The Scandalous Suffragette
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Eliza Redgold
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Chapter One
‘The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit
Of wisdom.’
‘Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul!’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘What the blazes are you doing?’
Violet peered down from the edge of the first-floor balcony and managed not to lose her footing. Her perch was precarious as she attempted to tie the banner across the balustrade. She hadn’t knotted either end yet, the banner still clutched in her tense fingers. It would have been much easier by daylight, and from the inside of the balcony, but there was no hope of that. It didn’t help being shouted at from down in the street.
‘What are you doing up there?’ he shouted again.
In the dim street lighting Violet couldn’t make out the man’s face. All she could see was a tall figure clad in a dark coat. ‘It’s none of your concern, thank you!’
‘Of course it’s my concern!’ the man roared. ‘That’s my balcony you’re dangling from!’
‘What?’ Violet let go of the banner and shrieked. ‘Oh! My banner!’
The purple-, green-and-white-striped banner floated away. Leaning out to catch it, she lost her footing on the edge of the stone balcony and tumbled down.
Like lightning the man below jumped. ‘Damnation!’
Violet landed in his outstretched arms. ‘Oh!’
From the cradle of his arms she stared up at him. She saw him properly now, from the gaslight coming from over her shoulder. His hair was dark, falling over his brow. His eyes were a deep blue, so deep they seemed almost black. He was younger than she would have expected from the authority of his voice as he called up to her, but care grooved his mouth, shadowed his eyes.
None of it detracted from him being one of the most handsome men Violet had ever seen.
Time stilled. Clutched in his strong arms, her breathing slowed. Beneath her tight bodice her chest heaved. He, too, took her in, his gaze sweeping over her brown hair that had slipped free from her chignon in the fall, curls whispering around her neck. He scanned her wide brow, her full cheeks that she knew were too plump for fashion. His midnight eyes searched her blue ones that she knew must be wide with shock.
She parted her lips to speak. His gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth.
Then he plonked her upright on the cobbles.
‘No thanks, then, for rescuing you,’ he said caustically.
‘I’ve lost my banner!’
‘Your banner! You nearly lost your life!’
Violet straightened her spine. ‘I’d give my life for the Cause.’
‘The Cause. You’re one of those damned suffragettes!’
‘I’m proud to be,’ Violet said hotly. ‘And there’s no need to swear.’
‘I’ll do what I damned well like!’
‘And so will I!’ She stamped her boot.
‘Is that so?’ His eyes blazed into hers. ‘Promise me you won’t go climbing any more balconies. It’s madness.’
‘Who do you think you are?’ she demanded. ‘I’ll make no promises to you.’
‘What were you doing up there on the balcony at this time of night?’
‘I thought it was the gentlemen’s club...’ Violet faltered. She’d chosen it as a prime target for one of her banners. Normally it was full of stuffy old men swilling port, or so she believed, but on a Sunday night it was empty, giving her a perfect opportunity to execute her plan.
‘That’s around the corner,’ he said curtly. ‘There are no signs on the club entrances. On purpose,’ he added with a glare.
The tall stone mansions, with their columns and arched windows, were so similar. She’d been so pleased that the building appeared quiet that she’d quite forgotten to double check the address.
Violet’s sense of humour got the better of her. She didn’t know London well and she had carried out her reconnaissance from a passing carriage. She suppressed a giggle, felt the start of a smile.
The scowl on the man’s face wiped it away.
She raised her chin.
‘I must ask you to accept my apology,’ she said with dignity.
‘You had the wrong balcony. This is my home.’ His jaw clenched. ‘For the time being, anyway. I could have you arrested for trespass. For all I know you might be a burglar.’
‘I’m not a burglar,’ she protested. ‘And you wouldn’t dare.’
He raised a winged eyebrow.
‘Try me,’ he said grimly. ‘How did you get up there?’
‘That pillar.’ Violet pointed at one of the Roman-style pillars on either side of the front door and the portico where she’d balanced on top. ‘Then I climbed the drainpipe.’
A rather dirty drainpipe, she realised, by the state of her frock. The blue-striped taffeta was streaked with rust and dirt. Somehow she’d have to hide it.
His eyes followed the route of her climb. His hold on her arm tightened. ‘Promise me. No more balconies. It’s dangerous—surely you can see that.’
Violet shivered in the night air. She’d removed her cloak in order to climb more easily. Truth be told, the climb had been more difficult than she’d anticipated, teetering on the ledge, and her legs still trembled from her fall. If he hadn’t caught her...
‘Promise me,’ he demanded again.
‘How do you know I’m the kind of person who keeps her promises?’
He stared into her eyes. ‘You keep your promises.’
She found herself unable to break his gaze. ‘All right!’
Abruptly he stepped back. Beneath his coat his broad shoulders relaxed. ‘Then I’ll let you go without calling the constable. At least you won’t go climbing any more balconies, even if I suspect it won’t stop you tying more banners.’
Freed from his grip, Violet turned and ran.
‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder as she dashed away. ‘You can be sure of that.’
Adam Beaufort stared after the hourglass figure disappearing around the corner. Her fleeting footsteps clicked on the pavement as she vanished into the night.
He rubbed his eyes. What an extraordinary vision, witnessing the young woman stretched across the balcony, arms and legs spread like a spider. Her dress had hitched up as she inched across, clinging to the stone balustrade, using the columns as footholds, her banner clutched in one gloved hand. He had to commend her daring, even if it was sheer idiocy.
Then she had fallen into his arms. The feel of her as she landed right in them. Instinctively he’d leapt forward as she tumbled to where he guessed she’d land and caught her like a fish in a net.
He wouldn’t forget how she’d felt in his arms.
He scratched his head. Her brown hair was glossy, her eyes bright blue. When she’d realised that she had the wrong address a smile had curved her full cheeks, filling her eyes with laughter. Not beautiful, but pretty.
And soft. That’s what he’d felt, when he caught her. Frills and lace and, beneath it, soft, warm flesh. But her spirit—no softness there. She radiated strength and a cast-iron determination.
He had to admire that kind of female determination. His younger sister, Jane, had strength of character, too, although it was still developing. So did his elder sister, Arabella, but since their father had died the family relied on Adam for everything. Every decision, every penny.
Adam set his jaw. He didn’t resent the responsibility, but he had to make some hard decisions now. Damned difficult, sometimes, being head of the family.
‘There’s no need to swear!’ an irate voice echoed in his head. He frowned. She had an unusual accent. Northern, he guessed, beneath the carefully enunciated vowels. She wasn’t, as some of the more unpleasantly snobbish acquaintances of his mother would have put it, ‘one of us.’
His frown deepened as he stared at the shabby front door of their London home. Being ‘one of us’ took a lot of upkeep. The black paint was peeling on the wrought iron and the black front door needed a lick of paint, too. The marble steps leading up to the threshold were dull and dirty. The servants travelled back and forth with them, to and from Beauley Manor. He couldn’t afford to keep staff in both homes. The London mansion needed much more than a good clean, never mind what a country estate like Beauley Manor needed. Then he had to add what his mother and Arabella and Jane needed, too. They would be back in London to attend a ball tomorrow night. Neither of them had asked for new ball gowns that could cost a fortune.
A fortune he didn’t have.
From the corner of his eye he noticed something fluttering from the plane tree near the streetlight at the corner.
He strode over and pulled it down from the branch. It tore as it came free.
In his hand the banner unfurled. Purple, green and white. Under the streetlight he examined it more closely. It was made of silk, not cotton or sensible broadcloth. The tricolours were sewn together lengthways in somewhat imperfect stitches. In the corner of the white section was embroidered a tiny purple violet.
Scrunching up the silken banner in his fist, he shoved it inside his coat.
The sight of her, inching across the balcony, her suffragette banner aloft in her hand...
For the first time in months Adam laughed aloud.
Violet sighed over her embroidery as she unpicked a crooked seam. She’d been distracted ever since she fell off the balcony into the dark-haired stranger’s arms the night before. He had held her only for a moment or two, yet she had felt so comfortable, so secure in that strong grip, though a tremor of danger had run through her veins. It had been the most peculiar sensation. Still, it was unlikely she would ever see him again. Her heart gave a strange squeeze of regret.
She poked her needle, threaded with purple, into the white silk and put it aside into the sewing pouch on its polished rosewood stand. She needed to make another banner quickly. The only advantage of being able to sew was that she used her skill to make her suffrage banners, not that her mother knew that to be the reason, of course. She’d wondered recently, though, what had happened to all the purple silk.
‘I’ve been wondering if we should change your name.’
In astonishment Violet turned to her mother, who lay on the velvet chaise longue reading an illustrated fashion paper. ‘What on earth do you mean, Mama? Change my name? What’s wrong with Violet Regina?’
‘Just the spelling,’ her mother said hastily. ‘We could make it French-sounding. Violette.’ She added a trill to the final syllable. ‘French is quite the fashion.’
Firmly Violet shook her head. ‘No, Mama. No. We are who we are. I love my name.’
‘You’re named after a chocolate,’ her mother protested.
‘And a pretty little flower,’ said her father, coming into the drawing room and knocking over the porcelain shepherdess by the door, as he always did. The vast space was absolutely crammed with china ornaments. They, too, were the latest fashion, her mother insisted, whenever Violet suggested removing one or two.
‘What’s all this about, then?’ her father asked, replacing the shepherdess on the stand and giving it a cautious pat.
‘Oh, Papa.’ Violet leapt up, ran across the room and hugged him tight. It was becoming harder to wrap her arms around his waistcoat, she thought with a smile. He’d always been shaped like a barrel, but now he was like a barrel about to burst. ‘I thought you went up to Manchester, to the factory.’
Her father squeezed back. ‘I put off the trip north until next week. Your mama has persuaded me to stay in London and come to this dance tomorrow night.’
‘Ball,’ her mother put in from the chaise longue.
Her father winked at her mother. ‘Aye, we’ll have a ball, my beautiful Adeline.’
‘Reginald.’ Her mother pursed her lips, but her cheeks flushed pink.
‘So, do you have the most beautiful gowns money can buy?’ Her father beamed. ‘I want my girls to look fine.’
The final touches had been put on her own gown that morning at the dressmaker’s in Bond Street. Even such a gown didn’t alleviate the sinking in Violet’s stomach. If only her parents weren’t so eager. Still, she’d have to make the best of it.
‘My dress is beautiful,’ she replied. ‘White lace with a violet sash.’
‘The best Belgian lace,’ her mother added.
‘The best.’ Her father rubbed his hands together delightedly. ‘That’s right. Nothing else for the Coombes. The best.’
Violet picked up her needle and smiled at him. Not for all the lace in Belgium would she have told her father just how much she dreaded the ball.
Only the thought of what she planned to do there spurred her on.
