A Mad, Wicked Folly (10 page)

Oh, no. The brandy might be nectar of the gods, but it
must have given me a false sense of security. I had never
spoken in such a way in front of my parents.
“And what do you know about this, Victoria?” There
was a measured tone to my father’s voice. His expression
was calm, but I could see anger seeping through. I knew I
had gone too far.
“I just heard some people talking,” I said. My cheeks
felt hot, and I hoped they weren’t as red as they felt.
“People talking where?”
“I forget?” I said weakly, realizing how feeble that
sounded.
“Your daughter seems to have
interesting
opinions, Mr.
Darling,” Sir Henry said, and then smiled. But there was
little humor in that smile.
“It appears so,” my father said shortly.
“Do you have an occupation, Miss Darling? Are you
finding yourself taxed?” Sir Henry asked, a patronizing
smile on his face, as if he were addressing a naughty little
girl who didn’t like the flavor of her lollipop.
“No,” I said. “But I—”
“Since you, like many women, don’t earn money, you
shouldn’t
have a say on how the taxes are spent. Perhaps
you should keep quiet about things that don’t concern you.”
“But I would welcome a way to earn my own money.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath from my mother.
“And take work away from a man? Trying to support
his family?” Sir Henry demanded.
“What if I, or any other woman, had to support myself?
Everyone deserves an equal chance at life, do they not?”
“Such socialistic views you have, Miss Darling.” He
picked up his spoon and turned his attention to his charlotte russe pudding, dismissing me.
“Just because I have an idea of my own doesn’t make
me a socialist, Sir Henry. Not that there is anything wrong
with socialists, after all.”
“Victoria!” My father was too polite to shout at the
table, but I could hear the warning in his voice.
“But that’s not fair,” I said, looking round the table. “It
isn’t fair to treat women unequally. We aren’t children.”
Sir Henry set his spoon down. His face was pickled
with anger. “I think my son will have to tie you to the table
leg, young lady.”
I stared at my plate.
Shut it, Vicky. Just shut it!
my saner
self screamed at me. But my impulsive side, fueled by my
father’s rather expensive brandy, prevailed. I lifted my
head and looked Edmund’s father in the eye. “Let him try
it.”
I heard Edmund muffle a snort of laughter.
“Ladies, I think we’ll go through,” my mother said,
bringing a halt to the exchange. So, as usual, we ladies
stood up and followed her up to the drawing room, where
we waited for the men to smoke their cigars and talk of
subjects not meant for female ears, which, of course, meant
politics. Mamma chatted with Lady Carrick-Humphrey
and India, blatantly ignoring me. I stood by the fireplace
and wished I could become invisible.
When the men joined us, Edmund suggested we step
out onto the veranda. India followed us, but went down the
steps and wandered out into the garden. I was glad to go
out, because the fresh air cleared my head a bit, and anyway I did not want to be in the same room with Papa and
Sir Henry.
Edmund leaned against the railing, his hands in his
pockets. “What a row, Miss Darling,” he said. “The way
both our fathers looked, I thought lives would be lost.”
“I didn’t mean to create a scene.” I brushed an insect
away from my sleeve.
“Blathering on about women’s rights, how funny. I
thought you were never going to take a breath. You are a
one. I’ve never known the like.”
I shifted under his candid gaze. “I have opinions. Is that
so wrong?”
He shrugged.
“Do you agree with your father, that I should be tied to
the table leg?” Perhaps Freddy was wrong. Perhaps Edmund
wasn’t as forward-thinking as my brother thought. Perhaps
I had made a terrible mistake.
“No, of course not,” he said to my relief. “It was amusing to watch you get one over on my father. Lord knows
I wish I could do the same..” There was a bitter note to
Edmund’s words. “I’m sick of him ordering every direction
of my life.”
“How so? You’re at school and away from him, aren’t
you?”
“Oh, his reach is long.” He made a little noise and
grinned. “Let’s just say I made a bit of a mess recently. My
father had to tidy it up and he was not amused.”
“What happened?”
He waved his hand. “Some gambling debts. I’m sure
they barely made a dent in his coffers, but he’s demanded
recompense, and so my wings are to be clipped. I get married and find an occupation or take up a commission in the
navy. And life on a ship is not for me. I can’t see myself
sailing o’er the Spanish Main fending off all boarders. Too
Robert Louis Stevenson for words.”
“The navy sounds refreshing compared to my sentence.
If I don’t marry, I must go live with my Aunt Maude, never
to be seen or heard from again.”
He looked at me frankly. “Is the reason you have to get
married because you took your clothes off? To dilute the
scandal, so to speak?”
“There are other reasons. My father feels the steadying influence of a husband would be good for me. But if he
thinks I’m going to quit drawing and painting just because
I’m married, then he’s sorely mistaken. I plan to be a great
artist, no matter what he says.”
I must have looked irritated, because Edmund placed
his hand over mine and laughed. “Never fear, Miss Darling.
We will be our own masters, I shall see to that. We’ll do
anything we like.” He shifted a bit closer to me, squeezing my fingers for a moment before dropping his hands
onto the veranda wall. “We shall be our own masters.” He
nudged my shoulder with his. “It’s a cliché, old thing, but I
think we’re two peas in a pod.”
“Seems so.”
“Few marriages have begun with so much in common.”
He laughed.
“My parents were barely acquainted with each other.
I’m not sure if my mother knew whether she was marrying
my father or his best man.”
“I hope that will not be the case with me, although my
best man, Kenneth, is much better looking, so you might
want to hedge your bets.”
“Aren’t you terrified of marrying a scandalous woman?”
Although Edmund had besmirched his own name, it was
easier for a single man to recover from scandal than a
woman. But because a married man was thought to be
responsible for his wife’s behavior, a husband was often
painted with his wife’s tarry brush.
But truly, Edmund didn’t seem to care a whit. “None
of my friends give a toss about society whispers. The king
doesn’t let scandal mark his life, so why should the rest of
us?”
“That’s a refreshing view.”
“A modern one. Time to sweep away the past and
embrace the new, that’s what I say.”
We looked out into the darkened garden for a bit. India
was under the pergola; her dress glowed a ghostly blue in
the moonlight. It felt strange to be standing next to a boy
I barely knew but who would be the person I would have
breakfast with every morning and share a bed with for the
rest of my life. How would we go from being acquaintances
to intimates? Perhaps it could start now. Edmund had been
so humiliated by his father. Maybe if I showed him that I
understood . . .
I turned to Edmund and put my hand over his. “I’m so
sorry about what your father said to you earlier,” I said. “I
know that must have hurt you.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “Hurt me? Don’t
know what you mean.”
“Oh, I’m sorry if I misspoke . . . only—”
And then, without any warning, Edmund took me in
his arms and kissed me. Startled, I took a step back, but
instead of letting go, he followed and gripped me with
even more determination.
I had never been kissed by a boy before, and my mind
flickered through several emotions at once: shock, embarrassment, and then a tiny bit of excitement. My arms hung
at my sides, and I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do with
them, so I just left them there.
The kiss went on and on and on, and Edmund’s arms
began to feel too tight around me, his cologne too cloying.
My corset pressed hard against my ribs. I forgot the
warning from Bailey to breathe from the top of my lungs.
The brandy rose up inside me.
I broke from Edmund’s embrace, leaned over, and was
sick all over his brilliantly shined shoes.

HE STENCH OF
the manure in the streets and
the smog from coal fires and motorcars made my
pounding headache worse. My eyes were sore
and hot from crying. It was the morning after the
dinner. I was on my way to my charity, Friends of London

Churches, at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square,
accompanied by Emma, our parlormaid. And I was, once
again, in utter disgrace.

My father was angrier than I had ever seen him. It
wasn’t my vomiting over Edmund that made him angry;
he’d never discovered I’d been drinking brandy. Edmund
had stepped forward and defended me, saying I’d probably gotten a bad oyster at dinner.

No, Papa was angry because I had spoken my mind.
After the Carrick-Humphreys left, my father accused me of
purposely trying to sabotage the engagement and humiliate him in front of Sir Henry. He paced round the sitting
room calling me a wicked, wicked girl, over and over.

“What did I say that was so wrong? Am I not allowed
an opinion?” I said.
“No, you are not! You, like many women, are overly
emotional, and have no ability to judge a matter well
enough to form an opinion. If you behave in this fashion
again, Victoria,” my father went on, “you will be on the
next train to Norfolk.”
And then, true to his word, he had the servants remove
every pencil, every paintbrush, every pastel and piece of
paper that he could find in my room, even my childhood
drawings. And worst of all, they took away my sketchbook, which I had left sitting on my dressing table.
Because I knew Mamma had been on my side once, I
sought her out in her bedroom while Bailey was readying her for bed, and begged her for my art things, but she
would not budge.
“But you convinced him before, he told me,” I said.
“And I see now that I was wrong,” she said. “Your father
is quite right. He feels that this obsession you have with
art has turned your head and is the source of your willful behavior.” She flapped her hand. “So no more drawing.
You shall concentrate on your social obligations and your
trousseau.”
“What about my sketchbook, Mamma? What has Papa
done with it?”
“I have it.”
“
You
have it?”
“And you should thank me. If your father saw what was
in it, he would chuck it into the fire,” she said.
I swallowed. “You looked inside?” Mamma had never
seen any serious work I’d done. I couldn’t bear it if she cast
aspersions. I held my breath, but she looked away for a
moment, saying nothing. Then she spoke again.
“I won’t give your art things back to you now. But I will
give them to Mr. Carrick-Humphrey once you are married,
and it will be up to him as to whether you can have them
back.”
“Mr. Carrick-Humphrey?”
“Of course!” My mother looked exasperated. “He will
be head of your household and so he will make your decisions for you. The everyday running of the household will
be in your hands—dinners, parties, decoration and the
like—but my dear, what did you think?”
“My husband will not be my jailer, Mamma. Times are
changing, for heaven’s sake.”
“Not that much,” she said, “despite your little speech
on women’s suffrage. I would advise you to be kind to Mr.
Carrick-Humphrey so that he gives you what you want. If
you harangue him and are willful in your behavior, then
he may not grant you what you wish”
“Edmund Carrick-Humphrey is a new man, Mamma,
not some buttoned-up, dusty old Victorian. I don’t think he
wants a simpering wife hanging on his every word so he’ll
be inclined to hand out wishes like sweeties from Father
Christmas. My brother doesn’t treat Rose that way.”
My mother sighed. “Frederick has no need to. Rose
is not a willful girl. She understands what it means to be
a good wife. She follows his lead, and that is the way it
should be. I fear you will come down to earth with a bump,
my dear.”
I had no chance of going to the RCA now. How could
I create enough work for my application in such a short
space of time, with no implements or supplies? And finding models to sit for me would be a near impossibility.
Lily and the models at Monsieur’s studio were the best
models I’d ever had. In the past whenever I’d asked people to model, they’d fidgeted with embarrassment under
my steady gaze or chattered to hide their discomfort,
shifting away from the light and rendering pointless
the whole exercise. If I tried to draw people in public on
the sly, they’d see me staring and leave or tell me off for
being rude. And of course no one,
no one
would be willing
to pose for me undraped.
It was a problem that had hounded me all night, and
I was still fretting over it as the carriage turned toward
Trafalgar Square, and I saw the four bronze lions surrounding Nelson’s Column. Usually this sight cheered me, but
nothing could make me smile today. The carriage paused
behind a queue of traffic. We sat there for the longest time,
not moving. Finally, I let the window down and poked my
head out. The reason for the traffic queue seemed to be the
crush of people milling around.
I saw a line of women joining up by the fountain in the
square. They were wearing sashes and carrying banners
that said
Women’s Social and Political Union
.
Some of the women stood arm in arm, singing, while others handed out leaflets to passersby. In the back, several
younger women dressed in matching green livery marched
in step, playing recorders and beating drums.
A thought struck me. Lucy had said Christabel’s sister
Sylvia Pankhurst had graduated from the RCA and was
looking for artists to help paint a mural. If I helped with
artwork for the WSPU and showed Sylvia what I could do,
she might write a reference letter. Of course I would still
need new art supplies and models, but at least securing a
letter of reference would be a start.
If only I could remember where the WSPU headquarters were. I’d left the leaflet in my sketchbook, but I
vaguely remembered Lucy saying it was in an inn off the
Strand. She must have meant one of the Inns of Chancery,
where solicitors used to live and work. There were a group
of such buildings that had been turned into apartments
and offices. But which one held the WSPU?
I opened the door to the carriage and stepped out,
Emma trailing behind me. John, my father’s coachman,
looked down at me with surprise on his face.
“We can make our way from here, John. Don’t worry
about me.” I pointed to the women. “There are so many
other women about. It’s as though I’m being chaperoned
already,” I joked. “By the time you get the carriage through,
I’ll be quite late. The church is just there anyway.”
John looked at the women and then at the traffic near
the church. Thankfully he was sensible and not prone to
fits of drama like our housekeeper was. Mrs. Fitzhughes
would have abandoned the carriage in the street rather
than risk the chance I might run astray in the hundred
yards between the carriage and the church. “Righty ho,
then,” he said. “I’ll return home and be back for you in two
hours.” John had turned the carriage around and headed
back toward Pall Mall.
I glanced at Emma, who was looking at a man selling
sugared almonds by the pavement. I dug into my reticule
and pulled out a tuppence. “Go on, Emma. Buy us a packet
each.”
“Oh, thank you, miss!” She took the coin eagerly and
headed over to the seller.
I picked up my skirt and darted over the road. As the
line began to move down Whitehall, the musicians drew
near and I caught up with a girl who had a snare drum
slung across her shoulder, her knees lifting high as she
marched along. I touched her sleeve.
She glanced up, startled, her drumsticks in midair. And
then a smile spread over her face. “Oh, hello!”
“I was wondering if you could assist me. I’m interested
in helping with Sylvia Pankhurst’s mural for the Women’s
Exhibition.”
“Oh! Are you?” she said, her drum thumping against
her leg as we walked. “The exhibition is going to be ripping! They’ll be selling hats and cakes and all sorts. The
band is going to play, and Mrs. Pankhurst is speaking.
Should be heaps of fun.”
“I was told to go to the headquarters, but I don’t know
where it is.”
“Four Clement’s Inn, just west of the law courts and
north of the Strand before it turns into Fleet Street. Just follow the chalk arrows on the pavement. If you go Monday at
one o’clock, Sylvia Pankhurst is sure to be there.”
Suddenly, Mamma’s charity scheme was a godsend. I
could tell Mamma my charity was meeting at the Temple
Church off of Fleet Street. John would take me there easily
enough.
“Thank you. Where is everyone off to?”
“Marching to Parliament to protest the imprisonment
of suffragettes. Then the fife-and-drum band are going to
Holloway Prison to play music outside to keep the girls’
spirits up. They can hear us, even the ones in solitary
confinement.”
We turned the corner and were onto Whitehall. I could
see the spires of Parliament poking up through the foggy
gloom of the city. But then I saw police constables milling
around the side of the road.
The women in the queue, unhappy with the police
presence, muttered their dismay.
“Are they always around the suffragettes, the police?”
I asked the girl.
“An awful lot, as of late,” she said. “Wherever we turn
up, they’re there. In some ways it’s good because the police
protect us from men who want to do us harm. You wouldn’t
believe what some men will do. Last week one of the girls
was chalking meeting times on the pavement and a man
shoved her into the railings. She knocked her head badly
and had to go to hospital. The story made the newspapers
and some wrote that she deserved it. The
Daily Bugle
said if
she’d stayed at home where she belonged, it wouldn’t have
happened, and that’s supposed to be a women’s newspaper.” The girl banged the head of her drum angrily with
one stick. “And now, for safety, the WSPU will only allow
us to chalk in groups.”
Suddenly I saw something else that made my blood
run cold: PC Catchpole eyeing the line of women marching
past, a look of disdain on his face. The moment I saw him,
his gaze met mine. And held it.
He recognized me.
Fear coursed through my body. I was
marching with the suffragettes. I had claimed I wasn’t with
them before. If Catchpole decided to arrest me, I wouldn’t
be able to talk my way out of it again.
I looked behind me. A crowd had gathered in the street;
there was no chance of attempting to walk back through
such a mob. I stepped up on the pavement, trying to find
an easy exit. There, between a pub and a bookshop, was
a small alleyway. Perhaps I could make my way through
there and then double back behind the buildings.
I saw Catchpole take a step forward. I saw him point at
me. I heard him shout.
I broke through a group of people and dashed down
the alley.
The cobblestones clattered under my high-heeled boots,
and soon the skin of my heels was rubbed raw. I rushed on,
but the alley curved around instead of turning back toward
Trafalgar Square, and soon I was hopelessly lost.
I stopped to get my bearings. The fog from countless
coal fires filled the air. It was stifling and spooky. I gathered my wits about me and chose the closest turning.
And then I heard footsteps running behind me.
Catchpole!