Suffragette Girl (9 page)

‘Very true,’ George Jervis agreed.

Ignoring a warning glare from her father, Florrie leaned forward. ‘Are you in favour of women entering Parliament, Mr Jervis? In principle, at least?’

Again, he was thoughtful. ‘In principle, yes, but like I say, it would need a very special character. A woman with enough years of experience.’ He glanced at her and smiled.
‘It would not, I’m afraid, my dear, be a job for a
young
woman. She would need to be a strong-minded, determined and ambitious woman, who’d probably have to be prepared
to sacrifice a great deal in her personal life. And, of course, until you get the vote . . .’ He spread his hands helplessly.

Mrs Ponsonby turned her wide, toothy smile upon Augusta. ‘I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Mrs Maltby, since we’ve been living at the Vicarage. It seems to me that
you’d make an excellent MP.’

At the end of the table, Edgar spluttered and for a moment everyone thought he’d choked on a fish bone.

When he’d recovered, Mrs Ponsonby continued as if uninterrupted. Leaning forward she said in a stage whisper, ‘And are the tales of your birth and upbringing true, my dear? An
elopement with the young master from this very house.’ She clapped her hands in delicious delight. ‘How romantic!’

At the end of the table Edgar turned purple, whilst Clara gave a little flutter of alarm and looked as if she might faint at any moment.

Catching sight of their hosts’ obvious displeasure, the Reverend Ponsonby put his hand on his wife’s arm. ‘Matilda, my dear, this is neither the time nor the place to bring up
such a topic. You are being very indiscreet.’

His wife turned her wide eyes on him, ‘But, Horace, dear, it is so intriguing, so utterly enchanting. I—’ She turned to look at Augusta. ‘I would think your family is so
proud to have such a story in their family history. I know
I
would be.’

Stifling her laughter, Florrie looked at her grandmother to see that she was having a similar difficulty. Augusta cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for your compliment, Mrs Ponsonby, but
I’m afraid my son does not view my lowly beginnings in that same light.’

‘Oh, but
why
?’ Now the good lady turned her guileless eyes upon Edgar. ‘Mr Maltby, how can you not recognize such romance, such – such—’ She sought
for the word. ‘Such
honesty
in a time of “arranged” marriages? I applaud your dear father for being a loyal and upright young man – I really do.’

Edgar flinched visibly. ‘You are entitled to your opinion, madam,’ he said stiffly. The remainder of the meal continued with stilted conversation until Edgar was able to motion to
Clara that she should lead the ladies from the room. She rose swiftly at his bidding and almost scuttled out, relieved to be escaping. Personally, she didn’t mind what Mrs Ponsonby – or
anyone else for that matter – said about the family, just so long as it wasn’t in her husband’s hearing.

‘Oh dear,’ Matilda Ponsonby said as they crossed the hall, ‘I seem to have upset Mr Maltby. I
am
so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.’ Now she looked
genuinely distressed, and Florrie moved to take her arm and say, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Ponsonby’, whilst Augusta replied mildly, ‘Think no more of it, my dear. My background is
an irrefutable fact and it’s high time my son came to accept it.’

As they seated themselves in the drawing room and Clara began to pour the coffee with a hand that still shook, Matilda asked, ‘And did you live “happily ever after”?’

For a moment, Augusta’s eyes misted over. Her voice was a little unsteady as she replied, ‘Yes, we did.’ Florrie glanced at her anxiously. It was quite unlike her spirited
grandmother to betray any sign of emotion, especially in front of someone outside the immediate family circle.

‘Ah,’ Matilda gave a satisfied smile. ‘Then that vindicates your – and his – action, does it not?’

‘I’d never thought of it quite like that, Mrs Ponsonby,’ Augusta said slowly, her head on one side reflectively. ‘But you’re quite right. We did live happily for
almost forty-two years until his death ten years ago.’ Augusta bowed her head and gave a small, sad smile.

Realizing that she was indeed now treading on delicate ground – she was not, it seemed, completely devoid of tact – Matilda turned to Florrie and changed the subject. ‘As I was
saying earlier, my dear, I so admire these women who are seeking emancipation for us all. How I’d love to join them! Horace and I have come from Manchester to this area, you know. He felt his
calling late in life and is only recently ordained. This is his first ministry.’

‘How did you come to choose this area?’ Clara felt sufficiently recovered to join in the conversation.

‘It was for my health,’ Matilda put her hand on her large bosom. ‘I have chest problems and my doctor in Manchester believed the East Coast air would be good for me.’ She
paused and then added proudly, ‘Mrs Pankhurst is from Manchester, you know. She and her two daughters are doing so much to further the cause of women. One sees so much poverty and hardship in
the cities and the women—’ She threw up her hands in despair. ‘They’re so
downtrodden.
No – I don’t care what anyone says – Mrs Pankhurst is doing
her very best to elevate the position of
all
women in society and I, for one, applaud her. I’ve met her, you know, and her two daughters.’ She raised her cup delicately to her
lips and took a sip. ‘Of course, I’m not sure I agree with their acts of violence. This recent act, bombing Lloyd George’s new house.’ She shook her head. ‘No one got
hurt – this time – thankfully, but if they’re not careful . . .’

Florrie was about to open her mouth to protest, but she caught her grandmother’s eye and the slight shake of her head. Instead Augusta herself said, ‘Well, I have to admit I follow
the activities of the WSPU very closely.’ Clara’s eyes widened, but her mother-in-law continued serenely, ‘And as I understand it, they’re always careful that the properties
are unoccupied.’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Ponsonby nodded. ‘That’s what I understood too, but on this occasion workmen were due to start work only minutes after the explosion occurred. That was running
it a bit fine, don’t you think?’

Now Augusta could say nothing.

Florrie and Isobel said little, not wanting to give anything away about their own involvement in militant activities. They merely listened to Matilda’s prattle and waited with increasing
impatience for the men to join them, but it was a very long time before Edgar led them into the drawing room.

When Bowler had brought fresh coffee, Florrie and Isobel descended upon the MP. Coming straight to the point, as they sat down one on either side of him, Isobel asked candidly,
‘So – you do have some sympathy with the emancipation of women, Mr Jervis? Do you intend to support the Cause openly?’

He set his cup down carefully on the nearby sofa table and glanced at each of them in turn. He linked his fingers together across his paunch and smiled. ‘I must admit, I was most
disappointed when the Reform Bill was thrown out.’

The two young women exchanged a glance. This was more than they’d dared to hope for.

Adopting her friend’s directness, Florrie said, ‘Is there anything you are willing to do to help us?’

George Jervis stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘
Us
, you say?’ He smiled. ‘Do I take it that you two young women are – involved?’

Florrie and Isobel looked at each other and then nodded. There was no point now in hiding their allegiance.

‘Ah, I thought as much.’ He was silent for a moment before he said slowly, ‘There’s a group of us – small at present, I’m afraid – who support the
principle, but it’s not easy. There’s still a lot of opposition and—’ He shrugged with a gesture of helplessness. ‘I’m not sure these militant acts are
furthering your Cause.’ He chuckled and glanced at them again in turn. ‘I do read the newspapers and if I’m not mistaken, you, young lady,’ his gaze rested on Isobel,
‘were “mentioned in dispatches” recently.’ Now he looked across at Henry Davenport seated close by. He rumbled with laughter. ‘Just be careful you don’t get
hauled up in front of old Davenport here.’

The other man’s serious face lightened a little. ‘Actually, Jervis, old fellow, you’re wrong. I’ve a lot of sympathy with the Movement.’ He cleared his throat and
smiled wryly. ‘My own sister in Leeds is actively involved. She was one of the women who travelled to London at the end of January to take part in a deputation to Lloyd George at the
Treasury. Perhaps you read about it?’

Now Isobel and Florrie burst into laughter.

‘Heard about it?’ Isobel spluttered.

‘We were there,’ Florrie added, wiping tears from her eyes.

‘In fact,’ Isobel went on, ‘two of the women stayed overnight with Lady Lee—’ She waved her hand towards her fiance. ‘The Hon. Tim’s mother.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Mr Jervis nodded. ‘Lady Leonora. I know of her.’

They talked, quite animatedly at times, for the rest of the evening until the guests – other than the Richards family – departed at eleven.

‘Wasn’t that wonderful?’ Florrie clapped her hands. ‘I never dreamed our own MP would be so sympathetic to the Cause.’

‘And Mr Davenport too. Did you hear him say he thought the courts were dealing too harshly with us?’

As the front door closed behind the departing guests, Gervase drew Florrie to one side. Clara and Augusta exchanged a glance and returned to the drawing room to sit with Isobel and Timothy until
Gervase was ready to leave. With a disgruntled ‘ha-humph’ at the events of the evening, Edgar retired to his study and slammed the door, but not before he’d cast a meaningful
glance at his daughter.

Florrie sighed and linked her arm through Gervase’s, leading him into the dimly lit morning room. ‘Let’s get it over with then,’ she murmured.

Gervase chuckled softly. ‘If you think I’m going to propose to you again, miss, then you’re sadly mistaken.’

Florrie stared at him, wide-eyed, her mouth dropping open. ‘Oh!’ She let out a sigh of relief and murmured, ‘Well, thank goodness for that.’

‘I told you – every New Year’s Eve.’

Florrie grimaced comically. ‘Thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure I’m not around.’

‘Oh, I’ll find you. Wherever you are each New Year’s Eve – I’ll find you.’

Florrie sighed dramatically. Nothing, it seemed, was ever going to deter Gervase from his annual proposal. Not unless, of course, she were to marry someone else. That might stop him, she
thought. But, strangely, the thought of marrying at all was unimaginable.

‘No, tonight,’ he was saying, ‘I just wanted to give you my birthday gift in private. I thought it more – discreet.’ He chuckled. ‘More than can be said for
the redoubtable Mrs Ponsonby.’

Florrie laughed with him. ‘She’s certainly a character, isn’t she? She’ll liven up the people of Candlethorpe, I’ve no doubt.’

Gervase took a small box from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘With my love,’ he said simply.

Despite his denial, for a moment she thought he was giving her a ring with all its implications, but when she opened the lid she saw a brooch nestling in the black velvet lining of the box. Set
in silver, the central stone was purple with alternating green and white gems around it.

‘Oh Gervase – it’s beautiful. And in the suffragette colours too.’ She looked up at him and whispered, ‘I'll wear it always.’

‘I hope it keeps you safe, my love.’ He gazed at her for a long moment before giving a little sigh and rising to his feet. ‘It’s late. We should go.’

Florrie rose too, then reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘Dearest Gervase – thank you.’

Isobel and Florrie returned to London towards the end of the following week to learn from Lady Lee that, over the weekend, a peaceful meeting of suffragettes in Hyde Park had
been disrupted by mobs and mud had been thrown at the speakers.

‘Is public opinion turning against us, d’you think?’ Isobel asked.

Lady Lee shrugged and sighed. ‘It’s always been against us. Sadly, I still think our opponents outweigh our supporters. Still.’ She brightened. ‘It’s certainly
getting our Cause noticed. There are items in the press about us almost every day. Now, are you both game for something a little more than smashing shop windows?’

The two young women glanced at each other and chorused, ‘Of course.’

‘There’s something else you should know,’ Lady Lee said. ‘There’s talk of a Bill being rushed through Parliament now called the Prisoners’ Temporary Discharge
for Ill-Health Bill. It’s been suggested before, but now it looks as if they’re really going to do it.’

‘What does it mean?’ Isobel frowned.

‘Hunger strikers in jail will be released when their health deteriorates. When they’re sufficiently recovered, they’ll be rearrested. It’s being referred to already as
the Cat-and-Mouse Act.’

‘Very appropriate,’ Isobel said wryly.

Over the next few weeks Isobel and Florrie took part in several acts of violence. They smashed windows, dug up four greens on a golf course and set an explosive device in a
cricket pavilion.

‘There’s a job for just one of you,’ Lady Lee glanced from Isobel to Florrie and back again. ‘We want you to attack paintings in the National Gallery.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Florrie said at once. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘Take a sharp knife hidden in your reticule and don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t wear our colours – not even your brooch on this occasion, my dear – or
it’s likely you won’t get beyond the door.’

Florrie nodded, her eyes afire with excitement. At last, she was being allowed to do something on her own without Isobel to nursemaid her.

She dressed with care in demure white, with a broad-brimmed hat decorated with white ostrich feathers. In her silk reticule she carried a sharp, pointed knife. Her heart was beating fast as she
passed through the door of the gallery and wandered through the rooms, looking pure and innocent in her white gown.

She chose the room where there were several large paintings and sat down on a seat in the centre of the room, pretending to rest whilst she admired the works of art. In truth, she was waiting
until she was alone.