Suffragette Girl (8 page)

Isobel leapt up, casting aside the newspaper. ‘Oh dear, I hope nothing’s wrong.’

As she hurried from the room, Florrie picked up the discarded paper to read the account of their misdeeds for herself. Vaguely, she heard Isobel’s side of the conversation.

‘Well, yes, it was, actually . . . No, we weren’t caught. We’re quite safe . . . Just a little scratch on her forehead, but—’ Then her voice became shriller and
Florrie listened more attentively. ‘She’s fine – it’s nothing and, no, there’s no need for you to come rushing down.’ There was another silence before she heard
Isobel replacing the handset and returning. As she came into the room, Florrie looked up and noted Isobel’s bright eyes and pink cheeks.

‘My dear brother is most seriously displeased with me for leading you into danger.’ She threw her hands into the air. ‘Not a word about
my
safety, mark you. And I was
foolish enough to say you had a little scratch and he wanted to come rushing down here at once.’

‘But how did he know about the other night?’

‘It’s reached our papers and he just
“felt”,
he said, that it was us. Oh, bother Gervase, he’s taken all the fun out of it now. He’s made me feel so
guilty about you.’

‘Well, don’t be,’ Florrie declared. ‘I know exactly what I’m getting myself into. And he’s no right to be so – so heavy-handed. It’s not as if
we’re engaged. Now the Hon. Tim, if it was
him
trying to stop you, that’d be different.’

‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Isobel chuckled, reaching for another piece of toast.

Isobel and Florrie remained indoors for several days, but at last they could stand the inactivity no longer, so they walked round to Lady Lee’s house to take afternoon
tea with her. As they sat sipping tea and eating home-made biscuits, Lady Lee told them, ‘Sylvia Pankhurst’s in prison and threatening to go on hunger strike and there’s something
big being planned. I’m not sure what it is yet and we’re not involved, but – but it’s big.’

‘An act of violence, you mean?’

‘I – I’m not sure.’ Lady Lee seemed evasive and extremely agitated.

Later, as they walked home again, Florrie remarked, ‘Do you think she’s involved with whatever’s going to happen, but didn’t want us to know?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Isobel was thoughtful. ‘I’ll have a word with the Hon. Tim tonight.’

But Timothy knew no more than they did. ‘Mother can be very uncommunicative when she wants to be,’ he smiled, putting his arm around Isobel. ‘I do hope my
wife
is not
going to keep secrets from me.’

Isobel laughed heartily. ‘Only when it’s for your own good.’

Tim blinked. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’ Then his tone sobered. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have heard yet – it’ll be in the news
tomorrow. Poor old Captain Scott and two of his fellow explorers have been found dead in a tent returning from the South Pole. They were only ten miles from safety.’

‘Oh, that’s terrible.’ Tears sprang to Isobel’s eyes. ‘He was such a courageous man.’

For a while news of the tragedy drove all other thoughts out of their minds. But a week or so later another event occurred that was to have repercussions on all their lives. A bomb, allegedly
set by Emily Davison and others, severely damaged the unoccupied new house belonging to Lloyd George in Surrey. The following week Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst accepted responsibility and was arrested
and charged with the crime.

‘Go home, both of you,’ Lady Lee urged them. ‘They’ll be pouncing on anyone involved with the Cause for the merest trifle. Go to the country out of harm’s way.
Please!’

‘But. . .’ Both young women tried to protest, but the acknowledged leader of their group was adamant. ‘Just for a week or so.’

On 25th February, the day that Mrs Pankhurst’s trial began, the two young women travelled home to Lincolnshire.

‘I was hoping to go home for my birthday on the twenty-eighth anyway,’ Florrie said. ‘But only for a few days,’ she added hurriedly, in case Isobel thought she was
beginning to lose her commitment to the Cause.

‘I suppose Lady Lee’s right.’ Isobel sighed. ‘They’re going to be arresting anyone in sight who’s sporting the suffragette colours. Perhaps we’re better
out of the way until things have calmed down a bit. But then,’ her eyes sparkled as she clasped Florrie’s hand, ‘we’ll go back.’

‘Oh darling,’ her mother enveloped Florrie in welcoming arms. ‘How glad I am to see you. I’ve been so lonely. But everything will be all right now
you’re back home.’

‘Mother dearest, I’ve only come home for my birthday. I – I’m going back again next week.’ Mentally, Florrie crossed her fingers, hoping that it would be safe to do
so by then.

Clara’s face fell and tears welled in her eyes. ‘Oh. I – I thought you’d come home for good. I—’ She broke off, startled as the door of the morning room was
flung open and Edgar strode in.

‘Ah, you’re back,’ he stated unnecessarily.

‘Father.’ Florrie moved dutifully towards him to kiss his cheek, but before she reached him he said harshly, ‘So, we’ll have no more of this suffragette nonsense.’
Florrie drew in a breath sharply and her eyes widened in surprise as her father nodded grimly. ‘Oh yes, their antics have even reached our local newspaper now. And as Miss Richards’s
name was mentioned, it doesn’t take a great leap of imagination to realize that you too have been involved. Well, my girl, it’s at an end now. You’ll settle down and marry Gervase
and we’ll say no more about it.’

Florrie stopped and returned her father’s glare steadily. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but I will not marry Gervase. Not now or ever. And I intend to return to London as soon as I can.
I only came home for my birthday on Friday.’

Edgar’s face grew purple and the veins in his forehead stood out. For a moment Florrie’s heart skipped a beat, afraid that for once she’d gone too far. Stand up to him she
might, disobey him she might, but she’d no wish to cause him harm. If he should have a seizure because of her rebelliousness, she’d carry the guilt for the rest of her life.

When he could bring himself to speak, through gritted teeth he muttered, ‘Then you can return this instant. You’re no longer welcome in my house.’

‘Now, now, what is all the shouting about, Edgar?’ Augusta said, coming through the open door behind him. ‘Ah, the return of the prodigal, I see.’ She came towards
Florrie, her arms outstretched. ‘This is cause for celebration indeed. How long are you staying?’

Florrie cast an uncertain glance at her father. ‘Well—’

Edgar gave an angry ‘ha-humph’, turned and marched out of the room. Serenely, Augusta seated herself on the couch and patted the seat beside her. ‘Sit down and tell us all
about it. We want to hear everything you’ve been doing, don’t we, Clara?’

‘Yes . . .’ Poor Clara wasn’t so sure, but she sank back into her chair and took a deep breath as if steeling herself to listen, even though she might find the conversation
worrying.

‘I’ve been staying with Isobel, as you know, but I’ve met all sorts of interesting people. Lady Leonora Smythe, for one.’ She paused, eyeing her grandmother before she
said more.

Augusta raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh – a member of the aristocracy. How exciting!’ It seemed that her grandmother still wished to keep her acquaintance with Lady Lee a secret.

‘Oh, darling,’ for a brief moment Clara’s face was animated. ‘Did she take you to balls and soirees?’ She clasped her hands together in happy expectation that
perhaps her wayward daughter’s visit to London had been more fruitful than she’d dared to hope. ‘Did she introduce you into Society? Would she arrange for you to be presented at
court, d’you think? I’m sure your father would forgive you if. . .’ Her voice faded away as she caught Augusta’s amused expression and her daughter’s anxious one.

‘Mother—’ Florrie bit her lip. ‘Lady Leonora is a stalwart of the WSPU.’

‘The – the what?’

‘The Women’s Social and Political Union. It’s the organization Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst founded.’

Clara’s face fell and she shuddered. ‘The suffragettes. Oh dear! I did so hope you might have forgotten all about that. Once you got to London and went to balls and such, I thought.
. .’ Her voice trailed away in disappointment. She sighed heavily and then asked, ‘So – what have you been doing?’

For the next hour, Florrie recounted some of the activities in which she’d been involved. She described the rousing rallies, the meetings where all classes of women met together as if they
were of equal rank. She spoke of the MPs and other gentlemen of standing who were sympathetic to their cause, but she omitted – in front of her mother – to mention the more militant
acts in which she’d recently taken part. She’d save that for later when she was alone with Augusta.

‘Is James coming home for my birthday?’

The two older women exchanged a glance. Clara’s eyes filled with tears, but Augusta’s mouth pursed with indignation. ‘Your father won’t allow him to come home during term
time and miss his schooling. And for once, I could not sway him.’

Despite the acute disappointment that her beloved brother would not be home for her birthday, Florrie couldn’t help but be amused at her grandmother’s reaction. She was sure that
Augusta’s annoyance was caused as much by the fact that she’d lost a battle with her son as by the fact that her grandson would be missing from the celebrations.

‘Never mind,’ Florrie said gaily. ‘We’ll just have to have another party during his holidays. I’ll be sure to come home again then.’ In her mother’s
hearing she forbore to add the words, ‘As long as I’m not in prison.’

On the evening of Florrie’s birthday, Augusta insisted that a special dinner should be held in her honour. ‘It’s her nineteenth birthday, Edgar, and should be
marked with a special occasion. She is no longer a child now, but a young woman.’

‘She’s not of age yet,’ he growled. ‘Though she seems to ignore the fact. And you encourage her.’

‘Edgar, my dear boy. I was married and carrying you by my nineteenth birthday—’

Her son held up his hand and said loftily, ‘I do not wish to be reminded of the fact, Mama.’

Augusta laughed. ‘Still ashamed of me, are you? Well, well. We can’t change the past, Edgar dear. But we can change the future. And that’s just what your lovely daughter is
trying to do. She’s trying to make the world a better – a fairer – place for women. You should be proud of her, not condemning her and trying to marry her off to the nearest
available eligible bachelor. A dear boy though Gervase is, I wouldn’t want to see her married to him if she doesn’t love him.’

At this point, Edgar felt himself to be losing this particular battle. He glared at her for a moment, turned on his heel and disappeared into his study, slamming the door behind him.

Augusta chuckled, dusted her hands together and murmured, ‘That’s one to me, I do believe.’

A few local people, who were considered suitable, were invited to dine with the Maltbys for Florrie’s birthday, most notably the Richards and the Hon. Timothy, who was
staying at Bixley Manor for a Friday-to-Monday shooting party that Gervase had arranged. Florrie’s birthday, falling on the Friday, fitted in very conveniently. And because James was not
present, only eleven sat down to dine. The four members of the Maltby family, Gervase, Isobel and Timothy, the local vicar and his wife, the Reverend and Mrs Ponsonby, and two members of
Gervase’s party, who were also acquaintances of Edgar.

George Jervis was a portly, bewhiskered and jovial gentleman. In his early sixties, Florrie surmised. He was the local MP. The other guest, Henry Davenport, was a magistrate. Tall and thin
– a little younger than Mr Jervis – he was very serious-looking, with a long nose and pale eyes behind the thick lenses of his spectacles.

‘Thank goodness he has no jurisdiction in London or we might find ourselves clapped in irons before the evening’s out,’ Isobel whispered.

Florrie’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Mm. It’s not him I’m interested in. Mr Jervis, now – I think a conversation with him might be a good idea. What d’you
think, Iso?’

‘I wouldn’t want to offend your father, not when I’m a guest at his table, Florrie.’

The younger girl’s brown eyes were full of mischief. ‘Well, I’m not a guest, now am I?’

Isobel chuckled. ‘No, you’re not, but on your head be it, my girl.’

Florrie bided her time. She was the epitome of politeness and correctness throughout the meal. She knew she’d have to hold her tongue during the stilted conversation around the dinner
table, and during the inane gossip when the ladies retired to the drawing room and left the men to their port, as was the custom at Candlethorpe Hall. It was afterwards, when the men rejoined them,
that she hoped the evening would become livelier. But, whilst the courses were served by Bowler and the first housemaid, Florrie was pleasantly surprised to find that the vicar’s wife was, if
not an active member, an ardent supporter in theory of the suffragette movement. The Reverend Horace Ponsonby was new to Candlethorpe village. His formal induction had taken place only the previous
month, and Edgar had decreed that this relatively small dinner party would be an ideal opportunity to invite the new incumbent and his wife to the Hall.

‘If I was your age, my dear,’ Mrs Ponsonby said in a high-pitched tone, addressing Florrie, ‘I’d be marching with banners with the rest of them and pounding on the doors
of the House of Commons. It’s high time we had a woman MP.’ She cast a meaningful look down the table. ‘What say you, Mr Jervis?’

George Jervis stroked his moustache. He was thoughtful for a moment, considering. He cleared his throat. ‘It would rather depend, dear lady, on who was elected. They’d need to be
very thick-skinned to withstand the ribaldry of the Commons.’ He chuckled. ‘We’re rather a childish lot at times. The Chamber seems like a public schoolboys’ common room on
occasions.’

‘That’s why you have a Speaker, isn’t it?’ Henry Davenport put in mildly. ‘To keep order.’ The man had been rather quiet until this moment, only speaking when
spoken to, but now he joined in the conversation of his own accord.