by Merry Farmer
It was a coincidence that a pair of middle-aged women were passing as she made the gesture. They stared pointedly at him, as though she were his responsibility to keep in line.
Of course, that was the opinion practically everyone in Brynthwaite held.
“I don’t understand the fuss,” Elaine went on as they reached the top of the stairs and started along the path that would take them to the square in the center of town. Already, Basil could hear some sort of commotion or gathering in the square. “We’re only friends,” Elaine finished.
A sharp stab of pain hit Basil’s heart, but he told himself he was a fool if he indulged it. “We are friends,” he said, confirming part of her assessment.
For as desperately as he loved her, not once had he had the slightest indication that her feelings for him were deeper than friendship. Every reasonable, logical part of him argued that they had only grown as close as they were because Elaine had lost her father to a heart attack so suddenly right around the time he had made her acquaintance. He was twenty years older than her and certain she saw him as a surrogate father and nothing more. No matter how deeply his heart longed for her affection to be something more.
“I say, what’s going on in the square?”
Basil’s heartache was pushed aside as Elaine loosened her hold on his arm, picking up her pace and threatening to break away in a rush to reach the square.
“It’s probably something having to do with the impending election,” he said, stopping and clasping his free hand over hers on his elbow to keep her from rushing ahead.
A deep wariness hit his gut. Politics. He knew it too well. In his previous life, when he hadn’t been making a fool of himself over London’s finest widows and courtesans, he’d been fighting for the causes he and his friends supported in the House of Lords. The distinct sounds of the political rally ahead of them sent memories flashing through his mind as powerful as the glimpses of those naughty books had. Did he miss those tension-filled sessions of arguing with the likes of Peter deVere, Malcolm Campbell, and Armand Pearson against the despicable Theodore Shayles and his cronies? He missed his friends. He had to admit that much. And he missed the good he’d been able to do. But not enough to abandon his new life just because an election was in the offing. Not enough to give up Elaine, even if he couldn’t truly have her. But the thunder and energy of politics served as a potent reminder of everything he’d kept hidden from the woman he loved and all the reasons why they were merely friends. Just a hint of politics kept him frozen in inaction, trapped in his lies of omission.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she said, tugging at his arm as if attempting to wrench the truths she didn’t know existed out of him. “Come on. Let’s get involved.”
“We shouldn’t—” he started, but it was useless. He was pulled along by the force that was Elaine Bond into the very heart of everything he’d fought so hard to escape.
Chapter 2
Elaine buzzed with excitement as she led Basil into the heart of the square. She loved a good political meeting. The energy of political debates was intoxicating, and she was always ready for the chance to share the opinions she’d formed on the rights of women in a modern society. She’d learned those opinions in the two years since her father’s death, thanks to Basil’s generosity and taste in literature.
“We can’t stop here,” she said, nudging her friend on when he attempted to take up a spot near the edge of the passionate crowd. “We have to be a part of things.”
Basil heaved a heavy sigh. “All right. Lead on.”
She grinned at her little victory and switched from resting her hand inside of Basil’s elbow to holding his hand as she tugged him on.
Basil didn’t like politics. At least, that was the conclusion she’d come to. He always seemed nervous whenever anyone discussed Parliament or government. He didn’t care much for the nobility either, judging by the way he always ducked to avoid Lord Thornwell and Lord Ramsey. As long as he didn’t avoid her, she didn’t care one fig who Basil liked or disliked.
He was the best friend she could ever have asked for. Almost from the moment they’d met, Basil had always been there for her. He’d been there the day her father died suddenly, he’d looked out for her through the process of burying him and during the funeral, and he’d taken her under his wing since then. The books and journals he’d found for her to read had consoled her during the long, lonely days of mourning, then inspired her with new ways to live an independent life on her own. And while she was fully aware that most of Brynthwaite thought her friendship with Basil was odd and that the life she had embraced was scandalously strange, she didn’t care one bit. She adored Basil Wall, and she would defend their friendship with her dying breath if she had to.
The square was packed with people—everyone from the girls who worked in Mrs. Norman’s haberdashery to Lord Gerald Dyson, Earl of Thornwell, and his adolescent daughter, Lady Elizabeth, who watched from an open carriage parked at the edge of the square. Some of the older boys from Brynthwaite Municipal Orphanage had gathered to watch the debate as well, though young Jason Throckmorton seemed more interested in watching Lady Elizabeth than any speeches. Elaine knew just about every person in the crowd, and yet she felt so far removed from them and the lives they led that she might as well have been a foreigner.
“Here,” she declared to Basil when they reached a small gap right in the center of the crowd. “We can see everything from here.”
“Yes, we can,” Basil agreed. They’d stopped next to Ted Folley, the new owner of The Fox and the Lion Pub, who Elaine knew was one of Basil’s few friends. The two men exchanged looks that could best be described as amused, wary, and indulgent.
She returned their looks with pursed lips and a shake of her head. “How is any woman expected to get on in the world as more than an appendage of some man if she doesn’t take a keen interest in the workings of the nation?”
Ted laughed. “Did you hear that, Wall? Your friend wants to get on with things.”
For some reason, Basil turned a curious shade of pink. “Miss Bond has a sharp mind and a taste for excitement,” he mumbled.
Elaine couldn’t figure out for the life of her what had her friend so discomfited. She ignored his squirming to focus on the speaker at the front of the crowd. Mr. James Balliwick was Brynthwaite’s blacksmith and a Tory member of the town council. Elaine crossed her arms, ready to dislike everything he said.
“Once the election process starts,” he was in the middle of saying, “there will be no going back. The very values that have formed us and set the British Empire up as the shining pinnacle of strength and advancement are at stake.”
“Hear, hear,” several of the men in the crowd called back.
Elaine sniffed and sent them sideways looks. Her scorn was returned with looks of surprise and outrage that she was there, daring to have an opinion in the first place. Although if she were honest, it was just as likely those looks were disapproval of her artistic dress.
“The Conservative Party has served this great empire well,” Balliwick went on. “We have been prosperous under their leadership, and I, for one, will continue to throw my support in their direction.”
“We have not prospered under the Conservatives,” Dr. Isaac Newsome called from the edge of the crowd. Elaine perked up as her dear friend Rose’s husband strode toward the front of the gathering. “Our nation has been in the midst of its worst economic downturn in decades, and we have the Conservative Party to thank for it.”
A different set of men in the crowd called out their support for Dr. Newsome. Elaine craned her neck and lifted to her toes to see if she could spot Rose.
“She’s not here,” Basil informed her. He was a good eight inches taller than her, which afforded him a better view of the crowd.
Elaine sighed in disappointment. “Why is it that so few women take an interest in matters which affect them as much as anyone else?”
Her comment was met by a snort behin
d her and, “Women taking an interest in politics indeed.”
Elaine twisted to see Mr. Crimpley, one of Brynthwaite’s more prominent businessmen, glaring at her. “Anyone can take an interest in politics, Mr. Crimpley,” she said with a shrug.
“It’s obscene for women to claim a stake in men’s business.” Mr. Crimpley scrunched up his face as though smelling something sour.
Elaine’s lips twitched to a lop-sided grin. “Is that why you brought your wife and daughter with you?” She nodded past the man to where Mrs. Crimpley and Aggie stood, riveted to the action as Dr. Newsome stepped up on a hastily-provided crate beside Mr. Balliwick.
“Felicity and Agatha are here merely so I can keep an eye on them,” Mr. Crimpley declared.
Elaine raised an eyebrow, exchanging a look with Agatha Crimpley. Aggie was only a few years younger than her, and while the two weren’t quite of the same social standing and therefore not exactly able to be friends, Elaine knew Aggie’s opinions weren’t far from her own.
She didn’t have time to rally Aggie’s support or argue with Mr. Crimpley before Dr. Newsome cleared his throat atop his crate and launched into his speech. “The Conservative Party has driven the common man in this country into the ground with their elitist, self-serving policies. They have become morally bankrupt, seeking only to line their own pockets at the expense of the working class.” Several people cheered his statement, while others grumbled in disagreement. “Our government has been responsible for the rape of our colonies and the theft of their resources.”
“You see?” Mr. Crimpley growled, whiskers quivering. “This sort of political language is not appropriate for women.”
“Mr. Crimpley,” Elaine sighed, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “I know that Dr. Newsome does not mean rape literally. He is merely using the word as a metaphor for unfair practices in regards to the colonies.”
Above her head, she caught Basil and Ted Folley exchanging wary looks. It was enough to make her wonder if perhaps there was a bit of literal truth to Dr. Newsome’s claim. But as she had very little interest in attempting to imagine such things, she ignored the statement, Basil’s look, and Mr. Crimpley’s censure in favor of hanging on Dr. Newsome’s next words.
“We’re talking about an election that is on the verge of beginning, but how many among us actually have a vote? Not you, Angus Harmon, or you Fred Jones. Nor any working-class man who doesn’t own what the government considers a sufficient amount of property.”
“They have no need to vote,” Mr. Balliwick said before Dr. Newsome could go on. “Those of us who understand politics and have been educated are duty-bound to make these sorts of important decisions on their behalf. You can’t expect an uneducated farmer or factory worker to know what is best for the nation.”
A flurry of shouts arose, some in favor and some opposed to the statement. Elaine made a disapproving sound and planted her hands on her hips. “They didn’t say a thing about women not having a vote.”
“Women having a vote?” Mr. Crimpley balked. He turned to Basil. “Wall, you need to get your woman in order.”
Elaine’s brow flew up, and she snapped to face Mr. Crimpley so quickly that it made her dizzy. “I am nobody’s woman but my own, sir.”
Basil’s face had gone even redder, but at least he had the sense to add, “Miss Bond is the author of her own destiny.”
Elaine rewarded him with an approving smile. Mr. Crimpley looked as though he wished to let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
“It’s time to face facts,” Dr. Newsome went on. “This election isn’t just about government policy and laws made a hundred miles away in London. It’s a mandate on the course of this nation, and the nation has had enough of Disraeli’s Conservative rule. It’s time to put the Liberal Party back in power so that we can all advance together.”
Shouts of agreement filled the air, including Fred Jones’s cry of, “It’s about time blokes like me can vote!”
As more people agreed, Elaine puffed out an impatient breath. “Are they going to say anything about women? What about our right to vote, our right to stand up and be counted as people?”
No one answered her question, not even Basil. Elaine was sure he would have said something, but Mr. Marcus, the postman, had just stepped up to his side to hand him a letter. The crowd was too raucous for Elaine to hear what Mr. Marcus was saying as he delivered the letter, but whatever it was, it caused a curious and concerned frown to crease Basil’s brow.
“And I say there is a natural order to things,” Mr. Balliwick called out in opposition to Dr. Newsome. “God created the whole world in its order, and the Liberals want nothing more than to destroy that order and establish chaos.” His statement was met by cheers, including a grunt of approval from Mr. Crimpley that made Elaine roll her eyes. “The working classes have no need to vote,” Mr. Balliwick continued. “They have their place in the natural order of things, and that place is one of humility, acceptance, and trust in their betters.”
The crowd roared with conflicting emotions. Elaine crossed her arms and tapped her foot on the grass. “Still no mention of women,” she said, though with the amount of noise, no one could hear her. “Don’t you think—”
She glanced over her shoulder at Basil, but he was staring at the letter Mr. Marcus had handed him, completely absorbed in it. He turned it over, then slid his finger under the flap to open it.
Elaine saw her chance. There was no way Basil would have stood by and let her speak her mind in public if he were paying attention, but the letter in his hands was just the sort of distraction she needed. With a mischievous grin and the thrill of adventure thrumming in her chest, she picked up her skirts and raced to the front of the crowd.
Who on earth could be sending him a letter from London? Basil turned the envelope over, afraid he already knew the answer. He recognized the handwriting on the address all too well, though it was addressed to “Mr. Basil Wall, proprietor of Brynthwaite Books” and not his real name. Malcolm couldn’t be certain of the truth or he would have called him out directly.
He tore into the letter and removed its single piece of paper as the crowd burst into a frenzy of some sort. Whatever had them so worked up would have to wait until he read the letter and learned just how close he was to having his secrets exposed.
“Dear Mr. Wall,” the letter read. “I have been searching for a certain friend of mine, one Lord Basil Allenby, Earl of Waltham, for quite some time now, and investigation of certain financial transactions and legal dealings has led me to believe you may have something to do with my friend’s disappearance. Please be advised that with the coming election, his presence is desperately needed in London at this time, as the threat to our nation’s future is dire indeed.
“And Basil, if you are reading this, if you are this Mr. Wall person, Goddammit, man, pull yourself together and get your arse back to London, you impossible bastard! None of us have time for this nonsense anymore. If you don’t come back on your own, I swear to God, I will come up to Cumbria myself and flay your worthless hide alive, and then drag you back to London by your pitiful, hairy balls!”
Basil swallowed hard, clenching his hand into a fist around the letter. His heart thumped in his throat and his gut filled with fire and ice. Malcolm had found him.
“Wall!” Crimpley bellowed beside him. “Do something!”
Basil turned to the man, gaping. There was nothing he could do. If Malcolm Campbell had figured out where he’d gone and the identity he’d assumed, then not even the fires of hell could stop him from doing exactly as he threatened.
“I—”
“We have long passed the time when it is right and proper for women to remain silent.”
A second bolt of panic hit Basil’s gut at the sound of Elaine’s voice—not right beside him, as she was supposed to be, but loud and passionate from the front of the crowd. He whipped to face forward, and there she was, standing on the crate where Dr. Newsome had been m
oments before. She looked like some sort of wild, medieval queen with her hair flowing all around her, the garland of flowers askew on her head, and her long, pointed sleeves looking like avenging angel’s wings as she held her arms out to her sides.
“Women should have just as much of a right to a say in their futures as men do,” she railed on as a sea of angry, male faces watched her. “Why, according to law, a woman does not have a right even to her own person. We need to elect men to Parliament who will pass laws that say a woman is every bit as much of a person as a man. According to the National Society for Women’s Suffrage—”
Basil didn’t hear what she said next. The crowd roared so loud her words were drowned out. Isaac Newsome stood by her side, looking like the shield Elaine might very well need against the angry mob, but Basil surged forward, his fears of Malcolm Campbell forgotten in favor of his terror for Elaine’s well-being.
Only before he could move a single step, a hand on his arm jerked him back.
“Do something about her, Wall,” Crimpley demanded, his grip on Basil’s arm as tight as the fury in his eyes. “You cannot let her continue to make a fool of herself and the rest of us this way.”
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked, already knowing what Crimpley would say.
“Marry her, you idiot!” He was right. “Marry the chit, get her with child, and calm her down.”
Basil tightened his fist around the letter still in his hand. “It’s not as simple as you might think.”
Crimpley let out an impatient hiss. “It’s the simplest thing in the world. Rev. Goodall would be willing to read the banns tomorrow if you told him to.”
“I’m not sure Miss Bond would consent to marriage,” Basil began, his heart aching to be proven wrong.
“Then do what men have done for centuries to secure the woman they want,” Crimpley said through clenched teeth, leaning in close so as not to be overheard. “Get her alone, lift her skirts, and ruin her.”
