The Suffragette Scandal

by Courtney Milan

  This estate, this title, this life…for her, all of this would be a constant bruising, an eternal source of pain. He couldn’t do that to her.

  Slowly, he drew himself from around her. Even more slowly, he stole from her bed.

  He didn’t dare look back. He simply walked out the door and down the stairs before he lost his nerve.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE SOUND OF BIRDS pulled Free from sleep. Happy summer chirps filtered through the open window. She woke, opening her eyes to a spill of sunlight across the carpet. It was still scarcely morning; dawn came early in summer.

  Now, that early morning light illuminated the pattern of some rich carpet, imported from who knew where. Hand-carved mahogany furniture stood against the walls. The window framed the rolling hills of an estate that she didn’t want but was going to have anyway. After last night, though… After last night, that feeling of disconnectedness had faded to a dull ache. In another month, she might even be satisfied.

  The one consolation—the only thing that made it worthwhile—was that they would be doing this together. She shut her eyes and turned in bed, reaching for her husband.

  She found cold sheets instead. That woke her right up. She got out of bed and fumbled for her robe.

  He wasn’t in the dressing room, nor in the library next to it, nor in… She didn’t have names for all the rooms that she looked in. Why did anyone need three sitting rooms, all in different colors?

  Where was he? Why hadn’t he woken her up? He wouldn’t leave her entirely, she told herself. She wouldn’t panic. The thud of her heart had nothing to do with fear.

  She rushed down a stairway wide enough to host a stampeding herd of cattle. In the normal course of things, she might have been able to ask the servants where he’d gone. But there were no servants—except in the stables. Surely they’d have seen him there, if he’d left.

  She dashed outside. The dew on the grass soaked into her slippers. But as she came up on the stables, she heard voices—just audible over a loud, soughing sound. She heard Edward. She hadn’t realized how she’d worried until she staggered in relief, knowing that he hadn’t disappeared.

  “Just like that,” he was saying. “Yes, we’ll need it a bit hotter than you’d use for a shoe. Wait until it glows orange.”

  That heavy soughing sound repeated, and now she recognized it as a bellows working. He’d showed her a bit of that yesterday. She dashed up to the stables, turned the corner to the farrier’s station.

  Edward was holding a thin piece of metal over a fire. He’d donned thick leather gloves, removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. He turned the iron in his hand, slowly, with great precision. Free found herself unable to breathe at the sight of him—at those lovely muscles she’d admired up close last night, displayed to such lovely advantage, at the intent concentration on his face.

  The metal went from dark gray to dull red, coming up on orange. He picked up a tool—something that looked like a pincers—and then tapped the metal with it, shaping it with light, gentle touches, coaxing it into a graceful curve.

  “There,” he said to the man working the bellows. “Now to heat the end. This will have to be damned hot, Jeffreys—work the bellows hard, until the iron is almost yellow.” He held the tip in the fire, watching. “Yes. Precisely like that.”

  Before she could understand what was happening, he’d set something on the table, something small and shiny. He touched the heated end of his iron to that thing, holding it in place for a moment.

  “There. That’s the last one, Jeffreys.”

  The man left off working the bellows. “You know your way around a forge, sir. My lord, I mean.”

  Edward’s nose wrinkled at that last, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he crossed to a barrel. He slipped the thin metal inside and steam rose in clouds.

  “There.” He pulled it out, turning it from side to side, considering.

  She’d not had a good view of the thing before. She could see it now. It looked like a flower. A flower made of iron, the base sporting graceful leaves, the stem rising up in a gentle curve, leaning into some unseen wind. It terminated in what looked like a tiny iron bell.

  No. She leaned forward squinting. That wasn’t a bell.

  He nodded at his handiwork and then turned around. That was when he saw her. His eyes widened slightly. “Free.”

  “Edward.” She looked at him. “You awoke early.”

  “Not precisely.” He gave her a small, tired smile. “I’ve not slept yet. Now shut your eyes, Free. And Jeffreys—you can take yourself off. Thank you for your help.” Edward jerked his head, and the man who’d worked the bellows smiled slightly, bowed, and slipped away.

  “Shut my eyes?” Free didn’t comply. She looked around instead. “Why would I—” And then she stopped, her breath taken away. Because there were others—an entire pail of these plants, stems rising gracefully to belled flowers. It was like looking at a meadow of metal flowers waving in some spring breeze.

  She took a step forward.

  No, those really weren’t bells. They were thimbles—he must have taken a handful from the seamstress’s room. He’d made all these flowers from those.

  She could suddenly feel the pebbles beneath her slippers, hard, gritty little dots pressing into the soles of her feet.

  “Last night,” he said, “after you fell asleep, I kept thinking. Of all the things you said, of all the things I know you want. You told me that everyone tempered their dreams over time—eventually.”

  “I did.” What this had to do with a sheaf of iron bluebells, she didn’t know.

  “You told me you wanted to believe in me,” he said. “And—here’s the thing, Free. What I remembered most was that day in your office. The day I fell completely, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you. I was a complete ass to you, and I told you that you were trying to drain the Thames with thimbles.”

  She smiled faintly. “I remember that.”

  “You told me I’d had it wrong. That you weren’t trying to drain the Thames—you were watering a garden, drop by drop. You made me think, for the first time in my life, that there was a way to win against all of this.” He stretched his arms wide.

  Her throat felt scratchy.

  “So that’s what I was doing last night.” His voice was low. “You told me to believe in myself, and so I made you a garden of thimbles. A promise, Free, that we won’t compromise. That our marriage won’t be almost what you wished for, that your dreams will not be tempered. That I will not be the one who holds you back, but the man who carries thimbles to water your garden when your arms tire.”

  A breeze came up, swirling between them, and the stems danced in the wind, the flowers clanging merrily together.

  “That’s how I thought I could make it up to you,” he said. “Drop by drop. Thimble by thimble. But about halfway through making these, I knew it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t ask you to become another viscountess. I’d be miserable; you’d be miserable. And you’d do a bang-up job, but there are a hundred women who could be viscountesses. There’s only one of you.”

  She was feeling almost hazy. Her knees felt weak. But he was the one who took her hand. “So I’m asking you, Free. Don’t be my viscountess. Don’t throw my parties. Don’t run my estate. Let me be your thimble carrier. Be you, the most wonderful woman I have ever known. I’ll be the one making sure that you never run out of water.”

  “How?” Her voice cracked. “You have a seat in Parliament, an estate that needs care. Your wife needs to make sure that…”

  “No,” he said softly.

  “I mean, it, Edward. I have no patience for those lords who neglect their duties.”

  He came up to her and touched her cheek. “The lovely thing about being a complete and utter scoundrel is that I don’t have to accept everyone else’s reality. I had this idea last night. This strange, incomprehensible idea. Why do we have to make decisions about the estate? I’ve spent the last seven years of my l
ife blackmailing people and forging letters. I know nothing of estate management.”

  “You could learn.”

  “Why should I? Neither of us want this. Why should we change our entire lives when there are people who already know this place better than I ever would? Let them run it.”

  Free blinked. “Who do you mean?”

  “All the land I showed you yesterday? Those hundreds of tenants, all the people in town who rely on the estate? They know what they need, and they surely don’t need us to explain it to them. Let them decide how to manage this all. It’s their life. Imagine what would happen if we simply got out of the way.”

  Free let out a breath. She’d been trying to figure it all out—how to have this, and have her newspaper as well. It…it might be possible.

  “Take this house, for instance,” he said. “We don’t want it. So why not find a better way to use the funds to keep it open? Ask the tenants what they’d want. Maybe they’ll choose to rent it out. Maybe they’ll convert it to a hospital or a school.”

  “You’re right,” Free said slowly. “Would we choose a board of tenants, then?”

  “Choose?” He smiled at her. “Come, my dear. It’s time you stopped being so acquisitive and started being more political.”

  For one moment, her heart stopped. And then—as the future truly opened up to her—she began to smile.

  “I rather think,” he said, “that they’re competent to vote on a board themselves.”

  “They could.” She couldn’t breathe. “And who will get to vote, do you think?”

  He reached out and took her hands. “Must you ask? It’s our estate. Our board. We can set any rules we wish.”

  The bluebells shifted as another breeze ruffled them, thimble after thimble ringing out.

  “So,” he finished, “I had rather assumed the women would vote, too.”

  She couldn’t stop smiling. She reached out and pulled him to her. He was solid and real in her arms. And he was right—there was no need to compromise. Not with him. From here on out, there would be no almost—just more, and more, and more.

  “That’s where we’ll start,” he said. “When the fabric of society fails to unravel in response… Well, we’ll take on the rest of the world.”

  She pulled him down for a kiss. “They don’t stand a chance.”

  Epilogue

  IT WAS LATE AUGUST, and the archive room at the Women’s Free Press was miserably hot. In part that was because the weather was deucedly warm. In part, it was because no breeze came in through the window, even though they’d opened it as wide as it would go. But mostly, it was because there were seven people—counting Edward—crammed into the tiny space.

  The chair and the desk that had once stood here had been pressed into service in the adjacent meadow, bearing food and drink.

  That meant that everyone sat on the floor.

  To Edward’s left, Oliver Marshall’s knee jammed into his thigh. On his right, Patrick Shaughnessy sat, quietly contemplating his cards. Violet and Sebastian Malheur sat shoulder-to-shoulder across the room. Opposite them sat the Duke of Clermont, with Stephen Shaughnessy at his side.

  “So is someone going to explain to me,” Edward asked, “why we must all play cards in a closet?”

  “Tradition.” That came from Sebastian Malheur.

  Sebastian Malheur was precise and amusing. He’d glanced once at each card as it was dealt, and then never looked at them again. Edward had met him first a few weeks ago, when Free had taken him down to London on her brother, Oliver’s return.

  “Tradition?” Edward looked dubiously around the space.

  They were crammed in every which way. Marbles—which Clermont had insisted were the only tokens to be used—took the place of cash bets. Clermont had explained the matter of those tokens solemnly. Apparently, marbles were a serious business in these parts.

  Edward shook his head. “You lot have terrible traditions.”

  “The cramped space is not part of the usual way of things,” Clermont said. “It’s more that when one of the Brothers Sinister gets married, we get together the night before and play cards.”

  “Discomfort, however, does seem to be the norm.” Sebastian grinned. “Particularly on the part of the groom.” He looked off in distant memory. “And Oliver did say you could use a little discomfort.”

  Edward pushed back against the wall—as much as he could in these maddeningly close quarters—shaking his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “Just because I’m left-handed and married to Oliver’s sister doesn’t mean I’ll join your ridiculous organization of entirely non-sinister proportions. I will not be dragooned into such a thing.”

  “Don’t worry,” Robert said. “We’re not dragooning you. You’re not really a Brother Sinister. You’re just a convenient excuse.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “And Stephen and Patrick may be left-handed, but they’re not even relations. So unfortunately, we can’t include them.” That came from Free’s brother.

  “Also you’re not really marrying Free today,” Violet pointed out. “You’re just holding a late wedding breakfast.”

  “While we’re at it, it isn’t even the night before.” That was Sebastian. “So you see, it all comes out right. All the ways in which this is almost the right circumstance, and yet not, cancel one another perfectly. Ergo, we must all sit in this closet while I win at cards.”

  “You will not,” his wife muttered.

  “While the Malheurs win at cards,” Sebastian corrected smoothly. “Speaking of which—how do we fare? I know that Oliver and Robert have both already crossed twenty-one. But what do the rest of you have?”

  “Seventeen,” Patrick said, flipping over the card he’d kept facedown.

  “Nineteen.” Violet turned over a nine and a seven to go with the three she had on display.

  “Ah.” Sebastian flipped his single card over, showing a pair of kings. “I’m at twenty. Can anyone beat that? I think not.” The man smiled beatifically and glanced at the marbles in the middle of the room.

  “I’ve only got eighteen,” Stephen said, “but I don’t think that your almosts do cancel out. You see, I’m not really left-handed.”

  “No!” Robert and Oliver spoke together in joint outrage.

  Sebastian’s eyes widened. “An infidel! Stone him!” He looked wildly around, found a scrap of paper on the floor, and hurled it ineffectually at him. “Die, fiend, die!”

  Stephen watched the paper flutter to the ground, and then shook his head. “Are you mad?”

  “No,” Sebastian said. “I’m not even angry, but it’s more fun this way. You set everything off balance. If I can’t get a little amusement in return, what’s the point?”

  “Ah,” Stephen said with a wave of his hand. “You lot were asking to be lied to. Gathering a bunch of men, muttering something about being left-handed.” Stephen shrugged. “Of course I’m going to say, ‘Yes, I’m left-handed.’ Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Ah, well. At least tradition was upheld on the most important point.” Sebastian leaned forward and began to gather up the marbles in the center of the room. “I won.”

  “No,” Edward said. “You didn’t.”

  Sebastian froze. He glared at Edward, who had a string of cards showing. “You can’t have won,” he said. “Not unless you have a three under there. The chances of that are—”

  Edward smiled blandly and flipped over the card, revealing the three of spades.

  Silence met this proclamation. Sebastian blinked at Edward’s hand, frowning. “Did you cheat?” he finally asked.

  “I lie. I forge. I blackmail.” Edward shrugged. “But cheating at cards? I’d never stoop so low.”

  “Good to know you have some principles,” Oliver said with a roll of his eyes.

  “Indeed,” Edward said. “Cheating at cards is too easy. I’d be vastly bored if I let myself do it.”

  Beside him, Patrick—who knew Edward’s sense of humor rather better than th
e others—let out a crack of laughter.

  But at that moment, the door opened behind him. A draft of cool air swept over him. Edward turned and glanced around.

  “Ah,” he said. “Speaking of principles. Here comes my principle now.”

  Free stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, dressed in a gown of brilliant blue and white. She glanced over them all—crammed into the too-tight space—and shook her head in exasperation.

  “Why is half my wedding party hiding in the archive room?” she asked.

  Edward reached forward and gathered up the scattered marbles. “Ah, Free. How lovely to see you. Did you know that every one of these marbles represents a favor owed to me by these fine men and women?”

  Free tilted her head, contemplating the marbles. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I did know that. Jane mentioned these to me once. Apparently she’s still holding one in reserve.”

  “It’s a high-stakes game,” Edward said, “but I was willing to play. And now look what I have for you.” He reached up and poured the marbles in her waiting hands. “Here,” he said. “I know I gave you a puppy for a wedding present, but these are much better.”

  Free smiled down at him. “Dearest. You shouldn’t have. A duke and an MP, both in my pocket? It’s everything I’ve always wanted.”

  Oliver began to struggle to his feet. “See here,” he said sharply.

  Edward stood gracefully and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Enjoy.”

  “I’m fairly certain they’re joking,” Sebastian stage-whispered.

  Edward ignored this. “Now we’ve taken care of two of them,” he told her. “How many more do we need?”

  “I don’t know.” She linked her arm in his. “Shall we go find out?”

  Thank you!

  Thanks for reading The Suffragette Scandal. I hope you enjoyed it!

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