by Holly Webb
“Speeding up again now after the bend,” Mr Carrisford murmured. Sara clasped her hands excitedly as the first horse dashed past, a clump of others right on its heels.
Lottie heard herself cheering, so wild with the excitement that she hadn’t even realized she’d opened her mouth. Sara was pressed against her, shining-eyed. Lottie clapped her hands delightedly, caught in the thundering beauty of the horses.
The shouting checked for a moment, and a strange gasp ran through the crowd. People began to spill out on to the course, running towards a dark mass on the grass. Mr Carrisford leaned forward anxiously. “Did a horse fall? I didn’t see, I was looking further down the course. What happened?”
“A lady – she was out on the grass…” Lottie pressed her hand against her lips, sickened by the ragdoll tumbling of that slight figure. “The horse fell over her, the rider came off…”
“What was she doing?” Mr Carrisford demanded almost angrily. “It’s madness – did she faint and fall under the rails? How can that have happened?”
“I don’t know.” Lottie slipped down on to the seat, and Sara pressed a bottle of salts into her hand. Lottie sniffed at the glass bottle, gasping, her eyes watering at the acrid scent. Ermengarde was huddled in the side of the car looking horrified. Lottie felt Ermie’s cold hand creep into hers. The voices all around them sounded like shrieking birds. Her head whirled, the birds pecking and tearing, and Lottie buried her face in Sara’s shoulder with a whimper.
“I can’t believe that she would do that…” Sally whispered. She had borrowed Cook’s copy of the Daily Sketch, the front cover a sickening photograph of the fallen horse and the woman who had dashed out in front of him. Her hat was rolling towards the camera.
“How could she? We said we would stand up, but … but … not like that.” The paper shook in Lottie’s hands.
“It isn’t even the headline. Have you noticed?” Sally asked drearily. “They’re more interested in the hundred to one winner. She’s dying.”
“Do you think she is? You don’t think she’ll get better?”
“It says she’s still unconscious. You saw, Lottie, she went under the horse’s hooves. No one could survive that, surely.”
Lottie shivered, remembering the tumbling body. She couldn’t picture Miss Davison ever waking up.
Sally bought newspapers with Lottie’s pocket money, and they read them frantically, late at night in the attic, searching for any mention of Miss Davison’s health. The papers were full of criticism for the Suffragette’s mad act, but there were no updates on her recovery. Then on June 9th, five days after the race, Lottie awoke to find Sally shaking her. The older girl’s eyes were red and her face was streaked with tears.
“I can’t stay, I’m meant to be down in the kitchen. Cook’ll be shouting for me. I went out to get it, Lottie, look.” She held up the Daily Sketch again, the headline in heavy black letters. First Martyr for Votes for Women.
“She’s died?” Lottie sat up, taking the newspaper in shaking hands. She had known – almost – but a tiny kernel of hope had been inside her. “A martyr?” she whispered. “They mean – she did it on purpose? She wanted to be killed?”
“I don’t know – that must be what it means. But some of the other papers said she was trying to stop Anmer because he was the King’s horse. To get the attention of the King, for the cause. She tried to grab his bridle.” Sally gazed at the headline uncertainly. “Well, you saw her. Do you think she meant to be hit?”
Lottie shook her head. “I couldn’t see, it was so fast. She was just there, and then … then she was on the ground and so was the horse, and the jockey.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, feeling herself start to shiver.
“Oh, Lottie.” Sally sat on the bed next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Get up. Go down to breakfast early, have a cup of tea.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to have to talk to anyone,” Lottie whispered. “Sally, we should do something. We have to. Will there be a march, or a meeting – somewhere people talk about Miss Davison? Can’t we go? I’ll sneak out, I’ll lie and say I’m going to visit Sara. Couldn’t we find some sort of excuse for you?”
“There’ll be her funeral, I suppose,” Sally said doubtfully. “We could go and watch outside, even if we can’t go into the church.”
“But when will it be? We can’t know. Unless they put it in The Suffragette.” Lottie straightened up, pulling away from Sally a moment. “The shop! They’d know, maybe?”
“I’ll go and ask. Cook’ll send me out for something or other, she usually does. I’ll just go the long way round. I have to get back downstairs, Lottie. Here, you can keep this to read. I won’t have time.”
Lottie nodded, smoothing the paper over her knees. She still wanted to cry, but at least if they could go to the funeral, they’d be showing that it mattered. “I should think lots of women will come,” she whispered to herself.
The shop in Church Street had nothing to tell Sally, but the woman behind the counter had come around the front and hugged her, she told Lottie that night.
“She said I was a darling girl.” Sally muttered sadly. “She said she wished all the girls in service were standing up for our rights. She’s going to write to you, she promised. As soon as they know anything about the funeral – she was sure that the WSPU would have a plan, probably there’ll be a procession. I told her I never got no letters, and Cook would want to know what it was, so she’d better write to you instead.” She looked worried for a minute. “I s’pose Miss Minchin’s going to know it’s not from your father.”
“I’ll tell her it’s from one of my cousins – she doesn’t know that I don’t have any. It’ll be all right, Sally, don’t worry. You’re a marvel.”
Lottie watched eagerly for letters for the next few days, ready with her excuse. Miss Minchin frowned as she dealt out the letters, but the neat little envelope was clearly addressed to Lottie in a curling, ladylike hand. “Lottie?”
Lottie tried to look unconscious. “A letter from Papa?” she asked innocently. “Oh – no. From my cousin Lily, I think. Thank you, Miss Minchin.” She strolled away, resisting the urge to rip the envelope apart, and hurried upstairs. Sally must open it – she had made all the effort, after all.
That night she crept out of her room without a candle, as the midsummer night was hardly dark. She padded up the stairs in her slippers and found Sally waiting for her anxiously.
“Did a letter come?”
Lottie held it out, watching eagerly as Sally wrenched at the flap.
“‘Dear Miss Lane’ – Miss Lane!” Sally blinked. “No one ever calls me that. ‘Dear Miss Lane. There is to be a procession across London, accompanying Miss Davison’s body to St George’s Church, Hart Street, Bloomsbury. Our society has been invited to take part in the procession, and I wondered if you and Miss Legh would like to march with us?’” Sally looked up at Lottie, wide-eyed. “‘We will be meeting at the shop at midday, to make sure we can assemble at Buckingham Palace Road in time to march off at two. We will be wearing white dresses, with a two-inch black armband. Purple ribbons, if you have any, would be appropriate. I do hope that you can join us to bid farewell to our dear and brave sister Emily.’” Sally stared at the letter, biting her lip. “I haven’t a white dress,” she murmured.
“But my dresses would fit you easily and I have several white ones,” Lottie pointed out swiftly. “I know you wear long skirts now, but it wouldn’t matter, would it? I can lend you good black stockings too. You could wear your own dress over the top and take it off when we get to the shop.”
“I never thought she’d remember to write,” Sally muttered, looking worriedly at Lottie. “How can I go? Saturday’s not my afternoon off.”
“You must!” Lottie pleaded. “I won’t go without you, oh, Sally, please!” She frowned. “Your lady from the Girls’ Village, who comes to check on you. Could you say you have to meet her? We can write – I’ll write a letter, saying you
must come out to Barkingside on the train, and enclosing money for your ticket! That would give you most of the day, wouldn’t it?”
Sally nodded.
“And I shall beg Sara to invite me.” Lottie pressed her lips together. “I know Mr Carrisford doesn’t approve of Suffragettes, but I shall make her. I will.”
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Sally gasped, as Lottie pelted towards her.
“I’m sorry! Miss Minchin watched me walk along to Sara’s house, with the most bad-tempered look on her face! I had to go in and then sneak out around the back. Ram Dass showed me out of the kitchens with such a grand bow. I feel sure he was laughing at me inside, but he was so dignified, you’d never have known it.”
“Did you tell Miss Sara what you were doing?”
Lottie shook her head. “Not after I’d thought about it. I told Miss Minchin that I was going to Sara’s for the day, but I never actually asked Sara. I didn’t want her to have to lie to Mr Carrisford, and she might have tried to persuade me out of going. So I just didn’t tell her. Ram Dass didn’t mind, though. He can’t stand Miss Minchin, she draws her skirts in if she passes him in the street, I’ve seen her do it. He just stands up even straighter and walks like a prince.”
“Oh, well. I suppose it’s all right, as long as he isn’t going to blab. We’ll have to hurry to get to Church Street on time.” Sally frowned. “I’m sure it must be late.”
“No, it’s only a little after eleven, Sally, honestly. And don’t worry, I have all the pocket money saved up that we haven’t used on newspapers, and I borrowed some more from Ermie in case. Let’s just get a little way away from here and we can catch a bus, or even a hansom cab if we have to.”
They hurried along the street, Lottie walking backwards half the time to look for buses. “There!” She waved urgently to the driver, who looked for a moment as if he wasn’t going to stop for a pair of children, but then pulled in to the side of the road. The girls clambered up the twisting staircase to the roof, and Lottie dug around in her purse for the fares. “I have the black bands, look.” She retrieved them from the purse with a jingle of coins. “I cut up one of my wool stockings, do you think they will be neat enough?”
Sally nodded. “Are we really doing this, Lottie?” she asked.
“Yes. We can’t turn back now, we’d never be able to explain. We’re going.”
The bus took them as far as Kensington High Street, and they raced up Church Street, pounding past the shops that Lottie had visited with Miss Amelia two years before. The windows of the WSPU shop were veiled in purple cloth, with a photograph of Emily Wilding Davison on an easel in the middle of one and a wreath placed in front of it. Lottie swallowed hard, seeing for the first time the face of the woman whose body she had watched flung into the air.
The tiny, wedge-shaped shop was packed with women in white dresses, holding flowers and wreaths, and the two girls loitered shyly by the door, until Sally pointed to one of the women, and whispered, “That’s her. Miss Bailey, the one who wrote to us.”
“Girls – Sally!” The young woman edged her way through the crowd, holding out her hands to them. “You came – I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to get away from the school.”
“I do have a white dress, miss,” Sally gasped out. “It’s on underneath, I couldn’t wear it out.”
“Clever girl. Here.” She led them through to a little storeroom in the back of the shop. “The meeting rooms upstairs are all full of people sorting flowers and banners. Change in there, child.”
“I’ll wait here for you.” Lottie stood in front of the door, watching hungrily as the white-clad women passed by, their arms full of flowers. She turned as the door behind her creaked, and Sally came out of the storeroom, her hair hanging around her shoulders instead of scraped back into a bun, wearing Lottie’s best white dress.
“You look younger than me!” Lottie said, surprised.
Sally hunched her shoulder in an awkward shrug. “I’m only a year older. Can’t help being short.”
“I didn’t mean that – I think it’s your hair.” Lottie had always thought of it as a sort of faded fair colour, tucked away under a cap, but now, streaming loose down Sally’s back, there were silvery lights in it and her whole face looked softer. She was wearing her own plain straw hat, but that only made her seem more childlike.
“Oh, well done.” Miss Bailey came hurrying past again, and smiled at them. “Here, take these.” She pressed a small bunch of lilies into each of the girls’ hands. “We’ll all be carrying them.” She looked at Lottie and Sally, clearly a little embarrassed. “We’re planning to take the Underground to St James Park. Do you have money for the fare?”
“Yes, miss.” Sally nodded firmly. “We have plenty. Don’t worry. Thank you for the flowers, and for letting us come.”
“I’ve never been on the Underground,” Lottie whispered to Sally, as Miss Bailey scurried away to give out more flowers.
“Me neither.”
Passers-by were staring at them, even as they walked to the Underground station, a group of girls and women dressed all in white and carrying flowers. Lottie tried to walk as though she were marching, and not to look round at the loud comments, but she stood on the Underground platform with her cheeks burning scarlet as two women loudly discussed her age, and how she and Sally were being led astray by “those absurd women”. She hung her head, the choking funeral smell of the Madonna lilies reminding her strangely of the dream of her mother. She rubbed her fingers over the stamens, watching the pollen stain her fingers gold.
“Do you feel led astray?” Miss Bailey asked, whispering in her ear.
Lottie shook her head firmly. “If Miss Davison could do … what she did, why should we care what they say?” she murmured back.
“It’s not absurd, miss. It’s grand,” Sally added. “We’re like a guard of honour, for a dead soldier.”
“Exactly.” Several of the other women turned to smile at them, and Sally flushed and stared down at her boots.
They had seen the Women’s Coronation Procession, two years before, but Lottie had not expected that the funeral procession would be almost as huge. Women in white were everywhere, but there was no hum of chatter, only a deep feeling of grief and determination. They lined up in rows behind the Kensington Society’s banner, draped in purple fabric for mourning, and Lottie stood clutching her lilies, feeling tears burn behind her eyes. She was sad – she was crying, there were tears on her cheeks as the music floated back from the brass band ahead of them – but surely it was wrong to feel so happy too? For once, she felt as if she were in the right place, and as they began to march, she was filled with a strange, blissful sense of peace.
By the time they had gone back to the shop for Sally’s dress and bundled her hair up under her hat again, it was early evening, more than an hour after they were expected back at Miss Minchin’s. As they rounded the corner of the street into the square, Lottie suddenly stopped and thrust Sally behind her. Miss Minchin herself was walking up the street from Mr Carrisford’s house, with her best hat on.
“She’s been to look for me,” Lottie muttered. “She saw us, I think.” She glanced at Sally and saw the colour fade out of her face. “Don’t worry. Just follow what I say. And walk behind me.”
She set her shoulders back and marched round the corner again, to find Miss Minchin almost upon them, her face furious.
“Charlotte Legh! Where have you been? I’ve just come back from Mr Carrisford’s house. Oh, yes – I went to fetch you, and his servants told me that Miss Sara was in her drawing room and you hadn’t been there all day. So, where were you, you degenerate child?” She noticed Sally behind Lottie, and gasped with anger. “You too! You were with her? Well, that’s simple enough. You will leave at the end of week, when I’ve found your replacement.”
“With me?” Lottie glanced disdainfully round at Sally. “She most certainly was not. I met her while I was walking and she insisted on following me.”
&n
bsp; “I was at Barkingside, ma’am,” Sally muttered politely. “I went to visit my house mother. She still writes to me, she asked me to come. It’s part of the arrangement with the authorities, ma’am. She has to report on my welfare. I saw the young lady on the way back from the station, and I thought she ought not to be on her own, so I ventured to accompany her, ma’am.”
Miss Minchin eyed her narrowly. “Very well. Go on, there will doubtless be duties for you in the kitchen. Hurry along. As for you,” she glared at Lottie, “you will come with me.” She seized Lottie’s arm and marched her back along the road. “Where have you been?” Then she wrenched at the black armband around Lottie’s sleeve, almost tearing it off.
“No!” Lottie cried, twisting out of Miss Minchin’s grip and trying to cover it up. “No, you mustn’t!”
“Ridiculous,” Miss Minchin snapped, ripping the band away. “I suppose you sneaked out to go to the funeral for that madwoman.”
“She wasn’t,” Lottie gasped. “How can you call her that?”
“Of course she was – and this funeral procession was a disgusting, sentimental display. Far better for the poor creature to have been buried quietly somewhere, instead of that vulgar show. All she has done is to inspire further criminal acts of deceit from foolish children like you. I shall write to your father tonight, telling him how you have lied and schemed and drawn others into your lies too.”
Chapter Seven
Lottie lay curled up at the pillow end of her bed, huddled into a tight ball. She had kicked the covers off long ago, but the June night was hot and it hadn’t woken her. She had been dreaming on and off all night, it seemed. She kept being jolted awake by the image of Miss Minchin’s white and furious face, or the sickening moment when Miss Davison was hurled through the air. The scent of lilies drifted through the room and she settled again, pulling the sheet around her shoulders. Someone was walking towards her, and Lottie smiled in her sleep, turning to see a figure in a white dress. Her mother stroked her face, murmuring something that Lottie couldn’t hear, however hard she tried. She was smiling too, laughing almost, creases at the corners of her eyes, the same round eyes as Lottie’s.
