Wayward Winds (6 page)

 9 
Kensington Gardens

The scene at the Kensington Lawn Tea in late April 1911 was everything its organizers could have hoped for. The day shone warm and fragrant, profuse blooms spread color everywhere, and the soft sounds from the small string ensemble added the perfect classical touch to the gathering. Members of London's highest circles and most of its aristocratic families milled about.

Sufficient time had now passed that the event was unmarred by occasional reminders of the death a year earlier of King Edward VII. Edward's forty-six-year-old son, the new George V, was said to be in Kensington Palace with Queen Mary even now. He was reportedly planning to emerge later in the day. Their coronation was scheduled for June 22, two months from now. Even without the new king, the gala spring celebration would be talked about for weeks.

Amanda Rutherford, however, was not particularly enjoying herself. Here she was at the heart of London society—all she had ever dreamed of—but on the arm of her cousin Geoffrey! She had dressed carefully. She knew her cream-colored crinoline was perfect for both the event and for her.

It should have been her father—
he
was the one who belonged here! He could have been the prime minister. She should be on the arm of
Prime Minister Rutherford
—not this slimy creature! She would never forgive her father for turning his back on what had been the
brightest political career in the empire. He had promised to make her a lady of London. But he had reneged on that as well.

The idea of her hand touching Geoffrey, even through the sleeve of his jacket and her glove, and her carrying on with pleasant demeanor as if his presence was anything but detestable . . . it was enough to make her skin crawl. She was beginning to regret ever agreeing to this. At the time, however, it had seemed a small price to pay for the chance to attend a gathering so close to the Crown. All her life she had dreamed of this very thing. The fact that a sizable anonymous donation was to be made into the bank account of Emmeline Pankhurst to advance the cause of women's rights had also added to her motivation to accept the offer.

The invitation from her father's cousin Gifford three weeks earlier had been entirely unexpected. Curiosity, more than any desire to see him, had prompted Amanda to accept it.

————

I understand you are involved with the Pankhursts,” said Gifford after the exchange of initial trivial pleasantries.

“That is correct,” replied Amanda.

The banker took the information in with a knowing nod. He appeared deep in thought.

“I am curious as to how you found my whereabouts,” Amanda added.

“I am reasonably influential in London,” replied her father's cousin. “Many things besides money are at my disposal. Speaking of finances—how is your, uh—your cause . . . how are you faring?”

“Money is always needed.”

“What would you say if I made it possible for you to obtain a donation?”

“I would want to know what you wanted of me in return. I would not expect you to contribute for the sake of family ties, nor out of concern for the advancement of society,” Amanda replied with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Gifford smiled. He had not underestimated his cousin's daughter in the least. It seemed he and Amanda understood one another perfectly. He rather liked this young firebrand. She might make a very suitable daughter-in-law at that.

“It is a small thing, really,” he said at length. “You know of the Lawn
Tea coming up next month at Kensington Gardens?”

Amanda nodded.

The two continued to talk for another few minutes.

“Of course, you understand Geoffrey must not know that there are finances involved in our little arrangement.”

“He will suspect something.”

“You leave that to me. If you want the donation, you must say nothing.”

————

Amanda had agreed. Now here she was paying a price she wasn't sure was worth what Mrs. Pankhurst was to be given in exchange. But the day would soon be over, and Geoffrey would once again be out of her sight. And she had had her opportunity to mingle with high society.

“Good afternoon, Rutherford,” said a voice nearby.

Geoffrey turned toward it.

“Oh, it's you, Halifax. I didn't know they let the press in.”

“No less than bankers,” rejoined the newcomer with a smile. “I'm here because my dear mum secured me an invitation,” he added.

“She doesn't approve of your profession, I take it?” asked Geoffrey politely. It was with difficulty that he tried to act interested.

“A bit too plebeian for her—all the riffraff associated with newspapers, you know. Ah, wouldn't dear old Mum be proud of me if I were a banker like you!”

“Sarcastic flattery will get you nowhere, Halifax.”

“I don't need to flatter
you
, Rutherford. I'll never need money from your bank.—But aren't you going to introduce me to this lovely young lady on your arm?” he added, turning toward Amanda.

As he spoke, he tipped his hat and gave just the slightest bow, while locking his eyes onto Amanda's. She answered his penetrating gaze with a smile of her own, her first of the day.

The young reporter had learned from a tender age that things were not always what they appeared. This applied to relationships as well as events. He thus lost no opportunity to gain new acquaintances, no matter what prohibitions toward intimacy appearances might indicate. The fact that a lady was on the arm of another nowise deterred him from approach. One never knew what might come of it. Such assertiveness had made of him not yet a
good
journalist, but
nevertheless one whose name was gradually coming to be known throughout London. He possessed a certain knack for discovery that lent itself well to his chosen profession, of which his wealthy dowager mother approved more than she was willing to let on.

She had financed his Cambridge education, biding her time and keeping her own plans quiet for the present. These had, in fact, been well under way for years, which he suspected not in the least. So much the better if he could make the cause his own without knowing of her hand in some of the very associations he kept from her. His university affiliations could not have gone in directions more perfectly suited to her ends. He had fallen into circles full of liberal thinkers, several Marxists among them—the sort of company Amanda's father had kept two decades earlier—and involved himself with two or three failed student publications. He left Cambridge after two years and was now working for the
Daily Mail
. Thus far he had been able to keep his leftist leanings from his editors. Both mother and son had secrets from one another, yet the same forces drove each toward common goals.

The young lady who had caught the eye of young Halifax from across the lawn a few minutes earlier was certainly one he could not ignore for the rest of the afternoon. She was slightly above average in height, five feet six or thereabouts, with lovely brown hair, curled nicely and bouncing at the shoulder. She seemed altogether mismatched with the young banker whose acquaintance he had made two or three times. She was good-looking, though not so beautiful that her features would in themselves have drawn him. She was carefully dressed and knew how to comport herself. But she carried herself with a purpose and determination that he could detect even from a distance. It was her energetic and confident bearing that kept his eyes returning in her direction as the day progressed. He could tell she was a strong young woman—in what ways he would have to discover later. For that fact alone he must know her.

On her part, in the few seconds she had to gather a first impression, Amanda judged Geoffrey's acquaintance to be something over six feet, and probably twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. His lean frame fit his height, though he filled out the expensive tailored grey suit well enough to keep from looking ill fed. He possessed an ample supply of very black hair, parted down the middle, thick and dry rather than pasted down onto his scalp, as was the custom with
so many young men—Geoffrey for one. He was handsome enough, though not what she would call dashing. He appeared comfortable with what she gathered had been an aristocratic upbringing. In his expression she detected a hint of what she could only call the unknown, which added to the intrigue about him, especially alongside her cousin. In this setting she would never have guessed him for a newspaperman. His eyes did rove about, it was true, which
might
have been a sign of a mentality awake to people and events around him—necessary for any seeker of news, especially one who sought to commit ideas to print. But he was not searching for news as much as for pretty faces, a character weakness which his previous words to Geoffrey indicated well enough.

“This is my cousin,” replied Geoffrey to the question just posed. “—Amanda Rutherford. Amanda—may I present Ramsay Halifax.”

“Charmed, Miss Rutherford,” said Halifax, still holding her eyes. “Are you of the Rutherfords of Devon?”

“The same,” replied Amanda.

“Heathersleigh, I believe the old family estate is called, is it not?”

“You are remarkably well informed, Mr. Halifax.”

“And the present lord of the manor would be . . . ?” he began in questioning tone.

“Would be my father,” said Amanda, completing the sentence.

“Ah, now it begins to become clear. The two scions of the Rutherford family coming together in harmony for the Kensington Tea!”

Neither Amanda nor Geoffrey offered comment.

“But if my memory serves me . . .” Halifax continued, then paused, glancing over Amanda's face again with index finger pressed to his lips, “—I have the feeling I have seen you someplace before.”

“Surely, Halifax,” chided Geoffrey, beginning to tire of the newsman's presence, “you can be more original than that!”

“No—I mean it. I'm sure I know your face. Did I see you in the
Times
about something or other?”

“You may have,” answered Amanda. “There were reporters and photographers at one of our rallies two weeks ago.”

“Rallies?”

“She's a suffragette, Halifax,” put in Geoffrey. “Come on, Amanda,” he added, attempting to move away.

“That's it!” exclaimed Halifax, ignoring him. “You were next to the Pankhurst girls. There was a picture on page three. So—you're part of the radical new women's movement!”

“You disapprove?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Your tone implied it.”

“Don't assume too much, Miss Rutherford. Journalists have to walk both sides of many fences, and I'm better at it than most of my colleagues. Besides, you suffragettes have been relatively quiet since last November's Black Friday and the Downing Street ruckus.”

“It is said that the government plans to pass the Conciliation Bill later this spring or early in the summer. We can be patient.”

“Is it true that Mr. Churchill actually had one of his wife's close friends run off like a common tramp during the Downing Street affair?”

“That's the report,” answered Amanda.

“What about your father?” said Halifax in a slightly more journalistic tone. “It was a shock to the whole country when he resigned from the Commons.”

Amanda did her best not to display her own emotions at the memory. She did not comment.

“Although I must say he is managing to keep himself in the news, what with an occasional speech at university about modern inventions. And he's become one of the country's leading experts on the practical uses of electricity, from what I hear. What do you think about your father's new approach to social involvement, or should I say
non
-involvement?”

“I prefer not to think about it at all,” replied Amanda.

“A noncommittal answer,” laughed Halifax. “Just what I should have expected from the daughter of a former M.P.”