A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “So . . . how was the king last night?”

  “Going a bit doolally. I think it was from the hoards of women coming at him from all angles. At least that’s what he told me.”

  Edmund looked shocked. “He spoke to you?”

  “I nearly fell over when I curtsied. He had to help me up.”

  Edmund burst out laughing. “Well, I never. It had to be you. I hope India has as much luck when she has her presentation with the king next year.”

  The orchestra struck up the music for the quadrille. Sophie’s dance lessons held me in good stead and I did not disgrace myself. Edmund and I danced the quadrille and then the mazurka and the polonaise successfully. And not once did I tread on his feet or mine. I had several balls to get through in the next few months, and at least I wouldn’t disgrace myself.

  After an hour’s dancing, Edmund persuaded me to go off with him and a few of his friends to visit the American Bar in the hotel for a cocktail.

  I pretended to enjoy my drink, but really I was just gathering my courage to talk to him about art school. Finally, when we had finished our cocktails and headed back to the ballroom, I paused in the foyer and tugged Edmund’s hand, letting the others go on ahead.

  “Edmund, just before we go back, I wanted to talk to you. I wondered. Do you have a desire . . . a dream to be something or do something?”

  Edmund looked confused. “How so?”

  “I mean . . . do you wish to pursue your rowing? You did ever so well in the Boat Race, so perhaps you’d like to keep on with it . . . perhaps the Olympics. Shouldn’t you like to row for England?”

  He hunched his shoulders a bit and then leaned against the wall. “What extraordinary ideas you have, Victoria. Why would I want to do such a thing?”

  I was slightly taken aback. I thought Edmund would have agreed with me immediately. “I don’t know. . . . I expect for the glory. For personal satisfaction. Everyone has a dream they want to come true, don’t they?”

  Edmund lifted his hands and then let them drop. “Maybe. I’ve never given it any thought. Rowing was fun for the Boat Race but jolly hard work just for that one day. Not sure I’d like to spend the next three years getting shouted at by a coxswain. Say, let’s go back to the ballroom. They’ll be turning out the brandy soon. Cakes as well.” He pushed himself away from the wall and took my arm. But I held back. Edmund crinkled his brow. “What’s all this about, old thing? All this talk about Olympics and such. You do take on about the oddest.”

  This wasn’t going at all to plan. I would just have to wade in and have done with it. “I . . . I have to tell you something. Well, you see, I’ve been preparing to go to art college. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want our fathers to get wind of it. You know what they are like. I wish art to be my life and so I shan’t have much time for parties and such, you know?” Edmund looked at me blankly. I went on. “An artist has to focus. If I’m to be any good, I’ll be spending quite a lot of time on my work. Freddy told you I was going to college. Don’t you remember?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. . . . Maybe. But your father said you were done with all that art stuff,” he said.

  “I . . . no. He may have thought I was, but I assure you I am not.”

  “Well, if you’re set on it, then you’re set on it. So you’ll go to art college—if you get accepted, mind. Maybe you won’t. But if you want to spend your time shut away in a dreary classroom listening to some fusty old boy blather on about art, then that’s your funeral.”

  “You don’t mind if I miss parties and luncheons and such?”

  “Go to parties; don’t go to parties. I don’t mind a whit.” Edmund pulled the sleeves of his jacket down and brushed a bit of lint away.

  “I . . . all right.” I wondered if I should mention the tuition. “There’s just one more thing.”

  An irritated sound left Edmund. “What now?”

  “I’ll need you to pay for it.”

  “Oh, let’s talk about money now, do!” Edmund shifted from foot to foot. He was truly irked. “Oh, jolly good! Sometimes, Victoria, you are so middle-class! You’ll have the money, and let’s say no more about it. Now, let’s go back or else we’ll miss the refreshments.” Edmund held out his arm. I hesitated and then slid my hand through the crook of his elbow.

  I should have been glad that Edmund didn’t care what I did. After all, this was what I had wanted when I agreed to marry him. But I thought he might have shown more happiness for me. Instead he just seemed resigned, as though agreeing reluctantly with the design of our new wallpaper or furniture.

  Why couldn’t Edmund be more like Will, who supported me in my endeavors fully and wholeheartedly? Sometimes I felt like Will believed in me more than I believed in myself. Without Will’s support, Edmund’s indifference to my dream was even more painful.

  But truly, I’d spent more time with Will than with Edmund. Will and I had always been alone; Edmund and I were always chaperoned. We’d only been alone for a few minutes here and there, surely never enough time to let understanding—or passion—grow between us.

  I pulled Edmund behind one of the pillars, out of sight of anyone who might be walking past. A scowl twisted his face. “Victoria, honestly—”

  “Will you kiss me?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said in a distracted manner. He leaned down and fixed a quick kiss on my lips.

  Who could tell anything from such a chaste kiss? I tightened my fingers on his elbow to prevent him from leaving. “No, Edmund, really kiss me!”

  I could tell that my request took him off guard. He hesitated for a moment, and then darted a look over his shoulder. Finally he made up his mind, and forgetting the cursed brandy, he backed me against the pillar, tilted my chin up with his fingertips, and kissed me with more passion. His mouth was soft; the kiss was tidy and efficient; his hands, now clasping my waist, were sure and strong.

  Nothing. I felt nothing. I didn’t even feel the urge to close my eyes.

  There was too much space between us. Maybe I needed to be closer to him, like Will and I had been that day in his flat. I slid one palm up Edmund’s back and rested it against the bare nape of his neck, just above the starched cotton of his collar. I took a step forward and pressed against him.

  Immediately Edmund twisted sideways, breaking the kiss. “Victoria,” he said, laughing. He held me away from him, his arms braced, as though fending me off. His fingers were cold on the bare skin of my shoulders. “Steady on. Someone might come by. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Can’t a girl kiss her fiancé at her own ball?” I said faintly. I was embarrassed, humiliated even. Even though I was fully dressed in layers of silk, cotton, and mousseline, I felt naked—more exposed than when I’d posed nude in front of a group of male artists. I crossed my arms over my bodice.

  “There’s a time and a place for everything Victoria, and this is neither the time nor the place.” He tapped my nose with his forefinger and then held out his hand toward the ballroom. “Shall we make a move? At long last? Everyone will think we’ve eloped.”

  So we returned to the ballroom.

  Earlier in the evening, my father had marked my dance card for a waltz, and he came to claim me from Edmund after the buffet. I had never danced with Papa before, and to say that I felt awkward would be an understatement. I didn’t know where to look, so I fixed my gaze on his tie. His valet had shaped the piqué fabric into an even batwing shape and aligned it directly under his chin. His pearl dress studs marched in an unbroken line down his shirt, and his tailcoat had been brushed until the nap stood up. Everything was perfect; nothing could be faulted. Unlike Edmund, my father wore no cologne, as he believed such fripperies unseemly.

  “My dear, you were a smashing success with the king,” Papa said, staring over my shoulder as he carefully maneuvered me across the dance floor. He moved through the stationary
box step carefully and methodically. But he didn’t dance along with the music like Edmund did. If the musicians suddenly stopped playing, Papa would most likely continue marching around the floor until the allotted time was up. “Most remarkable. You’re to be commended.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” I said, counting the steps in my head. One, two, three; two, two, three. I was terrified I was going to tread on his feet. I checked to make sure I wasn’t clutching his hand or clinging too hard to his shoulder. What had Miss Winthrop said? Light as a butterfly, girls! Don’t clutch your partner like grim death!

  “You’ve done everything your mother and I have asked of you, and you’ve done it perfectly. Your mother has told me that you’ve even volunteered for extra duties with your church charity.”

  My slipper grazed the patent leather toe of Papa’s shoe, narrowly missing treading on it fully. “Yes,” I said. “I enjoy my time there.”

  “Sir Henry is pleased with you as well. You’ll make a lovely wife and mother. I must say I was most astounded with your performance with the telephone. I had no idea you possessed such skills. You’ll be a credit to Edmund, which is a great asset to a businessman, as your mother will attest. Since all is going as planned, I see no reason to keep it from you any longer.”

  Over Papa’s shoulder I saw Edmund dancing with his mother. She was talking and nodding; the feathers in her hair bobbed emphatically. He caught me watching and grinned at me, rolling his eyes. Apparently we were both being subjected to parental conversations. I smiled at him, as though nothing was amiss, but another wave of embarrassment crashed over me as I thought about how he’d held me away from him with stick-straight arms, like some odious thing in need of discarding.

  “Victoria, are you listening?”

  I jerked my attention back to my father’s bow tie. “I’m sorry, Papa. Keep what from me?”

  “Now, the marriage contract has been drawn up, and there is a jointure included for your care if you should become widowed, but I have not settled a sum upon you. However, in light of your recent behavior, I have decided to give you a yearly allowance of seven hundred pounds.”

  Mercifully the music stopped, because if it hadn’t, I’m sure I would have stepped completely upon Papa’s foot, I was so startled. “Seven hundred pounds?” My voice rose. “A year?” Seven hundred pounds was a small fortune. And it would give me a measure of independence in my marriage. I wouldn’t have to go to Edmund for every little thing I wanted. I wouldn’t have to charge my purchases to his account. I could pay my own college tuition. The money more than made up for Edmund’s indifference.

  I kissed Papa’s cheek. “Thank you!”

  Papa squeezed my hand. “You’re quite welcome, my dear.”

  I danced every dance the rest of the night perfectly, not putting a foot out of place, propelled by the giddy promise of seven hundred pounds a year. I’d made the right decision when I severed ties with Will. Of course I had.

  Twenty-Nine

  Suffrage Atelier,

  Thursday, tenth of June

  WEARY OF BALLS, fidgeting with boredom, and lonely for the company of other artists, I decided to investigate the Suffrage Atelier. Sophie made inquiries at the WSPU headquarters and got the address for me. It was located in a garden studio at the home of Laurence and Clemence Housman, a brother and sister who resided at Broadhurst Gardens in South Hampstead. I worked out how to get there on the Underground and went there on the Thursday after our ball.

  The Housman siblings lived in a quiet neighborhood on a tree-lined street. A wooden sign on the gate pointed the way to a little building behind the house in the garden. There were a few women inside who were sketching, painting pottery, and the like. I saw Lucy sitting at a small table underneath a window, working with wire and small, colorful stones.

  She set her pliers down. “Hi, Queenie. I was hoping you were going to come.”

  I sat down in the chair next to her. “I’ve been busy. What are you working on?”

  “Oh, some things to sell. I’m glad you’re here because I’ve been thinking of asking if you’d like to design something. Figural work is very popular, and I’m not much of an artist when it comes to that. Why don’t you draw something, and I’ll make the wax mold and cast it at school this week. If the Selfridge’s buyer likes it, I can cast more. We just have to make it in suffragette colors.”

  I thought about when Sylvia mentioned studying William Morris’s textiles at school. Maybe I could impress the examiners with some decorative work. I turned my sketchbook to a new page. “What are the suffragette colors again?”

  “Purple for dignity, white for purity, and green for hope, just like on the mural.”

  I sat sketching ideas. I tried a sailing ship, a horse, and a chalice, but none of them held the symbolism I wanted to capture, as Sylvia had with the mural. Finally I thought about A Mermaid. She had always been my inspiration, so maybe other women would feel the same. I thought maybe she would make a beautiful brooch. But instead of showing her combing her hair, as in the painting, I made her holding an umbrella of seaweed and sea lavender over her head. I showed the sketch to Lucy.

  “I like that.”

  “I think a mermaid would make a wonderful suffragette, don’t you? Mermaids sing and distract sailors at sea; so as a suffragette, she could sing and distract all the politicians in Parliament into giving women the vote!”

  Lucy laughed. “And then lead the daft men straight to the bottom of the Thames. We need to find a school of mermaids right away. What’s the umbrella for?”

  I thought for a moment. “I suppose she’s made her own shelter from the storm.”

  “Even better.”

  Lucy started to flip through my book. I was just about to take it back when her finger landed on a page. “That’s PC Fletcher. What’s he doing in your book?”

  I tried to pull the sketchbook away, but she took hold of it and slid it closer to her. I watched as she leaned over the pages and studied the sketches of Will. I squeezed my fingers into fists, wanting desperately to snatch the book from her hands. “It’s nothing—”

  She shook her head. “This is not nothing. These sketches are really good.” And then she turned the page, and there was my nude drawing of Will.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Lucy. She stared at the sketch, unmoving, and then she slowly looked at me, her dark eyes shining. “Oh, did I ever have you pegged in the wrong hole!” Her voice was marked with laughter. “Not only did you draw a copper, but in the buff as well! You’re really something!” She burst into giggles. “I have to say,” she said, after collecting herself, “I always thought that copper was a pretty nice guy, stepping in to help us any way he could. I never thought he was that nice.” She lifted the sketchbook and turned it sideways, leaning in to take a closer look. “Hmmm.” She raised an eyebrow. “Very nice.”

  Just then, the atelier’s co-organizer, Clemence Housman, came over. She was middle-aged, with her hair bundled into a net at the base of her neck. Although she was dressed in black, she was anything but dowdy. She’d accessorized her bodice with a striking ornate circular brooch encrusted with freshwater pearls and mother-of-pearl. After Lucy introduced us, she said, “You’re the Vicky who does the illustrations! Sylvia said you might be willing to do some for us. Would you be able to draw the deputation to Parliament on the twenty-ninth of June? Our usual illustrator can’t make it.”

  “A deputation?” I asked. “What’s that?”

  “Emmeline Pankhurst and a bunch of us are going to Parliament to see the prime minister,” Lucy chimed in.

  “That doesn’t sound very interesting,” I said, wondering what on earth I would draw.

  “Oh, it might be,” Lucy replied. “The prime minister hasn’t allowed the WSPU to speak with him for ages, so a crowd of us are going to march right up to the door of the Commons and demand to see him. We won’t take no for
an answer, so it’s likely we’ll get arrested. The papers will carry the story and put suffrage back in people’s minds again.”

  An artist came over and asked Miss Housman for help. “Let me know as soon as you can, Vicky,” Miss Housman said, and then went off with the artist.

  “Are you going to do it?” Lucy asked me.

  “I don’t know. I can’t risk getting arrested.”

  “Why would you get arrested? You’re just drawing. If you stand in the gutter, you won’t be done for blocking the pavement. You’ll be safe as houses. The only reason you got arrested before is because you wouldn’t scarper when I told you to scarper.” She grinned. “Just don’t let anyone shove you onto any police constables. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to talk about Will.

  “All right. What’s going on? There’s something more to this story.” Her eyes widened. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

  “Shhh!” I glanced around. “Keep your voice down.”

  “That’s romantic as all get-out. An artist falling in love with her muse.” She gestured with a wide, theatrical sweep of her arm. “Did he have his clothes on when you kissed him?”

  “Lucy!”

  “So what’s the problem? He doesn’t feel the same way about you?”

  “No. I believe he feels the same. At least the way he kissed me felt like it. It was really passionate.”

  Lucy leaned forward, rapt, listening to my every word. “Sounds good to me. What’s the problem?”