Will laughed. “It is an ironic jest, at least. Write back and tell them she is a woman and they’ll take her off. Problem solved.” He shrugged and returned to peering carefully at the paper, holding it only a few inches away from the end of his nose. He was still on the first page, while Morgan had already skimmed through the Courier and was half-way through the Times.
“I have been given the right to vote,” Emma said. “I intend to exercise that right.”
Bridget looked horrified. “You cannot, Emma. It is against the law for women to vote.”
“English law. National law. This is a local council election, and the local council have put me on their registrar.”
“By mistake,” Will said. “As soon as you present yourself at the town hall on election day, they will send you packing. You really wish to be humiliated in that way, little sister?”
Emma was aware of Morgan’s steady gaze upon her, even though she refused to look at him. “It will not be the first time a man has tried to humiliate me in this regard,” she replied.
Bridget’s eyes grew larger.
“I will show them this letter, which they cannot dispute,” Emma added.
“Perhaps you should approach the council now and establish if they intend to stand by their letter, ahead of time,” Bridget said. “Then you will not be embarrassed come election day.”
Emma hesitated. If she visited the town hall now, it would likely go as her visit to the Bank of England had gone. She would be rebuffed by a clerk with pithy opinions about the value of womanhood and left with no avenue of appeal after that.
“That would not be a good strategy,” Morgan said.
She glanced at him, surprised.
“You support this silliness, Morgan?” Will asked.
“Why should Emma not vote? She has been given the opportunity. She should take it.”
“She is a woman,” Will said dryly. “They haven’t the head for politics.”
Emma glanced at Bridget, to check her reaction to Will’s opinion.
Bridget’s eyes had narrowed. “Just as women do not have the head for business, husband?” she said sweetly.
Will lowered the newspaper and studied her. “I see your point,” he said, looking sheepish. “However, business is one thing—”
“Please do not say politics is too complicated for me to grasp,” Bridget replied, cutting him off. “If I can understand compound interest and the theory of supply and demand, and pricing strategies, then I can understand politics, too.” She looked at Emma. “I have changed my mind, Emma. You must vote, on behalf of all of us. And please do not vote for the incumbent. Lord Shelby is a doddering old fool who thinks women should not appear in public, let alone speak.”
Morgan covered his mouth with his hand. His gaze shifted to Will.
Emma gasped. “Public speaking! Yes. Lydia Becker will be beside herself when she learns what has happened. I am sure she will announce it in her magazine. Then, the Council will have to take my vote away from me in the light of public scrutiny. That is a wonderful idea, Bridget.”
Bridget glanced from Morgan to Will. “Do you have something to add, gentlemen?” Her tone was cool.
Morgan shook his head, staying mute.
Will sighed and picked up his newspaper. “It is your funeral,” he intoned from behind it.
NOT ONLY DID LYDIA BECKER run the news in her Women’s Suffrage Journal, but she also wrote an editorial, supporting Emma’s unprecedented opportunity.
The next issue of the magazine featured dozens of letters from readers. All the letters but one were fiercely supportive of Emma’s intention to take the opportunity to vote. The one letter disputing the legality of Emma voting and her capacity for thoughtful selection of the appropriate representative was written by a man, who remained anonymous.
The issue after that carried a dozen more letters, attacking the man’s sensibilities and pointing out Emma’s right to vote was legal. She had an official letter from the Council confirming her registration, which could not be disputed.
That same month—which was a bitterly cold December, with two feet of snow lying deep about the estate—the Inverness Courier wrote an article about the matter. The newspaper cited Lydia Becker’s editorial and quoted Mr. John Billings, the council election registrar. Mr. Billings stated that, clearly, a mistake had been made and that of course Miss Wardell could not possibly vote…
The next week’s edition of the newspaper carried long letters from readers in support and in argument. One of them was from Lydia Becker, defending Emma’s right to vote. Lydia pointed out that she had been given a confirmed registration, which the council could not repeal now.
Another letter was from Helen Campbell, who wrote with pithy directness: Is the Council saying their election process is so faulty they can let such a simple clerical error happen? They claim they confirmed Miss Wardell’s residency within the borders of the council lands. How did they fail to confirm that she was a woman while establishing her residency? And how many other eligible voters has this lackadaisical registration process failed to include?
If their registration process is as efficient as they would have us believe, then Miss Wardell’s inclusion was not an accident at all. They should stand behind their promise and allow her to vote.
The very next issue of the newspaper included an interview with Lord Shelby, the current Highlands Council representative for the city of Inverness and its environs. It included Shelby’s observation that, “scholarly and complex matters such as politics are not within the realm of a woman’s concern. To be exposed to the aggravation would put her uterus in danger of dysfunction, and madness would surely follow.”
Lydia Becker wrote an editorial in her own magazine, in the very next edition, carefully picking apart Shelby’s assertions, and delivering the coup de grâce:
Queen Victoria has been the political leader of England for thirty-five years. Does Lord Shelby suggest that the Queen herself is addled?
Emma yearned to speak publicly, voicing her opinion about the matter, especially when Lord Shelby aired his misguided opinion in the Courier.
“No, you must stay out of it,” Morgan said firmly, when she proposed writing her own letter to the editor. “Let them tear each other apart in the letter columns.”
“And in the inns and clubs, too,” Will said darkly. “I left after ten minutes last evening—too many angry men stopping by, demanding I lock up Emma for the duration.” He reached for the gravy boat.
Bridget smiled and ate her roast beef.
“Won’t people wonder what I think about it?” Emma said. “It is my vote, after all.”
Morgan shook his head. “They are voicing both sides of the argument, which is forcing everyone else to listen. Let them shout.”
And shout, they did.
The furor lasted into the new year, with more and more letters in the editorial columns of both the Courier and Lydia Becker’s magazine. Finally, The Times newspaper ran a small article on one of the inside pages, reporting on the contretemps. The tone of the article suggested the snow-bound residents of the far north Highlands had little better to do than invent storms in teacups.
“They’re staying out of it,” Morgan said. “Probably wise, at that. If they gave the news any more prominence, it would pull in the English politicians and all the lady activists. This keeps the matter a purely local dispute.”
“Lydia Becker will make sure it doesn’t stay that way,” Emma warned him.
After the Times article appeared, Lydia Becker wrote to the editor with a very long letter summarizing the situation. She concluded that perhaps every electoral body in England had similar weaknesses in their registration process, implying they were not the bastions of perfect representation they claimed to be. How many men were disenfranchised by clerical errors and oversights?
“It’s clever,” Morgan said, after reading the column. “She is attempting to make everyone question the process. If it can be demonstrated as
having flaws, then she can argue it was a flaw to exclude women, too.”
“Will it work, do you think?” Emma asked.
Morgan considered. “It is another drip upon the stone,” he said. “It all adds up. People will read it and remember. Although I don’t believe this alone will give women the vote. There is far too much institutional resistance to the idea.”
In late March, the local council elections were announced for July 14th that year.
Two weeks later, Emma came across the maids cleaning the guest bedroom which lay across the hall from hers. She hesitated to ask them who they were preparing for. It might be anyone in the family.
Will was out walking the estate and Bridget on her daily rounds of the mills, neither of them discouraged by the deluge of rain. “This is Scotland. It rains here,” Will said, as he slid on rain boots and an oil slicker.
Instead, Emma found the butler, Bakersfield. He smoothed down his bushy mustache and nodded. “Yes, indeed, a most illustrious guest,” he confirmed. “Prince Konstantin of Pandev. He will arrive shortly before Easter and may linger for a month. Lord Will said to expect a long stay.”
Emma stumbled away from the butler. It was instinctive to look for Morgan. Morgan was exactly where he always was, in the big office off the ballroom.
Morgan rose to his feet as she walked in. “Has something happened?” He shut the door behind her and pulled out one of the two chairs sitting in front of the desk. “Here. Sit. You’re white.”
“Did you know? That he was coming here?” Emma demanded, holding the arm of the chair in a tight grip.
“Who?” Morgan asked, his expression blank.
“Prince Konstantin.”
“Coming here?”
“For a month or more,” she whispered, her horror stealing the volume from her voice. She swallowed.
Morgan sank onto the front edge of his desk, his head down. “Will and Konstantin were in the same year at Eton and Cambridge. They’re friends. Will wasn’t in the library. He doesn’t know about…”
“We must make Will retract the invitation.”
Morgan shook his head. “Konstantin is probably already on his way here. There will be no way to reach him.”
“There can be only one reason for him coming here.”
“You don’t know that,” Morgan replied. He brushed his thumb over the lacquered surface of the desk. “Perhaps you might consider visiting Northallerton for Easter…”
“They’re not at home,” Emma said. “Jasper took Lilly to Marblethorpe for Easter.”
“Marblethorpe, then,” Morgan said. “You will be far out of his reach, there.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, that will work. The sleeper train tonight and Marblethorpe by tomorrow.” She got to her feet. “Thank you Morgan. I knew you would be able to help.”
Morgan stood, too. “Have your trunk packed. I will drive you to the station after dinner.”
Emma hurried to find Cookson and prepare for the dash south. She didn’t even mind the idea of another night upon the uncomfortable train berth, for it would be taking her away from here.
Shortly before she was to descend for supper, Emma heard a clatter of hooves and the hiss of wheels of a carriage upon the drive in front of the house. As Will and everyone else generally drove their vehicles around to the carriage house at the back of the house, Emma bent to peer through her window, her heart hammering with sudden fear.
She waited while Bakersfield hurried out to open the carriage door and greet the visitor. The cab driver jumped down to wrestle an enormous trunk to the ground, as Konstantin stepped to the gravel and brushed the dust from his sleeves.
He was already here.
Will hurried out into the fading daylight, his hand out to greet the prince. Will wore his evening tuxedo, ready for dinner.
Emma whirled to Cookson. “Please inform Bakersfield I will eat my supper in my room.”
Cookson looked startled. Then she nodded and dropped the lid of the trunk and left the room in search of Bakersfield, who would be in the drawing room by now, ready to announce dinner.
Emma listened to the buzz of voices, downstairs. Soft laughter and polite chatter. More feet upon the hallway outside. Heavy ones. A man. Bakersfield or a footman with her supper, she hoped, for she was starving.
A knock on the door.
“Come,” Emma called.
The door opened and Morgan stepped in. He kept the door open, as was proper, although he glanced behind to see if anyone lingered in the hall and might hear them.
Emma halted her circling of the rag rug on the floor. “What has happened? Why are you here?”
“Konstantin said—and the driver of the cab confirmed it—there will be no more trains for days. The bridge across the Nairn has been washed away by the rain.”
Horror touched her. “A cab then. A cab to…to…” Only, the next town was miles and miles away. There were no public coaches anymore—not since the train line from London had reached Inverness.
Morgan shook his head. “We must brazen it out,” he told her. “He will not confront you where Will or Bridget might overhear. If I stay by your side at all times…”
“You have a business to run. Many businesses. Besides, you were in the library. He will think it permissible to speak in front of you.”
Morgan’s smile was hard. “I will dissuade him of that.”
Emma’s shudder made her sway. “What does he want?” she whispered. “I cannot tell him anything.”
Morgan moved closer and lowered his voice. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. I won’t give him the opportunity. When the bridge is repaired, I’ll see you safely onto the train.”
Emma rubbed at her forehead. “Maybe a hotel room in Inverness. Or I could impose upon Helen for a few days’ accommodation—”
His fingers pressed under her chin, lifting it. His gaze was steady. “Best stay by my side.”
She shivered again. This time it was from the heat of his fingers, from his nearness. Until this moment, her fear had not let her notice how close he was to her. Emma looked into his eyes and was lost there.
Who kissed who? She was not entirely sure, only that Morgan’s lips were against hers and it felt inevitable and perfectly natural. And good.
It was not the first kiss she’d ever had, for there had been many fumbling lords who’d stolen kisses after making promises they’d never live up to. Morgan’s kiss, though, surpassed all of them.
He was older than any man who had kissed her before. And he was taller. Stronger. She could feel his strength in the way his arms came around her and held her against him as the kiss deepened.
Emma sighed into his mouth, her arms winding around his neck all by themselves. Her body fizzed and clamored for more.
His tongue swept into her mouth, giving her what she had not known she wanted. No man had ever gone this far, yet it was thrilling and wonderful and she didn’t even think to protest. She simply wanted more.
His grip around her waist was pulling her off her feet, yet Morgan held her up, her body pressed hard against his. It made her nerves flutter and her knees weaken.
She could not help but think of him without his shirt, in the warehouse. She recalled the muscles which no one would ever suspect he had beneath his proper jackets and coats. They were held against her now, flexing and working as he supported her.
When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, it was only by an inch or two. They both breathed hard and loudly. He drew his head back, to peer into her eyes.
Emma let him look. It did not occur to her that she should let him go. Or that she was a maiden in a compromising position if anyone came upon them, for they were fully visible from the doorway. It felt too good to think of it as wrong.
Morgan lowered her to the floor. He let her go and stepped back. Then he reached and brushed his thumb across her lower lip. It was swollen and sensitive and his thumb made it tingle.
“They will be waiting on us to serve dinner.”
His voice was even lower than usual. Hoarse.
Emma nodded. She didn’t dare speak. She suspected her own voice would be just as affected.
Morgan held out his arm. She slid her fingers inside his elbow and rested them on his arm. Her fingertips throbbed at the touch.
The throb echoed all over her body.
It was only as they descended the stairs that she remembered why Morgan had come to her room.
Why had she been so afraid to face Prince Konstantin? She had to strain to recall why. Even then, it seemed very unimportant, for Morgan stood next to her.
Chapter Twelve
Everyone in the drawing room was on their feet, waiting for Emma and Morgan. Even Bakersfield stood by the door, ready to announce dinner as soon as they stepped into the room.
When Emma saw Konstantin’s face, she remembered with a shudder all the reasons she had wanted to avoid this meeting.
All the implications, rumors and horrible facts aired in the library at Innesford came back to her now, like the dumping of cold water over her head. She had dismissed and forgotten them for months. Now they returned, accompanied by the aching yearn to know the answers to the mysteries of that time.
Who was she? What had really happened? Who was her father and what had he really done?
The Prince’s mouth opened when he saw her. His brow lifted. He looked more than astonished. His fingers pressed against his chest, as if his heart had leapt too high.
“Miss Wardell!” he said, sounding breathless. “How is it you are here?”
“Oh, Emma lives with us, now,” Will said, taking Bridget’s hand. “Did I not mention that? Perhaps you should take her into dinner, Kosta. You remember how to do that, don’t you?”
He swept passed Bakersfield, Bridget on his arm.
Morgan turned, bringing her with him. “I’ll take you in,” he said softly.
“A moment, please,” Konstantin said.
Emma thought Morgan would ignore him. Perhaps he might have, for he took two steps across the hall before he halted. It seemed to her that he turned back to the Prince with deep reluctance. Or perhaps she was imagining it. “Your Highness,” Morgan said, his tone stiff.
Year of Folly Page 12
