The votes-for-women movement amused the youth. Even if they succeeded in convincing Parliament to grant them suffrage, which he doubted, men would still control the financial institutions of the land. Alongside that, what would the vote matter? These silly and arrogant women were engaged in a futile exercise which wouldn’t change the course of events one whit. When they had had enough they would return to their needlework and teas.
He was about to turn away and resume work at his desk. Suddenly his eyes riveted themselves on one of the loudest and most outspoken of the suffrage advocates. He sprang bolt upright in his chair. The next instant he was on his feet and leaning closer toward the window.
It couldn’t be! he thought. What could she possibly be doing here?
The resemblance, however, was too striking. He must have a closer look.
He spun around, left the office, and hastily made for the stairway.
On his way to the street level, the young banker fell into quick reflections. It was not that he was particularly anxious to see the goose. He had despised her since he could remember.
He had to admit, however, that she had grown into a decently pretty young lady. She was dressed fashionably and appeared at ease in the city. It might prove beneficial to obtain her favor. One never knew where profit was to be gained. Opportunities ought not be squandered. He had never considered it before, yet who could tell what advantages there might be in a closer approach than their childhood had afforded?
By the time he emerged from the bank onto the street, the tumult which had aroused the attention of the ambitious youth was disappearing along Whitehall. He fell into step behind them, hurrying to keep up, trying to get closer to the front.
By the time they reached Parliament Square, hundreds of women and a great number of police had been assembled for what everyone knew would be a contest that would last the rest of the day. A thick line of policemen kept the marchers well away from the Houses of Parliament, which was exactly where Mrs. Pankhurst and her troops wanted to go.
One or two of the signs had already been wrested from thin feminine hands and thrown to the ground and trampled underfoot.
The scene showed danger of becoming ugly.
Several of the rowdiest hecklers were pulled to one side by the police. Another officer attempted to calm the gathering peacefully before it got further out of hand. The suffragettes, however, made matters no easier, shoving and pushing and trying to break through the line.
“We know our rights,” insisted Emmeline Pankhurst. “You are exceeding your authority if you try to force us to leave.”
“I am exceeding nothing, lady,” rejoined the man. “I’m telling you to break this up peacefully before I run in the whole lot of you along with those roughs there.”
He pointed to the two his colleague already had in tow.
“Go ahead—arrest us,” rejoined Pankhurst defiantly.
“I’ve a mind to do just that if you push me further!”
“The publicity will do us more good than these speeches to this crowd. It will make front-page news. Then the whole country will hear of it!”
The shrill sound of the man’s whistle summoned several officers to his side. “In the meantime, I want all your names,” he said. “—Men,” he added, now addressing his fellow policemen, “I want a list of every woman involved in this thing. Any who refuse, throw them in the wagon and we’ll haul ’em back to headquarters.”
The officer’s words were more bluff than substance. The clever Mr. Churchill, though at one time a vocal supporter of the suffragette movement, had given the police their orders—don’t arrest them except for extreme provocation. But at all costs, keep them on the other side of the Square.
The women, however, were not about to be easily deterred. In wave upon wave they pushed and shoved against the police line. The large crowd which had gathered yelled and cheered and taunted, inciting both police and women to higher pitches of energy and anger. Before long the whole of Parliament Square became a battleground. Women were kicked and knocked down, the placards and bannerettes trampled. But they would not give up their attempt to push the police line back and gain access to the gates surrounding the Houses of Parliament.
An inexperienced policeman had hold of one especially defiant young lady by the wrist. Half dragging, half pulling, he was attempting to lead her toward the wagon where, despite the home secretary’s orders, some arrests were starting to take place.
“It’s all right, Knox—I’ll take her from you.”
The officer turned to see a well-dressed businessman at his side. The man was a trifle stout in several of the wrong places, indicating a life of ease—notably stomach, neck, and jowls—though he was not fat as he had been as a child. He looked hardly more than a boy himself, yet spoke with an air of confidence and breeding such as comes with wealth.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Rutherford, sir,” he said. “You really know this’n?” he added in disbelief.
“I’m afraid she’s my cousin. I’ll see she causes you no more trouble today.”
“All right then, Mr. Rutherford. But get her out of ’ere, or the cap’n’ll ’ave me ’ead.”
The man relinquished the woman’s wrist to her rescuer. He led her, still struggling, away from the scene.
“I don’t need any of your help, Geoffrey!” said Amanda irritably, without benefit of greeting, though the two had not seen each other in years. She tried to twist herself loose, but found Geoffrey’s grip stronger than she gave him credit for.
“I would think a word of thanks might be in order,” smiled Geoffrey condescendingly. “After all, I just saved you from going to jail with the rest of your troublemakers.”
“Better jail than going anywhere with you!”
“Come, come, Amanda—is that any way to talk to me after all this time?” Gradually he loosened his hold. “I didn’t know you were in London. How long have you been in the city?”
“Almost three years. Let me go, I tell you!”
Finally Geoffrey released her arm. In the few seconds which had transpired, Amanda calmed sufficiently to realize she did not especially want to spend the afternoon either behind bars or at the police station. She’d already spent two afternoons there last month, and she wasn’t sure it had done the cause any good. She therefore continued to walk slowly along at her cousin’s side, glancing back every few seconds at her comrades and the police.
She and Geoffrey had never got along. Whether this had to do with the annoyance of Geoffrey’s father toward his cousin, Charles Rutherford, whom he supposed unworthy of both the Rutherford estate and the title that went with it, or was the mere product of a rivalry between two selfish children, neither had ever bothered to consider.
Whatever the cause of their lifelong antipathy, Amanda was not the least bit anxious for Geoffrey’s company. But right now it seemed the best option. She would make good her escape as soon as the police were gone.
“Three years! I can’t believe I haven’t seen you. I must say,” remarked Geoffrey as they went, “that you have both changed a great deal and yet not changed at all.”
“Just what is that supposed to mean?” rejoined Amanda testily.
Geoffrey let a superior smile play around the edges of his lips.
“You are just as feisty as ever,” he replied, “though you have become a very nice-looking young lady.”
He took in her grey boots, wool suit, and small grey hat with dashing feather slanted back at an angle.
“And I commend your dress and hat,” he added, “—they become you well.”
“Coming from you, I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not,” replied Amanda, neither softened nor flattered by his words. The Geoffrey Rutherford she used to know always had an angle. She hadn’t liked him any more than he had her.
“Would you like to come back to the bank and see Father?” asked Geoffrey.
“Not in the least.”
“I know he would love to see you again
.”
Amanda could not prevent herself from bursting into brief laughter.
“Him—love to see me! You have finally gone too far, Geoffrey,” she said. “Now I know you’re lying, as you always used to. He was always too jealous of my father to like me.”
She turned and, without another word, walked briskly off down an adjoining sidewalk away from him, yet also away from the ongoing ruckus back at the Square.
“But you haven’t told me where you are staying,” Geoffrey called out after her. “How will I get in contact with you?”
Amanda did not stop or reply. Nor did she give the slightest indication she had heard him.
Geoffrey stood watching as she disappeared.
It doesn’t matter, he thought. He would find her. There were ways.
The minx! She always was high and mighty. He would show her!
Slowly the young financier walked back toward the bank, turning many things over in his mind. This had been a fortuitous meeting indeed.
He would talk to his father, thought Geoffrey as he climbed back up the stairs to return to his office. He would know the best strategy to pursue.
Behind him in Parliament Square, the battle of Black Friday did not end until darkness. Many serious injuries resulted, mostly on the side of the women. The demonstration had not been peaceful. Blood had even been shed. A certain Miss Ada Wright had been knocked down so many times that, as the site was cleared, a number of her anxious friends gathered about her where she lay unconscious.
The confrontation resulted in Mr. Asquith’s promise to make a statement the following Tuesday.
The ladies waited patiently. But when the statement came, it proved utterly unsatisfactory in furthering the cause.
On the following morning, therefore, on Wednesday the twenty-third, a second army of women led by Mrs. Pankhurst marched into Downing Street. This time the police were not prepared. Sylvia Pankhurst, standing on the roof of her taxi, shouted and urged the women forward.
Belatedly, a mounted detachment of police reinforcements rode into the scene. Both the prime minister and Home Secretary Churchill appeared.
The “Battle of Downing Street” lasted late into the afternoon. By day’s end the total of arrests since the previous Friday had climbed to 280.
The suffrage movement had clearly entered upon a new and militant era.
8
Machinations
The atmosphere in the home of Gifford Rutherford was thick with long-awaited opportunity. The wealthy London financier and his son sat alone together in the drawing room after dinner. The father poured his son a liberal portion of expensive brandy and took a seat opposite him.
Gifford raised his glass. Geoffrey returned the gesture.
“To our cousin, the fair daughter of he who calls himself Sir Charles Rutherford,” said Gifford. The sarcasm of his tone was unmistakable.
“And to Heathersleigh,” returned Geoffrey.
The father nodded in approval of this addition to the toast. Both drank deeply from their crystal glasses.
Gifford Rutherford was proud of his son, all the more so in how much the boy reflected himself. Gifford had raised him to be a chip off the old block, and this recent development demonstrated just how completely he had succeeded. He had all but given up on the thing, and now here Geoffrey had shown himself just as shrewd as ever the father could have hoped. Gifford may never himself be acknowledged as either the lord of the manor of the family estate or a knight like his cousin Charles. But it would yet give him enormous satisfaction to see his son one day secure the title for their branch of the family. How to get around Amanda’s brother was still an obstacle, but this would certainly bring them immeasurably closer.
“Would you seriously be willing to marry the girl?” said Gifford after a long and thoughtful silence.
“She would not make an altogether bad match,” replied his son.
In truth, Geoffrey’s best chance of marrying at all was for some social-climbing debutante to marry him for his money—not the best means for finding husband or wife or love of any kind. He had not shown himself of a character that attracted members of the fairer sex. He had been chubby for so long that most of those who knew him well, including Amanda, still tended to see him in that light. Though he was not tall, two or three inches under six feet, he had in fact begun slowly to trim down in the last couple of years. If this trend continued, he might begin to attract more feminine notice, though it was too early to tell. He had a plentiful head of black hair which he kept liberally oiled to his scalp, a custom which did not help toward that end.
The thought that perhaps a liaison with Amanda might be arranged for their mutual benefit—he providing her money and prestige in the business world, she placing him a step nearer control of Heathersleigh—was not an option Geoffrey found completely distasteful. He did not love her, of course. He did not even like her. But he had long ago learned from his father the valuable lesson of expedience, that most vital foundation stone in the world where Mammon rules. And the idea of having a large and prestigious estate from which to administer his financial empire, without a great outlay of funds, was powerful inducement to look at the matter practically rather than sentimentally.
“You may be right,” conceded the father with thoughtful expression.
“What ought to be my next move?”
“That will require careful consideration,” replied Gifford. “It will no doubt behoove us to look into the finances of her father, in the event that we might uncover something my previous investigations have missed. I shall also set some inquiries in motion to see what she is doing in London. If there is a rift in the family, that might also work to our advantage.”
“What about George?”
“Yes . . . hmm—we will have to examine his affairs too. Let’s see, how old would the fellow be? Around twenty-one or twenty-two, I should think—old enough that we might be able to make some skillfully thrown dirt stick to him.”
“I heard he is to graduate from Oxford next year.”
“Ah, yes—the university life always contains secrets that can be exploited. Good boy, see what else you can learn, what alliances he has formed with his college fellows.”
They spoke awhile longer in general terms. Suddenly the father’s face lit up.
“Would you consider taking her to the Kensington Lawn Tea at the Gardens in the spring?” he said.
“She would never agree to it,” replied Geoffrey with something resembling a laugh of incredulity at the mere suggestion. “She cannot stand me.”
“Then we shall just have to be persuasive,” rejoined his father. “We will make inquiries, find out where she is staying. Then I shall send her an invitation to come round for a visit—one she will not be able to refuse. I shall have a little chat with her.”
9
Kensington Gardens
The scene at the Kensington Lawn Tea in late April 1911 was everything its organizers could have hoped for. The day shone warm and fragrant, profuse blooms spread color everywhere, and the soft sounds from the small string ensemble added the perfect classical touch to the gathering. Members of London’s highest circles and most of its aristocratic families milled about.
Sufficient time had now passed that the event was unmarred by occasional reminders of the death a year earlier of King Edward VII. Edward’s forty-six-year-old son, the new George V, was said to be in Kensington Palace with Queen Mary even now. He was reportedly planning to emerge later in the day. Their coronation was scheduled for June 22, two months from now. Even without the new king, the gala spring celebration would be talked about for weeks.
Amanda Rutherford, however, was not particularly enjoying herself. Here she was at the heart of London society—all she had ever dreamed of—but on the arm of her cousin Geoffrey! She had dressed carefully. She knew her cream-colored crinoline was perfect for both the event and for her.
It should have been her father—he was the one who belonged here! He could have
been the prime minister. She should be on the arm of Prime Minister Rutherford—not this slimy creature! She would never forgive her father for turning his back on what had been the brightest political career in the empire. He had promised to make her a lady of London. But he had reneged on that as well.
The idea of her hand touching Geoffrey, even through the sleeve of his jacket and her glove, and her carrying on with pleasant demeanor as if his presence was anything but detestable . . . it was enough to make her skin crawl. She was beginning to regret ever agreeing to this. At the time, however, it had seemed a small price to pay for the chance to attend a gathering so close to the Crown. All her life she had dreamed of this very thing. The fact that a sizable anonymous donation was to be made into the bank account of Emmeline Pankhurst to advance the cause of women’s rights had also added to her motivation to accept the offer.
The invitation from her father’s cousin Gifford three weeks earlier had been entirely unexpected. Curiosity, more than any desire to see him, had prompted Amanda to accept it.
————
I understand you are involved with the Pankhursts,” said Gifford after the exchange of initial trivial pleasantries.
“That is correct,” replied Amanda.
The banker took the information in with a knowing nod. He appeared deep in thought.
“I am curious as to how you found my whereabouts,” Amanda added.
“I am reasonably influential in London,” replied her father’s cousin. “Many things besides money are at my disposal. Speaking of finances—how is your, uh—your cause . . . how are you faring?”
“Money is always needed.”
“What would you say if I made it possible for you to obtain a donation?”
Wayward Winds Page 4
