“Lady Emily,” he said, stretching his arms to me as he approached. “What a delight! You’re even lovelier than I remembered. Marriage agrees with you.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” I said. “But you, sir, are nothing like Aristophanes led me to expect. A popular politician, according to him, has a horrible voice, bad breeding, and a vulgar manner.”
“I’m glad, then, to disappoint you,” he said. “I was so pleased when Hargreaves got in touch. Excellent man. I remember him from school, though he was, of course, considerably younger than I. Wouldn’t have it in me to refuse his request I help you, even if I didn’t agree with what you’re doing.”
“You support suffrage?” I asked.
“I do. Seems foolish to reject the input of so many bright minds,” he said, meeting my eyes with an even stare. Mr. Foster spoke with such conviction I could almost believe he’d never engaged in so fascinating a conversation. Truly the man was a consummate politician. “Particularly that of my own wife. But I must warn you, my colleagues in the opposition will be terribly hard to convince. They view the entire movement as an attack on their ability to properly look after their ladies. Why should women need the vote if their men are dedicated to protecting them?”
“A terrifying thought.”
“Quite,” he said. “Right or not, many gentlemen believe letting ladies into the realm of politics would take away from their beauty and charm.”
“Ladies are more than beauty and charm,” I said. “And to suggest they’re not already firmly embroiled in politics is absurd. I can’t count the number of wives I know who are renowned as political hostesses—Liberal and Conservative.”
“Entirely true. But a social role, however influential, is not the same as an official one,” he said. “Come, now. We’ve much to do.”
As he led me through the wide corridors of the Houses of Parliament, my stomach rolled itself in knots and I began to question the wisdom of my strategy. Would it have been wiser to interact with these men at social functions instead of the workplace? I drew a deep breath, pressed my lips hard together, and stood as erect as I could. This last action made me realize the one ground upon which Mr. Foster might be disappointing. He was not so tall as he undoubtedly hoped.
For nearly two hours he guided me from office to office, providing introductions to countless Honorable Members, whose reactions to Lady Carlisle’s pamphlets ranged from outright horror (“Get the bloody woman out of here!”) to willful misunderstanding (“What a fascinating story. Are you still reading Greek?”). I hadn’t expected to win converts on my first day—only to identify candidates for further indoctrination. Which was why, after handing over the slim document and gauging the recipient’s reaction, I smoothly transitioned to other subjects.
Subjects like literature. A gentleman interested in the works of the American transcendentalists couldn’t possibly be too closed-minded. Two promising leads there. The Right Honorable Member who cited “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” as his favorite not only amongst Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, but also amongst all writing—an opinion expressed after explaining how the great author “knows women like no other man”—would never come around to a more enlightened point of view … at least not in my lifetime. Given his advanced age, it seemed a hopeless business.
As for the rest, I would continue to work on all who admitted a fondness for romantic poetry, detective stories, and those who preferred Hector to Achilles in The Iliad. The latter, I believed with all my heart, could not hold such an opinion without some degree of enlightenment.
“I do hope you’re not too disappointed,” Mr. Foster said, as he escorted me out of the building. “They are a pack of beasts.”
“You should be careful of saying such things,” I said, opening my parasol to protect me from the glaring sunlight. “You’re our best hope for future prime minister.”
“You flatter me,” he said, bouncing a bit as he stood. He was on tiptoes, giving himself an extra inch or so of height. “Gladstone’s in good form. But I do appreciate your confidence.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to do anything but support your leader. You’re too well bred.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help,” I said.
“I couldn’t be happier to provide you with assistance,” he said. “It’s a difficult path you’ve chosen, Lady Emily, but a worthy one. I wish you much luck with it.”
“I know you agree with our principles, but can we count on your public support?” I asked.
“You can be certain I shall never speak against the goals of the Women’s Liberal Federation.”
It wasn’t the same as real support, but I reminded myself that he was a gentleman with the highest aspirations. Alienating a large part of the voting public would not serve him well. Should he ever become prime minister, then he might be in a position to take a firmer stand.
At least I hoped so.
“What do you think of all this red-paint business?” I asked.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he said. “Petty gossip taken to a new level.”
“But lives are being destroyed,” I said.
“Lives have always been destroyed by such things,” he said. “This time, it’s being done for a larger audience, that’s all.”
“Who do you think is responsible?”
“Impossible to say, really. Who hasn’t felt tormented by the ton at one time or another?”
“True,” I said. “But wouldn’t most people seek revenge against the individuals whom they felt harmed them rather than striking out at all of society?”
“Most would, I suppose. But some people have a higher purpose than personal retribution.”
“And you think that is a good thing?” I asked.
“Heavens, no!” He brushed his sandy hair back from his face. “Although one could argue it’s time society had a good shaking up. That it lose some of its hypocrisy.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “But there must be a better way to do it.”
“I’m certain there is,” he said. “There are times, though, when the final result merits an unconventional approach. Even one that hurts people.”
* * *
Days passed before I had occasion to think of Mr. Foster again. I’d spent a relatively tedious afternoon at home receiving callers, when relief came in the form of Ivy and Jeremy. They’d arrived late, as close friends do, and we were all laughing as I described for them my adventures in Westminster.
“But isn’t Mr. Foster the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?” Ivy asked. “Other than Colin, of course.”
“Colin is much more handsome,” I said. “I grant you Mr. Foster is extremely easy to look at, and quite distinguished, though one does wish he was a little taller. He’s also smart, which more than makes up for any physical drawbacks. He quotes Byron with such finesse it’s almost unnerving.”
“Unnerving?” Jeremy asked. “The only unnerving thing I see here is discussing the repulsively perfect merits of some other bloke. Have you ladies no hearts?”
“You know we adore you, too,” I said. “But I do like Mr. Foster very much. He’s the closest thing we have to a modern Alexander the Great. Except, of course, that he hasn’t conquered anything yet.”
“Wait until he’s prime minister,” Ivy said.
“I don’t know how these bloody Etonians do it,” Jeremy said. “It’s bad enough they’ll walk over fire for each other to ensure they run the empire. I’ve learned to tolerate that with equanimity, because I’ve no interest in running it myself. But I won’t have them winning the hearts of all the ladies as well.”
Davis opened the door. “Simon Barnes, madam.”
“Thank heavens,” Jeremy said as the new arrival entered the library. “I’m in desperate need of reinforcements, Barnes. You’ve saved me.”
Simon Barnes stood taller even than Jeremy. His black hair, oiled and combed back in a rather old-fashioned manner, made
him look older than his age, as did the heavy creases on his forehead. It was hard to believe he and Mr. Foster had been at school together.
“What a lovely surprise,” I said, raising my hand to him. “We’ve just been discussing the countless merits of your friend, Mr. Foster.”
“There’s not a better man in Britain,” Mr. Barnes said. “He should be prime minister someday.”
“I told him just that a few days ago,” I said. “His response was all modesty.”
“Bloody bore to be prime minister, I’d think,” Jeremy said. “I say, Barnes, enough of this. I want to hear about your days in the West Indies. Surely you’ve troves of stories of pirates and hidden treasure and I know not what else. Anything, really, that gets us off the topic of Foster.”
Simon Barnes had spent his childhood in the West Indies, where his grandfather was governor of one of the islands. Barnes’s mother had been her father’s favorite, and he indulged her every whim. Strong-minded and determined, she’d insisted on marrying a local boy from a well-to-do family. Going native was not something of which English society was much fond, but her father did not object. He had no taste for being the instrument of his daughter’s heartbreak. When she died in childbirth a mere eighteen months later, he took her son, Simon, into his house and gave him his name. The boy’s father protested not at all. The islanders accepted mixed marriages as little as the English, and he slunk back to his family to beg forgiveness for his choice of bride. Within a month, he was remarried to someone deemed more acceptable.
Barnes’s grandfather doted on him, sparing no expense to give him the best. He sent him to England for his education, where the boy excelled academically. Barnes sailed through Cambridge, and had spent the subsequent years working in politics. He’d made himself indispensable to nearly every prominent liberal in the past twenty-odd years, spending all his time in London save a two-year return to the land of his birth when his grandfather died.
“It’s not so romantic as you think,” Mr. Barnes said. “Unless you’ve a fondness for muggy nights and enormous insects.”
“I shouldn’t think I’d like it,” Ivy said.
“It can be hard for a delicate constitution to adjust to the extremes of island weather. England does not well prepare one for heat.” Mr. Barnes’s smile was wide and bright, his voice soft. He didn’t quite look English, but neither did he look like a native West Indian. It was as if the familiar and the foreign lived side by side in him. “I’m sorry to be calling so late, Lady Emily. I’ve no right to intrude in so intimate a gathering.”
“There’s no need for apology,” I said. “We’re delighted to have you join us.”
“I confess I was hoping to see your husband,” he said. “This red-paint business is causing quite a political stir. I’d like to speak to him about it.”
“You don’t think Mr. Gladstone will find his house vandalized, do you?” Ivy asked.
“No,” Mr. Barnes said. “I think we’re all aware of the prime minister’s quirks and eccentricities. I don’t think there’s much left for him to hide. But to see so many families under the threat of whoever is behind this smear campaign is disturbing. The government are taking it quite seriously. They feel no one in London is safe at the moment.”
“Safe?” Ivy said.
“From scandal and rumor,” he said.
“My husband’s not home at the moment, but I shall tell him you called,” I said. “Will you be at the Fannings’ ball tonight? If so, you’re sure to see him there.”
“I’ll look for him,” Mr. Barnes said.
“I worried Mrs. Fanning wouldn’t soldier on,” Ivy said. “Her house was covered with red paint yesterday. Not just the steps and the door, either. The whole front, including the windows, was splashed. She’s a brave woman not to cancel the party.”
“If I were going to be exposed for some grim deed I’d rather it be in the comfort of my own home,” Jeremy said.
“Would you go on with the party, Mr. Barnes?” I asked. “If you found yourself in Mrs. Fanning’s position?”
“A person can’t be daunted in the face of adversity. One must go on. And if one is to be taken down, one may as well do so in excellent company.”
“I always knew I liked you, Barnes,” Jeremy said. “We really must dine together more often. Generally I avoid you Old Etonians. You’re such an insular lot. But you’re different. Bearable, even.”
“I shall take that as a compliment,” Mr. Barnes said, his voice low and melodic.
“I like you very much, Mr. Barnes,” Ivy said. “Have you promised away all your dances tonight? I can think of several young ladies to whom I’d like to introduce you.”
“Don’t bother to make me your project, Mrs. Brandon,” he said. “Much though I appreciate the gesture, you’d find yourself quickly frustrated. Wealth and political influence are not the only things required by the parents of society brides. I shan’t disturb the lot of you any longer, but will look forward to seeing you all this evening.”
“He’s a good man,” Ivy said after he’d left. “And so open about his past. Never apologizing for it, never hiding from it.”
“It would be impossible for him to conceal it,” Jeremy said. “He might look English enough, but there’s too much of the exotic in him to pass as one of us. Even his voice sounds magical.”
“We must help him find a wife no matter what he says,” Ivy said. “I can’t think of anyone more worthy of a good partner.”
“Not even me?” Jeremy asked.
“Especially you, Jeremy,” Ivy said. “I shudder at the thought of what your wife will suffer.”
11 June 1893
Belgrave Square, London
I am so fond of Mr. Barnes! How unfortunate that he’s not been able to secure a worthy bride. His heritage, no doubt, has made it difficult, but it should not be impossible. I shall make it my mission to find him a suitable girl. Probably one of many sisters—he’s enough money to make the details of a dowry irrelevant—and from a family without political aspirations. I’ve a few candidates already in mind and shall call on their mothers this week to begin planting the idea with them.
This is a pleasant distraction in the midst of so much upheaval. Mrs. Fanning is a wonder to go on with her plans for the ball despite the paint. I do hope her guests don’t let her down, though I suppose there’s little chance anyone will cancel on her. They’ll all be interested to see what, if anything, happens. On my way home from Emily’s, I heard that Lady Althway’s house has been painted as well. She’s Mrs. Fanning’s closest friend. It must be a comfort of sorts to have someone who understands the hardship of being marked by this villainous soul and his paint.
I wonder if they were targeted at the same time for a reason. Could they together have done something grievous? I do know Lady Althway can hold a grudge longer than most. She’s a most unforgiving sort of woman. Will she now want others to forgive her?
Must go dress for the ball. I shall wear my golden gown tonight. I want nothing close to red.
8
For Colin and me, the evening began well enough. We had dawdled pleasantly over our toilettes, as was our habit, spending more time talking over glasses of wine than dressing. When my maid had become stern, insisting we would be late if we didn’t finish, I’d submitted to her ministrations. Colin, whose appearance required no improvement from its natural state, was dashing and ready to go long before I. He stepped around Meg, who was slipping jeweled combs into the sides of my coiffure, and presented me with a slim parcel. I pulled open the strings to reveal a beautifully bound blank book, its red cover fashioned from the smoothest leather I’d ever felt.
“I thought you should have a notebook to chronicle your suffragette adventures,” he said. “I’m immeasurably proud of what you accomplished in Westminster.”
“Thank you,” I said and kissed him. “It was a necessarily slow start, but a good one.” Colin had received a slew of notes from MPs imploring him to put an end to my suff
ragette activities. Or at least to limit them in a way that would preclude me from troubling them.
“I appreciate you agreeing to hold off on the investigation until a time it’s appropriate for me to involve you.” He threw a neat white silk scarf around his neck. “Have you heard about today’s paint?”
“Yes, the Althways,” I said. “Any idea why?”
“Lord Althway has had more than his share of dodgy business deals. He’s more enemies in the British Isles than we have sailors in the navy.”
“An obvious choice, then. All that remains, I suppose, is to see which of his dastardly deeds will no longer go unpunished.”
Meg motioned for me to stand in front of her, stepped back, and took a long look, evaluating her work. “Perfect, madam,” she said. “You’re lovely. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“I’ll make sure the carriage is waiting,” she said. “And please do consider what I said to you about Paris. We need to go as soon as possible. Your hats are in danger of being unfashionable.”
This was a complete fallacy. My hats were in danger of nothing.
“I should have paid better heed when I read Frankenstein,” I said. “I know you just want to see Paris again.”
“I’m only looking out for your best interest, madam,” Meg said. “I have my ways of keeping abreast of the latest fashions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “The carriage?”
“Of course, madam.”
As soon as she’d disappeared downstairs, Colin took me in his arms and kissed me. “You’re stunning tonight. Is that a new gown?”
“It is.” Mr. Worth, the greatest dressmaker in the world, designed it in Paris after I chose the fabric, a gorgeous midnight-blue silk that he’d covered with an intricate pattern of shimmering silver beads. My waist had never looked so tiny. I snapped a heavy sapphire necklace in place and slipped its matching bracelet over my wrist. “Something’s troubling you, my dear. What is it?” I asked.
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