Past Caring (13 page)

What had so often been in my thoughts of late emerged in speech
with a subtlety that we both realized the other would appreciate.

And it was a measure of my respect for her that I did not then attempt some awkward concealment.

“You have guessed my thoughts,” I said. “Four months ago you
threw a brick through my window. I little thought that it would find
a way to my heart. But it has done, and more, for you have changed
me as you have touched me, made of me a person I am happier
to be.”

“I will take no credit,” she said softly, “unless you acknowledge
the better woman you have made of me.”

“Such mutual flattery!” We laughed then at ourselves and at
each other.

Elizabeth gazed about for a moment at the view.

“It is lovely here,” she said. “And it has been lovely at
Barrowteign this past month. Thank you so much for bringing me.”

“Thank you for coming,” I said. “Alas, the time has sped by and
soon we will have to return to London.” For a moment we each
thought of what that would mean , then I put it into words. “I have
grown so used to spending each day with you. It will seem strange
and hard not to once again.”

“It will seem hard for me too.”

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“There is of course an alternative.” Elizabeth said nothing, nor
I for a moment. Then I continued. “You could agree to marry me.”

“What are you saying, Edwin?”

“What I am saying, Elizabeth, is will you marry me?”

“Oh, I would so like to say yes.”

“Then will you?”

“What about your career?”

“It could only be enhanced by a wife as lovely as you. You have
already seen how my constituents have taken to you.”

“But in London?”

“There too. The Prime Minister is no ogre and would have, I
judge, no grounds to object.”

“Not even the grounds of my own politics?”

“Not even those. But I would not expect you to abandon them.”

“Then what about your family?”

“Mother adores you.”

“But surely Florence does not.”

“A commendation in itself.”

“You seem to have an answer to every objection.”

“Only because there can be no objection to something so right.”

“Then I will say yes, Edwin , with all my heart, and learn to
obey my future husband.”

We smiled, knowing that obedience would never be expected in
our marriage, and I drew her close and kissed her, the breeze blowing her hair onto my face.

“I love you, Elizabeth.”

“And I love you, Edwin.”

There reached its zenith, on that high boulder in Devon , my
hope for what life had to offer. It had offered me ministerial rank in
the counsels of my land and I had taken it, though with what benefit
to those I was set to serve I could no longer clearly see. Now it had
offered me Elizabeth, whose happiness I saw as a sure, attainable
objective amidst all the shifting compromises of politics. We sat atop
Blackingstone Rock that bright September noon, smiling with a mutual nervousness at the certainty of our love, knowing that the granite beneath our feet could be no firmer than our trust in each other.

Yet even granite can be broken. And the first cracks were even
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then appearing. What I did not know until long after was that
Florence, fearing her own eclipse in the family and, worse still,
some sullying of her name by an unfortunate marriage, had taken
it upon herself to consult her father’s solicitor and to commission
some discreet research into Elizabeth’s background, her suspicion
having been aroused by some reticence she detected in our accounts
of it. At first, no doubt, she was concerned only to satisfy herself that
Elizabeth was an appropriate bride for me in her own watercolour
social terms. But I can imagine the horrified glee with which, on her
latest visit to Dartmouth, she received the report that Miss Latimer,
orphan of Putney, was an active member of the Women’s Social &
Political Union who had already come to the notice of the police
and been fined for at least three breaches of the peace in the pursuit
of militant suffragism.

So, when Elizabeth and I returned to Barrowteign and delighted my mother with our announcement, we were but shortly followed home by Florence, in a secret ecstasy of spite rewarded. She
knew her husband as she thought she knew her prey and, in response
to our tidings, brought some of her own to Robert’s ears, couched, no
doubt, in terms of concern for my welfare. Robert, decent pliable
man that he was, realized (as his wife reminded him) that there was
nothing to be gained by challenging me on the subject, so thought to
have a word with that most pragmatic of counsellors, Flowers, who,
alive to his responsibilities as my agent, determined that covert action was required to save a career which he had laboured long to
protect. This took the form of an approach to the mandarins of the
Liberal Chief Whip’s Office, who thereupon began to move with all
their dread inertia against two unwitting lovers.

Of all this, I was in ignorance. Likewise my mother and
Elizabeth, who drew even closer after our announcement than before. And if Robert looked straight at times and Florence sour, I
would have seen nothing in it. My mind was set on a spring wedding and the imminent resumption of Parliamentary business,
strictly in that order.

In the middle of October, with the leaves falling at Barrowteign,
we set off to London, my mother sending us on our way with en-treaties to return at Christmas and to fix a date soon. To neither
were we in the least averse. We motored back happily with the roof

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up against the autumn chill, talking of ourselves and the future—

now conjoined—as the countryside slid serenely by. Mercy had
been warned by letter and greeted us with fulsome approbation.

High tea with her in Putney, Elizabeth on my arm making plans
with her aunt which I was happy to indulge, made me feel glad to be
back in London.

I still felt so next morning, when I reported to my office in positively buoyant mood. Despatch boxes had kept me in touch with
events in my absence but I was looking forward to Meres’ customarily thorough briefing nonetheless. Before there was a chance of
that, I received a message to telephone 10 Downing Street at once.

The Prime Minister’s secretary told me that Mr. Asquith wished
to see me in his office at four o’clock that afternoon. He declined to
elaborate.

There was much to busy myself with in the interim. Accordingly, I walked round to Downing Street that grey afternoon in a
mood more of curiosity than foreboding. I was admitted without delay to the presence. I found Asquith slumped at his desk and knew at
once from his posture that he was in a taciturn frame of mind. He
asked me to sit down.

“Did you have a good break, Edwin?” he growled.

“Thank you, yes, Prime Minister.”

“And you return refreshed?”

“Indeed—ready for the fray.”

“I can guarantee some of that. I’m confident that the Budget
will be passed by the Commons early next month.”

“And so to the Lords.”

“Quite. I am reliably informed that they will reject it.”

“Then they will have to bear the consequences.”

“As will we all. We will find ourselves on the horns of a constitutional dilemma.”

“Surely that can only hurt the Lords.”

“Alas no. We will almost certainly have to go to the country for
a mandate to overturn the Lords’ decision.”

“If we must we must.”

I had grown by now more than a little puzzled. This issue had
been debated, our reaction to the Lords rejecting the Budget rehearsed, many times before in Cabinet. Our conversation now was
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adding nothing, so to what purpose had I been urgently summoned?

Asquith rose and began pacing the room.

“At a time such as this, Edwin , we can ill afford public embarrassment. The people must respect us as the repositories of good
sense in opposition to irresponsible aristocrats.”

“Have we not established that position?”

“We had. I now find that it is imperilled by one minister’s im-prudence.”

“What has happened?”

“What has happened is that the Chief Whip has told me that,
during your recent stay in Devon , you became engaged to marry a
notorious Suffragette.”

I was taken aback. I had to set aside for a moment enquiry into
how the Chief Whip had come by his information and face what appeared to be an unwarranted intrusion into my private life.

“Is this true, Edwin?” Asquith asked, facing me.

“Yes. I would quibble with your description of Miss Latimer as
notorious, but she has certainly been active in the suffragist cause.

And we are engaged to be married. But I can see no . . .”

“Who knows of this?”

“Our respective families and, it seems, the Chief Whip. But
what . . .”

“Not the WSPU?”

“Certainly not. Miss Latimer and I proposed to say nothing
about it for a while yet.”

“That, at least, is something.”

“Prime Minister, what is the problem?”

Asquith sat heavily back down in his chair, sighing as he did so.

“Edwin , you showed yourself from an early stage to be a calm,
incisive thinker, neither a demagogue nor a sycophant. You were
that invaluable asset to the man at the wheel—a young, energetic,
impartial adviser, a good worker with a good brain. That is why I
promoted you when I came to office. How can you therefore be so
naïve as to ask where is the problem in your marrying a
Suffragette?”

“I have thought it through and see no problem. My private life
is just that: private. I have made no secret of my support for female
suffrage in the long run but I accept that it must take its place in the

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queue. My fiancée appreciates that now too and has foresworn illegal acts. But neither of us wishes to force our convictions upon the
other. I really do not see why two unattached young people should
not marry if they wish.”

“Because neither of you is unattached. You are a member of a
government many of whose supporters deplore militant suffragism
and would impute to you, for marrying a Suffragette, just that degree of irresponsibility of which we are now accusing the Lords. It
would do immeasurable harm to our standing with the electorate, at
a time when we must have popular support to force through those
social reforms which a Cabinet of which you are a member considers so vital. Miss Latimer is, by contrast, a member of an organization which seeks to promote by violent means its own sectional
interest above those with greater needs and fewer resources. Your
marriage is not to be countenanced in these circumstances.”

“Then I will resign.” There was nothing else I could say. No
amount of argument would sway Asquith in this mood and
Elizabeth deserved such a sacrifice of me. Yet I knew in the back of
my mind, that resignation was the one card that might win me this
hand, for the Prime Minister could ill-afford to lose me at a time
when Lloyd George, with Churchill’s willing assistance, was threatening to seize the initiative from him. I was one of the few able
young lieutenants he could look to for aid. Sure enough, I saw his
face fall at my words.

“Edwin ,” he said, “I trust it will not come to that. Your proposed marriage is not to be countenanced at this time and in these
circumstances. That is not to say that there will not be a better time
and more propitious circumstances. What I am asking you—and
Miss Latimer—to do is wait and keep silent for a while.”