The Scandalous Suffragette

by Eliza Redgold

  One suffrage task Violet had taken up with alacrity was writing letters to Members of Parliament, demanding they support the women’s vote. The more letters they received, the more pressure was put upon them. She’d even written to the local Member for Beauley, a Mr Burrows, asking for his support, but she had received no reply. He was, however, going to attend the garden party. She would make a point of seeking him out and discussing the matter with him.

  ‘I wish I could come for a walk with you,’ Jane said wistfully. ‘I do so enjoy hearing about the activities of the suffragettes. How wonderfully courageous you all are. But I must make Mama some peppermint tea to help with her flu.’

  Violet smiled at Jane. ‘It would have been lovely to walk with you. Perhaps another time.’

  If she was out walking alone, perhaps she might see Adam.

  * * *

  Violet hung her basket over her arm as she approached the woods. It was part of her trousseau, made of straw, with artificial flowers on the side. It was made to look rustic, although it had been frightfully expensive.

  The basket was pretty, but not as pretty as the flowers around Beauley Manor and they cost nothing at all. Nor did the artificial flowers on her basket have the scent that she breathed in as she entered the woods. Full of oak, willow and ash trees, wild garlic grew, with its strong scent, along with some late pale yellow primroses. A robin chirped as she passed.

  She ought to have brought Beau with her, she thought to herself. The old dog loved to go for walks. She would remember, next time.

  She had posted her letters in the village, including one to her mama and papa in Manchester, who both, according to her mama’s last letter, missed her enormously.

  Violet frowned. That letter had also revealed that her papa had been more tired than usual since the wedding. He was never tired, as far as Violet could remember. She hoped that the wedding and all the anxiety before it hadn’t exhausted him. He had been so troubled by the matter of the banners at the ball. He hadn’t had another of his turns, but her mama was worried, all the same.

  In her return letter, Violet had asked if she needed to visit them in Manchester. Doubtless her papa, with his determination, would be well enough soon. Perhaps they might be able to come to Beauley Manor for a holiday. She would ask Adam, although her papa had never had a day off in his life, as he often boasted.

  She went deeper into the woods. She’d explored every part of them, but today, she would walk down the marshy path to the river. It was beautiful there and near where Adam had mentioned he would be working.

  He worked so hard. He was no leisured landowner. Instead, he took on any role that was needed to make Beauley Manor run.

  It needed work; that was certain. She’d been aghast at some of the inconveniences in the old manor house. The plumbing was a far cry from what she had been used to at home in Manchester, where every convenience was ordered by her papa as soon as it was invented. He loved new inventions.

  Violet stopped and leaned to smell a flower with the same name as hers. There weren’t many left now, it was too late in the season. In the same way that she wondered at what Adam was doing beyond the connecting doors of their bedroom, she found it difficult not to think about him when he was out on the estate all day. She wasn’t sure if he thought of her as often, or if he thought of her at all. She didn’t know if that moment of desire she’d witnessed in his face on their wedding night was some kind of reflex, gone and quickly forgotten. But she hadn’t forgotten it, or that connection between them. So strong, so powerful.

  She was forced to admit it to herself.

  Her attraction to him was growing, day by day, like the wildflowers in the wood. No matter how often she reminded herself that her feelings would pass if she ignored them, they sprang back, like the blooms at her feet.

  Of course, it wasn’t that she didn’t have other concerns and interests herself that totally absorbed her. She did. She threw herself into whatever she was doing. That was her way. She was like her papa in that, she supposed. But all the while, as if he stood beside her, in her mind, was Adam. Always present. Always there.

  How strange their relationships was, in their marriage of convenience. They were married, yet unmarried. Friends, yet strangers. Increasingly, she wanted to spend time with him to get to know him better. She didn’t want to interrupt Adam’s work on the estate, or to become a distraction to him, any more than she wanted him to be a distraction from her suffragette business. Yet she was struck by how much she yearned to see him and by how much she hoped he felt the same.

  He’d said he was working on a wall. She would find him. Out of the woods, she headed for the river path. She had skirted the formal garden by going through the woods, but now she looked back at Beauley, glowing red in the morning sun. She had come to love the manor, and its grounds, in only the few months she had been there. She couldn’t imagine returning to Manchester, or living anywhere else. How quickly the house had worked its magic on her. How quickly it had become her home.

  Home. Adam had welcomed her home to Beauley, the day of their wedding. Back then the word had sounded strange. Now it felt right. From the very start, he made her feel welcome, as if she belonged.

  On the sloping river bank she slipped in the marshy ground. The ground was boggy, in spite of it being summertime. Slowly, she descended the riverbank, the heels of her walking boots slipping through the grass and mud.

  In the river stood Adam.

  Violet stopped, transfixed.

  Adam’s dark head was bare, as were his feet, judging by his trousers, rolled to below the knee. His chest was bare, too, for he wore no shirt, his muscles rippling as he plunged his hand into the water, pulling up rocks, one by one. She watched as he looked at one, ran his thumb over its smoothness and tossed it, as lightly as if it was a pebble, to the pile that lay by the riverbank.

  As he picked up the next stone, he turned and saw her. ‘Hello.’

  She managed to find her voice. ‘Hello.’

  ‘This is unexpected.’

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you.’

  ‘Unexpected,’ he drawled with a smile, ‘but not unwelcome.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, curious.

  ‘I’m collecting river stones to fit the wall I’m fixing. There’s a quarry not far from here, but river stone has always been used at Beauley, too.’

  He tossed the smooth stone he held on to the pile.

  He grinned. ‘Come in and I’ll show you.’

  ‘What?’

  He laughed and indicated where the water came to his calf muscles. ‘Come on in, Violet. The water’s fine.’

  She hesitated, looked down at her pretty, ruffled blue blouse and dark blue skirt. Then, aware of his scrutiny, she seated herself among the riverweeds at the edge of the water. With a tug she pulled off her boots, and unrolled her stockings, one after the other, sensing his gaze as each bit of silk unfurled.

  Standing, she rolled up her sleeves, lifted her skirts and stepped into the water. ‘Oh! It’s freezing!’

  ‘You need to get to work to warm up.’

  Catching her unawares, he seized her bare hand and dived it into the water.

  At the shock of the cold water and his sudden touch she almost shrieked. But he kept tight hold of her wet fingers as they delved below, guiding them around the shape of a smooth stone, helping her to dig beneath her fingers into the sand beneath to release it and then bring it up to the surface.

  Plucking the stone from her cupped palm, he tossed it alongside the others. It landed with a clunk.

  ‘Do you understand the method?’ He grinned. ‘It’s fairly simple.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her teeth chattered as she reached down to the riverbed and, with both hands, pulled up her first stone.

  ‘I did it!’ She raised the dripping stone aloft.

  Adam laughed. ‘W
e need more than that.’

  Together they began to work in companionable silence, under the warm sun. Soon they formed a rhythm. One stone, then another, hit the pile on the bank. His, then hers. The pile grew. She forgot the cold water, forgot everything, except Adam beside her.

  ‘My papa would call this men’s work.’ Violet tightened her fist around a hard stone. ‘I tried to help him at home and at the factory, too, but he wouldn’t allow it. He...he wanted a son.’

  Adam shaded his eyes as he studied her. ‘There’s plenty of work on this estate for both men and women, if you’ll let me teach you.’

  She loosened the stone in her clenched fingers. Her papa’s words had weighed heavy inside her. Now, Adam’s practical reply soothed her in a way no other might have.

  He understood.

  ‘I can teach you how to build a wall,’ he said. ‘If you can build a wall, you can build anything.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  She turned to throw the stone on the pile. Her bare feet slid on the slippery riverbed. With a shriek she fell backwards, into the water.

  Just in time, Adam pulled her upright from behind. Violet tried to find a grip with the soles of her feet. His hands glided over her hips and up to cinch her waist, spanning her corset. How neatly their bodies fit together, his lower body cupping hers from behind. Her toes slithered in the mud, she struggled to stand, but he kept hold, his fingers firm as they pressed into her waist, before he plonked her back on her feet in the calf-high water.

  Splashing, he came around in front of her, his teeth gleaming. A shout of laughter burst from between his lips, then faded as their gazes met. The colour of his dark blue eyes turned to a reflection of the summer sky.

  Who took the first step, she barely knew. As they moved together in the water his body pressed into hers, his hands wrenching her closer as their lips found each other. He tasted clean and water fresh, with another taste all his own that she hadn’t known she hungered for, until now. She opened her mouth; her hands slid up his wet muscled back and into the damp tendrils of hair at the base of his neck. In return his hands moved, his fingers tangling in her hair and up to cradle her face.

  When he’d seen her in her undergarments on their wedding night, she’d witnessed desire in his eyes. Now desire was in his lips. She tasted it. It matched hers as her body awoke, a coiled energy blasting through her core.

  In her lips, on her tongue. Surely he tasted her desire, too, as with her kiss she told him. Told him of the desire she’d discovered, the secret longing she’d been keeping inside.

  Nothing mattered but that kiss, just then, and what he told her with his lips. He wanted her. She wanted him, too, she told him with her searching tongue, with something deeper than desire, more real, more powerful. The powerful feel of his body almost overwhelmed her. Entwined, they fell back against the marshy bank.

  Her hands ran over his broad bare chest, then to his muscled back as with a tear of buttons he opened her blouse to find her breasts, jutted over the top of her corset. She gasped as with his tongue he lifted each tender point into his mouth. Toyed, teased, as her fingers dug into his bare skin. Then with a splash he slid her up, out of the water. His kiss, river deep, found her lips again, sent her arms up to pull him deeper into her embrace. He wrenched her body closer still, keeping his lips hard on hers. Pushing her skirt up her bare legs, he slid his palm up her wet thigh.

  On the outer part first. Then inside.

  She tensed, but didn’t pull away. He reached higher, beneath her petticoat, to find what he knew she wore beneath. To enter the ruffled edge.

  He paused, as if in question.

  In answer, she showed him.

  She wanted him to touch her there. Body and mind told her so, as she slipped her body down the bank to thrust into his hand, sending her bare lower legs into the water’s edge. Cold. Heat. At the same time. Exquisite pleasure rippled through her core, like the river around her feet as he searched the most secret part of her. He pulled her closer against him as he entered her, his fingers going deep. Instinctively she pushed her hips forward, as she threw back her head in a gasp, opening her mouth wider. His lips widened hers again, entering her mouth with his tongue at the same time his fingers pushed further still.

  She tautened. His finger circled, outside, in. Darting deeper inside, bringing with it a strange new pleasure. She gasped aloud.

  Her arms had gone around his neck as their kiss deepened, her mouth wide, her body now pressed against his bare chest. Hard. And below. Harder still.

  She wanted to touch him, too. Sliding her hands down his chest, she reached for the buckle of his belt.

  Instantly he released her. Hauling himself to his feet, Adam backed into the river, a curse beneath his breath. ‘Damnation.’

  Water splashed as he sloshed out of the river, towards higher ground.

  Droplets flew as he spun around. ‘Forgive me. It won’t happen again.’

  He clambered up the bank and strode away.

  * * *

  Violet tore off her wet skirt. It was soaking halfway to her knees, covered in mud. Somehow, she’d found her way back to the Manor and to their bedroom, with its tightly shut connecting door. Where Adam had gone after he strode away so furiously from her in the river, sending water surging into foam around him, she didn’t know.

  She shivered, but with not cold. With passion. With desire. Emotions she had never considered before, that she had barely fathomed to exist.

  They certainly hadn’t been covered in the medical literature.

  She let out a breath. Never could she have predicted how she would respond to Adam when she was in his arms. If he hadn’t stopped them...

  Violet lifted her chin.

  She’d had time to reflect on what he had said to her, on their wedding night. It was he who’d made it so clear that all eventualities be considered, and must be prepared for. How had he put it? They needed to be able to release each other. He wanted no entanglements.

  Those words had smarted, like a sting on her bare skin, but she knew he was right.

  Violet shivered again.

  She had never imagined she would feel like this.

  * * *

  Adam took the steps two at a time up to the solar. Outside the door he stopped.

  Where there is a will, there is a way.

  Beneath his breath he quoted Samuel Smiles. He’d taken to reading Self-Help, or, in its full title, Self Help: With Illustrations of Character and Conduct, each night before bed, in the hope of girding his own strength of character. Sleep had recently proved almost impossible. He’d manage a few hours before getting up with the birds and throwing himself into physical labour on the estate to burn off his excess energy.

  By God, after that encounter in the river, he’d need to gird his character tonight.

  He gripped the doorknob and flung it open. Inside he found Violet. For once, she was alone.

  The evening sun made the wood panelling glisten like gold, but not as brightly as her hair as she bent over her embroidery. On her lap was spread an enormous suffrage banner, striped at the edges in purple, green and white, with what he assumed would read VOTES FOR WOMEN! embroidered at the centre. She was halfway through sewing the motto, the word ‘VOTES’ in bold violet, edged with gold thread.

  Still sewing fast, she looked up and smiled. A cautious smile, but not without warmth, nor the humour he appreciated so much in her. But her hand was gripped rather tightly, surely more tightly than usual, around her sewing needle.

  ‘You’ve missed dinner,’ she said. ‘It can be served downstairs for you, in the hall.’

  ‘Not yet. I need a drink.’ Two drinks, maybe three. Maybe more. Or perhaps a violet cream. He’d developed a taste for them. Morning, noon or night.

  He sloshed whisky into the glass. ‘Would you care for anything?’

 
She shook her head, sent a chestnut curl spiralling.

  He sat opposite, watching her sew. Her fingers were nimble, the rhythm strangely soothing.

  She finished the letter F, snipped a gold thread with her teeth. It pouted her bow-shaped mouth, reminding him of the feel of her lips beneath his. He suppressed a groan. He could have dived into the water with her that morning, clothes and all. Peeled off the soaking layers, the way she’d peeled off her stockings, until they were skin to skin.

  He threw back some whisky. ‘Where are Jane and Arabella?’

  ‘They are looking after your mama.’

  ‘Is she any better?’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ Violet said. ‘I hope so. It would be a shame for her to miss the garden party.’

  Adam ran his hand through his hair. The garden party was a highlight of the summer for many people in the community, especially the children. It was a huge expense, but one he never begrudged and never would.

  Violet continued to stitch industriously. ‘I have some other news. There’s a suffragette rally, I believe, coming up in a few weeks’ time in London. I plan to attend.’

  ‘You must do as you wish.’ He glanced at the large banner and grinned. ‘You won’t hide that under your petticoat.’

  She laughed. It broke the tension.

  She laid aside her sewing.

  He went to her. ‘Violet, about what happened today...’

  She stood to face him. In the firelight her brown hair shone. ‘I want to talk to you about that, too.’