“Yes, indeed they would be perfect,” Madame Renoir the modiste simpered at me, taking down my order with a flurry of her hands as she directed her girls into parading the latest models before me.
I had a short argument with Madame Renoir about the Healthy and Artistic Dress Union, which denounced as unnatural and unhealthy the current fad of forcing women’s figures into an unnatural S-shape. Emma felt as I did, but I could tell by the willowy form that Helena presented that she was on the other side so far as corsets went. Perhaps one day I would convince her as to the wisdom of throwing away her corset. Another verbal scuffle broke out when I demanded the new “combinations” as they were called, but after a sizeable order that consisted of several pieces of fine lawn knickers and chemises, relations turned amiable again.
Riding high on the crest of my success of dismissing the need for a corset, in a moment of pure indulgence I commissioned the creation of four evening gowns of the new Empire style, each with a high waist and short sleeves. “You’re sure it’s not too revealing,” I said, eyeing with concern the model as she turned and pirouetted in front of me.
“But
non
! It is the very latest style. Your corset, it will keep you all that is modest.”
“But we just—”
“If you wish to wear these gowns, you must have the corsets,” Madame insisted.
I was half tempted to walk out, but the lovely silks and gauzes as displayed by the models swayed my concerns of healthfulness.
“Fine,” I told her after ordering the new gowns. “I will get a corset, but it will be one of my choosing.”
There was nothing she could say to that, so I left, and accordingly went shopping for a Rational corset that was not constricting or binding.
The day passed quickly, and I was still dressing for the Union meeting when Helena arrived. As Annie buttoned me into a cream colored linen skirt with thin blue stripes and matching pale blue shirtwaist, I hunted for my small leather notebook. “Have you seen it, Annie?”
A short, stout woman with charming dimples, Annie was the one person I was happy to bring with me from my old home. Despite a disfigurement to her face, she normally maintained a sunny disposition and never failed to cheer me up. “I thought it was in your stocking drawer.”
“Why would I put it…well, for heaven’s sake, so it is. I won’t be home until late, Annie, so you may have the evening off.”
“Thank you, miss.”
I eyed her before I left the room. Annie was a favorite with my sister Mabel’s household, and I sometimes worried that her attachment to Jackson, the coachman, was not reciprocated and would end in disaster. Tonight she seemed moody and distracted, although she denied any ailment or personal problems. “Is anything amiss?”
“No, miss. I’m fine, thank you.”
Hmm. She didn’t look fine. Still, I hated to pry. I told her to enjoy herself and hurried down to Helena. She was wearing a stunning pale pink dress—a sheer tunic covered the dark silk underskirt, very narrow and elegant, with a matching coat. A pink hat decorated with feathers and dried flowers completed her ensemble.
“Good heavens, Lady Helena,” I said in stark admiration, “That dress is absolutely mouth-watering. It’s like spun sugar.”
She waved her hand depreciatingly and asked, “Please call me Helena. I don’t use the title, and even though we’ve known each other only a short while, I feel as if you are an old and dear friend.”
I consented, and sent Theodore, the footman, in search of a cab.
“Is your friend Miss Debenham not joining us?”
“Emma? No, she’s not at all interested in the cause. Well, I should correct that—she is interested, but she has her studies to attend to. Her insights are very much in demand at Sappho’s Circle.”
“Is that a literary salon?” Helena asked.
“I believe it’s some sort of club for Greek scholars. She mentioned something about occasionally staying overnight when she was engaged in late-night study sessions.”
Helena, no more a scholar than I was, murmured something noncommittal.
“Did you manage your headache with success?” I asked with a smile.
“Oh yes—well, I think I did.”
I looked at her questioningly. “I’m afraid Griffin suspects something. He told me, just as he and my brother and sister-in-law were leaving, to please be careful with whatever it was I was planning.”
“Oh, dear. That does sound rather ominous.” I chewed my lip in thought as we entered the cab.
“I never could hide anything from Griffin.”
“I’m surprised he let you stay home alone, if he suspected you. I had thought his opinion of women would demand that he play watchdog.”
“You are mistaken about Griffin, truly you are. You must give him credit for having suffered a broken heart.”
“A broken heart? Mr. St. John?” I asked incredulously.
“It happened a long time ago, when I was a girl, but I know Griffin still feels it a great deal.” She looked at me sideways. “Rather, I thought he did.”
I said nothing, but looked at her inquiringly.
“When Griffin was eighteen, he fell madly in love with Grace Perry, the cousin of my sister-in-law, Letitia. I was living with Harold and Letitia then, my parents having died some years earlier, and Griffin had just returned from his Grand Tour. Grace was staying with us, and Griffin—well, you know how these things can happen.”
I nodded, absorbed in a variety of mental images, many of which concerned just what Griffin looked like underneath all those clothes.
“Grace was a very outspoken woman, rather rough and common I think now, although she impressed me at the time. She was a little older than Griffin, and had done a lot of traveling by herself. Although she was fond of him, I don’t believe that she ever loved him in return.”
“Were they engaged?”
“No, not formally, although I believe he had been pressing her. She left shortly thereafter.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She and Griffin had an argument one night. My sister-in-law was having a dinner and Griffin tried to press Grace into a commitment so they could announce their engagement that night.” She glanced at me, her lips curling slightly. “I was supposed to be upstairs since I was too young to attend the dinner, but I had hidden in my brother’s library and was reading a book of fairy tales. Griffin and Grace did not know I was curled up on a chair when they had their argument.”
“Ah. So the lady jilted your brother?” This was delicious gossip, and as ashamed as I was for participating in it, I reveled in every moment.
“Yes. She told Griffin that she had no intention of marrying him, that he was not the type of man any sane woman would spend the rest of her life with, and she did not intend to waste the best years of her life adapting her lifestyle to his.”
“That was rather blunt of her.”
“Griffin was furious. He spoke quietly, but I knew he was mad—his voice drops when he gets very angry. Grace made rather a common scene, and stormed out of the room. She refused to appear at dinner, and left shortly thereafter. Griffin would not speak of her, but I knew he must have been terribly hurt.”
I suspected that a good part of the hurt was due to wounded pride, but did not voice that opinion.
“That is why, dear Cassandra, you must make allowance for Griffin’s attitude towards outspoken women. Should the right woman come along,” she dropped her gaze to her hands, “she might find that she could heal his wounded heart.”
“More likely she would have her head snapped off for trying,” I said dryly, and spent the remainder of the ride in contemplation of him nonetheless.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Knox lived in a small, white stone building on the quiet edge of Russell Square. Climbing the steps to the house, I cautioned Helena about detailing her relationship with Lord Sherringham. “It is not that they would refuse you admittance into the Union, but they might feel hesitant to discuss topics of a sensitive nature, such as the plans for our next demonstration and protests, before they know you well.”
She nodded, but had no time to say anything before we were admitted. The women welcomed her, and without much delay, the meeting commenced. Each member contributed many ideas and opinions as to the Union’s planned activism, so many that although I wrote quickly, I was hard put to keep up with the pace of the ideas that flowed forth. Petitions were organized, deputations were planned, marches plotted, demonstrations ordered, and processions detailed. I tucked a list of volunteers assigned to each event into my notebook, to be typed up later.
“I cannot see what good these plans will be when we will not be taken seriously by the press and the public until they see we are committed body and soul to the cause,” a petite red-haired Irish woman named Maggie interrupted the speaker as she reviewed the final list of activities for the next month.
“We do not condone violent acts—” one of the other Union officials started to say.
“I say we strike, and strike hard!” Maggie cried, rising to her feet. Several other members nodded. “You talk about marches and protests and petitions—we have tried them all, and they have failed. This is the time for action, and without it, our cause is doomed.”
“Maggie Greene, you are out of order,” Mrs. Heywood, the head of the Union said.
“I have a voice just as does any other member in the Union!”
“A voice, yes, but the National Women’s Union has never condoned violence, and we will not start now.
We will not start now
,” Mrs. Heywood repeated over the grumbling of a handful of women who favored such extreme forms of protest.
I held my breath, worried that the militant faction would continue to press the issue, but although they demanded a vote to determine the type of future actions, they were outvoted by a clear majority. The NSU would continue its policy of non-violent protest. I breathed a sigh of relief, and promised to type up the report on my new typewriting machine. As the meeting ended, Helena and I walked down the steps to the street with several of the other ladies.
“We can take you home, if you don’t mind being crowded,” one woman offered, indicating her motor.
“Thank you, but the evening is fine, and I need a good walk. But perhaps Miss St. John...”
“I’ll walk with you,” she said quickly, with a bright smile.
“You are welcome to take a cab home,” I said as we set off. “I really don’t mind walking by myself.” I stopped to allow her to catch up to me.
“I never thought of the problems of walking any distance when I bought this terrible gown,” she said, vexed.
I surveyed the narrow skirt with some skepticism. “Why men want to hobble women in the name of fashion is beyond me.”
“It
is
pretty.”
“Very.” I took her arm and slowed my steps to hers. “And we have a lovely evening for a leisurely stroll. Since we are closer to my house, I suggest we head there first. I will have my sister’s coachman drive you home from there.”
As we walked, I was surprised and, I confess, dismayed to find that the woman I thought so frail and gentle had a spirit that more than matched my own.
“But surely you must agree that the public will never take us seriously unless we make them do so,” she demanded after ten minutes of debate.
I was silent a moment, considering how best to calm her impassioned and rather bloodthirsty heart while not dampening her spirit for the cause. “I can’t say I agree with you, Helena. I understand the reasoning behind Maggie Greene’s desire to advance the Union to a more militant stand, but the thought of using violence to further our cause is abhorrent to me. I don’t believe it is needed.”
“But consider the past twenty years! If, according to the pamphlet you gave me, women have been trying by constitutional means to get the vote and failing, then the time has come to make the public aware of our cause. What better way can we prove that we are serious?”
I opened my mouth to argue the point, but all that came out was a loud “Ooof!”
A sharp blow to the middle of my back sent me sprawling into a nearby lamppost. I slumped against it, dazed and stunned. Shaking my head to clear it, I attempted to stand up. On the third try I was successful, and looked around for my attacker.
“Next time ye’ll think twice afore ye go meddlin’ in matters that don’t concern ye,” a thick voice growled from the shadows of the building. A dark shape moved in the shadows, clearly retreating down a darkened alley. I rubbed my head and limped over to the street.
Helena
had been dumped unceremoniously about thirty feet away, directly into a large mound of horse droppings. “Cassandra, I can’t…and it’s all over…it’s oozing on my leg!” she wailed as she tried to get up.
I helped her to her feet and surveyed the result. Her lovely pink coat now covered in muck.
“What am I going to do?” Helena held her arms out stiffly, and promptly burst into tears.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, looking for signs of injury.
She shook her head.
“Thank heavens for that. Take off your coat, let me give you my handkerchief. You are certainly a mess. Damnation! My bag has been stolen.”
She shivered in her thin gown.
“Here.” I removed my own coat and handed it to her. “Wrap this around you. You’ll have to have your coat cleaned before you can wear it again.”
She protested, but I was in no mood to argue with her. I buttoned her into my coat and picked up her soiled garment with two fingers.
“This is covered in filth. Luckily, it’s long enough to prevent most of your skirt from coming in contact with the refuse.” I set the coat down again and considered our situation. “We are less than a mile from my home, further from yours. I suppose we could go back to Mrs. Knox’s and beg for assistance.”
“No!” Helena wailed. “I could not face that, I could not!”
“Then we shan’t go there,” I said soothingly, knowing full well that she would not be able to stand up to ridicule, however politely spoken. I looked at her critically. “Oh, dear, you
are
a mess.”
Muck was smeared up to the ankles of her lovely boots, her hemline was soiled, and her face was tearstained and grubby. Her chin quivered ominously, and her eyes shined with tears on the verge of falling again. Clearly, I could not leave her to her own devices. I gave a mental shrug and looked around for a cab. “Do you still have your bag, Helena?”
She nodded.
“Do you have any money?”
“A little. Not much, though.” Tears began to course down her cheeks again as she peered forlornly into her bag. She handed me a few coins.
A hansom cab loitered far down the street at an intersection. Indicating it, I grabbed the spoiled coat in one hand, Helena’s arm in another, and pulled her towards it.
Her tears had stopped by the time we were settled in the cab, although she was still sniffling in an unladylike manner. I pointed this out to her, and waited until she had composed herself. “Did you see the thug who attacked us, Helena?”
“It was so quick, I didn’t see him at all.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t see him either, I was too busy seeing stars from my collision with the lamppost. All I saw was his shadow, but I did think his voice was quite rough and common.”
“Oh, Cassandra,” she gasped, turning to me with concern. “Were you injured?”
“Just my pride,” I said grimly. “I shall ring the police from home and report the attack.”
Helena
looked scared and turned pale, her cold hand gripping mine with surprising strength.
“Don’t worry, I won’t mention your name.” The grip relaxed. “The last thing I want is for your family to find out you were attacked because I wished to walk home rather than take a cab. We will drop you off first, then I will go home and telephone the authorities.”
Helena
was very quiet during the ride to her brother’s house, and a quick peek at her strained, white face told me she was nervous about her reception.
“Your family is away this evening, you said?” I asked cautiously.
“Yes, they are at the Edward Smythe’s tonight.” She had found one of my best Irish linen handkerchiefs in my coat pocket, and unconsciously twisted it into a knot.
“Good. You should be able to smuggle your coat in and have your maid attend to it before they return home.” The coat currently resided on the outer seat next to the cabby. “You might tell her that you slipped and fell.”
Helena
surprised me by bursting into laughter. “I certainly won’t tell her I was assaulted by a strange man as I walked home from a secret suffrage meeting, when I was supposed to be in bed with a headache.”
There is nothing more infectious than laughter at an inappropriate time, and before long the cab pulled up outside Lord Sherringham’s house in Balmour Street with the pair of us mopping our streaming eyes, trying to control our outbursts.
We were still giggling like schoolgirls when, telling the cabby to wait, I accompanied her and her coat to the door. Hushing both of us to be quiet, she let herself in with a latchkey and waved me across the threshold.
“Let me take the coat directly to Mariah,” she said quietly.
I held the repulsive garment out to her at arm’s length. We looked at it in disbelief for a moment, then catching each other’s eyes, dissolved once more into a silly display.
“Really,” I gasped through the tears of hilarity, “it is a horrible thing to behold.”
Helena
clutched her sides, not doing any better than me at retaining control. She pointed at the coat, and opened her mouth to make a further comment. Looking past me, her face suddenly froze. The transformation was so quick, the expression on her face so awful that I stopped laughing and looked over my shoulder to see what grisly sight had such a terrible effect on her.
Lady Sherringham came out of a nearby door. Swift on her heels was the stout, bald man I remembered from the scene outside of the Hospital Ball. Across the hall, another door opened and the tall figure that had taken to haunting my thoughts stepped out.
I closed my mouth, and with a swift move scooped up the coat from where it had fallen and turned to stand in front of Helena. She gripped my arm from behind, her hand shaking as she moved to my side.
“Helena, my dear sister. How is it you come to be here and not in your bed?” her sister-in-law inquired in an acid tone, looking not at Helena, but at me. “We rushed home to tend you, and now we find that you are not in bed, but instead sneaking into our home in the company of this…
this woman
!”
Before I could think up a reasonable explanation, the earl spoke directly to me.
“Who are you, madam, that you feel it appropriate to wrench my sister out of the safety and security of her family at this time of night? Have you no feelings of decency? What are your morals that you would secretly spirit away a young girl from those who are responsible for her welfare?”
Lady Sherringham saved me the effort of answering the question.
“Surely you recognize her, Harold,” she crowed. “This is Cassandra Whitney, Sir Henry Benson’s niece. She is the woman we saw outside of the Hospital Ball—the one who threw herself upon Griffin in that repulsive attempt to attract our notice.”