Suffragette Girl (18 page)

‘But they saved Paris,’ Augusta murmured.

‘So – are you really telling me you want James to go into
that
?’

Augusta was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look as if this war is going to be “over by Christmas” like they’ve been saying. I’d hoped
they were right, that if we hung on, James wouldn’t even be faced with such a dreadful decision.’ She reached out and ruffled his hair fondly. ‘But, you see, if it goes on for
– for a while, they’re going to have to bring in conscription.’

Florrie glanced at James, but he was resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers linked, his gaze on the floor.

‘Conscription?’ she asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘All men between certain ages are called up to go into the armed forces. To – to refuse is classed as an act of cowardice and punishable. Either prison or – or
worse.’

‘My God! What is this country coming to?’

For once, her grandmother did not check the girl’s blasphemy. Instead, she sighed heavily. ‘I don’t want James to go any more than you do. But if he doesn’t volunteer,
then it’s likely he’ll be called up anyway eventually.’

‘But it might all be over by then. And surely they won’t call anyone up who’s still at
school,
for Heaven’s sake!’

Augusta looked out of the window once more. ‘Your father’s view is very simplistic. If Ben Atkinson – the son of one of his tenants – can go, then the son of the biggest
landowner and employer in the district should do no less.’

‘But James is the only male heir to the Maltby estate.’

Augusta faced her squarely. ‘Hence his ambition for you to marry Gervase Richards and provide him with a grandson. He still hasn’t given up that hope entirely.’

Florrie gasped. ‘How – how,’ she searched for the right word, ‘calculating of him! Doesn’t he care about
either
of us?’

‘In his way, I’m sure he does. But pride and tradition and the family’s good name are everything in Edgar’s eyes.’ She sighed as she added in a whisper,
‘Everything.’

Florrie couldn’t ever remember having felt so shocked about anything in the whole of her young life. It was not what Augusta had said about their father’s attitude –
she’d expected as much – but never in a million years would she have anticipated that their grandmother would agree with his sentiments.

As if still needing, yet at the same time fearing, to hear the words from her own lips, Florrie said, ‘And – and is James right?
Do
you agree with Father now?’

Augusta was silent for a long moment, still gazing down at Ben. Slowly she turned to look at them both, glancing between them, her fond gaze resting on them in turn. ‘I can understand your
father’s reasoning.’ As Florrie opened her mouth to argue hotly, Augusta raised her hand and her face broke into smiles. ‘But, no, of course I don’t agree with him. I
don’t think James should volunteer. I think he should wait until he
has
to go, whatever it looks like to other people.’ She cocked her head on one side and said impishly,
‘Florrie, how could you ever think any differently of me? When have I ever cared for the opinions of others?’

‘Oh, Gran, Gran! I knew it!’ Florrie flung her arms around the older woman. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be so – so heartless.’

‘Now, now, I can’t have you implying such a thing about your father,’ her grandmother admonished, but her eyes were twinkling as she added slyly, ‘But you seem to be
forgetting, Florrie dear, that your idol, Mrs Pankhurst, is in favour of the war. That’s why you find yourself at home once more, isn’t it? Fidgeting because you’ve nothing useful
to do.’

‘Yes,’ the girl admitted.

‘And Emmeline Pankhurst always advocated any means by which to achieve one’s aims? Even violence?’

‘Well – in a way.’

‘So why are you against our country defending itself?’

Florrie blinked. ‘Oh, I’m not against the war,’ she said blithely. ‘I just don’t want James to go, that’s all.’

For a moment there was silence between them as Augusta and James glanced at each other. Then they both burst out laughing.

‘What? What have I said?’ Florrie demanded.

‘Oh, my dear girl,’ Augusta said, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘Never mind gaining the
vote
for women – you should be Prime Minister.’

Florrie hoped the matter of James enlisting would end there and she was thankful to wave him off on the Monday morning to return to school. But the same night, as the family
was rising from the dinner table, the ladies to the drawing room and Edgar to his study to smoke a cigar and drink brandy, they heard the noise of a pony and trap drawing up outside the front
door.

‘Now, who on earth can that be at this hour?’ Edgar muttered crossly. He enjoyed his solitary hour in the study after dinner and hated interruptions to the routine of the
household.

Bowler opened the door as the family crowded into the hall.

‘James!’ Clara hurried forward, her arms outstretched. ‘What’s happened? Has there been an accident? Are you hurt?’

Florrie sought her brother’s face as he moved into the light. There was a strange mixture of emotions in his expression: triumph and yet a dreadful fear too and, worse still, a sense of
the inevitable.

Clara was still gushing over her son, but Florrie gripped her grandmother’s arm and whispered, ‘Oh, Gran, he’s volunteered. I know he has.’

Florrie was right and, whilst Clara dissolved into floods of tears and Edgar patted him on the back and called for Bowler to open a bottle of champagne, Florrie and Augusta looked on, their
hearts clutched with foreboding.

‘Well, that’s it, then,’ Florrie muttered. ‘I’m not waiting any longer for Lady Lee to get in touch. Tomorrow, I’m going back to London.’

‘You can’t. It’s Isobel’s wedding in two weeks’ time. Surely you hadn’t forgotten?’

Florrie sighed. ‘Yes – for the moment – I had.’

The date had originally been fixed for the beginning of December, but the Hon. Tim had received notice that he was to report to military college at the beginning of that month. The date of their
marriage had therefore been brought forward to the second Saturday in October so that they could have a few weeks together as man and wife before he had to leave.

‘You can’t let her down. She needs you here. There’s so much to be done before the big day and, my dear,’ Augusta put her hand on Florrie’s arm, ‘when Timothy
goes away, she’ll need your support more than ever. How about waiting until he’s gone and you can go back to London together?’

‘You’re right. That’s what I’ll do. It’s not as if we’ve heard from Lady Lee yet. In the meantime . . .’ They exchanged a solemn glance as they watched
Beth help a wailing Clara into the drawing room.

‘Oh, James, James – how could you?’ she cried, with the desolation of a mother believing her boy is going to certain death.

‘My dear boy,’ Edgar was saying, even putting his arm around James’s shoulders in an unusual expression of affection. ‘I’m so very proud of you.’

Augusta wriggled her shoulders. ‘Well, there’s one good thing, Florrie. With him being so young, his training to be an officer might take a long time. Hopefully long enough that he
won’t need to go to France at all.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Florrie muttered grimly.

But both Florrie and her grandmother were in for another shock. Too young to enlist for officer training, James had joined the ranks. Once he’d completed his basic training, he might be
sent to France at any time.

The weather was kind to Isobel and Tim on their wedding day – cold, but fine and bright. Bixley Manor, nestling in a vale, lay on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds,
about six miles from Candlethorpe Hall. In front of the large, square Georgian house was a lake with a pair of swans that nested there and reared their young. The ground then rose gently to a small
church, built some generations earlier by the Richards family and attended too by all those who lived on the estate, workers and tenant farmers alike. It was a friendly congregation – like
one big family – and the vicar from Bixley village who took the services was a benevolent father figure to them all. In turn they adored and revered the merry, white-haired gentleman. On the
day of Isobel’s wedding, the little church, crammed with family, friends and estate workers, was so crowded that a few had to cluster round the church porch and eavesdrop through the open
door.

Everyone was determined to put all thoughts of the war aside. They resolutely ignored the disturbing news that Antwerp was under heavy attack from the enemy as both sides tried to race to the
sea and command the Channel ports. Instead, the wedding guests vowed to enjoy the young couple’s special day. Everyone except Clara, who found such strength of will quite impossible. She
spent the day with a handkerchief pressed to her lips and tears streaming from her eyes every time she looked at James.

‘Iso – you look lovely,’ Florrie said as they finished dressing together. She stood back to make sure that Isobel’s veil was firmly in place. Despite the anxiety that
hung over everyone and the austerity that would surely come, Gervase had insisted the wedding should be traditional. Isobel’s oyster satin gown had a fitted bodice embroidered with French
knots, a high neckline and long, narrow sleeves. The front panel of the straight-cut skirt was also decorated with French knots, and a narrow train hung from the back of the waist.

Isobel laughed merrily. ‘There’s no need to sound so surprised.’

Florrie laughed too. ‘I wasn’t. I’ve always told you, you’re a handsome woman, but today there’s something special about you.’

‘Aren’t all brides supposed to look beautiful on their wedding day? Even the ugly ones?’

‘You’re far from ugly.’

‘I know.’ Isobel put her head on one side and regarded her friend. ‘But you’re the one to whom the word “beautiful” really applies. That blue silk dress
really suits you.’ She chuckled mischievously. ‘I rather think that Gervase will bring forward this year’s proposal when he sees you.’

As Florrie groaned, they both burst out laughing.

Then they sobered.

‘Your Hon. Tim is such a lovely man, but he’s a lucky one too: to be marrying you. You’re so strong and – and daring, and he’s so proud of you.’

‘Thank you, Florrie darling,’ Isobel said with a catch in her throat. Then suddenly she chuckled. ‘Just look at this.’ She raised the hem of her gown. ‘How daring
is that?’

Florrie laughed as she saw that the garters Isobel was wearing to hold up her white stockings were threaded through with purple, green and white ribbons.

‘Now, it’s time I was going,’ Florrie said. ‘I’ll tell Gervase you’re ready. And, darling Iso, I’ll see you at the church porch.’ They kissed each
other’s cheek. ‘Be happy, Iso,’ Florrie whispered, her voice husky with emotion. Tears glistened in Isobel’s eyes and, not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

As Florrie descended the stairs, Gervase was in the hall. He looked up at her and held out his hand to help her down the last few steps.

‘You look wonderful, Florrie darling.’

‘Thank you, Gervase. And your sister looks lovely too, so don’t you forget to tell her so.’

‘I won’t.’ He led her out of the door and handed her into the carriage, tucking a rug warmly around her knees, though she scarcely needed it.

The route up to the church was difficult, for there was only a mud track up the grassy slope. Today, though, it was fine and dry and so most of the guests walked up. But Gervase had insisted
that Florrie and the bride should travel in the carriage. Leaving Florrie at the church gate, the carriage returned to the Manor to bring the bride and her brother.

The service, apart from the solemn moments of the exchange of vows, was a merry one. The vicar kept his address light-hearted – teasing almost – and his words lifted the spirits of
everyone there. For, though never mentioned, thoughts of the war were never very far from anyone’s mind.

After the service, the bride and groom led the way back to the Manor, walking down the hill in the late autumn sunshine, followed by all those who loved them.

‘Lady Lee – Mrs Maltby,’ Gervase addressed Lady Leonora and Augusta in concern. ‘Would you like to ride in the carriage? Perhaps Mrs Edgar would care to—’

He got no further, for Augusta said, ‘Good Heavens, no, Gervase. I’m happy to walk with you all.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss this. This is such a beautiful setting for a country wedding. Just perfect.’ Lady Leonora’s eyes misted as she watched her son and new
daughter-in-law setting off down the hill as if stepping out into their new life. ‘Though I think Henry,’ Lady Smythe referred to her husband, who’d been persuaded to leave the
sanctuary of their country home and travel to ‘foreign’ parts, ‘might be very glad to ride back. His gout is bothering him cruelly today.’

They turned to see a portly gentleman hobbling with a walking stick.

‘The dear man never complains,’ Lady Lee said softly. ‘But I fear he’s often in great pain.’

Gervase hurried towards Lord Smythe and beckoned for the carriage. When he’d helped him into it, he returned to the ladies.

‘Thank you, Gervase, and now, you may escort Augusta and me back to the wedding breakfast.’

He’d hoped to walk with Florrie, but gallantly he smiled at the two older women and held out an arm to each of them.

The rest of the day passed happily and it wasn’t until everyone stood on the front terrace of the Manor and waved the couple off on their honeymoon that a feeling of gloom settled on the
gathering when Clara dissolved into heartbreaking tears once more. Even Lady Leonora, watching her only son drive away, had to bite down hard on her lip and hold her head high. Lord Smythe patted
his wife’s hand comfortingly and murmured, ‘There, there, dear heart.’

Florrie clung to Gervase’s arm and fought back the tears. ‘Oh, Gervase, what’s going to happen? Will we ever be all together again?’

‘I wish I knew, my dear. I only wish I knew.’

What happened – when the bride and groom returned six weeks later – was that Tim left for military training and a dreadful row broke out between Isobel and
Gervase.