“Would you have her for a wife?”
Now the question was even more boldly said, and still William had no answer. And then he did. “I couldn’t take her so far from all she knows. The world is very different on my side of it.”
“Hmpf. Then please do her the kindness and the rest of us the courtesy to stop turning her head, sir. My niece has troubles enough. If you will not assuage them, do not compound them. Good evening, Mr. Frazier.”
William stared again as another Tate woman stalked away from him. Then, full to the brim with bleak self-reprove, he pulled off the ridiculous mask. He turned and walked around to the street, and all the way back to the Dohring Hotel.
He’d send an apology to Chris. He owed Lady Nora at least the same, but he would only make matters worse if he contacted her again.
FIVE
Knowing she behaved like a little girl, and not caring a whit, Nora pulled on her father’s sleeve. “Papa, please. Let me go with you.”
Her father peeled her hand away. “Nora, your aunt is right. If you leave London now, before the Season is properly concluded, without any expression of interest for you, your return next year will be sullied before you step off the train. You’ll have no better prospects than to be a vicar’s wife.”
“I don’t care about that! I want to go home!”
Her father was returning to Kent without her and leaving her in this horrible city for weeks more. Worse yet, it had been her aunt’s idea.
“You must learn how to behave in Society, and you’ll not learn it in Kent. You will stay with your aunt until the Season has ended. My word is final, Nora.”
“You act as if I can make things better if I stay, when I can only make things worse. If I were capable of learning, don’t you think I might have taken a lesson by now?”
At that, her father turned a look on her that she’d never seen in his eyes before. Not frustration, or worry, or resignation. Not compassion, or love, or overburdened tolerance. Her father was angry with her. He was irate.
His noble bearing crumbled, and he grabbed her arms, digging his fingers into her flesh, and shook her hard. “You are capable. Never have you failed a lesson when you wished to learn it! You are not stupid, Nora. You are willful, and I have reached the limit of my patience for it! You will learn, and you will submit! You will give our house honour and not shame!”
With a hard shove that sent her reeling backward into the arms of her aunt, her father released her and snatched his hat from George’s hand. Mr. Gaines had left London two days before, to oversee the reopening of Tarrindale Hall. George, a footman, stayed on full-time in the London house to serve Christopher as butler. He’d stood like a statue, his eyes cast away, during that family drama.
The Earl of Tarrin squared his hat on his head and stalked to the door. George held it open, and Nora’s father, whom she loved best of everyone, walked out of the house. He didn’t look back.
Her knees weakened, but her aunt didn’t let her fall. “There, there, little dove.” She turned Nora in her arms and pressed her head to her bosom. “There, there. All will be well, all will be will.”
The crooning was meaningless, and Nora was angry at her aunt and betrayed, but she wept on the soft pillow of her aunt’s heart, smelled the lilacs of her aunt’s favourite scent, and took that small comfort, because no other existed.
After a moment’s indulgence, Aunt Martha set her gently back and wiped her tears with a lilac-scented handkerchief. “Come. We’ll see if Kate has your things packed, and we’ll away to my house. You’ll find that cage rather roomier, I hope.”
Her aunt had a charming terraced house in Kensington—away from the Society crush near Buckingham, but still well within the range of propriety and acceptability. She’d lost her link to a noble line when her only child, a son still in short pants, had died, two years after the death of her husband, the Duke of Morevine. When the duke’s distant cousin inherited the title, Nora’s aunt had lost everything but her husband’s family name, the sum her parents had left her, and the modest income her husband had arranged for her after the birth of their son, in the event of the child’s untimely demise.
Nora didn’t envy her aunt the sorrow of burying a child, but she envied her the circumstance that had followed that grief. Widowed young, Lady Collington had made up a life free of external demand. She came and went as she chose, beneath the notice of nobles with influence. She lived alone in this bright, airy house, with a staff of only her lady’s maid, a housekeeper, a cook, a man who served as both butler and footman, and her amanuensis, Mrs. Sylvia Everham. When she wished to entertain, she did so. When she wished to accept an invitation, she did so. When she wished to stay home alone, she did so, with no sense of obligation beyond that which she chose to feel. Because no one noticed her, no one censured her.
It was everything Nora wanted in life.
That had been true. From the moment Nora had first understood she couldn’t have Tarrindale Hall forever, that she’d be required to lengthen her skirts, bind her waist, put up her hair, and be a lady for the rest of her life, she’d looked to her aunt’s life as a perfect dream. Now, though, she wanted more.
She stood at the window of this cozy, comfortable bedroom in her aunt’s house and closed her eyes to the view of the park. Lost in memories, reliving them so that they wouldn’t die, she felt the warmth of William Frazier’s hands—resting on her back and holding hers aloft while they danced. Covering hers while they spoke. She heard his soft laugh, and the rumble of his voice, the sharp angles of his accent, saying words that made her feel valued. She saw his smile, his broad shoulders, his wise eyes, seeming to really see her. His dark hair, just long enough to curl softly at his collar and entice her fingers to touch. The dark shadow of his beard. What would that beard feel like brushing her cheek, her lips, her throat?
She wanted a life in which she could be herself, and a man who valued her for herself. But no such thing existed—for her, neither was possible individually, much less in concert.
Mr. Frazier hadn’t been wrong to reject her. Of course he wouldn’t marry her. Why on earth would he? What need had he of someone like her? Her aunt had read too much into his kindness, and so had Nora. He was a unicorn. A unique, beautiful fantasy.
Everything Nora wanted was fantasy.
Mrs. Everham, also a widow, though her husband had been an editor at the Times, lived with Aunt Martha and was treated not as a servant but a friend. She took her meals with them most days, unless she was away from Kensington on Aunt Martha’s business or her own.
Until this summer, Mrs. Everham had been an abstract concept, someone Aunt Martha spoke of when she was in Kent, or mentioned in her letters, but no one Nora had ever met. Thus, it had never occurred to her to wonder why her aunt required the services of an amanuensis—a term she deployed most specifically whenever she mentioned the woman’s name.
Having lived with Aunt Martha and Mrs. Everham for a week, it had occurred to her to wonder, and she wondered yet. Her aunt didn’t seem to be engaged in any literary project of note, and Mrs. Everham did not seem ever to be taking dictation or transcribing notes, which was, as Nora understood it, the work of an amanuensis.
At tea one day, after a demoralising afternoon of obligatory social visits—Nora was still tolerated in the homes of fashionable ladies, she had not yet done anything to cause them to snub her outright, but they did not visit her in Kensington, and they made her feel as if they counted the seconds until she would take her leave of them—Nora slouched at the primly dressed table and picked at her cold egg and cress sandwich. Aunt Martha and Mrs. Everham barely acknowledged her presence; they were engaged in avid discussion of the meeting of the Kensington Rose Club, which Aunt Martha would host that evening.
It was the only work Mrs. Everham seemed to do—the arranging of Rose Club meetings and affairs, which seemed surprisingly intricate and involved for a garden club. But Nora looked forward to a quiet night upstairs with a book; she had recei
ved no invitations for the evening, and her aunt would be occupied with her gardening friends.
“Nora, dove, I’m going to ring Christopher and ask him to escort you to the theatre tonight. “
Surprise ironed out Nora’s spine, and she sat up like a bolt. “What? But it’s half five—he’ll have plans!”
“Christopher’s plans are rarely the kind that may not be altered, because they are rarely plans at all. He enjoys the theatre, and he enjoys your company. He’ll not be inconvenienced. I’ll ring him as soon as we’ve finished our tea.”
“No, Auntie, please! I don’t want to go out this evening. I’m content to have a quiet night in.”
Her aunt surprised her further by turning to Mrs. Everham, of all people. The two women exchanged a look, pregnant with meaning but inscrutable to Nora. It was on the tip of her wayward tongue to protest her aunt seeking advice, even of the silent variety, from a member of her staff on a matter like this, but before she could, Mrs. Everham nodded, and her aunt turned back to her.
Aunt Martha’s expression was solemn, but her eyes sparkled. “Very well, little dove. But if you stay, I’d like you to join our meeting.”
“Of the Kensington Rose Club?” Nora had every intention of taking up gardening should she find herself married to a commoner, but she had no especial interest in the activity. Perhaps, now that Nora’s prospects for marrying an American captain of industry were even bleaker than her prospects for ensnaring an English lord, her aunt meant to prepare her for life as a vicar’s wife.
“Yes, little dove. Tonight is our monthly meeting of the Kensington Rose Club.” Aunt Martha reached across the corner of the table and clasped Nora’s hand. “I think you should find it more interesting than you foresee.”
An evening spent sitting in a parlour full of matrons while they discussed the merits of manure sounded more appealing than yet another evening hobnobbing in Society. Nora sighed her defeat. “Very well, Auntie.”
A dozen female guests filled Aunt Martha’s comfortable parlour. Most were demonstrably of Aunt Martha’s set, garbed in bespoke gowns by dressmakers Nora was coming to recognise. But a few of her guests were more humbly attired, in worn day skirts and blouses, though neatly pressed, and creased boots, though shined. Nora assumed that some of her aunt’s neighbours had brought along their own ‘amanuenses.’
They were all surprised to see Nora with them, some to the point of visible shock and discomfiture, but they were gracious in meeting her, and the first thirty minutes or so were spent in light social chatter and the consumption of tea and cakes.
Then, Mrs. Everham closed the windows and heavy drapes at the front of the room. The night was close and still, and Nora thought to protest the obstruction of fresh air in a room already warm, but she was distracted by the sudden shift of tone and activity around her. As if the closing of the windows had been a signal, the ladies set aside their cakes and arranged the seating in the room so that it made a loose circle.
Bemused, Nora stood amidst them like a post.
“Come sit, my dove,” her aunt beckoned, and Nora sat at her side on a divan. As she looked around the circle at the suddenly serious women, she noticed that every one of them had a white rose brooch—nothing expensive or elaborate; the rose was made of cloth—pinned to her breast. She hadn’t seen any of them with such an adornment only moments before.
Aunt Martha silenced the slight hum of chatter with an imperious clearing of her throat. “I hereby call the August 1910 meeting of the Kensington Rose Club to order, myself, Lady Martha Tate Collington, presiding. Mrs. Sylvia Everham recording. Before we proceed with our agenda, is there any open business?”
One of the more humbly dressed women stood. “I have, milady.” In those few words, Nora heard the East End in the woman’s voice.
Aunt Martha tipped her head. “Mrs. Helmstead has the floor.”
Mrs. Helmstead, a woman who might have been nearly as young as Nora or nearly as old as her aunt, produced a folded bill from her skirt. “My sister had a meeting like I asked her to, but the boss of the laundry she’s at got word of it, and this was tacked to her door. She got set on in the street. Five men, and nobody stopped ‘em. Her husband sat and let it happen.” With a shaking hand, Mrs. Helmstead handed the bill to Aunt Martha. “Milady, it’s us on the streets getting knocked around. Ain’t there nothing you can do to make it stop?”
Aunt Martha unfolded the bill. Looking in from her side, Nora gasped and slapped her hand to her mouth.
The bill itself was a rough, handmade notice of a meeting, with the words VOTES FOR WOMEN printed in large capital letters across the top. There was no time or location noted, but a directive to see ‘Emmie Cooper’ for information. Scrawled across the bull in spiky, angry, unschooled letters, were the words KILL THE KUNT.
A tear at the top of the bill showed where it had been tacked and yanked down.
The Kensington Rose Club wasn’t a garden club. It was a women’s suffrage group. Aunt Martha was a suffragette.
Her heart pounding with confused excitement, her stomach rolling from the horror that had just been described, Nora thought she’d weep right here, among all these strangers.
“Lady Martha,” Mrs. Helmstead continued before she took her seat, “We’re bleeding on the streets for the cause. If you’ll excuse me saying it, it’s our bodies being broke in pieces, not yours. It’s our jobs and little ones on the line. Making nice talk with Parliament ain’t enough. Writing cheques ain’t enough. Mrs. Pankhurst says it’s time to fight fire with fire. It’s time we hurt them back.”
All the other women like Mrs. Helmstead nodded in agreement. The women in finer clothes showed shock as the bill was passed around the room, but their reserve was as evident as their sympathy.
Another woman in skirt and blouse spoke up. “There’s a girl lives near me mum, she says she knows how to make a bomb. Her brother taught her.”
“Gracious!” exclaimed a lady in finery. “A bomb is not the way, ladies. Not at all.”
“It ain’t a big thing. Just blow out some windows is all.”
“No,” said the lady firmly. “Absolutely not. We are not criminals. What we want is reasonable, and we will prevail through reason, not violence.”
“Has reason worked yet?” Nora asked. The whole room turned to her as if an urn had suddenly sprouted lips and begun to sing, but she’d made no promise to be a silent observer of this ‘garden club.’ “Men don’t hear our reason because they don’t believe we are reasonable. They think we are fashioned from pure emotion, and they find us insignificant and frivolous, little better than children. If they don’t take us seriously in the first place, if they’ve never taken us seriously at all, why would you think they ever would, unless they are forced to do so?”
“But violence only proves their point—violence is anger. It is emotion.”
“No,” Aunt Martha said. “It is not. Violence is strategy. It is war.” She met the eyes of every woman in the circle before she spoke again. “That’s the question before us now. We have been engaged all this time in diplomacy, and we have failed. Whilst we’ve been diplomats, we’ve faced thuggery. Our sisters are beaten. They are arrested and abased. When they assert their rights over their own bodies and refuse to eat, they are violently force-fed. When they are released, they come home to nothing—their homes taken away, their children taken away. I agree with Mrs. Pankhurst. War has been waged upon us for years. It’s time we took up arms ourselves.”
“Nora. Come and talk with me, little dove.”
After two hours of discussion and debate about how, when, and to what extent they would deploy a strategy of what Aunt Martha coined ‘disruption, not destruction,’ the ladies of the Kensington Rose Club had come to no decisions. They’d agreed to pick up the issue at their next meeting, and they’d adjourned. Mrs. Everham had gone up to bed. Only Nora and her aunt remained on the main floor—and the housekeeper, who no doubt itched to be allowed to close the house for the night.
>
Her heart still racing from the excitement of the evening and the astonishment of her discovery that her aunt was an activist for suffrage, Nora let herself be led again to the parlour, where they took up their seats on the divan.
“Auntie,” she began. “I had no idea! I want to know everything! What can I do? I’ll write to Papa and ask him if I can stay in London!”
Aunt Martha grabbed Nora’s agitated hands and set them on her own lap. “Nora, no. You cannot be part of this.”
All her burgeoning hopes crashed against those words. “What? But why not?”
“You know why. Should you become involved, and should you be found out, the scandal would be extreme. “
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should. You must.”
“But you—”
“I am a widow, on the margins of Society. No one pays me any heed. And yet, I remain careful. I will do nothing that would besmirch the name of my brother or my late husband. I am involved in this cause, yes. I hold Rose Club meetings, and I provide funds when they are required. I serve as advisor and as a conduit to those with power who are sympathetic to the cause. But I will make no bomb. I will throw no brick. I will march in no public protest. I only make it possible for others to do so. You, so early in your womanhood, cannot yet do even as much as I. You must focus on establishing your security—but when you have that, you will have less scrutiny and more freedom, and you might help me support our cause. I allowed you to stay tonight, and to witness, so that you might see the opportunities when the question of your future has been settled.”
Her aunt was not so brave after all. As Mrs. Helmstead had said, she stood behind the skirts of braver women and let them take the blows. Shock howled through the vast emptiness of Nora’s chest. She pulled her hands free and slumped to the back of the divan. “So … you show me all this, you know what it means to me, and now you tell me to go back to hunting up a husband? You are cruel, Auntie. No one has ever treated me more cruelly.”
Nothing on Earth & Nothing in Heaven Page 7
