroque style. She admired his fine nose, the dark arch of his eyebrows. He looked so different from the shy, tender man who walked with her in the meadows. She missed him. They had not met since he had returned to his old student lodgings at Brockwell Lodge a fortnight ago. The tripos was coming up and he was busy studying for the exams, he said.

The speakers took their seats. The president stood up from his high-backed chair on the platform. He welcomed the audience, explained the rules and debating procedure and announced the topic: “This house condemns the principle of women’s suffrage, and views with regret the advancement in that direction.” He then introduced the speakers. Biren was to be the first speaker against the motion.

“This is going to be interesting,” whispered Professor Burton. “That Indian speaker, Ben Roy, is very good, I hear.”

“Biren,” Estelle corrected him. “His name is Biren Roy. Yes, I know him. He’s excellent.” She turned back to watch him.

Biren leaned forward, his fingers steepled together. He looked attentive but not tense. He is so handsome, Estelle thought dreamily. She was so busy watching him she paid scant attention to the first speaker, an anemic-looking man with a high raspy voice who was speaking for the proposition.

Next it was Biren’s turn. When he stood up he looked very relaxed. Gone was the shy reserve. Biren was a gifted speaker. He picked his words carefully, like perfect cherries from a basket, and used his hands in an elegant way to express himself. His tone shifted from seductive persuasion to forceful arguments, and Estelle was tempted to close her eyes, like she often did at a music concert, content to let the sound wash over her.

“Mr. Speaker, I am certain this house agrees that if the British Empire upholds justice, fairness and decency as the cornerstones of a civilized society we must extend the same rights to women. Women must be allowed to vote and they should also sit as members of Parliament.” His brazen suggestion caused a titter in the audience. Biren waited for them to quiet before he continued, “And one day, who knows, we may even have a female prime minister.” The audience broke into an uproar. The president banged his gavel for order and gestured at Biren to carry on. “The general argument is that women cannot make serious decisions because they are incapable of logical or intelligent thought. Today I am here to prove those critics wrong.”

Someone in the audience called for a point of information, which Biren Roy accepted.

“It is an indisputable fact that the dominance of the British Empire today is unrivaled in the world,” he continued. “The sun never sets on the empire, they say. Today at the height of Britain’s imperial glory, we have at the helm Her Majesty—a woman, I might add. A woman not just capable of logical and intelligent thought but a woman who has led Britain to become the leading nation of the world. This demolishes my opposition’s argument that women are incapable of sound judgment and making serious decisions. Women therefore should be allowed to vote.”

He sat down to a rousing applause. The other speakers went one by one, and when it came time for the vote, Estelle’s cynicism proved to be true. Despite all the strong arguments put forward by Biren and his team, the proposition won by overwhelmingly majority—199 to 65.

One thing became increasingly clear to Estelle that day at the Union debate. She realized that, despite whatever misogynistic biases existed in the real world, the Cambridge Union Society was an indispensable platform for honest and fearless discourse. Here within the four walls of the debating chamber, speakers could voice their opinions and, through an impassioned interchange of ideas, attempt to reshape public opinion. No matter which side won, there was still a respect for intellectual honesty. This gave Estelle hope.

* * *

The summer was gone and the wildflowers remained pressed in the pages of Estelle’s diary, under different names—cowslip, bluebell, daisy, thistle. They were memories of her summer days spent with Biren. More difficult to name were the emotions she felt inside.

The Bramley apples had turned their rosy cheeks toward the sun. It was fruit-harvesting season and soon her parents would arrive in Grantham Manor for the fall. Estelle was keen for her father to meet Biren. She would invite Biren to tea one day, she decided. She hoped Daddy would see what she saw in him. What was it that made Biren so unusual? she wondered. More than his boyish good looks, gentle personality and intelligence—it was his courage in the face of opposition that set him apart. Biren’s beliefs were really no different from her own. Both of them were fighting for fairness, equality and human decency. The difference was in who stood to gain. Estelle was fighting for something that would directly impact her own life, whereas Biren was fighting for something above and beyond himself. That was what set him apart as a true hero.

CHAPTER

31

The summery peace of Grantham Manor came to a halt with the arrival of Samuel and Catherine Lovelace. Overnight the house was teeming with maids flapping curtains, folding dust covers, dusting, cleaning and polishing. Male servants pushed furniture across the stone floor with earsplitting screeches. Catherine Lovelace spent sleepless nights configuring different arrangements for the drawing room furniture in her head. A new acquisition from Barrett—a blue-green Empire chair with winged armrests and gilded legs—had caused the latest unrest. The chair deserved pride of place, and arranging the existing furniture around it was proving to be a challenge. The peacocks, meanwhile, excited no doubt by what sounded like a rollicking jamboree inside the house, marched up and down their cage and added screeches of their own.

Trapped between the screech of furniture and the screech of the peacocks, Samuel Lovelace tried to immerse himself in the sonnets of Keats, to no avail. He finally shut the book, pushed it back in its empty slot on the bookshelf and walked over to the window. The sun winked through the scent-laden blossoms of the lime tree, and the garden glowed in patches of golden green.

What a beautiful day for a walk
, Samuel thought. He had not ventured outdoors since his return. The old wound in his leg had been playing up. He missed Josie, his cocker spaniel of sixteen years, who had died the year before. Walks in the country were just not the same without her.

And where was Estelle these days? She used to be keen to go on walks and always entertained him with her chatter about all the things wrong with the world and the quick fixes to set them right. Oh, the sweet confidence of youth! As one grew older the needle wavered between the wide arc of truth and doubt where nothing was sharply defined.

He saw less and less of Estelle these days. She seemed moody and self-absorbed, wandering off in the garden by herself. Once he found her sitting on the steps of the old stable house, writing a letter. To that Indian fellow, Biren Roy, he imagined.

Estelle had invited him to tea one time and Samuel had observed the young man with a critical eye. He had to admit, there was something rather fine about young Roy. Samuel was rarely wrong when it came to judging people. His surveyor’s work in the dangerous and unpredictable jungles of India had honed his instincts sharp as a wolf. He could size up a situation, man or beast in a matter of seconds. It was the same instinct that led him to speculate in oil shares and India stocks. When the risky investments had paid off, Samuel had quickly became a wealthy man.

Biren Roy had spoken sparingly and behaved older than his twenty-one years. He’d mentioned the premature death of his father. That was what had made him grow up so quickly, Samuel thought. He knew what that was like. His own father, a coal miner from Durham, had died in a mining accident when Samuel was only ten. Samuel had been lucky to get an education thanks to a kindly vicar who ran a school for boys out of his vicarage. He’d gone to study mathematics in Cambridge and worked at the Royal Greenwich Observatory as an assistant astronomer before getting the job as a surveyor in India.

Samuel had vowed to spare Catherine and his children the poverty that he had known. Catherine was the daughter of a Scottish investor with plantations in the West Indies, and an heiress at eighteen when he met her. Samuel was home on furlough from India. At thirty-one he was a lean, hard man with eyes of ocean blue on a face tanned by the colonial sun. After they married, Catherine and the children went back and forth between India and England and things had worked out well. It all changed when they’d relocated permanently to England after his leg injury. Catherine became increasingly dissatisfied. Her constant fretting over furniture and the excessive need to accumulate things was something Samuel had not foreseen.

At the breakfast table that morning, there was a furor over a broken teacup. Samuel calmly sipped his coffee and observed the two women over the top of his newspaper. They were complete opposites. Estelle with her wild hair and excessive gestures; Catherine cool and statuesque with hardly a flicker on her thin, aristocratic countenance.

Estelle pushed back her chair and without so much as an “excuse me” marched out of the room. Samuel sighed and folded his newspaper. “I am off for a walk,” he called out to Catherine, who was at the Buhl writing desk flipping furiously through a Barrett’s catalog. He pursed his lips to whistle for Josie, then remembered. Sweet Josie. If only the two women in his life were as sweet and uncomplicated as she had been, how peaceful life would be.

* * *

Samuel Lovelace walked along the river thinking of Estelle.

She had been six months old when he had seen her for the first time in England, and she’d owned his heart from the time her brown, shining eyes met his over the top of her ruffled pink bassinet. She was quick to take advantage of his weakness. He had no defense against those imploring eyes, her soft pleadings of “please, Daddy” and the occasional tear. When he returned to India she wrote him childish letters from England, which he’d carried in the pocket of his bush shirt and read on the muddy trail.

dear papa,

I dont like miss smithers she smels bad. Berti is a horid boy.

Ples come home.

Estelle

At nineteen she was a beautiful woman, willful, restless and outspoken. Men fawned over her, but she kept them at arm’s length, claiming her independence over marriage. Her brief involvement with Pierre Jolie could hardly be called a love affair. For all her bookish knowledge and brazen talk, Estelle was naive and unworldly.