Wayward Winds

by Michael Phillips

  “What about the others?” asked Amanda.

  “Somehow Christabel and Sylvia managed to slip out of the grasp of the police,” replied Ramsay. “I don’t know how. A warrant has been issued for Christabel. Meanwhile, a raid took place at the Pankhurst home two hours ago. Mrs. Pankhurst, Mrs. Tuke, and both Mr. and Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence are now behind bars in Cannon Row police station.”

  “What am I going to do, Ramsay?” asked Amanda. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “I doubt it will come to that,” replied Ramsay.

  He paused a moment and sipped his tea.

  “As I was driving back,” he said, “I had an idea. But let me ask you a question first, Amanda—what is your future with the Pankhursts?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Amanda with a forlorn expression.

  “How long do you anticipate continuing to be part of the suffragette movement?”

  “Everything happened so fast today that I’ve hardly had the chance to think about it.”

  “Do you plan to return to live with the Pankhursts?”

  “After what I said today, I am not sure I would be welcome. Besides, didn’t you say Emmeline was in jail?”

  “At present. And Christabel and Sylvia in hiding.”

  “Whatever I decide, it would seem that after today, everything is bound to change.”

  “Do you want to go back?” asked Ramsay.

  “I don’t know,” sighed Amanda. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t know what else she could do. Her bank account had dwindled to something less than three hundred pounds, which would not be enough to support herself for more than another year, if that. She might be able to afford a flat of her own, but then what would she do a year from now? If only she hadn’t spent her money so foolishly!

  Mrs. Halifax astutely observed the expression on Amanda’s face. “Is it a matter of finances?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid that is partially the case,” replied Amanda, nodding her head.

  “Amanda dear—worry yourself no more about it,” she said. “We have plenty of room in this huge old house since my husband died. It is just the three of us—Ramsay, Mrs. Thorndike, and myself, along with two servants. You will stay with us as long as you like.”

  “I couldn’t impose—” began Amanda.

  “Nonsense, dear. The matter is settled.”

  “What do you think, Amanda?” said Ramsay. “If you indeed are through with the Pankhursts after today, I could arrange to have your things picked up. Or, as you said earlier, you have a key and you could return for them.”

  “I will think about it tomorrow,” sighed Amanda. “What about the police?”

  “I may have an idea that will help,” answered Ramsay. “I will write an article. We will get it into day after tomorrow’s edition—an exclusive interview with Amanda Rutherford about the incident at the British Museum.”

  “What!” exclaimed Amanda.

  “Don’t you see—it would give you a chance to explain publicly what happened, and, if you like, say that the incident caused a falling out between you and Mrs. Pankhurst and that you are leaving the movement. That is why I asked what your plans were.”

  Amanda thoughtfully took in his words. Such a step could not help but affect many things about her future.

  “Such an interview would prejudice the police in your favor. I do not think they would press the matter further. You could make a public apology for your complicity in the affair, and even go so far as to turn yourself in. I realize the risk such a course would involve. But at this stage, the authorities would gain so much positive publicity by having a defector, as it were, speak out against the movement, I am certain they would not arrest you.”

  It fell silent around the table. Amanda was the first to break it.

  “It’s so ironic . . .” she said in a softly melancholy tone, then paused and smiled a sad smile. “I came to London thinking that I was joining a great cause. For as long as I can remember I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted to have an impact. I wanted my life to count for something of significance. I was so angry with my father when he resigned from the House of Commons. I thought that he was reneging on his duty to change the world for good. I determined that I would never shirk that responsibility to help my fellow man.”

  As she spoke, Mrs. Halifax listened with keener interest than she allowed her Teutonic features to reveal. The wheels of her mind were turning over many possibilities which she had only been considering vaguely until then. For the time being, however, she would keep her own counsel and see what developed.

  “And now here I am,” Amanda continued, “trying to figure out a way to keep from being arrested. And for what? For a cause that sets bombs and cuts telephone wires and destroys priceless antiques. What has it all been for? How do such things make the world a better place? What good has it done anyone?”

  Amanda laughed lightly. But there was no joy in her voice, only the bitter realization that her life was not turning out as she had hoped.

  “Your Mrs. Pankhurst would say that such means are justifiable if the end is gained,” suggested Ramsay.

  “I might have said the same thing two years ago,” rejoined Amanda. “But their tactics have changed since then.” She smiled ironically. “Perhaps I have changed too,” she added.

  Again it was silent, this time for several minutes.

  “Well, what do you say?” said Ramsay at length.

  “About what?” asked Amanda.

  “The interview. Shall I write the story, saying that you were duped and knew nothing of their plans to damage the exhibit at the museum, and expressing your horror at what happened?”

  Amanda sighed deeply.

  “Yes, write the story. I will consent to an interview for your paper. And then tomorrow—that is, Mrs. Halifax,” she added, turning to Ramsay’s mother, “—if you were serious with your offer—”

  “Indeed I was, dear.”

  “—then tomorrow I shall return to the Pankhurst home and gather up my things.”

  63

  New Shock

  After a restless night, Amanda returned to the Pankhursts’ not knowing what to expect when she arrived. Ramsay drove her once or twice past the house, surveying the neighborhood for police activity. As there seemed to be none, he stopped to let her out.

  “If anything comes up,” he said, “if there is any trouble or if you need help, call me at the paper.” He reached across the seat and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry about a thing,” said Ramsay. “Remember what I told you before—I’ll take care of you.”

  Amanda nodded and got out.

  “In the meantime, I’ll get started on the article,” added Ramsay, then smiled and drove off.

  Amanda watched the car disappear. She turned and walked nervously toward the house she had called home for three years, unaware that the newspaper article destined dramatically to change her future was not the one Ramsay planned to write about her, but rather the one planted about him which had made its appearance in the Sun only a few hours earlier.

  At least Emmeline wouldn’t be home, thought Amanda as she approached. Maybe no one would be here who had witnessed her outburst yesterday evening.

  Amanda let herself cautiously in through the front door, then glanced about. The house was quiet. There was no sign even of the housekeeper. She walked through the entry hallway and began to ascend the stairs to her room.

  “Amanda!” she heard behind her.

  Startled, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Amanda spun around to see Sylvia entering from the drawing room, a newspaper in her hand.

  “I didn’t know what had become of you! I never saw you after the museum.”

  “I slipped out when the guards came in,” said Amanda. “But how did you and Christabel—”

  “There were two carloads of women waiting outside. As soon as they saw our trouble, they distracted the guards with a volley of stones at the museum window
s. We ran for it, and managed to get out of sight before the police arrived. But now Mother’s in jail.”

  “I heard. And Christabel?”

  “She is hiding at a friend’s house. I decided to sneak home to see if it was safe. I arrived in the middle of the night. The place was deserted, except for Edna, who’s upstairs in her room.”

  “Everyone must have thought the police would be watching. That’s what I assumed. I was afraid to come back too.”

  “We’ve got to get in touch with everyone,” said Sylvia. “We have a big demonstration planned for Parliament Square the day after tomorrow.”

  “More . . . after what happened yesterday!”

  “We have to seize the initiative.”

  “Well I am here to pick up my things. I just don’t know if I can be part of it anymore.”

  “Amanda, what are you saying?”

  “I don’t want to get into it now, Sylvia,” replied Amanda. “I already had an argument with your mother last night. I just need some time to think.”

  A peculiar expression came over Sylvia’s face, but she seemed to realize it would not be a good time to press their differences.

  “I assume your being upset has something to do with this,” she said, holding up the newspaper.

  Amanda stared back at her with a blank expression.

  “The article about Ramsay Halifax.”

  Momentarily confused, Amanda did not stop to consider the impossibility of it so soon, but replied, “You mean by Ramsay Halifax . . . about me?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you—it’s an article about Ramsay Halifax. And none too favorable.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Amanda.

  “I was looking for the news about us and yesterday’s events. Then I saw this about your friend. It insinuates that he might be a spy.”

  “What! That’s the most absurd—”

  Already Amanda had grabbed the newspaper from Sylvia’s hand and had begun to read the account under the heading: MAIL REPORTER IMPLICATED IN PHONY MOROCCAN STORY.

  She had only read half the article when she was out the door, all thought of retrieving her belongings and moving in to the Halifax home instantly gone.

  64

  Denial

  Amanda hurried up to Ramsay’s office in the Daily Mail building, this time not pausing for an interview with the receptionist. Her confusion and disbelief had hardly cooled during the ten-minute cab ride.

  Ramsay, who had only been shown a copy of the libelous account not more than ten minutes earlier, was still reeling from the blow when he saw Amanda, red-faced, walking toward him. That she carried in her hand a crumpled copy of the same issue which had been handed to him indicated clearly enough what was on her mind.

  Before she managed to say anything, he quickly ushered her into one of the small editorial offices and closed the door behind them.

  “What is this all about!” she demanded, nearly throwing the paper in his face.

  “Amanda, believe me,” he replied, “I know as little about it as you do. I only saw it myself a few minutes ago.”

  “Falsified stories . . . that you were seen on the Panther, that you—”

  Amanda stopped and glanced away. That part of the article was too painful.

  “It’s not true, Amanda,” said Ramsay softly.

  Amanda turned back toward him, determined not to cry.

  “I thought we—” she began, but she could not bring herself to say it.

  “We do, Amanda—we have something very special. Please believe me, I know nothing about her.”

  “But it says you and she . . . that you were seen . . .”

  Ramsay looked down at the floor, shaking his head. “It was as painful for me to read as it was for you, Amanda. My first thought was for you—how it would hurt you if you saw it, and then for my mother, and what pain this would cause her as well.”

  A heavy silence filled the small room.

  “Oh, Ramsay,” Amanda exclaimed at length, “I just don’t know what to think. What good will your article be able to do me now? Who will believe it if you say I am innocent? I might as well march down to Cannon Row and put the handcuffs on myself!”

  Ramsay sensed from her tone that the moment had arrived when her fury could be turned to sympathy.

  “Aren’t you being just a little selfish, Amanda,” he said. “I could go to jail too—and not for a day or two, but for treason, for the rest of my life . . . that is if I’m not shot! Not to mention the fact that I will be fired before today is out and my career ruined unless I am able to disprove this ridiculous report. They accuse me of being a spy.”

  His words had a calming, even a sobering effect on Amanda. She glanced away.

  “Amanda, I tell you,” Ramsay went on, “not a word of this is true.”

  “Where did it come from, then?” she asked. “Allegations like this don’t just appear out of thin air.”

  “I haven’t an idea. Go out there on the floor,” he said, gesturing toward the door, “and ask the men I work with. We all just found out about it a few minutes ago. We’re on it already, trying to find where it originated. There’s not a grain of truth in it.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “I tell you, Amanda, there was no such incident. I haven’t the slightest idea who they’re talking about.”

  “Were you in Morocco?”

  Ramsay nodded. “You remember, when I was away last October—right after the weekend up in Cambridge. My editor sent me down to Africa to report on the situation, and I filed a story which ran in November. Believe me, I had nothing to do with the Germans there . . . or any woman named Adriane Grünsfeld.”

  Amanda shook her head in frustration.

  “I just don’t know what to believe.”

  Ramsay approached to embrace her. Amanda stiffened slightly, then backed away. She could not so easily forget the words about Ramsay she had read, true or not. She didn’t want his arms around her right now.

  She turned and left the office. As she walked through the editorial room, she was aware of every eye upon her. The walls of the room were not so thick as to prevent a good deal of the conversation from reaching the ears of Ramsay’s colleagues. She half expected to hear footsteps behind her and for Ramsay’s voice to make one final appeal. But no sound attempted to stop her.

  A few minutes later she was back on the street, tears now flowing in earnest.

  Why hadn’t Ramsay’s repeated denials helped? She was confused and didn’t know what to do.

  The police were probably looking for her. She had burned her bridges with the Pankhursts. Ramsay was her only hope. Yet suddenly she didn’t know whether or not she could trust him.

  What could she do . . . where could she go?

  65

  Geoffrey

  The house on Curzon Street had lost much of its luster in Amanda’s eyes during the winter months since the end of last year’s season. There had been no parties, no balls, no new dresses, no invitations. Only a few months had passed. But all that now seemed so long ago.

  She was in trouble and she knew it. At a time like this, the mere fact of familial relation was somehow comforting. Who else did she have to turn to other than Cousin Martha?

  She walked up the steps onto the porch and rang the bell. A moment or two later the housekeeper opened it.

  “Hello, Louisa,” said Amanda.

  “Come in, Miss Amanda,” said Louisa, then turned and disappeared upstairs. Amanda walked into the nearby drawing room to wait, as she had many times before.

  Two or three minutes later Geoffrey appeared. Amanda heard his step and turned around in surprise.

  “Is your mother here?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, she’s not,” replied Geoffrey with a smile. His tone was pleasant, but something about his expression reminded Amanda of the old Geoffrey.

  “I need to talk to her,” she said.

  “You may talk to me.”

&nbs
p; “Thank you, Geoffrey, but I am in some trouble and I really need to talk to her.”

  “Trouble?” he repeated with significance, drawing out the word.

  “Yes, trouble,” Amanda returned with a slight edge to her voice.

  “Perhaps I could help,” he said, moving closer and reaching out toward her.

  “Get away, Geoffrey!” she snapped, taking a step back. “I don’t need that kind of help.”

  “What kind, then?”

  “Oh, never mind! When is your mother going to be back?”

  “I really couldn’t say. How do you know I couldn’t help, Amanda?” he said. “You never give me a chance. I’m not really such a bad person.”

  Amanda glanced away. His voice reminded her of when he used to whine as a boy.

  “Your trouble, I take it,” Geoffrey continued, an annoying tone creeping into his voice that indicated he was in on some secret, “might have something to do with your friend Halifax?”

  “What do you know about Ramsay Halifax?” returned Amanda.

  “Just that he is in a lot of hot water at the minute. As I hear it, his arrest might not be far away.”

  “His arrest—don’t be ridiculous. The story in the Sun is pure fiction. It is being investigated.”

  “That’s not the way I hear it.”

  Amanda looked up, suddenly alert to the implication of his statement. She tried to find his eyes.

  “What have you heard, Geoffrey?” she asked pointedly.

  “Oh . . . nothing,” he replied evasively, “—just what the paper reported, that’s all.” Geoffrey realized he had been careless.

  But Amanda detected something more in his voice. She might not like her second cousin, but she knew him. And right now she was sure he knew more than he was telling.

  “What do you know, Geoffrey?” she demanded.

  “Nothing, I tell you!”

  “I don’t believe it. You know something more about this than you’re letting on.”