He’d given her a glorious clockwork box that played ‘Ode to Joy.’ As the tune played, a tiny white bird pushed open its golden cage and flew out to perch atop it. “You bought me a ring?”
“I did. I’ll give it to you right now, if you’re ready. Or in ten years, if you’re ready then. Or any time. But I want you to know that I have it.”
“I’m not ready just yet.” She lifted onto her elbow and looked down at his shadowed face, wavering in the shaded moonlight. “After I talk with Mrs. Miller. After people know, and we see. Ask me then.”
He smiled. “I will.”
Florence Miller was a sturdy, businesslike woman of about sixty years. She’d been a feminist, suffragette, and social reformer for her whole life, and she carried herself precisely like a woman who’d been fighting for forty years or more. She was, in fact, rather terrifying, and Nora might well have lost her nerve if she hadn’t already stepped so far onto this path.
Eager for the story, Mrs. Miller came to Bath the very next day after Aunt Martha contacted her. She shooed William away—all the way out of the cottage—within five minutes of her arrival. Nora let him go with a pang. Her strength was her own, but his strength reminded her of hers. She was sorry to lose the warm hand on her shoulder. But she fingered the brooches on her blouse and remembered that she was brave because she was afraid and went on anyway.
Aunt Martha, Mrs. Miller allowed to stay, and the three women sat in the cozy cottage parlour with tea and cakes. Nora told her story, and Mrs. Miller wrote it down. She was kind, and gentle, in her questions. She interrupted rarely, and only to seek clarification. She waited for Nora to come to a pause in her thinking before she asked a question that would push her further or take her in a new direction. At some point in the afternoon, while she wove her tale, Nora forgot why she was telling it, the looming scandal she created with each word, and simply told her story.
She was the woman who had lived that life. The picture made of all those pieces.
She was whole now. Nearly. One more piece. And she was ready.
By the time she was done, the day had reached its gloaming, and she noticed that someone—Aunt Martha, no doubt—had turned on the electric lamps. Mrs. Miller had filled pages and pages of a leather notebook, and Nora had told everything, from the death of her mother forward to her sojourn in Bath. She’d told about her father and Christopher, about William, about her aunt. She told about Lady Francine’s dinner, and the doctors. She told what she remembered about the blue bottle and being locked in her room. She told about running away—though she was careful not to name Kate or Maude—and Parliament, and Holloway, and Bedlam. She’d told everything she remembered, everything she felt. She told and told until her jaw ached and her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
Aunt Martha had spoken only a few words in all the hours of the afternoon. She’d simply sat and listened, and occasionally dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
When she was finished, Mrs. Miller closed her pen and latched her notebook. “You’re a brave young woman, Lady Nora.”
“No braver than the others. Less brave than many.” She lifted the medal on her blouse. “I’ve seen ribbons like these with three and four bands on them. I don’t know that I could go through it even once more.”
“I think, if your path takes you back to Holloway, you will do what must be done.”
The mere thought made her stomach cramp. “It won’t. I’m not staying in England. After we’re married, I’ll go with William to his home in America.”
Aunt Martha showed mild surprise. Nora expected censure from the old warrior woman who would write her story, but she got none. Mrs. Miller smiled a grandmotherly smile. “They fight there as well, Lady Nora. Somehow, I think you’ll not so easily give up a fight you’ve risked so much for.”
“You honour me, Mrs. Miller.”
“You understand that this story will very likely cause a stir, yes? Your family will be the cause of talk for some time, and you’ll not be a heroine to those who oppose women’s suffrage.
“I understand. I’m ready.”
“You’re only twenty, my lady. Is that right?”
“Yes. As of a few days ago.”
“Well, my belated best wishes, then. But you understand you’re still a minor, yes? As you are unmarried, your father remains your guardian.”
She and William had discussed that as well. Nora knew her father well enough to know he wouldn’t act to take her over like that again, not with his treatment of her a scandal in full flower. He was the man, after all, who’d lied to Scotland Yard so that it wouldn’t be known she’d run away. He wouldn’t try to claim her.
But if he did, he’d find himself with a vicious fight on his hands.
“I’m ready.”
Three days later, the story was in the Daily News. GENTLE SUFFRAGETTE! The headline read.
EARL’S DAUGHTER TELLS HARROWING TALE OF IMPRISONMENT AND TORTURE.
The fight for women’s suffrage has hit the highest echelons of Society. Lady Nora Tate, daughter of Oliver, Earl of Tarrin, sat with this reporter and told of horrible abuses at the hands of those charged to protect us.
The story began on Page One and continued over the whole of Page Three. Mrs. Miller had got two photographs for her story from Mr. Hardy, the detective—one of the few formal photographs ever taken of Nora, when she was fifteen, and a group image of her and others being taken to Holloway Prison.
But the Daily News was a radical leftist publication, not read in the circles of power, and the story didn’t create a true crisis until the next day, when the Times contacted Aunt Martha, who corroborated Mrs. Miller’s reporting. Nora and William knew to expect what happened next, and she was ready when the Times reporter—a man, and not nearly so sympathetic as Mrs. Miller—found their cottage in Bath.
William stayed at her side for that interview, and for the photograph the reporter insisted upon. But it was Nora keeping him calm, not the other way around. His hackles were up like a wolf challenged for his pack. The threat of violence came off him in thumping waves with each belligerent question the reporter asked.
But Nora was ready for each question. She answered them calmly and pointedly, without dissembling on any point. Even when he dared ask about her relationship with William. She’d had to put her hand on William’s leg to keep him in his seat, but she herself was calm, and she answered honestly. There was no scandal she would wear like a shameful cowl. She was proud of who she was, and whom she loved.
The story in the Times condemned her nonetheless, for the scandal, and her ‘lawlessness,’ and especially for the way she ‘abased herself and cheapened her name’ with William. Her father was condemned as well, for not having control of her.
Nora read the piece with a bitter smile. All the old worries about dragging the family name through scandal seemed trivial now. A name that could be brought down by a woman’s voice was not so much of a name at all.
The House of Tarrin was stronger than that. It had been built of sturdy stone and valiant blood.
William read the story and slammed the paper into a wad between his fists, then hurled it into the fireplace. “Bastard! I’d like to see him show his face here again! I’ll take it off his fucking skull!”
“It doesn’t matter.” She caught his arm as he murdered the flaming paper with the poker, stabbing it viciously again and again. “William, it doesn’t matter.”
“The things they say!”
“William, listen. It’s doesn’t matter what they say I am. I know who I am. We’ll be married, and we’ll go to California, and they can have their scandal here. It doesn’t matter.”
He seethed for a few seconds more, until her words finally made the fore of his mind.
He calmed at once and turned to her, his face now slack with naked need. “Nora?”
Their love was a powerful thing. She felt it all through her, like an electric current. “I’m ready, William. Ask me now.”
“Marry
me, darling. Please marry me.”
“Yes.”
When he grabbed her into his arms, she put her hands in his hair and pulled him down. She kissed him with all the potent passion she felt.
TWENTY-FOUR
William kicked the snow off his boots and stepped through the front door. A sudden early-March bluster had brought winter back to Bath with a tantrum of wind and snow. But the cottage was snug and warm, and smelled of a hearty meal being prepared. Nora sat in an armchair by the fire, her legs folded onto the seat, tucked into her skirt. She was too captivated by her book to have acknowledged his return, and he took a moment and enjoyed the homey view. These past two months, living with her like this, had been idyllic in many ways, despite the turmoil and trauma that had brought them here, and followed them as well.
The scandal of her story had howled across England for a full week, but by the end of the second week, it had settled to a grumble, and the past day or so had been quiet, without mention of Lady Nora Tate in the London papers, and no visits from strangers to their cottage.
He smiled as he shed his coat and scarf and handed them to the maid. “Thank you, Nell. It smells delicious in here.”
“Thank you, Mr. William. It’ll be brisket and potatoes tonight. And a custard tart for pudding.”
“Wonderful.”
“May I pour you a cuppa, sir? There’s a fresh pot.”
“No, thank you. I’ll get myself something stronger.” Nell took his coat and scarf to the coat tree and returned to the kitchen. William went to the parlor.
Nora set her book on her lap and tipped up her head for a kiss. “Your nose is like ice. Is it very cold?”
“For this California boy, it’s unpleasant. The snow’s slowed down, though. Just a few inches.” He kissed her hearth-warmed lips. “You look cozy. What are you reading?”
She showed him the spine, and he chuckled. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman? Don’t you have that memorized by now?” In town for one of her therapeutic visits to the Roman baths, they’d stopped at a booksellers, and Nora had bought an armload of books, one of which was Mary Wollstonecraft’s manifesto. Nora had read it at least three times through in two weeks.
“Don’t be snide. You know, Wollstonecraft wrote this in 1792. A hundred years before I was born. She makes the same arguments we’re making now. And yet here we still are, crying out for simple human rights.” She sighed and set the book aside. “Was there anything interesting in the post?”
He took the armchair facing hers at the other side of the fireplace. “Yes. I have another letter from Chris.”
She rolled her eyes, and in that gesture seemed young and immature. “Anything interesting?”
“Nora, listen, please. He writes that your father wants to see you.”
She paled and turned away, and William wondered whether he’d been too direct with the news. The last time she’d had any contact with Lord Tarrin, she’d been in her room at Tarrindale Hall. In November, four months ago.
She contemplated the fire and finally answered, “The father who locked me away like Mrs. Rochester and then abandoned me entirely? I think not.”
“All right. I just wanted you to know he’s asking.”
She scoffed quietly and said nothing more.
“There’s also a letter from your aunt. It’s quite thick.”
Her attention returned to him. “Did you read it?”
“It’s addressed to you.” He handed her the sealed envelope.
She took it and broke the seal. The thickness was another envelope inside the first, accompanying a single-page letter. William watched as Nora read the page, then studied the second envelope.
She looked up, and her eyes showed shock and trepidation as they met his. “This is a letter from Mrs. Pankhurst.” The still-sealed envelope shook in her hand.
“Emmeline Pankhurst?”
“The very one.” Nora set her book and her aunt’s letter aside and opened Mrs. Pankhurst’s envelope. Again, William studied her, watching her eyes track back and forth across the page, wondering at the furrow of her brow. When she was done, her hands sank to her lap, and she stared at the fire again.
“Nora?”
Unfurling her legs, she stood and brought the letter to him. As he took it, she walked on and out of the room.
William let her go and read the letter.
My dear Lady Nora,
I hope you’ll forgive my familiarity, but over this week of news I feel I’ve come to know you. It could not have been easy to tell your story, and your strength in persevering through your trials and their telling is admirable. You are a sister among us now. I write to invite you to talk with me about your experiences and our fight, and also to stand with me and speak to the public, to our sisters in suffrage, and to those who must be persuaded of the righteousness of our cause. I think your story and the grace with which you tell it could help our cause tremendously. Please send your answer to your aunt, Lady Collington, at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst, WSPU
William read the letter twice, then went in search of Nora. He found her in the library, staring out the window at their little garden, with its low, snow-topped stone wall, and the lane beyond.
He stood behind her and set his hands on her hips. She rested back against his chest. “What are you thinking?”
“That I’m a coward. Mrs. Pankhurst honors me. She’s in hiding, you know. To make that invitation is to extend her trust. But all I can feel is horror at the idea.”
William was horrified at the idea himself. Emmeline Pankhurst was a fugitive and considered an enemy of the Crown. When she presented herself publicly, despite her security and protections against arrest, the police response was greater and more avid, and the women around her at greater risk. He never wanted Nora anywhere near another protest or suffrage speech. Not in England. In America, the fight for suffrage was still a debate—often heated, and the opposition’s rhetoric insulting, but the retributions were, at least, non-violent, as were the protests themselves. Mrs. Pankhurst’s ideas about civil disobedience hadn’t made it across the Atlantic. He knew of no arrests, and American suffragists weren’t throwing rocks and carrying clubs, or setting fires to mailboxes.
But this wasn’t his decision to make, so he clenched his jaw against all his strong arguments and said simply, “You’re not a coward, Nora. You never have been.” He swept his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. “Talk it out with me.”
“I don’t know … I’m not ashamed of my story, and I understand that it should be told. But … I don’t know.” Her shoulders lifted and fell with a sigh. “I don’t know.”
Knowing by now very well how her mind sorted through her thoughts, William kissed her head and waited, looking out the window with her. An early spring bird, small and softly brown, landed on the stone pilaster at the gate. Her little feet shifted irritably through the snow.
At last, Nora spoke again. “I can’t face it, the thought of it all happening again. I just can’t.” A sobbed hitched up and broke the last word. “I can’t. William, I can’t.”
He turned her in his arms, and she wrapped herself around him, crying softly. “You don’t have to, darling. You owe no one anything.”
“I do!” she exclaimed into his shirt. “I owe Kate, and Maude, and all the women who fight and fight and fight again. How can I leave them to fight alone?”
“You’re not, and you won’t.” He leaned back and lifted her chin so she would meet his eyes. God, hers were so beautiful, even more so now, sparkling with earnest tears. “Nora, there are other ways to fight. Your aunt fights.”
“She doesn’t. She writes checks.”
It was a point Nora made often, contemptuously—and also, in William’s mind, fallaciously. “Which do you think has the greater chance of getting Maude her children back—a hunger strike, or the excellent solicitor Martha has paid for?”
Without a rebuttal, she si
mply stared up at him. When she blinked, she dislodged a tear from her lashes. William caught it on a fingertip.
“There are many ways to fight. And money is crucial. Talk is crucial, too—not only rousing speeches at rallies, from balconies, but quiet talks in parlors and drawing rooms, or meetings in hotels. Editorials and articles printed in the right papers and journals. I’ve been with my mother for years while she’s fought, and she’s done it with her voice, her pen, and her purse—and the purses of other wealthy people. What Kate and Maude, and you, have done with your bodies is crucial. It’s the front lines. But that fight is supported and given weight by people like my mother and your aunt. And you, if you need to step back.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“You have mine. And you have a voice, and a pen. You have a story. You can tell it from a distance, and it will carry as far as you wish. The choice is yours, Nora. I’ll support whatever decision you make. But make it for yourself, not for what you think others expect. Isn’t that what you’ve been fighting against?”
She turned out of his arms, back to the window. The little brown bird was gone, and the landscape was quiet and nearly colorless. “I don’t want to be a martyr. Or a mascot. But I don’t want to give up, either. I don’t know what to do.”
He’d tried to show her that she didn’t have to give up, but she wasn’t yet ready to see her aunt’s fight, or his mother’s, as efforts as valiant as Kate’s or Maude’s, or Mrs. Pankhurst’s. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Please.” Reaching back, Nora grabbed his hand and pulled him close. He wrapped his arms around her waist again.
“Let’s do what we planned before you got this letter. We’ll go to Scotland for a few weeks, get married, and then go to America. I want to introduce you to my family. We can decide what our future could be from there. If you want to come back and live in England, we will. Or we’ll make our home in California. But you can fight from either place.”
Nothing on Earth & Nothing in Heaven Page 33
