The doctor chuckled as he turned away. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
The heavy door was left swinging open and, though Florrie was dimly aware of a wardress standing at the door and saying loudly, ‘This is most irregular’, no attempt was made to remove her visitor.
‘Gervase,’ she croaked. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes, my darling, it is. I’ve come to take you home.’
Florrie rested her head against his shoulder and wept tears of exhaustion and relief. She’d stood it all, she’d not given in of her own accord, but now she was thankful to let Gervase take control. She couldn’t remember ever being so pleased to see anyone in her life as she was at this moment.
Twelve
Florrie drifted in and out of consciousness over the next few hours. She was aware of being lifted and carried, of being in a hansom cab and finally of being put to bed in the Richards’ town house.
Isobel sat beside her, spooning nourishing soup into her sore mouth, washing her from head to toe with gentle hands. But she was aware too of angry whispers between the brother and sister.
‘As soon as she’s strong enough, I’m taking her home.’
‘You can’t do that, Gervase. What will her father say – and do?’
‘I don’t care. She can stay at Bixley Manor.’
‘He won’t like that either, if he gets to hear of it. Unchaperoned, her reputation will be in tatters.’
‘I don’t give a fig about her reputation. There’s not much of it left, after this fiasco you’ve involved her in.’
‘Oh, my fault, is it?’
‘Well, isn’t it? If you hadn’t brought her to London, she’d never have become caught up in all this nonsense.’
‘Nonsense now, is it? Just because it’s Florrie—’
But he cut her short, saying, ‘Isobel, you know I’ve never agreed with the use of violence. I don’t think it does your Cause justice. In fact, I think it hinders it.’
Florrie waited for Isobel’s heated reply, but none came.
After a few days of Isobel’s tender care, Florrie was well enough to travel. They were driven to the station and Gervase carried her aboard the train.
‘I hardly need to tell you to take care of her, do I?’ Isobel tried to be light-hearted, but Gervase was not amused.
‘You do not,’ he remarked curtly as he set Florrie down gently in a corner seat and turned back to his sister.
‘Meredith’s organizing her trunk into the guard’s van.’ Isobel stood on the platform looking up at him. ‘I’m sorry, Gervase.’
He softened a little and sighed. ‘You do understand, if it’s in my power to stop her, she won’t be coming back again.’
‘She may have to,’ Isobel said. ‘She hasn’t completed her sentence.’
‘Bugger her sentence,’ he muttered. Slamming the carriage door, he turned his back on his sister. He didn’t even wave to her as the train drew out of the station.
Florrie didn’t think she’d ever seen Gervase so angry. He sat stiffly beside her in the compartment, his gaze on the countryside passing by the window.
She was thankful not to have to converse. Feeling weak and ill, Florrie huddled into the corner of the seat, wrapping the warm rug around her. She closed her eyes and dozed fitfully. In her exhausted state, even the noise of the train and the arrival and departure of other passengers couldn’t keep her fully awake. But her rest was disturbed by dreams – unpleasant dreams that bordered on the nightmarish. They were holding her down, shaking her, and the doctor was advancing menacingly towards her, that awful tube in his hand . . .
She awoke with a little cry of terror to find Gervase’s hands on her shoulders, gently shaking her awake.
‘We’re here. Bates is waiting for us with the carriage,’ he said and added harshly, ‘You’d better stay at Bixley Manor. I can hardly take you home in this state.’
Florrie blinked up at him. His face was partially in shadow, yet she could see the anger in his eyes. And there was something else too. A dreadful fear. ‘My dear sister has a lot to answer for.’
He carried her off the train whilst his coachman, Bates, hovered anxiously.
‘Organize the luggage, Bates, if you would.’
Gervase lifted her into the carriage and then climbed in beside her. With a sigh she settled back against the cushions and slept fitfully until she felt herself being lifted out once more and carried up the steps and into the house.
The Richards’ housekeeper, Mrs Forrest, took charge at once, and soon Florrie was tucked up in bed in one of the guest rooms, a fire roaring in the grate and a maid tiptoeing in and out and watching over her.
She slept for the next few hours. She was dimly aware of a man leaning over her and touching her with cold fingers. She moved restlessly, trying to push away the hands, fearing their intention. Later, she learned it had been the local doctor summoned by Gervase. When, finally, she opened her eyes and recognized her surroundings, she turned to see Augusta sitting beside the bed.
‘Gran . . .’ Her voice was a weak croak.
Augusta took her hand. ‘Just rest, my dear. Don’t try to talk. Not yet.’
But there was one question Florrie had to ask her. ‘Are you – very angry with me?’
‘Angry?’ There was surprise in her grandmother’s tone. ‘Good Heavens, child, whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Gervase is. He’s – disgusted.’
Augusta patted her hand. ‘Dear girl, Gervase is helplessly in love with you. You know that. He’s frightened out of his mind for you, that’s all. As we all are. But some of us are proud of you too. Very proud. Well – at least I am.’
‘Really?’ Florrie whispered.
‘Of course.’ Augusta was adamant.
‘And the violence? The – the painting I damaged?’
Augusta sniffed. ‘Regrettable, but necessary.’
Florrie relaxed and closed her eyes. Now she slept peacefully, her thin hand resting gratefully in Augusta’s comforting grasp. The older woman watched over her, refusing to leave her granddaughter’s side until she showed definite signs of recovery. At last, Gervase was able to persuade the older woman to take some rest.
‘We’ll have you ill next,’ he said firmly. ‘The maid has prepared the room next to Florrie’s, and Beth has brought your things from the Hall.’
Augusta rose stiffly from her vigil at Florrie’s bedside and followed Gervase downstairs to the drawing room, where afternoon tea awaited them both. ‘She seems a little better. She took some soup earlier, though I fear her throat is still very sore. What barbarians the authorities are! And to think, when she’s well enough she will have to endure it all again, until she finishes her sentence. They’ll play cat-and-mouse with her, just like the nickname for their wretched Act implies.’
Gervase’s face was grim. ‘Not if I can help it. I intend to keep her hidden. No one knows she is here, except Isobel and my staff. And they will say nothing if they value their jobs.’
Augusta glanced up at him. For the first time in days, amusement sparkled in her eyes. ‘You’d really defy the law?’
He returned her gaze steadily. ‘I’d do anything – anything – to keep her safe. You should know that.’
‘Oh, I do – I do. But she thinks you’re very angry with her. “Disgusted” was the word she used.’
His mouth was a tight line. ‘I abhor the use of violence. I think it does the Movement more harm than good. They’ll be seen as criminals rather than pioneers.’
Augusta was silent for a moment. ‘I take your point, Gervase, and part of me agrees with you. But non-militant ways didn’t seem to work, did they?’
Gervase paced the room. Augusta had never seen him so agitated. ‘But I can’t see violence working either. It will turn people against the women rather than gain their sympathy.’
‘Is that what it’s done for you?’
He sighed and the stiffness went out of his shoulders. He sagged, suddenly very weary. ‘No
– no. Not really. It’s just that I’m so afraid for her.’
Augusta nodded, satisfied. ‘Go up and see her. Reassure her.’
He looked at her, anguish in his eyes. ‘Does she really care about my good opinion?’
Augusta returned his gaze steadily as she said softly, ‘I think – in time – you’ll find that your opinion of her matters more than anyone else’s.’
He sighed heavily as he turned to leave, murmuring, ‘I wish I could believe you.’
The next time Florrie stirred, she found Gervase sitting beside the bed. She rubbed her eyes and stared at him for a long moment before whispering hoarsely, ‘You’re very angry with me, aren’t you?’
‘Angry, no. Afraid for you, yes,’ he said simply. ‘If I’m angry with anyone, it’s Isobel for leading you into such danger. She appears to have nine lives the way she always seems to escape getting arrested.’
‘She’s very clever. Oh, she’s in the thick of it—’ Florrie winced as she cleared her throat. ‘But she keeps her eyes and her ears open all the time and, at the first sign of trouble, she just melts away. It’s not that she’s a coward or wouldn’t face jail bravely, it’s just that she believes she can be more useful by staying free. And I think she’s right. If we all ended up in jail, the Cause would founder.’
In spite of his grave anxiety, Gervase smiled. ‘I doubt they would be able to arrest everyone. The prisons would overflow.’ He leaned forward and took her hand. He regarded her steadily, taking in the lank hair, the hollowed cheeks and the prison pallor. The tiny scar on her forehead was a vivid purple. How very altered his beloved Florrie was. ‘You must stay here until you’re quite well, and even after that. If you go back to London you will be rearrested at once.’
Florrie closed her eyes. ‘No doubt they’ll find out where I am and come here for me.’
‘No one knows you’re here except your grandmother. And my staff, of course. But they won’t say anything.’
She turned her head on the pillow. Her eyes widened. ‘Doesn’t Isobel know where I am? Or – or Lady Leonora?’ Her memory was so hazy she couldn’t piece together the last few days.
‘Isobel does, of course, and I expect by now Lady Lee and the Hon. Tim know too. But they’re hardly likely to say anything, are they?’
‘You – you got me out of prison, didn’t you?’ She squeezed the hand that was holding hers in a gesture of wordless thanks.
Gervase nodded. ‘I persuaded our London doctor to accompany me to Holloway. Luckily for us, he knew one of the prison doctors and was able to persuade him to release you on licence.’
‘I wonder how long it’ll be before they come looking for me,’ she murmured.
‘Never, I hope!’
‘But, if they really want to find me, they’ll surely guess that this is one of the places I might be.’
Gervase even chuckled now. ‘Then in that case I shall hide you in the church and claim sanctuary.’
Florrie smiled weakly and closed her eyes. Weariness claimed her once more and she slept again. But Gervase did not move. He continued to sit beside her, her hand safely in his.
Thirteen
It took a month for Florrie to recover her strength and, in all that time, she did not go home to Candlethorpe Hall. There was no need. Her father, now having heard of her escapades, had no wish to see her. James, who was desperate to see her, had returned to school after the Easter holidays on the day before Gervase brought her home. Augusta came to stay for a few days at the Manor at the very beginning, and afterwards visited frequently, even, one day, bringing a greatly daring Clara, though the poor woman was a bundle of nerves that Edgar would find out where she’d been.
‘As far as he need be concerned, Clara dear,’ Augusta had planned it all, ‘we’ve been for a drive, and on the way back we’ll call and see Mrs Ponsonby. She’s sure to mention it to Edgar at church on Sunday.’
‘But we can’t call uninvited or unannounced. It would never do,’ Clara worried.
‘I’ve already written a note to the good lady and asked if we may call. Word came back that she’d be delighted to see us.’
And so the subterfuge continued until the beginning of May, when Florrie announced to a startled Gervase that she would be returning to London.
‘Will you drive me to the station in your brand-new Morris Oxford?’
Gervase was the first person in the vicinity who’d bought a motor car and its arrival a few days earlier had caused a great stir of excitement in Bixley. Every time he drove through the village, the children ran after him. ‘Gi’ us a ride, mister.’ If he’d the time to spare, the good-natured man would stop and allow them to scramble aboard, causing the locals to laugh and wave at the motorist with his urchin passengers.
‘Oh, Florrie,’ Gervase shook his head sadly. ‘I beg you, please don’t go back.’ Although he longed to take her for a drive in the vehicle, this was not what he’d planned for their first trip out. The occasion would be completely spoilt by his anxiety for her. ‘I don’t want you to go back. None of us do. You’ve only escaped being rearrested thus far because you’ve been hidden away in the country. If you set foot in London, word will get out that you’re back and they’ll slap you in prison again. And because you’ve been out for longer than you should have been, they might well add to your sentence.’
‘Can they do that?’
He shrugged and muttered darkly, ‘They can do anything they want to.’
‘But since the Cat-and-Mouse Bill had its final reading they’ve suspended the force-feeding. I’ll just get let out again in a few days.’
‘Not before you’ve endangered your health by going on hunger strike again.’ He glared at her. ‘And you mean to do that, don’t you?’
Florrie didn’t answer, but her glance fell away from meeting his gaze.
‘I thought as much,’ Gervase sighed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last in a small voice. ‘But this is just something I have to do.’
He did as she asked and drove her to the railway station, but their farewells were tense and awkward.
‘I’m sorry, Gervase, truly I am,’ she said again out of the carriage window as the train began to move.
He nodded and raised his hand in farewell. But he could say nothing to her; he could not trust himself to speak, for tears, which he never allowed a soul to see him shed, were all too close.
As Gervase had predicted, Florrie was arrested three days after her arrival back in London. But this time, though the prison regime was hard, there was no force-feeding. Of course, she at once went on hunger strike again, but by the time the doctors and prison officials deemed that she should be released under the new Act, she had in fact completed her full sentence. She was fortunate that no more days had been added on for her being out of prison for longer than she should have been.
Her arrival back at Chalfont Place was greeted with great celebration. Isobel threw a party and Lady Lee and a few others came to congratulate her.
‘And we have a little present for you, my dear,’ Lady Lee said, opening a small, satin-lined box. ‘It gives me great pleasure to award you the hunger striker’s medal.’
Pink with pleasure and pride, Florrie stood whilst Lady Lee pinned it to her blouse. The circular medal was inscribed with the words ‘Hunger Strike’, hanging from a bar that said ‘For Valour’, beneath which was a ribbon of the three colours of the Movement and below that another bar that bore the date of Florrie’s final release. ‘And Mrs Pankhurst herself has sent a message of congratulation to you. You are one of our youngest members to undergo force-feeding and we’re all so very proud of you.’
‘I shall wear it with honour,’ Florrie said, her voice unsteady with emotion as all her friends around her applauded. As the noise died away, she asked, ‘So, what are we doing next?’
And everyone in the room laughed.
‘Girls,’ Lady Leonora hurried towards them as they were ushered into her morning room one sunny morning in early
June. ‘Tomorrow, we’re going to the races. To the Derby, to be precise. You must wear your finest gowns and sport the colours of the Movement. And you must be sure to wear your lovely brooch, Florrie, my dear.’ Her excitement was obvious.
‘I’m never without it,’ Florrie murmured.
‘Is something planned?’ Isobel asked. ‘Are we to take part in a demonstration?’
‘Yes. Emily has suggested it.’ Lady Leonora’s eyes were afire.
‘Emily? Emily Davison?’
‘Yes.’
Florrie glanced from one to the other. ‘Is that Emily Wilding Davison?’
‘Yes. You must have heard about her. She’s an ardent supporter of the Cause,’ Lady Lee smiled. ‘And a very clever and well-educated woman. She’s asked us to stand at the side of the racetrack and wave the purple-white-and-green.’
‘But – but won’t that frighten the horses? Someone might get hurt,’ Isobel began, but Lady Leonora waved her protests aside.
‘Jockeys are used to taking falls. No one will be seriously hurt, I’m sure. We only mean to interrupt the proceedings – to stop one of the races, if we can. Just to bring ourselves to the notice of the crowd.’
Isobel and Florrie exchanged a worried glance, though they said no more. The aristocratic race-goers, they both believed, would not take kindly to their day being disrupted. Florrie bit her lip, wondering for the first time if Gervase did indeed have a point. They were silent as they walked home together, each busy with her own thoughts. Florrie shuddered even though the June day was mild. She had a dreadful premonition that this particular demonstration would do more harm than good to their Cause.
‘There will be a great many people at Epsom tomorrow,’ Isobel murmured, breaking the silence at last. ‘The King’s horse is running. He and the Queen will probably be there.’
‘Perhaps Lady Lee is right. Perhaps it’s a very good occasion to get ourselves noticed.’
Isobel frowned. ‘I’m just so afraid the horses will get hurt. I don’t give a jot about the people, but the horses – now that’s a different matter. We shouldn’t be about hurting innocent creatures.’
Suffragette Girl Page 9
