Morton sat back and rubbed his temples. Time was slipping away. He only had two more hours left before the archives closed. He needed to understand more about Francis Wild, his home, personal life and business. But first, Morton needed to keep trawling the newspapers to find out if anybody had been arrested for the Linden Grove attack.
It took him over an hour and a quarter to find a report, in July 1912 that effectively said that the investigation into the fire at Linden Grove had been closed. It was arson, believed to have been perpetrated by suffragettes. Morton was smugly satisfied that Grace had escaped conviction and what would have certainly amounted to a lengthy prison sentence.
With just forty minutes left until closing, he decided to shift his attention to Francis Wild, first pulling up the reference to his death to ascertain his age: 45.
Switching to the GRO birth index, Morton typed in Francis Wild’s name.
His mother’s maiden name shocked him.
He quickly returned to the 1871 census, berating himself for having missed something so obvious.
Chapter Ten
18th November 1911, Wye, Kent
Grace cursed her injured leg as she descended the staircase. Using her walking cane, whilst clutching the small posy of white roses, was damned difficult. Apart from the wretchedly steep stairs, she loved the place. It was a quaint old railway-worker’s cottage, located on the outskirts of the sleepy Kent village, which she and Cecil had rented shortly after fleeing the fire at Linden Grove. Believing that the police would turn up to arrest them at any moment, they had lied to the old widow who owned the cottage, telling her that they were married and in need of a place to rent for a short time. But the police hadn’t come and, as the days had drawn on, so the likelihood of them losing their freedom had diminished.
Grace entered the sitting room and watched Cecil’s face light up, as he stood from the armchair. His lips pursed into a whistle, as he eyed her up and down. ‘Stunning.’
‘You look quite the ticket yourself, Mr Barwise,’ Grace commented, noting his best suit and freshly oiled hair.
‘The car isn’t here yet,’ he informed her, leaning in to kiss her on the lips.
‘Good,’ Grace replied. ‘Before we go, I want to explain myself to you…’
‘Really, there’s no need,’ Cecil interrupted.
‘But there is,’ Grace countered, meeting his warm eyes. She knew before she spoke a single word that he would accept and forgive anything which she had to say. ‘A man died because of me—you need to understand.’
Cecil nodded and sat back in his chair.
Grace sat beside him and thought for a moment. ‘Twelve years I spent in the workhouse. Twelve of the worst years of my life—worse even than Holloway. I left in 1892, when I was sixteen, with nothing at all to my name but the clothes I stood up in. I was lucky to get a few domestic jobs, including, of course, the one with the Smith family.’
‘Where you met me,’ Cecil chipped in.
Grace smiled. ‘Yes, exactly: life has improved by increment for me ever since. Minnie Turner took me in and improved my education and…well, here I am. For better or worse.’
Cecil placed his hand on hers, his eyes anticipating her making some connection to Linden Grove.
She knew from the way in which he had spoken in the past that he had assumed that she had once been employed there. ‘You know where I spent my childhood, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘The workhouse.’
‘Yes, I was sent there when I was four years old. Do you know where I lived prior to that?’
‘No.’
‘Linden Grove,’ she stated.
‘What?’ he asked, clearly taken by surprise. ‘How?’
‘For many generations, it belonged to my mother’s family, the Hodgsons, passing down the family through the eldest male. All those grand portraits, which Mr Wild was trying to save from the fire, were my ancestors.’
‘Are you teasing me, Grace?’
‘No, I’m not. As I said, the house and all its contents passed down through the eldest male but then, when it got to my grandfather, there was no male heir, as he only had two daughters. My mother, being the eldest, inherited it all. She lived there with her younger sister until she met and married my father and then they made Linden Grove their home. I came along in 1876, born in the very bedroom where we set the first explosion.’
‘I don’t understand…’ Cecil muttered, utter confusion imprinted on his face.
‘Unfortunately,’ Grace continued, ‘my father died the year after I was born. I have no memory of him whatsoever. My mother had plenty of help in raising me and the few memories that I have of this time are happy. We were happy. Then she died unexpectedly when I was four—just dropped down dead one day, leaving me an orphan.’
‘Oh, my goodness. Why didn’t you tell me all this?’ Cecil asked.
Grace shrugged. ‘I haven’t ever spoken about it to anybody—not even Olivia or Minnie know the truth. To be honest, I’ve tried to forget about it. What’s the point in remembering?’
The revelation had muted him.
‘Within a week of my mother’s death, I was sent to the workhouse.’
‘But Linden Grove?’ he asked incredulously, this next piece of information freeing his tongue. ‘Surely it passed to you as their only child?’
‘If possible, it had to pass to a male heir and…there was one. So, it skipped me and went to my aunt’s son. It stayed in his care ever since…’
‘Oh God, no,’ Cecil groaned. ‘Not Francis Wild?’
Grace’s eyes filled with the collision of memories in her mind. ‘Yes…that’s my secret.’
‘Golly. But that’s so unfair.’
‘Yes,’ she concurred.
‘Why didn’t he at least look after you in the house?’
‘Because he’s a monster, a greedy monster. He never once asked after me or visited or sent anything. In fact, I had no real idea what had gone on there until I was much older. I was a child, so I just did as I was told.’
‘Well, I for one am glad he’s dead—he finally got what was coming to him.’
Grace drew her fingers along her lower eyelids. She wanted to say that she agreed with him, but she couldn’t. Despite all that had happened to her and even in her darkest days at the workhouse, she had never wished Francis Wild dead. Her anger had initially manifested itself against the bricks and mortar of Linden Grove, then, over time, whilst living at Sea View, towards the gross unfairness of the system. ‘I hated what he represented,’ she said. ‘I wanted to do something about it—to change the system. That’s how I got in with Olivia and she introduced me to Minnie Turner. After a few meetings at the WSPU, she invited me to live with her and, to all intents and purposes, make the cause my full-time job. I thought I could change things by delivering leaflets, going on marches and giving speeches but then, after that awful meeting at the Pavilion, something triggered inside me and I knew what I had to do.’
‘I understand, Grace, I really do. But now what?’ Cecil asked quietly.
Grace stood up and smiled. ‘I should like to forget everything that occurred before this very second and to start again. Let’s go and get married.’
With impeccable timing, the motor taxi pulled up outside the cottage, ready to take them to Ashford Register Office.
Cecil smiled, took Grace by the hand and led the way to the car.
Chapter Eleven
Juliette and Margot were sitting beside each other in the lounge, whilst the baby slept. Morton was almost through what had become a grand presentation on the life of Grace Emmerson. Having pulled all of his research into one file, he had unhurriedly worked through her life, starting with her time in the Brighton Union Workhouse, which was met with suitable mutterings and expressions of sympathy. He had progressed through her work as a domestic servant, where she had met her future husband, Cecil Barwise. ‘Ah, Grandad,’ Margot had said wistfully. Then Morton had reached the exciting and turbulent suffraget
te years. He showed every photograph and read every document. ‘Sorry, this was my quiet wouldn’t-say-boo-to-a-goose granny?’ Margot had implored. ‘Really? Are you sure you haven’t got the wrong woman?’
Juliette, not knowing her great grandmother very well, had uttered her absolute admiration throughout. ‘What an amazing woman,’ she had said, rapidly blinking to avoid showing that the information had touched her.
Morton had smiled and moved on to the arson attack on Linden Grove. He had shown images of the fire, read the accounts, then, to his wide-eyed audience, delivered the revelation that the fire had been started by none other than Grace Emmerson.
‘No!’ Margot had gasped.
‘My God, she was a vandal!’ Juliette had laughed, then felt the need to support her great grandmother’s criminality. ‘She was standing up for what she believed in; good on her. But,’ she had begun, ‘why target Linden Grove? From what you’ve said the suffragettes seemed to have targeted government or public buildings that would draw attention to the cause. Why hit a factory owner, who nobody outside of Brighton would ever have heard of?’
‘Very good, Constable Farrier,’ Morton had grinned. ‘She was born there.’
‘What?’ Margot and Juliette chimed together.
‘She was born there,’ he repeated. ‘Which is why Grace’s mother and father appear quite well-to-do in the locket portraits—because they were.’ He held aloft a print-out from the 1871 census, showing Grace’s unmarried mother, Eliza at the property. In the top left-hand corner, in tiny scribbled letters were the words that he had overlooked when he had first been researching Grace’s life: Linden Grove.
‘So why did she then destroy the home of her birth?’ Margot questioned.
‘Because it should have been hers,’ Morton answered. ‘Male primogeniture. As a woman, she wasn’t allowed to inherit the house if a male heir was to be found, and so it passed to her cousin, Francis Wild, and Grace got nothing. Wild threw her out on her ear and that’s how she ended up in the workhouse, aged four.’
‘What a horrible man,’ Margot muttered. ‘Disgraceful—he had what was coming to him.’
‘That would explain her militancy,’ Juliette said. ‘Thank goodness I don’t have to uphold such archaic laws anymore.’
‘Precisely,’ Morton agreed. ‘After the fire, things calmed down a bit for Grace. No convictions were made.’
‘She got away with it,’ Juliette said triumphantly. ‘Good woman!’
‘Should you be saying that?’ Margot muttered.
‘Damn right,’ Juliette answered.
‘Grace and Cecil married and then along came a baby.’
‘My mother,’ Margot chipped in.
‘After that—probably because of that—she gave up her militancy.’
‘Wow,’ Margot said. ‘I’m very impressed, Morton.’ She stood up and patted him on the shoulder, as she left the room. ‘I didn’t really think that genealogy was a proper job before now.’
Juliette’s mouth opened in a silent grin and Morton rolled his eyes.
‘Anyone for a cup of tea?’ Margot called from the kitchen. ‘Before Matilda wakes up?’
‘Coffee, please,’ Morton called. Then he lowered his voice: ‘Do you like Matilda?’
‘Do I like my new-born daughter?’
‘You know what I mean. Do you like the name, Matilda?’
Juliette took a moment to answer. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘That’s kind of how I feel about it. Shouldn’t we be a bit more…passionate about it? Shouldn’t we love it?’
Juliette shrugged. ‘Come up with something better,’ she challenged.
And so, Morton headed upstairs to his impossibly tidy study and searched the shelves for the copy of 60,001 Best Baby Names.
Two days later, having registered the baby’s birth at Hastings Register Office, Morton and Juliette were sprawled out on a picnic blanket, the sun beating down on the large golfing umbrella above them. Two plates contained the crummy remnants of their lunch.
‘This is a fantastically inappropriate place to have a picnic,’ Juliette said with a smile. ‘But I love it.’ She kissed Morton on the lips. ‘Thank you.’ Her gaze shifted beside them and Morton could see the awe, admiration and pride on her face.
He shrugged as his eyes fell to where she was looking. The burgundy marble headstone, which Morton had paid to be cleaned and restored, glinted in the sunlight, as though placed there only hours before. ‘In Memory of a dear husband and father Cecil W. Barwise, died 18th December 1958 aged 74. At rest. Also beloved wife and mother Grace Barwise, died 15th August 1970 aged 94. Reunited.’
Juliette bent down, picked up the baby under her armpits and held her aloft. She turned and addressed the headstone. ‘Grace Emmerson, meet your great-great-granddaughter, Grace Matilda Farrier.’
Epilogue
28th August 1914, Wye, Kent
Grace couldn’t bring herself to open the letter. It had just landed on the doormat, with a clear identification stamp on the envelope. HOME OFFICE. Those two words made her shudder with cold fear. Her mind raced, as she held the letter in her hands. Why would the Home Office be writing to her? Had something happened to Cecil already? The newspapers had been full of the British Expeditionary Force’s battles in and around Mons these last days, with many soldiers killed. Surely, she would have received a telegram, if something had happened to him. Her thoughts jumped back to Linden Grove. Perhaps they had finally caught up with her. But would the Home Office be writing to her? Clearly not—the police would be knocking on the door.
She had no choice but to open it. She carried it into the sitting room and sat down.
Without thinking any further, she tore it open and removed the letter. ‘Dear Mrs Barwise. You are receiving this letter as a person convicted of crimes committed in the name of suffragism. Owing to the suspension of militant tactics by the WSPU, among several other organisations, the Home Office is granting amnesty to all suffrage prisoners. This amnesty will take immediate effect.’
Grace set the letter to one side, unsure of the implications. There was some relief, she supposed, at being freed from her crimes, but they were crimes that she had committed because of her beliefs; beliefs which she still vehemently held. She was angry, that was how she felt. War had come, a patronising pardon had been granted but nothing had changed. Universal suffrage was as far away today as it had been the day that she joined the WSPU.
She stood up, suddenly filled with energy, and marched to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Minnie!’ she called. ‘Minnie! We’re going out! Come down here and get your shoes on.’
Minnie, her two-year-old daughter, appeared at the top of the stairs with a sulky frown on her face. ‘Where we going?’
‘To the station,’ Grace replied. ‘Come on.’
Minnie beamed widely. ‘On a train!’
‘Well no, not quite. We’re going to see the stationmaster. At least two of the guards have gone off to fight in the last few days and they’ll be in need of some help.’
Minnie looked at Grace, bewildered.
‘We’ll show them that we’re as good as they are,’ Grace said to herself. ‘Better, even.’
She took Minnie by the hand and led her outside into the hot late-summer sunshine.
‘Deeds not words,’ she said to Minnie with a wry smile.
Historical Information
Much of the source material, records and archives, and indeed some of the people featured in this short story are real. All of the records that Morton uses in his research are genuine, but with (mostly) fictitious content.
Minnie Turner was a well-known member of the Brighton WSPU. She lived at Sea View, 13-14 Victoria Road in Brighton, a house which was used by suffragettes recovering from stints in prison and also as holiday accommodation. In the 1911 census, she gave very little information about herself and the enumerator was forced to write ‘Miss Turner and probably 11 others. Further information refused’ on her entry. She was a milita
nt suffragette and was sent to prison for four months for throwing a brick through a window at the Home Office. The information that Morton finds on her at The Keep is all real, with the exception of the letter confirming the destruction of Linden Grove.
As happened in many towns and cities, women were arrested for making speeches which incited violence. Arrests were also made in Brighton and elsewhere when pillar boxes full of post were targeted by the suffragettes. Protestations at Downing Street occurred on several occasions, including on 22nd February 1911. I have reproduced, almost word for word, the accounts of both the police and suffragettes in this story. The newspaper report is recounted virtually verbatim from an incident which took place there on 22nd November 1910, when Miss Henrietta Williams was arrested for hitting the Prime Minister and smashing a window in his car, as he tried to escape.
Grace’s petition to the Governor of Holloway at not being placed in the first division was an amalgamation of several such documents held at The National Archives, most notably that of Sarah Carwin who had been arrested for causing damage to property and obstructing police.
The report by the Governor of Holloway, Mr James Scott on the conditions of the prison cells is also based on fact. Scott wrote the report following the complaints of several suffragettes about the conditions of the cells. H.M. Inspector of Factories investigated the claims, finding that ‘It is probable that any sense of oppression or discomfort felt in these cells is of psychological origin…’
From 1909 many suffragette prisoners began to go on hunger strike, leading the authorities to force-feed them. The records of such incidents as presented in this story are sadly true and documented at The National Archives. In April 1913 the Government introduced ‘The Cat and Mouse Act’, whereby women, who became dangerously ill through hunger-strike, were released from prison then rearrested when sufficiently recovered. The women of the WSPU, who served prison sentences, received a portcullis brooch as a recognition of their action.
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