A Mad, Wicked Folly (27 page)

WE ESCAPED TO
Victoria Tower Gardens and collapsed
onto a park bench. I clutched my satchel against me as if I
could contain the horrors I had documented inside it. But it
was like trying to slam the lid on Pandora’s box. I couldn’t
get the images of what I had seen out of my mind: the hatred of the people who had attacked the suffragettes, and
the utter disregard from some of the police for the safety
of the women. The fear in the women’s faces as the crowd
surrounded them. My eyes burned and my blouse felt
clammy with dampness.

“Did you know it would be like that?”
Lucy shook her head, wordless.
“You were nearly crushed! I was so afraid for you.”
“I was afraid for me too, Queenie.” Lucy’s voice shook.
“Promise me you won’t do anything like that again.”
She let out a short laugh. “I can’t promise that. Like I

told you before, I’m always up for a fight.”
“A fight like that? How can you? I saw how afraid you
were.”
“So what? I was afraid. If I let fear stop me, I’d still be
back in America washing another man’s underpants. And
you shouldn’t let it stop you, either.”
My throat was sore from the effort of holding back
tears. “I wish I could be like you, but I’m not.”
“How can you have what you want when you’re denied
the same rights as male citizens?”
I shook my head.
“Here are some home truths, Queenie. That art school
you’re hankering after? It gets money from the government,
yet they only let only a few women have scholarships.
Even though Sylvia Pankhurst won a scholarship, she
didn’t think it was fair other women weren’t considered,
so she challenged the school and they labeled her a troublemaker. Did you know that?”
“She told me she butted up against the establishment,
but she didn’t tell me that.” I couldn’t imagine anyone disliking Sylvia Pankhurst, who was possibly the kindest
person I knew. I could only imagine the doors that were
shut against her in the art world. She couldn’t even give me
a simple reference letter.
“The dean hated her for it, and he’s not someone you
want against you if you want to be an artist. And Christabel.
She got her law degree from Manchester University. She
graduated with honors. Finished higher than most of the
male students.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?”
“It might be if she was allowed to practice law. The Bar
Council won’t let women use their degrees. Christabel is
forbidden to practice law because she is a woman. Is that
fair?”
I bit my lip. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t know that. My neighbor
is going to medical school. She might not be able to become
a doctor?”
“If she dared to work alongside men, they’d treat her
like a nurse, if even that. This is why we all fight so hard.
Not just for the vote, but for an equal opportunity in the
world. A vote is a voice. I think you underestimate yourself, Queenie. This is your fight, same as it is mine.” Lucy
stood up, shoved her hands into the pockets of that ugly
gray skirt, and leaned against a London plane tree. “If I
could snap my fingers and give you the life you wanted,
what would you say? What would your life look like?”
“I know where you’re going. I don’t want to play this
game—”
“Yes, you do. Come on, what would it be? Dare to dream
a bit, Queenie.”
I shrugged. “I’d want to earn my own money with an
occupation that means something to me.”
“Go on.”
“To be able to say what I want, to say what I believe
without being disapproved of.” I thought back to how Papa
had berated me for expressing my opinion to Sir Henry.
“Sounds reasonable. How about loving who you want
instead of settling for someone your parents have chosen
for you? Wouldn’t it be a real lollapalooza to bring him
home and say, ‘Ma and Pa, this is my guy and if you don’t
like him . . . well, then, too bad. I don’t need your money
or anyone’s money, I don’t even need
him
to have money,
’cause I got my own.’” She nudged me with her elbow and
watched me carefully. “Like PC Fletcher?”
At the mention of Will, a stab of pain rent my heart.
“Please don’t say his name.” I started to cry then. I couldn’t
help it. I tried to hold it back, but everything came crashing
down around me. Will, my parents, Edmund, art school,
the suffragettes, the riot . . . it all tumbled down like a
landslide.
Lucy put her arm around me. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t
mean to upset you.” She mumbled something under her
breath. “I’m such a disaster. I know it. Everyone tells me
not to be so pushy, but I just get on my soapbox and I can’t
get off it. I forget this is all new to you. Sometimes things
can get really intense, and we can’t take it anymore. It happened to me before I left America. Even the Pankhursts get
overwhelmed. Sylvia is in Kent painting, and Christabel is
at that German spa. Why don’t you concentrate on getting
into art school and then see where you are.”
Lucy pulled a cloth-wrapped package out of her pocket
and handed it to me. “Here. I finished it this morning. I
was going to give it to you after the deputation. I knew you
wanted it to show for your exam. But I think you should
wear her. Maybe she’ll give you some courage. Remember
why you made her in the first place? What you wanted her
to mean? She makes her own shelter.”
I undid the wrapping. Inside was the mermaid brooch
I had designed. She held her sea-lavender umbrella aloft, a
gentle smile upon her face as she sat on her tail. An unseen
wind seemed to blow her long hair back from her shoulders.
Lucy nudged my shoulder with hers. “Come and find
me at Clement’s Inn when you decide what you want to do.
You can even stay with me for a bit if you want.”
A lump rose in my throat just then. “Thank you, Lucy.”
She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Do you remember
what Christabel said—‘women who are unwilling to fight
for the vote are unworthy of it’? That applies to life, too,
Vicky.”
A moment later I realized that she had not called me
Queenie. For the first time since I had known her, she
called me Vicky.

T WAS THE
day of the exam. I waited in the hallway
of the RCA with my drawing of Lancelot and another
life study of Will safely between two large pieces of
card, and the mermaid pin nestled in a box.
After the deputation I had pulled myself together and

finished Lancelot. It wasn’t my best, but I thought it was
good enough. I also finished the sketches of the deputation and posted them to Clemence Housman. And then I
stepped back from the WSPU. I couldn’t think about it now.
It was just too much.

The day after the riot, newspapers reported that Lucy
and thirteen other women had protested the prime minister’s refusal to see Mrs. Pankhurst, and had thrown rocks at
the Treasury Building, breaking nearly every pane of glass.
They had waited until nightfall when no one would be in
the building. They had even gone so far as to tie strings to
the stones so they wouldn’t fly far into the rooms, just in
case someone was there. The goal was just to attract police
attention, not to injure anyone. As planned, they had been
arrested and then released to stand trial later in the month.

Now I studied the RCA candidates, who sat on a long
row of benches in the hall while we were called in one by
one to show our work. There were maybe fifty men there
and only ten or so women besides myself.

I couldn’t help but think about what Lucy had said
about the RCA. It wasn’t fair that so few women were given
a scholarship. I supposed that was why the men had reason
to look so confident while the women who needed financial help were apprehensive and worried.

When my name was called, I rose and went into the
room. Five men sat at a long table against the window.
Only one looked up when I came in. He was the youngest of them, maybe in his forties with hair that was long
enough to touch his collar. The cut of his coat was a little
more modern, and he wore a colorful waistcoat, whereas
the others looked as though they had been dragged from
a Victorian tableau. One man actually wore a monocle, of
all things.

I placed my work on the table and watched, hands
folded in front of me, as each examiner looked at the drawings and the mermaid brooch and passed them to the next
man in line. One of the men looked at the nude drawing of
Will and then at me with an expression of surprise on his
face, but he said nothing.

“It appears you have a fascination with the PreRaphaelites, Miss Darling,” the man with the monocle said
as he studied the pastel drawing.

“I do, sir,” I said with as much confidence as I could
muster. I tried to keep the nervousness out of my voice, but
I could hear it quaver just a little bit.

“The subject is Lancelot?” the younger man in the colorful waistcoat said when it was his turn to look at my
work. I saw him studying my William Morris tie.

“Yes. When Rossetti portrayed him, the subject was
really Guinevere and her emotions. I feel that the subject
of men in myth has never been fully explored. We’ve seen
gods and knights and the like, but few show how they’ve
felt as they’ve suffered loss, only triumph.”

I hoped he would agree, but “hmmm” was all he said as
handed my work to the next man.
Moments later the clerk collected my work and handed
it back to me. I was confused. I looked at the clerk. “Is that
it? Do they not want to ask me anything else?”
He inclined his head toward the door. “That’s all.”
I looked once more at the panel. I had been in the
room two minutes. Three months of hard work, and they
had given my art little regard. One of the men yawned. I
pushed the door open and walked out.
“What was it like?” a woman sitting in the hallway
whispered.
I shook my head. A lump was in my throat and I couldn’t
speak, but the look on my face must have been enough for
her. She stared down at her sketchbook.
The exam was held in one of the classrooms. The adjudicator explained how much time we had and what the
rules were as he handed out the booklets. We all picked up
our pencils and began.
I sailed through the art history questions and the practical exam, and my confidence began to build. At least the
panel would see that I knew my basics well. But when I
turned the final page, I saw the paper was full of arithmetic problems; a good many of them were geometry.
Dumbly, I turned the test over as if I would find the
answers on the back or something. I glanced around the
room. Everyone else was studiously writing away, heads
bent over the exam.
I bit the end of my pencil and looked at the test again.
Isosceles triangle? Pythagorean theorem? What did those
words even mean? I had no idea. I was never taught such
things in finishing school, nor was I taught them at the
day school I had attended in London when I was younger.
Instead I, like most girls, was taught comportment, music,
religion, French, and only the very basics of geography,
arithmetic, and science. I could add and subtract and work
simple sums, but that was about it.
How stupid I was to think I could make the panel change
their minds about women. I couldn’t even get through the
test. This realization and the looks on the men’s faces when
I had presented my work made that horrible whisper inside
me start afresh. But this time my father’s words joined it:
Why educate a girl as a boy? Advanced study makes girls discontent and unfit for the lives of wives and mothers.
And here
it was in black-and-white, the proof that I was not qualified
to be anything other than a wife and mother.
A prickle of a headache began to grow behind my
eyes. I put my head in my hands and stared blankly at the
test, the numbers seeming to run together in a blur. I felt
as though I had rolled a huge boulder to the very top of a
mountain, only to have it pushed right back in my face.
Then I thought of my little niece, Charlotte. If she
wanted to become something other than a wife and
mother, would she encounter the same obstacles as I had
in twelve years’ time, when she was my age? I hoped with
all my heart that it would not be so; I wouldn’t wish this
humiliation on her or any other young girl.
I closed the exam book, gathered my things, and
handed my test in to the clerk.
Maybe, just maybe, my artwork would be enough. It
had to be enough.

I LEFT THE
school in utter despair, trudging down the
steps, planning to go home, hide in my room, and lick my
wounds. Then I caught sight of a familiar figure standing
by the railing. It was Will. He was dressed in the same tattered herringbone jacket and cheesecutter cap. A rush of
relief filled me. Will was exactly the person who would
understand. I started to run to him and tell him what had
happened with the exam, but then I caught myself. Instead
I looked away, pretending not to see him, and headed off in
the opposite direction, even though it wasn’t where I wanted to go.

“Vicky!” I heard him call out.
I hunched my shoulders and kept walking.
He caught up, grabbed my arm. “Will you stop? I know

you saw me.”
I stopped but I did not turn around. “Let me go.”
“What are you doing? What is all this about? Acting

I turned around, but I couldn’t look at him. I stared at
his boots.
“How did the exam go?” His voice was guarded.
“Well enough.” We stood there in uncomfortable silence
for a moment. “What are you doing here?” I finally said.
“It was the only place where I knew you’d be. I’ve been
waiting for ages, watching the door.”
“I sent a letter. Did you not receive it?”
“I received it. You said you couldn’t get away from your
parents. I don’t see anyone holding you back now, so why
won’t you talk to me?” Will looked upset.
“I thought I explained in my letter.”
“You didn’t, actually. You’re trying to act as if nothing ever happened between us. That kiss didn’t matter to
you?”
“It was a mistake.”
Will stared at me. “A mistake?”
“Sometimes artists feel things for their muses, and
that’s what I felt for you. It was a . . .” My breath jerked. “A
passing fancy. That’s all it was.”
“A passing fancy?”
And then I launched in with the one word I knew would
sever any remaining connection we had. “I’m engaged. I’m
getting married. Next month.”
Will flinched as though I had thrown cold water in his
face. “Engaged?” It seemed as though an eternity passed
before he spoke again. “To who?”
“It doesn’t matter who. You don’t know him.”
“You love him?”
“No!” His question had caught me off guard. “I mean,
yes. I don’t know.”
“So then why are you marrying him?”
“Because . . . because . . .” I couldn’t explain to Will that
the reason I was marrying Edmund was for money. He
couldn’t understand.
“Let me help you then.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “It’s
because your family wants you to and his family wants
him to.” Will took a step closer to me. “Just like all upperclass families.” He shook his head. “I thought you were
different. I guess I was wrong.”
“Why are you being so beastly?”
“Why didn’t your fiancé pose for you? What did you
need with me?”
“He hasn’t the time. He was at university during the
week; besides, he’s a gentleman and—” I broke off. I had
said the wrong thing.
“And a gentleman doesn’t pose for artists, right?” He
nodded. “Well, good thing I’m just a copper then.”
“That’s not what I meant. . . .” I felt sick inside, my feelings jumbled into a snarl. Tears filled my throat, hot and
thick. I was desperate for Will not to see. “You know I don’t
believe that. You’re more than a copper, Will. You’re talented and wonderful.”
Will’s face was white. He stared over my head, his
hands clasped behind him.
“You want to know the real reason why I don’t draw
my fiancé,” I said. “The truth is that he doesn’t inspire
me.”
“So I inspire you?”
“Yes.”
He made a little noise, shook his head.
“You think me spoiled and snobbish, Will, but the one
thing I want most in the world, my art, I can’t have in my
own home. As long as we’re being honest, that’s the truth of
why I’ve agreed to this marriage: to get out from under my
father’s thumb and into a life of my own where I am free,
where I can draw and paint as I like. And I’ll do anything I
can to have that. I should have told you about the engagement, but I didn’t think it mattered.”
“You’re quite right,” he said then. “It doesn’t matter. You
don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m the one who is sorry. I should never have presumed we had more than an artistic partnership. It’s my
fault. I let myself . . .” His voice trailed off.
“You let yourself what?”
Something seemed to change in Will then. I could
see him transforming in front of me: his happy-go-lucky
expression hardening, the look in his eye turning aloof.
“It’s nothing. Let’s forget this ever happened.”
I didn’t like the way his voice sounded, formal, not at
all like the Will I knew. I would rather he shouted at me.
This reversal, his change in attitude, back to the William
Fletcher I had known months ago, hurt me more. I’d forced
myself not to think of that day, that kiss, those desires he
awakened in me. Now I knew he did the same, and right
in front of me. I saw a door slamming shut in his eyes, and
that day on his bed was locked behind it. He’d never open
it again.
I closed my hand around Will’s, but he gently pulled
it free of my grasp. I made to take it again, but he backed
away and bowed a little. “I wish you the best of luck, Miss
Darling.” And then he turned around and left without
another word.