by Amanda James
‘I’ll tell you about it one day, but not today. Let’s just say I kept it under my mop cap.’
Rose laughed out loud. ‘You’re a caution and that’s the truth.’ She stood and moved to the door. ‘Look, I’ll sneak you some grub up later when I come to bed. I better not risk it before, not with things as they are. Borrow my pillow till then; may as well be comfy while you’re cooped up in here.’
Sarah was relieved that it was Rose who shared the room. Just as she was slipping out Sarah whispered. ‘So, who are you secretly meeting tomorrow, Rose?’
Rose popped her head round the door and rolled her eyes. ‘If I tell you it won’t be a secret, will it? But I do trust you … It’s Miss Davison. Keep it all under your mop cap, mind!’
Rose closed the door and locked it behind her. Sarah groaned and flopped back on the bed. That must be it then … she’d found the person she had to save.
Emily Davison, well-known member of the WSPU, had thrown herself under the King’s horse on the 4th of June 1913 and died four days later.
Chapter Twelve
The sound of snoring woke her. Sarah looked across at Rose’s bed and found it empty. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and realised that she had been the one snoring. Sarah couldn’t remember falling asleep, but she figured that she must have needed it after the shock of arriving here in 1913 and then finding out who she had to save.
Plumping the postage-stamp sized pillows, she propped herself up a little, closed her eyes and sighed. This was crazy … more crazy than normal. Last time she saved someone who was obscure, just another person. OK, yes he was the grandfather of the next PM, but somehow it didn’t seem as crucial to the march of history. Everyone had heard of Emily Davison, purely because she had thrown herself under the king’s horse. It was one of those things people always said when they talked about the suffragettes. So, if Sarah saved her tomorrow, where would that leave history? She was buggered if she knew.
Caw! Caw!
Sarah’s eyes snapped open. On the grimy skylight above her head sat a crow. Its beady eyes found hers, and it turned its head first on one side and then the other. Sarah had a crazy notion that perhaps it was John. Perhaps he doubled as a shape-shifter and had flown through time to help her. The crow deposited a squirt of white liquid and flew off. Yeah, that’d be right. That’s John all over. He dumps me in an impossible situation and then he dumps on me from a great height, too. Damn him … Why had all this been placed at her door? And why did he make her feel so … so … She shut her mind to him and sighed.
The blue sky, well what she could see of it through the grime and crow droppings, was handing over to dusk. A half-hearted sunset muted through the dirty clouds and a single star winked in the darker blue. Sarah wondered what her fate would be when Lady Lemon Features had been told of her impudence. She shuddered. If they decided to sack her tonight, God help her. Out in London with nowhere to go didn’t bear thinking about.
The key rattled in the lock and the door opened. Rose came in with a glass of milk in her hand, and a piece of fruit cake and an apple bundled in her apron.
‘Ere, eat up quick. I heard Grayson tell Cook that Her Ladyship will be calling for you presently.’
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Thanks for the grub, Rose; I hope she doesn’t sack me on the spot.’
‘Yes, well you will just have to be polite and say that you are dreadfully sorry. I’m not sure if you should use any of them big words. She might fink that you’re too clever by half.’
Sarah took a bite of cake. ‘Don’t think the upper classes are too fond of us hoi polloi being educated, eh?’
‘No. There’s some who say Mrs Pankhurst and them are too snobby as well. They say that they’re only interested in votes for middle-class ladies first and then us working-class women can come later. There’s Annie Kenney, though. She’s one of the top ’uns and she used to work in the cotton mills. When she was only ten a bobbin tore her finger off.’
Rose went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a cotton nightdress. She held it up to Sarah and wiggled her finger through a hole under the arm. ‘Better get this mended before I put it on later.’
The thought of stitching brought Sarah back to her task. ‘So, tomorrow when you meet this Miss Davison, what will you be doing?’
‘As much as I like you and that, I can’t tell you all of it. Just to say we are going to the races.’
Sarah took a gulp of milk and said, ‘The races? I’m not sure that would be a good idea. Why don’t you persuade Miss Davison to throw a few stones at a politician’s window instead?’
Rose frowned. ‘Eh? You said earlier that breaking the law wasn’t the answer. And anyway, what’s wrong with going to the races?’
‘Um … well, you might lose your bet and then the bit of money you work so hard for will be lost.’
‘No, Miss Davison said we’re not going to bet. She said we’re going to make a statement,’ Rose said, opening a sewing box.
‘Are you sure that you know what she’s going to do there?’
‘Not really, but whatever it is, it will be “Deeds not words”. That’s our motto, you know.’
As she watched Rose thread the needle, Sarah wondered what her plan for tomorrow should be. Perhaps she should follow Rose and somehow try to persuade Emily Davison to stay put. But how would she do that if …
‘Sarah? Get to the drawing room immediately, Lady Attwood wishes to speak to you,’ Grayson barked outside the door.
‘She’s coming, Mr Grayson, sir!’ Rose said, because Sarah just sat with her head in her hands.
‘Come on, Sarah, better get it over with. You’ll be alright if you do what I said … hopefully.’
Sighing, Sarah stood up and brushed crumbs from her apron. ‘Can’t you come with me?’
‘Crikey, no, that wouldn’t be allowed. And anyway, I have to get this hole stitched. You know what they say, “a stitch—’
‘—in time, saves nine”, yes, I’m very familiar with that one, Rose.’
Lady Attwood had changed into a crimson velvet evening gown, and was warming her hands at the fire Rose had lit earlier. Sarah entered and coughed. Lady Attwood turned and picked up her long black evening gloves from a chair. She didn’t even acknowledge Sarah standing just inside the door.
Finger by finger she pulled the glove over her right hand and rolled it up her forearm. The heavy diamante necklace and matching comb in her upswept hair shimmered in the gaslight. To Sarah’s nose, the heady scent of the lily of the valley perfume she was wearing was almost cloying. She must have poured a bucket of the stuff on. Still, it was better than the unsavoury body odour that clung to most people around the place. Personal hygiene amongst the servants in 1913 was much worse than the folk she’d encountered in 1940.
Lady Attwood eventually deigned to look in Sarah’s direction. ‘Apparently you have been extremely rude to Cook.’
Sarah sighed and bowed her head.
‘Look at me, you stupid girl.’
Sarah raised her head and met the other woman’s eyes. She tried not to look defiant, but it was so hard. Who did this snotty bitch think she was? She couldn’t have been much older than Sarah and to talk down to her in that rude manner made her furious.
‘Well?’
‘Well what, my lady?’
‘Well, answer my question!’
‘I wasn’t aware that you had asked a question, my lady.’
Lady Attwood stopped putting her left glove on and glared at Sarah. ‘Not aware I had … pah, the impudence! I said apparently you have been extremely rude to Cook.’
‘Begging you pardon, my lady, that is a statement, not a question,’ Sarah said.
Lady Attwood’s mouth fell open and her ample bosom began to rise and fall as her breathing quickened. She picked up a fan from a side table and fluttered it theatrically across her face and neck. ‘In all my life I swear I have never been so rudely addressed by a … by a scullery maid! How dare you?’
/> ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, my lady. I was just stating fact.’ Sarah tried to keep a smirk at bay that insisted on twitching the corners of her mouth.
‘Well, really!’ Lady Attwood thrust the fan on a chair and dragged her glove along her arm. ‘I have no idea what has happened to you, Sarah, but you are certainly not yourself. Where did you learn to speak in such an educated manner?’
‘Err …’ Sarah made a face. ‘I loved reading when I was a child. It just progressed from there.’ It wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth.
‘But you never used to speak this way before.’
‘No, I normally keep it hidden. I have found that certain classes of people find it quite off-putting, my lady. I was upset this afternoon when Cook was being horrid to me and it just came out.’
Lady Attwood picked up her fan again and wafted it gently; her forehead furrowed in a frown deeper than a field’s in autumn. She seemed at a loss and paced up and down in front of the window. Sarah thought this may be a good time to try to make her exit.
‘Begging your pardon, my lady, is that all?’
Lady Attwood stopped and slapped the fan shut on her wrist. ‘Yes, that will be all … and it will be all from you, too, I’m afraid. I want you to collect your belongings and leave this minute. I cannot have educated servants in my house. It just won’t do.’
Bloody hell! That’s all I need. Sarah needed to come up with a plan and fast! A plan wafted over to her courtesy of Lady Attwood’s fan and over-applied perfume.
‘Turning a woman out on to the streets of London at night won’t go down very well with Mr Darnley, my lady. And may I say, you have made yourself very attractive for him this evening.’ Sarah smiled sweetly.
Lady Attwood’s fan flicked open again and went into overdrive. ‘What do you mean?’ Her face flushed and her bosom rose and fell quicker than the fan. Sarah was dying to tell her to get a grip and that she was about a hundred years too late to behave like a virgin in a Jane Austen novel. Though that would please Sarah enormously, it would perhaps be taking things a little too far. She opted to keep it buttoned.
‘How do you know I was meeting Mr Darnley this evening, you impudent, rude ne’er-do-well?’
Now if that wasn’t taking things too far she didn’t know what was. ‘Ne’er-do-well? What a lovely old fashioned phrase. I’d quite forgotten about it.’ Sarah said, folding her arms and perching on the arm of the chesterfield sofa.
Lady Attwood pointed the fan at Sarah. Her hand shook. ‘You are sitting in my presence without leave!’
Sarah put her hand to her mouth in mock horror. ‘Gasp, so I am! Now where was I, ah yes, Mr Darnley. I know quite a few things about him; for instance, a good friend of his helped me with my reading. I can’t divulge his name, of course; he helped me leave, shall we say, my “questionable” career to find an honest job, too.’
‘Questionable career? You mean you were a common street walker, a fallen woman?’
‘You said that, not me,’ Sarah said, thoroughly enjoying herself now. This whole fabrication was just tripping off her tongue. Such a great idea to bring Darnley into it. She admired her own ingenuity.
Lady Attwood flopped down in a chair like a puppet cut from its strings. The fan fell from her hand and she shook her head, as if denying Sarah’s existence.
‘And what I don’t understand, Lady Attwood, is why it “just won’t do” to have an educated servant working for you. Mr Darnley would be more than pleased to find that you have a staff member who wanted to improve her life and keep on the straight and narrow. He is very much for the education of women and a champion of votes for women, too.’ Sarah leaned forward and stared at Lady Attwood intently. ‘So, why aren’t you? I’m sure he’d be very upset, not to say ashamed, of the way you have behaved towards me. If you sack me I shall be loath to tell my tale to him, but tell him I will … You can kiss goodbye to your happy-ever-after fantasy then, Florence.’
Lady Attwood’s head bobbed like a pigeon’s, her eyes blinked rapidly and her face grew as red as a tomato. She looked like she might spontaneously combust due to the shock and anger of having a scullery maid metaphorically tear her limb from limb.
‘How dare you speak to me this way!’
‘It’s easy. You have precious little respect for any member of staff and are only chasing a good and caring man like Mr Darnley for his money. You are a disgrace to womankind and quite frankly, my dear, you have about as much likeability as a full chamber pot on a July day.’
Sarah stood, swaggered to the door and called over her shoulder. ‘So, I take it that you have changed your mind about throwing me out on to the mercy of the streets?’
Silence.
Sarah turned round and glared at Lady Attwood. ‘Well?’
‘Yes, damn you!’
‘Good, well let’s forget this whole nasty episode then. I bid you good evening, my lady.’
Sarah ran back along the corridors, her mop cap slipping crazily to one side. Little giggles of mirth tickled up from her tummy and eventually, as she burst into her room, she let forth a guffaw loud enough to rival a thunderclap.
Rose looked up from her sewing, startled. ‘Blimey, did she let you off, then?’
‘She did indeed, my dear Rose.’ Sarah belly flopped on the bed and then wished she hadn’t as she’d forgotten it was as hard as iron. ‘Ouch, how the hell do we sleep on these?’
‘Never mind that, how did you get her to let you off?’
‘I just said there had been a misunderstanding and I was very sorry for what I said to Cook. I did use a few big words and she seemed to like that.’ Sarah hated fibbing to Rose, but it couldn’t be helped.
Rose tied a knot, bit the cotton free with her teeth and placed the petticoat she’d mended on top of her patched nightdress. She smiled across at Sarah and said, ‘I’m really glad that you’re staying. We’re just getting to be real pals, aren’t we? You never said much at all to me before today.’
‘Yes, I wanted to keep my education hidden, I suppose.’
Sarah wondered what would happen to the Sarah of 1913 after she herself had gone back to the present. She’d most probably return to the way she was before. That would be a shame for Rose and for Sarah, too. Also would that Sarah remember everything that had happened just now with Lady Attwood?
Sarah sat up on the bed. The whole thing was way weird. Back in 1940 and now she was herself, but someone else at the same time. She hadn’t ‘possessed’ them like some crazy invasion of the body snatchers type of thing, because all her bits were definitely her own. Where exactly was the 1913 Sarah? Parked in the universe hanging about like some empty vessel? Another puzzle that John must have the answer to. Hopefully, after tomorrow, she would be able to ask him.
Rose went to the door. ‘I’m just off to tell Cook what happened and then I’ll be back for the night. I need my beauty sleep for my trip to the Epsom!’ She giggled and left the room.
Sarah lay back and looked at the stars. She wondered if Emily Davison was making plans for a much longer trip right now. The jury was out on whether she’d intended to commit suicide, or whether she just wanted to make a statement. Davison had a return train ticket to Victoria station in her bag, and some say she only wanted to attach a WSPU banner to the king’s horse. Apparently she’d ducked under the rail at the edge of the racecourse and ran in front of the horse. She’d tried to grab its rein, but the impact had sent her flying. She fractured her skull and never regained consciousness.
Sarah closed her eyes. On the other hand, there was evidence against it all being unintentional. Davison had hurled herself from a balcony at Holloway prison the year before. And it did seem unlikely that an educated woman would not have calculated the risks of running out into the path of a racehorse thundering towards her at full gallop.
Poor Emily, right at this moment she was somewhere not too far away, breathing the same smoggy air, planning for the next day, and very much alive. Sarah hoped to God that she still would b
e at the end of Derby Day tomorrow.
Chapter Thirteen
An earthquake of at least seven on the Richter scale shook the heavy iron bed with Sarah in it, as if both weighed no more than a feather. Sarah closed her eyes tight, curled her fingers around the metal bed head and hung on for all she was worth. What was happening? They didn’t have earthquakes of this strength in Britain … perhaps she’d been taken to the American West somehow before her mission was completed …
‘Sarah, what are you doing? Can’t you hear me? Let go of the bed, and get up; you’ve overslept!’
Forcing her eyes open, Sarah realised that the earthquake was in fact Rose shaking her shoulder and the bed head roughly. ‘Mm … What do you mean, overslept?’
‘Oh, at last! I’ve been shaking you for ages and you just lay there as if you were a dead fing. It’s 6.30 and you have to get the floor washed outside the kitchen. Ruby dropped a coal scuttle and soot’s gone everywhere.’
Sarah sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Hang on, if Ruby dropped it, why have I got to clean it up?’
Rose gave a sad smile. ‘I’m afraid Cook has got it in for you now, love. She’ll make your life hell, and Mr Grayson will, too. I heard them saying that they’d make life so uncomfortable that you’d be glad to leave.’
‘Oh, great,’ Sarah said, dragging herself out of bed and pulling the uniform on over her head. ‘What time are you meeting Miss Davison, where are you meeting, and is it just you two?’ She tried to make her voice casual as she splashed water into the basin from the ewer.
‘I’m meeting her at 9.30, we’re getting the ten o’clock train … there may be another friend, I’m not sure.’ Rose knelt by the bed and pulled out a box containing a green hat with a small black plume. ‘Do you fink this hat needs a spruce up?’
Sarah patted her face dry with a parchment-thin towel. ‘Err, I think so, yes. Perhaps you could find another feather. The ladies will all be wearing their finery after all.’ She swept her hair up into a clip and fixed her cap on top. ‘Whereabouts in Victoria station did you say?’
