India pressed a finger to Maud's lips, shushing her. "I'll sleep tonight knowing that my child will be spared a difficult life. That's all that matters to me now."
Sid was dead, but she had something left of him. He would live on in this child. She would see him in the baby's smile, in her eyes. She would hear him in her laugh.
Charlotte, she would call her, for Sid had once told her that Charlie was his first name. Charlotte. Her own child. Not Freddie's, hers. She would love the baby as she had loved her father, with her whole heart and soul.
She picked up the bouquet Freddie had selected for her. Crimson roses. He'd handed them to her earlier. "Can hardly expect you to carry white ones, can I?" he'd said. "They're for virgins, not Sid Malone's whore."
India had been shocked by his cruelty, but she'd quickly recovered. "My father's giving you a draft for three hundred thousand pounds today," she'd whispered back. "I rather think that makes you the whore."
His face had darkened then and he'd swiftly left the room. So this is how it will be between us, she'd thought. This was the man she would spend the rest of her life with. The man with whom she would share her bed. Her nerve almost faltered at the thought.
"Come on, Maud," she said. "It's time to go."
They left the anteroom for the foyer. From there they walked into the chapel proper. When they reached the bottom of the aisle, a lone harp began to play.
Freddie was standing at the altar, smiling triumphantly. He was sleekly handsome in a gray morning coat and striped trousers. Bingham stood with him. India took a deep breath, then walked toward him.
The vicar beamed at her, but she barely saw him. He began to speak, but she didn't hear him. She only heard Sid telling her he loved her, telling her their love was a mistake. It wasn't, she silently told him now. It never will be.
The service was conducted. Prayers were said and vows exchanged. Freddie pushed a ring onto India's finger. She did the same to him. He kissed her chastely and then it was over and they were wed. Lord Frederick and Lady Lytton, man and wife.
Outside the chapel, the sun was setting. Evening was coming down. The Lyttons' tenant farmers had assembled on either side of the chapel steps. They cheered the new couple and threw rice at them. Freddie's mother bustled them along toward the house, where a wedding supper was waiting. Freddie took India's arm. She was glad that everyone was chattering among themselves. It meant she didn't have to say a word to anyone. She looked at Longmarsh as she walked. It was a winter landscape and everything looked gray to her.
As the wedding party rounded a bend that led to the house, they got a surprise. A deer, a huge stag with a majestic set of antlers, stood on the path about twenty yards ahead of them.
"Good God! Where's the gamekeeper when you need him? Call the lazy oaf, Bing! Have him bring the guns," Freddie said.
Freddie released India's arm. He took imaginary aim at the animal and made the sound of a rifle firing. The animal heard it, but did not flinch. He was looking at India.
Run, she told him silently. Go away from here and never come back.
The stag blinked. He dipped his magnificent head and was gone.
"Bloody hell," Freddie sighed.
"Another day," Bingham said, clapping him on the back. "You're a married man now, old mole. No more of the sporting life for you."
There was laughter and ribbing. Freddie's sister tousled his hair. Bing told him to hurry up, he was starving, and the party moved off again, but India lagged behind, watching the stag as he ran across a field and leaped over a stone wall.
Tears threatened, but she fought them back. She would not cry. Later perhaps, but not here, not now. She made a vow instead. A real one. Not the meaningless words she'd woodenly mumbled to Freddie, but words that came from her heart. I love you, Sid, she said silently. I always will.
"Are you coming, darling?"
The voice startled her. It was Freddie, of course. He was waiting for her on the path alone. The others had gone on ahead. She looked at him. His smile, which had been pasted on for the benefit of his family and hers, was gone; his eyes were cold. Longmarsh loomed darkly behind him. She looked one last time for the stag, but he was gone.
And then she nodded and said, "Yes, Freddie. I am."
PART THREE
London, 1906
Chapter 80
Sir David Erskine, sergeant at arms for the House of Commons, looked out across Cromwell Green and frowned. The ceremonies for the State Opening of Parliament had ended. The crowds had dispersed, the king had left, members of both houses had gone about their business. It was a quiet and gloomy February day at Westminster, and that should have made the sergeant at arms happy, but it didn't.
"It's too quiet," he said to the deputy sergeant. "I don't like it, Mr. Gosset. Not one bit."
"Could be that he's reformed himself, sir. Could be we'll have an uneventful session this time," his deputy said.
Erskine snorted. "And it could be that pigs will fly. He's up to something. I know he is. We'll hear from him before the day's out, mark my words."
Eyes narrowed, arm crossed over his chest, Erskine looked like an ancient Scots chieftain defending his keep. In a way, he was. As sergeant at arms, he was responsible for maintaining order in the Commons. He had dealt with much during his tenure--everything from lost tourists and loonies to obstreperous backbenchers and bombs--but nothing had quite prepared him for the Honorable Member for Hackney.
"He's a minister now," Gosset said. "The PM put him in charge of labor relations. Perhaps he will conduct himself in a manner befitting his new title."
"I doubt it," Erskine said. "In fact, I think that's one appointment the PM will live to regret. He thinks the man will stop trying to kick down the door to the clubhouse if he lets him in. What he doesn't understand is that the bloody man wants to kick down the clubhouse."
"He seemed perfectly well behaved this morning, sir."
"Aye, seemed," Erskine said. "But I was watching him during the king's speech and I saw it. The look. The one he gets when his back's up. That--and the fact that he ducked out as soon as the king left--has me worried."
The State Opening of Parliament had taken place that morning, as it always did when a new government was installed, with much pomp and circumstance. King Edward had arrived amid cheering crowds, proceeded to the Royal Gallery, and had taken his place on the throne in the House of Lords. Then, as tradition dictated, he sent the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod to summon the House of Commons. The Commons slammed the door in Black Rod's face, signifying their right to debate without interference from lords or sovereign. Black Rod knocked three times before he was finally admitted, and then the MPs proceeded to the Lords' Chamber, where they heard the king deliver his speech--one in which he set out all that the new government wished to accomplish.
"You think something in the speech set him off?" Gosset asked.
"Knowing him, it might be something that wasn't in the speech. No housing for the aged. No schools for orphans. No shelters for stray cats. God only knows. But I know that--"
Erskine suddenly stopped speaking. He'd heard it. They both had. The faint whine of an engine.
"Good Christ, here he comes. I knew it, Gosset. I knew it!"
"Where is he, sir?"
"There!" Erskine said, pointing north.
A man in a wheelchair was making his way across Parliament Square. He was moving much faster than a man in a wheelchair normally did because this particular wheelchair had a motor attached to it. It was made by Daimler, and had a top speed of twenty-five miles per hour. Erskine knew that because he'd chased after the damned thing often enough.
The Honorable Member for Hackney advancing on Westminster was bad, but what was behind him was worse--a battalion of women, three hundred strong at least, armed with placards and banners. Trailing the procession were various members of the press. The man sold papers. He was always demonstrating, protesting, making a scene. Erskine reckoned he got more column inches th
an the prime minister.
He was a hero to many, a fighter, a saint. Erskine knew his story; everyone did. He was an East End lad made good. Very good. Determined to give something back to East London, he'd run for Parliament back in 1900 on the Labour ticket, and to the astonishment of the entire country, he'd won. But only a few weeks after his victory a criminal had put a bullet into his spine, paralyzing him. Unable to fulfill the duties of his office, he'd surrendered the seat and a byelection had been held. Freddie Lytton, the former incumbent, had won it.
Many thought he was finished, that he would live out his life as an invalid, but they were wrong. He hadn't let his disability slow him down, much less stop him. By the spring of 1901, he was back in the fray, having won a vacated seat--Hackney--in another by-election. People marveled at his accomplishments, exclaiming how the like had never been done before.
But that's him all over, Erskine thought now, not interested in doing what had been done, only what hadn't.
Gosset squinted at the placards. "Votes for Women Now!" he read out loud. "Fair and Equal Laws for All!" His eyes scanned the crowd. "Bloody hell, sir. He has Mrs. Pankhurst with him!"
"You've locked the doors?"
"Aye, sir."
"Good man. If he thinks he's getting those harridans inside, he has another think coming." Erskine and Gosset stood their ground, watching as the invading force made its way down St. Margaret's Street to the Strangers' Entrance.
"Do you remember the cabbages, sir?" Gosset asked.
"How could I forget them?" Erskine said.
The Honorable Member, angered by a Tory-backed bill requiring street vendors to pay tax on their barrows, had called the proposal "as rotten as an old cabbage" and had called for costers to demonstrate against it. They had. They'd marched to Westminster and dumped twenty wagonloads of rotten cabbages by the Members' Entrance. The stench had been eye-watering, the mess monumental, and the bill had been killed.
"Remember the howling kiddies?" Gosset asked.
"Oh, aye," Erskine growled.
The Honorable Member had staged that stunt when it looked as if his plea for funds for the Whitechapel Free Clinic for Women and Children would be denied. He'd gathered a crowd of angry and voluble East London mothers and their angry and voluble infants and sat them in the Strangers' Gallery. They'd made such a racket that the day's business could not be conducted. The police were called in, the women were removed, and the press had a field day--accusing Mr. Balfour's government of callous indifference to the poor. When the members reassembled, the clinic got its funding.
"And don't forget muck mountain!" Gosset said, chuckling. "I can still see the look on the PM's face when he saw it."
Erskine glared. "Do you find these antics amusing, Mr. Gosset?"
"No, sir. Not one bit," Gosset said, endeavoring to frown.
Muck mountain, indeed, Erskine thought. No one had ever been able to pin that particular bit of knavery on the Honorable Member for Hackney, but it certainly bore his hallmark. After the general election, Mr. Balfour's new government had introduced the Taff Vale Bill, which would hold the trade unions liable for damages employers suffered as a result of strikes. Furious at this gutting of the unions, the Honorable Member had loudly denounced the bill as "a piece of muck that stinks to the heavens." He'd been censured by both the Speaker and the prime minister. News of the bill's passage--and the member's reprimand--appeared in the evening newspapers. Later that same night London carters converged on Parliament Square, dumping load after load of manure in it, until they'd created a mountain of muck. And then they seated an effigy of Mr. Balfour on top of it.
The prime minister had indeed landed himself--and his party--in the muck with Taff Vale, but how deeply he'd put them there hadn't become apparent until a few weeks ago, when the Tories called another general election--and lost. The Liberals not only won, they won by a landslide, and Henry Campbell-Bannerman became prime minister. The Labour Party, too, had seen large gains in the number of seats it controlled and the new prime minister, nothing if not shrewd, had acknowledged the young party's growing influence by appointing several Labour MPs to cabinet positions-- including the Honorable Member for Hackney.
As Erskine and Gosset watched, he motored up to the Strangers' Entrance and cut his engine.
"Sergeant Erskine! Deputy Sergeant Gosset! Always a pleasure," he said. His smile was broad and warm, but there was a challenge in his eyes.
"Indeed it is, Mr. Bristow," Erskine said.
"Might we pass? I've a group here wants to speak with their elected representatives. Not elected by them, I might add, but for them."
"All in good time, sir. But first, I would very much like to say that I wish for the two of us to start off the new session on the right foot."
"I would like nothing more myself, sir."
"Good. Good. Let us understand each other then, Mr. Bristow. This time there will be no rotten cabbages, no shrieking babies, no muck mountains"--he glowered at a petite woman in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat--"and no Mrs. Pankhurst!"
Mr. Bristow affected a regretful look while Mrs. Pankhurst began haranguing the sergeant at arms. Erskine listened, grimacing, as Mrs. Pankhurst told him there had been no mention in the king's speech today--none whatsoever--of the government's intention to grant women the right to vote. It was a slap in the face to all British women, she said, a negation of all they had labored for so arduously, an egregious betrayal of their hopes, and she, and the women with her, demanded explanations from their MPs.
"Now, Mrs. Pankhurst, you can't come into the lobby. Not all of you. Not like this," Erskine began.
"Mrs. Pankhurst is completely within her rights to see her MP," Bristow said. "As a British citizen, she can enter the central lobby to speak with him. So can these other women."
"Sir!" a voice shouted from the crowd. "Are you refusing to let the women in?"
Erskine looked for the source of the question. It was a reporter from The Times. He had his notebook out, his pen poised. So did a dozen others. Erskine sighed. A military man through and through, he knew defeat when he saw it, and better an honorable surrender than a bloodbath.
He turned back to Bristow. "I cannot let them all in at once," he said. "There are too many."
"How many can you let in?"
"Five."
"Fifty."
"Thirty."
"Done."
As Erskine told Gosset to unlock the doors to the Strangers' Entrance, it began to rain.
"Perhaps we could have some umbrellas brought?" Bristow said. "And some hot tea?"
"Do I look like a parlor maid, Mr. Bristow?" Erskine said.
"I'll arrange it myself. I only wanted your permission to do so. The weather is filthy and the women are delicate."
Erskine snorted. "Oh, aye. As delicate as tigers," he said.
Bristow motored into St. Stephen's Hall, up a ramp placed over the steps especially for his use, then veered off toward the dining rooms in search of tea. As he did, Erskine shouted at his back, "You mind your speed!"
He raised his hand in acknowledgment.
"You flattened three porters last year! And knocked a chunk out of Cromwell's statue!"
When thirty delegates had been selected, Gosset escorted them inside to the central lobby. Erskine surveyed the remaining crowd of wet, bedraggled women, angrily chanting for the vote. At least they had hot tea and a few umbrellas to share. Bristow had done that for them. He was back outside among them now, listening to the grievances of his own constituents--poor women who'd walked all the way to Westminster from Hackney. Erskine wondered how he could hear them over the din.
"It's the first day, Mr. Gosset," he said wearily, when his deputy reappeared. "Parliament's only just reopened and already we're under attack."
Gosset smiled. "Friend of mine served in China during that bother with the Boxers. He said when a Chinese wished you ill, he would tell you, �May you live in interesting times.' "
"Oh, we've interest
ing times ahead of us, Mr. Gosset, make no mistake," Erskine said. "With Mr. Bristow on board, we've very interesting times indeed."
Chapter 81
"Another one, Maggs?" Sid Baxter said.
"I shouldn't," Maggie Carr said, "but I will."
"That's my girl."
Sid refilled the glasses. Every drop was as precious as gold, and nearly as dear. Whisky, when it could be had, came from Nairobi, a two-day journey by ox cart. Some would have been stingy with the bottle, but not Sid. He poured freely.
Most people, if they were generous, were so because they thought life was short and that one must make the most of it. Sid Baxter was generous because he knew that life was long. It went on and on, even when you had no use for it anymore. It was happiness, not life, that was short, and when it visited--in the form of a fine evening spent talking with a friend--he honored it.
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