Wayward Winds (8 page)

 12 
Two Fathers

Charles Rutherford and his twenty-two-year-old son George, home for a weekend visit during his final term at Oxford, were busily stringing wire in the second floor of the north wing of Heathersleigh Hall, the last portion of the great stone mansion yet to be outfitted with electricity. As happy as he was for his son's education, it was always a boon to the father's spirits to have him home, even if briefly.

Both were eagerly anticipating the summer months. Already plans were being laid between them for the completion of the electrical project, as well as the installation of a telephone at the Hall. Charles' work on the prime minister's commission allowed him not only to keep pace with developments elsewhere in the country, but to have a hand in directing them as well. As more and more electrical and telephone lines were strung outward from London, Charles' dreams were being fulfilled almost more rapidly than he had dared imagine.

George came bounding down the stairs from the attic.

“What would you think, Father,” he said, “of running a line up into the garret?”

“A little soon for that, isn't it, George?” replied Charles, looking up from where he sat on the floor pulling a length of wire through the hole he had recently bored from the other side of the wall. “We haven't even finished the main house yet.”

“I know. But I want to have light operational up there later this summer. I found a spot where I can drill down easily through the
floor and connect with the junction we made this morning between the library and the armory. The wire will hardly be seen. Then the current will be in the garret when we're ready to install lights.”

Charles laughed. “You seem to have thought it through. Sure, go ahead, George.”

“Thanks, Father!”

“If I need you, I'll pound on the ceiling with Morse code!”

George turned and hurried back to his project. Charles watched him go with a pleased smile. As the last words of his son continued to sound in his brain, gradually the smile faded and his thoughts turned reflectively toward his second child.

Neither did the last words
she
had spoken to him ever leave his thoughts. He would not forget them should he live to be five hundred years old.

“I have no respect
left for either of you,”
she had said.
“I
can't say there is much feeling left in my heart for anyone around here. I hate it here. I
have hated it for years.”
Then had followed the letter which, at least for the present, had ended hope of relationship in the near future.
“I am not interested
in your God,”
she had written,
“in your prayers,
or in either of you.”

The letter had come two and a half years ago. Yet to a sensitive nature like Charles Rutherford's, the words plunged anew every day like a knife blade into his father's heart.

What a contrast between the two—George who loved him and embraced his role in his life, and Amanda who found all thought of parental supervision hateful and confining. He had been the same father to them both, thought Charles. What could account for the difference?

Will Amanda ever want to call me father again?
he sighed.
Will the very word always be hateful to her, or will she one day soften to the idea of someone above her to whom she can be a daughter?

With the thought, prayer was not far behind.

Amanda had asked him not to pray for her. But that was one request with which he could not, and would not, comply.

“O God,
Father of us all,”
Charles groaned inwardly where he sat,
“though her
mind
is set against all reminder of it, stir Amanda's
heart
toward daughterhood. Probe and prick
her in the deep places of her being where we are all children, because we were made to be children—
your children. Help her to warm to the idea of
your
Fatherhood, though her brain may resist for yet a
season. Take away the hate, the bitterness, the resentment that
somehow has come to reside in her as a result of my influence in her life.”

As he prayed, the imagery of growing things came into his mind, as it often did when he and Jocelyn prayed for their children, as had been their custom for years, in the heather garden next to the wood east of the Hall.

“
Till the soil of Amanda's heart, Lord,”
he now prayed.
“Send your warming sun upon it. Break up
the frozen ground of her independence. Though the thought of
me remains odious to her, though perhaps she does not want to call me father, turn her heart toward
your
Fatherhood. And I am not, after all, her true father,
Lord. You only gave her to me for a little
while, to help her become your daughter. Forgive my inadequacy
to the task. It would seem I have failed both
her and you, Lord God. Yet I know you did
not expect me to be a perfect father, only one who sought to obey you. I began late to do
so, which is my life's deepest regret, and even now I do so but feebly.”

Charles paused and sighed at the reminder of his shortcomings as a father.

“
You are the only perfect Father,”
he prayed again,
“
and you will yet be that perfect Father to our dear Amanda. You will take up my imperfect fatherhood into
your plan for her, and use it in your miraculous way to perfect Amanda's daughterhood in you. Carry out
that work, heavenly Father—not only in Amanda, but also
in George, in Catharine, in Jocelyn . . . and in me. Turn
my
heart, too, more and more toward your Fatherhood. Create
ever more deeply in me the longing to be a child. Make me more fully your obedient and thankful son.”

 13 
An Invitation

Life with the Pankhursts rarely lacked for excitement.

Visitors came almost daily for information, interviews, and business. Passersby came to heckle. Still others just stared into the windows of the home where dwelt the radical women firebrands.

But mostly the excitement came from Emmeline Pankhurst's activities themselves. Her most favored method in the women's campaign was to push the limits of the law so as to make
news
for the cause. Every day the possibility existed that Emmeline might not return home for tea, or even for bed that night.

Enough stories circulated about Mrs. Pankhurst, exaggerated by the London press, to keep public curiosity at a high pitch. The demonized drawings in the papers made people want to see her for themselves.

The perceptions created in the papers were not actually so far from the truth. Emmeline Pankhurst was passionately obsessed with the suffragette movement. It was the sole topic of conversation at every meal. The guests who appeared for tea were either new recruits or prospective donors to the cause. In the household in which Amanda Rutherford had cast her fate, women's rights dominated every moment, every breath, every waking thought.

Mornings she and the others folded and prepared leaflets and placards. Afternoons they distributed their wares, marching, speaking, protesting, and otherwise appearing around the city to
make the cause known to wider numbers. Once or twice a month they gathered in front of the Houses of Parliament while the M.P.s arrived for the day's session, bullying and badgering to cajole the lawmakers to listen to their pleas.

At first the involvement in something that seemed so important thrilled Amanda. It was a new and exciting life. She had always dreamed of living in London. Now here she was in the very middle of it. Yet though outwardly she despised her upbringing and everything her parents stood for, she could not erase the good breeding she had received. In spite of what she tried to tell herself, there were times she found herself balking at the unladylike things the cause required. She did her best to convince herself that she would eventually get accustomed to the boisterous, rude, and radical behavior.

The invitation arrived at the Pankhurst home a week after Amanda's outing with Ramsay Halifax between Hastings and Dover. Its words were simple enough, but they would change her life.

“Amanda,” called out Sylvia from below, “—Amanda, come downstairs! A messenger is here for you.”

In surroundings where Emmeline Pankhurst was a woman of national reputation, Amanda could not imagine what a messenger could possibly want with
her
. She hurried downstairs thinking to herself that there must be some tragic news. Sylvia and Christabel stood waiting at the front door in anticipation. Outside a young man in top hat and tails held an envelope and the thornless stem of a peach-hued rose.

“You are Miss Rutherford?” he said.

Amanda nodded.

He handed her both envelope and flower, then turned without another word, and strode across the brick walk to a waiting single-horse carriage. Within moments he had disappeared down the street. Amanda stared bewildered after him.

“Well . . . open it!” said Christabel impatiently.

The words brought Amanda to her senses. With trembling finger she tore at one edge of the envelope, then pulled out a single sheet from inside. She took a deep breath and read:

To: Miss Amanda Rutherford

Amanda,

I would be pleased if you would do me the honor of accepting an invitation to accompany me to the Derby and the Reception that follows. The race is scheduled for Saturday next, the eighth, at two o'clock in the afternoon. Unless I hear otherwise, I shall call for you at eleven.

Yours cordially,
Ramsay Halifax, Esq.

Amanda handed her the card. Christabel scanned it quickly.

“Who is he?” Christabel asked excitedly.

“Someone I met at the Kensington Lawn Tea—the man who was at Hastings, remember. I came home with him.”

“A good-looking man too! Will you accept, Amanda?”

“Of course,” replied Amanda, heart pounding. “How could I turn down an invitation like this!”

“The Derby is one of the premier events of the social season,” said Sylvia. “Not that I care about such things, but some people do. If Mother received an invitation like that, she would probably smuggle in a piece of dynamite and throw it onto the track before the race!”

“I plan to enjoy myself,” laughed Amanda.

Already her girlish enthusiasm was mounting. Nothing like
this
ever happened at the Pankhursts.' Nothing like this ever happened to
her
. All of a sudden women's suffrage seemed unimportant and far away.

“In fact,” she added with a giggle, “I think I will go to Harrods this very afternoon. I simply must find a new dress!”

“Oh, but Harrods is too expensive.”

“Money is no object!” rejoined Amanda. “I can't be seen in rags for such an occasion!”

“Rags—what are you talking about? You have beautiful dresses.”

“But I
must
have something new and stylish for the Prince of Wales Horse Race.”

The conversation at lunch an hour later left Amanda wondering if her hostess approved of her attending the Derby as a spectator, as one of the social elite.

“Amanda dear,” Emmeline said, “I understand you have been invited to the Derby.”

Amanda nodded, thinking to herself that if given such an opportunity, Emmeline would probably try to disrupt the race with a demonstration, or, as Sylvia had said, with dynamite.

“You know Emily . . . Emily Davison?” asked Mrs. Pankhurst.

“Yes, I believe so. Was she at Hastings with us?”

“That's right,” replied Emmeline. “She has always dreamed of attending the Derby. Do you suppose your friend might secure her an invitation?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“Do ask, will you, Amanda?”

“I don't really know him that well. I doubt I will see him before Saturday.”

“But you will try, won't you?”

Awkwardly Amanda agreed.

Immediately after lunch she set off for Harrods. Already she was having second thoughts. Sylvia was right—Harrods
was
expensive. Though she did her best to conceal it, her money was dwindling more rapidly than she liked. She had already dipped into the account far too deeply for gowns and other costly apparel, half of which she had never even worn. She had so relished in the freedom of being on her own and having money in the bank, she now realized she had squandered far too much of it on foolish expenditures.

But she would start exercising more caution later—
after
next week's reception at Epsom. For this occasion she would look her best!

Amanda tried on dress after dress. The Pankhursts were fashionable enough, but they had other things on their minds than men and society. And the luncheon conversation left her with an oddly uncomfortable feeling. Sylvia obviously wouldn't approve—she didn't believe in marriage at all, much less social outings with men. Amanda needed to get away from the house for a while. She was glad to be alone for the rest of the afternoon.

The dress Amanda chose
was
far too expensive, but it was so beautiful she could not resist—absolutely perfect for the occasion! The long skirt of rich navy blue contained tiny pink stripes running lengthwise through the fabric, highlighted with a bodice of light pink silk, with loose ruffles about the neck. A navy blue jacket fit snugly over the blouse. After a tailoring session the following day with Harrods' dressmaker, the overall effect showed off her slender
figure beautifully. She chose a fashionable straw hat and matched it with pink and white flowers, along with pink and navy ribbons.

As it turned out, Amanda neither saw nor heard from Ramsay Halifax again before the eighth. Neither did she see Emily Davison, nor did Mrs. Pankhurst bring up the subject of the Derby again.

Halifax called at the door of the Pankhurst home precisely at 11:00 a.m. He was shown into the parlor.

Before Amanda reached the top of the stairs, Emmeline greeted him. She and Halifax were chatting freely by the time Amanda made her descent. For once Amanda hoped she would hear nothing about the cause. She wanted to step into another world on this day—the world of high London society. She did
not
want to have to think about rights and votes and feminism.

“—the
Daily Mail
, that
is
interesting,” Emmeline was saying. “It was your paper that first coined the word ‘suffragette,' was it not?”

“My editor himself,” laughed the personable young man.

As Amanda reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the drawing room, Mrs. Pankhurst had just begun introducing her escort to another young lady of somewhat wild green eyes and bright red hair. Her orange dress clashed with both and hung from wide but slender shoulders without accenting any of her feminine curves. The overall effect was not unlike a human scarecrow with red straw stuck on top.

“Amanda . . .” she said, glancing up as she walked in, “—you remember that Emily is going with you.—Mr. Halifax,” she added, turning again toward the journalist, “I would like you to meet Emily Davison. Amanda
did
speak with you about Emily's accompanying the two of you?”

Not wanting to embarrass Amanda but clearly caught off his guard, Halifax fumbled for words.

“I . . . didn't exactly,” he said, shaking Miss Davison's hand, “—well, but—”

“I promise I will be no trouble, Mr. Halifax,” interrupted Emily in a thin, high-pitched voice that fit the image created by her appearance. Then, without awaiting an answer, the newcomer immediately walked outside and toward the car. Halifax and Amanda followed, the former perplexed, the latter irritated, by the sudden change of plans.

“Do enjoy yourselves,” Mrs. Pankhurst called out in an uncharacteristically genial tone.

By the time Halifax was comfortably behind the wheel, with Amanda next to him on the front seat, Emily Davison had stationed herself securely behind them with an expression on her face that even Ramsay Halifax apparently decided it would be best not to argue with.

Almost inaudibly he sighed, then drove off.