Wayward Winds

by Michael Phillips

  “But I must have something new and stylish for the Prince of Wales Horse Race.”

  The conversation at lunch an hour later left Amanda wondering if her hostess approved of her attending the Derby as a spectator, as one of the social elite.

  “Amanda dear,” Emmeline said, “I understand you have been invited to the Derby.”

  Amanda nodded, thinking to herself that if given such an opportunity, Emmeline would probably try to disrupt the race with a demonstration, or, as Sylvia had said, with dynamite.

  “You know Emily . . . Emily Davison?” asked Mrs. Pankhurst.

  “Yes, I believe so. Was she at Hastings with us?”

  “That’s right,” replied Emmeline. “She has always dreamed of attending the Derby. Do you suppose your friend might secure her an invitation?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Do ask, will you, Amanda?”

  “I don’t really know him that well. I doubt I will see him before Saturday.”

  “But you will try, won’t you?”

  Awkwardly Amanda agreed.

  Immediately after lunch she set off for Harrods. Already she was having second thoughts. Sylvia was right—Harrods was expensive. Though she did her best to conceal it, her money was dwindling more rapidly than she liked. She had already dipped into the account far too deeply for gowns and other costly apparel, half of which she had never even worn. She had so relished in the freedom of being on her own and having money in the bank, she now realized she had squandered far too much of it on foolish expenditures.

  But she would start exercising more caution later—after next week’s reception at Epsom. For this occasion she would look her best!

  Amanda tried on dress after dress. The Pankhursts were fashionable enough, but they had other things on their minds than men and society. And the luncheon conversation left her with an oddly uncomfortable feeling. Sylvia obviously wouldn’t approve—she didn’t believe in marriage at all, much less social outings with men. Amanda needed to get away from the house for a while. She was glad to be alone for the rest of the afternoon.

  The dress Amanda chose was far too expensive, but it was so beautiful she could not resist—absolutely perfect for the occasion! The long skirt of rich navy blue contained tiny pink stripes running lengthwise through the fabric, highlighted with a bodice of light pink silk, with loose ruffles about the neck. A navy blue jacket fit snugly over the blouse. After a tailoring session the following day with Harrods’ dressmaker, the overall effect showed off her slender figure beautifully. She chose a fashionable straw hat and matched it with pink and white flowers, along with pink and navy ribbons.

  As it turned out, Amanda neither saw nor heard from Ramsay Halifax again before the eighth. Neither did she see Emily Davison, nor did Mrs. Pankhurst bring up the subject of the Derby again.

  Halifax called at the door of the Pankhurst home precisely at 11:00 a.m. He was shown into the parlor.

  Before Amanda reached the top of the stairs, Emmeline greeted him. She and Halifax were chatting freely by the time Amanda made her descent. For once Amanda hoped she would hear nothing about the cause. She wanted to step into another world on this day—the world of high London society. She did not want to have to think about rights and votes and feminism.

  “—the Daily Mail, that is interesting,” Emmeline was saying. “It was your paper that first coined the word ‘suffragette,’ was it not?”

  “My editor himself,” laughed the personable young man.

  As Amanda reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the drawing room, Mrs. Pankhurst had just begun introducing her escort to another young lady of somewhat wild green eyes and bright red hair. Her orange dress clashed with both and hung from wide but slender shoulders without accenting any of her feminine curves. The overall effect was not unlike a human scarecrow with red straw stuck on top.

  “Amanda . . .” she said, glancing up as she walked in, “—you remember that Emily is going with you.—Mr. Halifax,” she added, turning again toward the journalist, “I would like you to meet Emily Davison. Amanda did speak with you about Emily’s accompanying the two of you?”

  Not wanting to embarrass Amanda but clearly caught off his guard, Halifax fumbled for words.

  “I . . . didn’t exactly,” he said, shaking Miss Davison’s hand, “—well, but—”

  “I promise I will be no trouble, Mr. Halifax,” interrupted Emily in a thin, high-pitched voice that fit the image created by her appearance. Then, without awaiting an answer, the newcomer immediately walked outside and toward the car. Halifax and Amanda followed, the former perplexed, the latter irritated, by the sudden change of plans.

  “Do enjoy yourselves,” Mrs. Pankhurst called out in an uncharacteristically genial tone.

  By the time Halifax was comfortably behind the wheel, with Amanda next to him on the front seat, Emily Davison had stationed herself securely behind them with an expression on her face that even Ramsay Halifax apparently decided it would be best not to argue with.

  Almost inaudibly he sighed, then drove off.

  14

  The Derby

  The drive south to Epsom remained quiet and strained. Halifax did his best to keep up a conversation with Amanda, though with limited success. Not a word was spoken from the backseat.

  They arrived shortly after noon. Crowds and vendors were already gathering throughout the auto and buggy park. Though Ascot, which would be run two weeks later, remained a far more exclusive horse race, the overwhelming popularity of the Derby had long before necessitated that it be shared with the masses, and it was widely attended by a great cross section of society. Halifax parked the automobile, and the trio walked toward the main entrance across the wide expanse of lawn. Only moments after they were inside the grounds, Amanda suddenly realized she and Ramsay were alone.

  “I am sorry for the inconvenience of that intrusion,” she said. “I had no idea such a thing was going to happen. I cannot believe Mrs. Pankhurst did that!”

  “No harm done,” laughed Halifax. “Bit of a strange one though, I must say. Are all your suffragette friends so wild-eyed?”

  “I’ve only met her once,” replied Amanda. “I really know nothing about her.”

  “I assume she is the Emily Davison?”

  “What do you mean the Emily Davison?” repeated Amanda.

  “You don’t know?” said Halifax.

  “I guess I don’t. Know what?”

  “It didn’t strike me until we were on our way, then I began to remember an incident from last year. Seems your friend was discovered beside the Parliament Street Post Office with a pile of paraffin-soaked rags and matches—all ready to set the place ablaze. That’s when all the militancy began. Prior to that, even your Mrs. Pankhurst had been reasonable enough.”

  “I’ve never seen Emily around the house.”

  “What’s done is done—we will enjoy ourselves nonetheless for it.—Ah, Witherspoon!” he exclaimed, observing an acquaintance walking toward him.

  “Halifax,” said the other with a nod. The two men shook hands.

  “May I present Miss Amanda Rutherford, daughter of Sir Charles Rutherford—”

  At the words, Amanda cringed inwardly. She wanted to be known for herself, as a suffragette, not as her father’s daughter.

  “—Amanda, meet Lord Leslie Witherspoon.”

  “Charmed, Miss Rutherford,” said Witherspoon. “Tell me, what does your father think of the situation in Morocco—will France go to war with Germany?”

  “I really could not say, Mr. Witherspoon,” replied Amanda, bristling again. “My father and I do not discuss political matters. Actually, I have not seen him for some time.”

  “What about you, Halifax,” persisted Witherspoon. “What do you think? I’ll wager some of your friends are closely watching events in the east,” he added with a grin that seemed to imply more than the words divulged.

  “What I think, Lord Witherspoon,” said Ramsay, laughing off the
question, “is that Miss Rutherford and I came today to watch the horses, not talk continental politics.—By the by, have you seen my mother?”

  “I do believe I saw her, old man,” replied Witherspoon, glancing around. “About here someplace with old Harry Thorndike’s widow, I believe.”

  “Right . . . we’ll find her. Cheers, Witherspoon.”

  As Halifax led Amanda away, he leaned toward her ear with a low voice. “He’ll talk your ear off if you let him!”

  “I’m glad you rescued me from such a fate,” she laughed. “What did he mean about your friends?”

  “Oh, nothing—just my news colleagues . . . always watching events. Looking for a story, you know.—Ah, there’s Mum now. We’ll be sitting in her box for the race.”

  They walked across the lawn in the direction of two women.

  “Ramsay dear,” said the younger and taller of the two, glancing toward them as they approached. “This must be Amanda.”

  “Yes, Mum—Amanda Rutherford, my mother, Lady Hildegard Halifax.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Halifax.”

  “I have heard so much about you, Miss Rutherford dear,” said Ramsay’s mother, shaking her hand with uncommon strength and vigor. The voice which met Amanda’s ears was low, and contained an accent which could not have originated anywhere in Britain. The very sound of it reminded Amanda of mystery. “I would like you to meet my dear friend, Mrs. Thorndike,” added Ramsay’s mother.

  “How do you do?” said Amanda, now shaking the hand of the older woman. She took Amanda’s palm in her soft fleshy fingers and gave it the slight up-and-down motion that passed for a handshake between women of the British nobility.

  “I was sorry to hear about your husband’s death,” said Amanda, turning again to Mrs. Halifax.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she replied. “It was not altogether unexpected. It was two years ago, and he was my second husband. I am twice a widow. However, I have managed to adjust to life without dear Burton. And dear Lady Thorndike, widowed near the same time as myself, has been staying with me since shortly after our husbands’ deaths.”

  The brief silence which followed gave Amanda the chance to take in the woman’s features. She judged Ramsay’s mother to be somewhere in her mid-fifties, several inches taller than her companion, stout yet with a solid, robust, Germanic stoutness rather than a soft plumpness. Her face seemed to wear several expressions at once, as in layers, as of one whose awareness of people and events about her was deeper than she allowed herself to divulge.

  “Excuse me, will you a minute, Mother, Amanda?” came the sound of Ramsay’s voice intruding into her thoughts. “I see someone over there I need to speak with.”

  He walked off across the lawn. His mother’s eyes followed him, squinting slightly when they fell upon the man Ramsay met. Whatever she was thinking, she said nothing. Soon she and Amanda and Lady Thorndike were engaged in more of the meaningless chatter of which such gatherings are comprised, though Mrs. Halifax seemed at the same time to keep an eye subtly roving about the crowd.

  “There is Sarah Marlowe,” said Lady Thorndike in a low voice of disdain. “However in the world did she get an invitation? Do you know her, Hildegard?”

  “I believe I met her one afternoon at your house for tea, several years ago,” replied Ramsay’s mother.

  “Oh yes, I remember now.—And there’s the prime minister’s wife,” the English socialite went on. “We really should speak to her. Won’t you excuse us, Miss Rutherford?”

  Lady Thorndike waddled off toward Mrs. Asquith. Lady Halifax followed. Amanda hesitated, glancing around momentarily for Ramsay. In the second or two that followed, she found herself standing alone. She was about to set out to overtake the two women, when she heard her name. She glanced in the direction of the voice.

  It was Geoffrey’s mother Martha bustling her way!

  “Why, Amanda dear,” said Gifford’s wife, “what an unexpected delight.”

  Amanda was not surprised to see Cousin Martha with billows of flowing fabric trailing behind her. Indeed, the indistinct form presented to her eyes matched the indistinct image of the lady in her fading memory.

  “Hello, Cousin Martha,” said Amanda.

  “Won’t Geoffrey be upset at himself for not coming with me,” said the woman. “If he’d only known you were going to be here.”

  Silently Amanda breathed a sigh of relief at the answer to the question she had been afraid to ask—whether Geoffrey was here too.

  “Who are you with, dear?” asked Mrs. Rutherford.

  “I came with Ramsay Halifax. Perhaps you know his mother?”

  “Oh, so you are with Lady Halifax’s party,” said Mrs. Rutherford.

  “I came with her son Ramsay,” repeated Amanda. “I only just met Lady Halifax for the first time a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh . . . I see,” said her cousin, drawing out the words with obvious inflection of significance. An awkward silence followed.

  “How, uh—how are your mother and father, Amanda dear? You were not at Heathersleigh the last time we called.”

  “I’ve been in London nearly three years.”

  If Martha was astonished at the news she did not show it, though how much she knew of Gifford’s approach to the girl was doubtful. “We try to make the trip to Devon every few years,” she went on as if nothing were so strange in what Amanda had said. “My dear husband considers it his duty to visit the old family estate upon occasion.”

  “I’ve been busy myself here in the city,” rejoined Amanda, unconsciously glancing around for sign of Ramsay. This was already becoming tedious.

  “I hear—though I cannot believe such a thing myself, but there are those who say you have had some association with that Pankhurst woman,” said Martha. “What a dreadful business. I’m sure I don’t understand a bit of it.”

  Amanda pulled herself up slightly. “What you hear is true,” she said.

  What would the dull woman say if she told her about the afternoon she had spent in jail!

  “There you are, Miss Rutherford!” came the voice of Ramsay Halifax to her rescue. “I’ve been looking all about for you. Mum said she lost track of you. It’s time we were in our seats. The announcements are about to begin.”

  Amanda turned to go. “Good-bye, Cousin Martha,” she said.

  “We must get together for tea now that you are in London,” the billowy lady called after her.

  The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough. The horses ran without major upset. Amanda saw neither Martha Rutherford nor Emily Davison again. The odd-looking young woman did not return home with them, and both Ramsay and Amanda were left wondering why she had accompanied them to the Derby at all.

  15

  Setting the Bait

  The conversation in the home of the London Rutherfords that same night, as Martha reported to her financier husband what she had seen and heard at the Derby, had nothing to do with the winning thoroughbred or his odds.

  As Gifford listened, he realized he had underestimated the little shrew. He had taken too much for granted, assuming that their previous talk and the girl’s acceptance of Geoffrey’s invitation to the Lawn Tea insured a deeper loyalty between their two houses than she apparently did.

  He could not confront her too boldly, however. If he accused her of playing false, she would bolt. He knew her kind well enough. He would lure her into his web by giving her something she wanted—something more than a donation to a cause she might not be that interested in anyway.

  Geoffrey would also have to play his hand more aggressively, thought Gifford. It would not do for the girl to get involved with other men, or the cause of his son might be lost. Wealth notwithstanding, the father knew as well as anyone Geoffrey’s limitations as a potential suitor. To make this match would require more cunning than he had initially thought.

  “I’m worried about Amanda, Gifford,” said Martha as she prattled on about the day. “She knows absolutely nothing about society etiq
uette.”

  “Yes . . . hmm, I see what you mean,” mumbled her husband as he turned the thing over in his mind.

  “And to have dealings with those suffragettes!”

  “It is unfortunate to see such an attractive young thing falling in with such influences. I must admit,” Gifford went on, assuming the dignified tone of wisdom, “that I find it impossible to understand how some parents can neglect their most basic responsibilities. I would never have thought such about my cousin Charles.”

  “I had not exactly thought of it in such terms,” replied Martha, “but now that you say it . . . yes, it is rather shocking. And why would they have been so neglectful? That is what I cannot understand.”

  “Who can say? But then . . . the results would seem to speak for themselves. It is scarcely any wonder the poor girl is estranged from them. She is languishing for lack of proper training and upbringing. Whatever pretense they tried to put over on others publicly, I don’t know what other conclusion to draw other than there was simply a lack of love in the home.”

  “It is such a sad thing to see.”

  “Perhaps we ought to help,” suggested Gifford.

  “What could we do?” asked Martha.

  “I don’t know, my dear,” he replied with feigned innocence. “But it is clear my cousin has not done his duty by the poor girl. Perhaps we ought—”

  He stopped for effect.

  “—yet it is hardly our place,” he added.

  “Our place to what?”

  “I was just thinking,” replied Gifford, the engines of his brain beginning to spin more rapidly, “—I was thinking that, since we live in London, and since the girl is here, and the season is now in full swing . . . perhaps we should take it upon ourselves to present her to society. She is our cousin after all, one generation more distantly removed, of course, but blood is blood, and I have always thought of her as the daughter we never had.”

  “Oh, that is a wonderful idea, Gifford,” exclaimed Martha. “How delightful it would be to take her to the season’s round of balls and parties.”

  “I’m sure Geoffrey would not mind occasionally being seen with her,” suggested Gifford, casually lifting an eyebrow. “Once I explain the thing to him, I’m certain he would be glad to help—for the sake of the family, of course.”