by Jane Feather
“Yes, thank you, Dottie.” Petra took the boots and sat down to lace them up. “Do you want to go to the WSPU meeting this evening? I’m probably going myself. I think it’s quite an important one.”
“Well, it’s not my evening off,” the girl said, holding up the coat for Petra.
“Oh, take it anyway,” Petra said, pushing her arms into the sleeves. “I won’t be here and it’s all in a good cause if you want to go.”
“Then I daresay I’ll be there, thank you, Miss Petra.”
Petra nodded. “That’s settled. I’ll be back after lunch.” She hurried downstairs to where Diana was waiting in the hall.
As she reached the hall Guy emerged from the library with a young man, impeccably dressed in morning attire, on his heels. “If you would just read these papers on the matter, my lord, I’m sure you’d be interested in bringing it up in the Lords. I could write you a speech this afternoon for you to present this evening.”
Guy sighed. “Yes, yes, Freddie, dear boy, write the speech and I’ll consider delivering it sometime in the next week or two. Right now, I’m already running late for a lunch meeting.” He paused as he saw Diana.
“Diana, my dear, how lovely to see you. How are you?” He brushed her cheek with his lips before turning to Petra, who jumped down the last step into the hall. “Are you two going out for lunch? Can I give you a lift?”
“Depends where you’re going,” Petra said, reaching up to kiss him. “We’re going to meet Fenella at Fortnum’s.”
“I’m going to Westminster, but I’ll drop you off in Piccadilly.” He shrugged into the coat that Babbit held for him.
“The cab is waiting outside, my lord,” the butler informed him. “You said you were leaving ten minutes ago.”
“I had certainly intended to do so,” Guy said. “But I found myself unavoidably detained.” He cast a glance at Freddie, who looked sheepish as he still stood in the library doorway. “Come, ladies.” He swept them both ahead of him outside into the crisp early November air.
The hackney dropped them off outside Fortnum’s just as Fenella stepped out of a cab at the door. She hugged Petra fiercely. “We’ve missed you so much. I hope you haven’t told Diana everything and left nothing for me.”
Petra laughed. “As it happens I’ve told Diana very little, so whatever you want to know I’ll tell you all through lunch. Not that there’s that much to tell,” she added, going ahead of them through the swing doors into the foyer. “Oh, there’s Annabelle Fine, she’s still with Theo Frazier. I thought they’d have parted company long before now.” She smiled and waved at the couple in question, who were sitting at a round table in the middle of the restaurant.
“No, it’s still on again and off again,” Fenella told her. “Apparently Lady Fine is going berserk because Annabelle won’t make up her mind. One minute they’re talking trousseau and the next Theo’s about to up sticks and leave town for foreign parts.”
Petra smiled, taking her seat, leaning back as the waiter shook out her napkin, placing it on her lap. It was good to be back among her friends once again, surrounded by the comforting familiarity of the regular world, even though the closeness she and Guy had enjoyed on their four-week journey was bound to be stretched. But stretched didn’t mean broken. He would have his own friends and commitments as she had hers, but there were a lot of hours in the day, and particularly the night, when they would be alone together.
“So what is anyone going to eat?” she asked, picking up her menu. “French onion soup, I think, with lots of melted cheese.” She looked up over her menu and an expression of distaste crossed her face. “That woman is everywhere. Was it too much to hope she’d have gone back to where she came from while we were out of town?”
“Who?” Diana followed her eyes to a corner table. “Oh, the Delmont woman. Actually I haven’t seen her around for a long time. She must have just come back to town. Have you seen her recently, Fenella?”
Fenella shook her head. “No, but then I haven’t exactly been looking for her.”
“She’s hard to miss if she’s in your vicinity,” Petra stated. She still remembered Clothilde’s sugary voice telling her how Guy had said she had little to recommend her. She didn’t believe he’d said such a thing for a moment, but it still stung. For some reason just knowing the woman was in the same room as she was made her skin prickle.
“Well, you’re well and truly wedded and bedded to Guy Granville,” Diana declared. “And there’s nothing she can do about it. Anyway, it looks as if she’s found a new man to keep her warm at night.”
“He’s very young,” Petra observed, and then briskly changed the subject. “So, what time does the meeting start this evening?”
“Nine o’clock. Christabel is speaking, so it’s bound to get a bit fiery.” Diana sliced her calf ’s liver thinly.
“Well, if we’re planning to invade Parliament, it’s certainly going to set some fires burning,” Fenella observed. “How do you think Guy will react if you’re arrested occupying St. Stephen’s Hall, Petra?”
“I have no idea,” Petra said. “But not well, I suspect.”
“You don’t have to do it, dearest, you know that,” Diana said swiftly. “If it’s going to upset Guy you should sit this one out.”
Petra shook her head. “No, I’m not doing that. If that’s what the Union is doing then I’m part of the Union and I’ll go along with them. Guy might come around, he often surprises me.” She concentrated on her lunch, keeping to herself the reflection that Rupert and Edward would probably be cheering their wives on, if not marching at their sides, while the best she thought she could hope for was Guy’s silence on the subject.
The opportunity to test the waters came that evening. On her return home from lunch, Babbit greeted her with the news that his lordship had sent his apologies but that he would not be dining at home as he would be having a private dinner with the Lord Bishop of Bristol. He would not be late home, however.
Petra’s first thought was one of relief, she’d be able to go to Caxton Hall without having to discuss the matter with Guy, but then she realized he would probably be at home waiting for her when she came back. Well, she shrugged, her private affairs were her own. If there had to be a confrontation, better sooner than later.
* * *
“It’s always so cold and drafty in here,” Fenella complained as the three women entered the red brick building that housed Caxton Hall. The meeting room was already filling rapidly with women, many clustering around the tea urns on a long table at the back of the room.
Petra waved at Dottie, who was drinking tea in a knot of young girls in the cloth hats and coats and sturdy shoes of working women.
“Let’s see if we can get seats close to the front.” Petra weaved her way through the groups to the front of the hall where Christabel Pankhurst was already standing at the dais in front of a table piled with papers. She went up to the table, greeting the woman with a cheerful smile. “It looks like quite a crowd tonight, Christabel.”
“Oh, Petra, so you’re back in town.” Christabel returned the greeting as she rubbed her hands together vigorously. “It’s always so cold in here. Let’s hope the room will warm up with all the bodies. Is that Diana?” She indicated Diana, who was talking with a woman by the wall. “She always has a flask of something warming on her.”
Petra laughed. “Tonight’s no exception . . . Diana,” she called over the buzz of voices.
Diana excused herself and came over to the dais. “Good evening, Christabel. Are you ready to rouse the troops?”
“I was hoping for a nip from your flask first,” the other woman said, laughing. “Dutch courage.”
“Since when have you ever needed that?” Diana handed over a silver flask. “Finest cognac, I think you’ll find.”
“Oh, I brought some too,” Fenella said, coming up behind them. “I was going to get some tea. Anyone want a cup?”
“I’ll help you,” Petra plunged back into the chatt
ering throng, heading for the tea table, Fenella on her heels. They returned to the dais carrying two cups of tea each and after a few more words with Christabel while they spiced up the dark brew in their cups took their seats in the front row.
The atmosphere of this meeting was different from usual, Petra thought. There was a buzz of excitement, of anticipation, but also of trepidation. They were planning a march like any of the others they had taken but this one meant invading the hallowed halls of Westminster itself. While the building was open to the public with the right entrees, the wives and families of members of Parliament, and anyone with official business, the protocols for admission and conduct were rigid. These women were intending to shatter those protocols forcibly.
When they finally left Caxton Hall, the three women were silent as they walked down Palmer Street in search of a hackney. Finally Petra said, “Something’s changed, hasn’t it? There’s a different feeling in the air.”
“Determination,” Fenella suggested. “Impatience. We’re not making enough progress. The government’s no closer even to listening to us.”
“It’s time to get their attention,” Diana stated. “And an invasion of St. Stephen’s Hall will certainly do that.”
“Can you imagine the expressions of all those self-important dignitaries and politicians faced in their holy of holies with a sea of irate banner-waving women who won’t be quiet?” Petra asked on a bubble of laughter. “If it wasn’t so deadly serious it would be hilarious . . . oh, there’s a cab.” She stepped into the road, waving a hand at an approaching four-seater hackney.
It was half an hour later that she stepped out of the hackney in Berkeley Square. It had made sense to drop Diana and Fenella off first so it was past eleven o’clock when she put her key in the door. It was opened before she could turn it in the lock.
“What have you been up to, madam wife?” Guy inquired, smiling at her. “I expected to find you ready and waiting for me.”
“I was out with Diana and Fenella,” Petra said lightly, stepping into the hall as Guy closed the door behind her.
“Ah.” He leaned back against the closed door regarding her closely, before leaning forward and taking both ends of her purple-, green- and white-striped scarf and pulling them gently. “WSPU business, I take it.”
“Yes, at Caxton Hall. Christabel Pankhurst was speaking,” Petra responded, keeping her tone light and casual. “It was a lively meeting.” She made to move away from him and for a moment he kept hold of the ends of her scarf, keeping her where she was, before letting her go.
“A warming cognac?” he suggested, moving toward the library.
“Yes, please.” She followed him into the room, letting the door close behind her. “So how was your dinner with his lordship, the bishop?” She curled up in the corner of the sofa.
“Pleasant enough,” Guy responded, handing her a brandy goblet. “He has a notable fondness for claret. His nose blends beautifully with his cassock.”
Petra laughed. “Did he want anything in particular?”
“Oh, Bristol Cathedral needs funds to renovate parts of its roof. He was hoping I would see if I could find a source of government money that could be diverted for that purpose.”
“Did you talk to Joth about it? All things to do with Somerset are in his remit in the Commons.”
“Your brother joined us after dinner. He sends his love, by the way, and wants to come to dinner this weekend.”
“Oh, lovely. I haven’t really seen him properly since we got back.” Petra yawned. “I’ll set something up for Saturday evening.”
“Come, it’s time for bed. You can hardly keep your eyes open.” He took her glass from her, setting it aside before taking her hands and pulling her up from the sofa. “Go on up, I’ll follow you in a few minutes.”
Petra, yawning, left him to turn down the lamps in the library and made her way upstairs. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in her petticoat, peeling off her stockings, when Guy came into the bedchamber.
“Where’s Dottie?” he asked, “It’s not her evening off.”
“Oh, I told her I wouldn’t need her tonight. I saw her at the end of the meeting and she was going to the pub with some other girls,” Petra said easily, tossing her silk stockings aside.
“Your maid is a member of the Union?” There was a note in his voice that made Petra sit up straight.
“What if she is? It’s her business.”
“I find it hard enough to accept that my wife is a member of the WSPU but I certainly will not permit members of my household to be involved in that political issue. It causes disagreements among the staff and leads to all sorts of trouble. Babbit won’t stand for it if he finds out.” He walked into his dressing room, closing the door behind him with a click.
Petra stared at the closed door. He had never shut it before. It seemed like a statement of a kind. And not a reassuring one.
Chapter Nineteen
Petra awoke in semidarkness the next morning with a faint sense of unease. She lay for a moment in the half world between sleep and wakefulness probing the feeling. Turning her head on the pillow she felt a wash of relief. Guy’s head was on the pillow beside her and he appeared to be still asleep. She had fallen asleep the previous evening before he had emerged from his dressing room and now realized that her sleep had been disturbed by the fact that she hadn’t heard or felt him get into bed beside her. Reassured, she turned on her side and went back to sleep.
When she next awoke it was broad daylight, the curtains drawn back across the window to let in the autumn sun. Guy was standing in his dressing gown beside the bed, holding a cup of tea, which he set down on the bedside table.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Your tea.”
Petra reached her arms above her head in a luxuriant stretch. “Come back to bed. It’s lonely without you.”
He shook his head, bending to kiss her. “Don’t tempt me. I have the country’s work to do.”
She put her arms around his neck in a tight clasp, rolling onto her back so that he fell forward onto the bed beside her. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you, my lord?”
He groaned. “All too easily. For such a little thing you make remarkably strong magic, Petra.” He reached behind his neck to unclasp her hands. “But not this time. I have an important meeting to attend.”
Petra yielded, pulling herself up against the pillows as he stood up. “What’s the meeting about?”
“Ah.” The smile died in his eyes and he turned away from the bed. “I don’t wish to spoil our present amity so if you don’t mind I’ll decline to answer that.” He walked to the bathroom.
Petra’s unease flared anew. She frowned at his retreating back and decided to bite the bullet. “Does it have anything to do with the WSPU?”
For answer he gave her only the sound of running water. They couldn’t go on tiptoeing around the subject. Last night, he had openly declared his opposition to women’s suffrage and had all but forbidden her maid from participating, but nothing definitive had been said. It was clear as day now that any open discussion would be acrimonious and Petra couldn’t decide whether she was ready for that or not.
She drank her tea, considering her next move. There were men who supported the idea of enfranchising women. There were men who marched with the suffragists. Surely, given time and calm tempers she could get Guy at least to see why it meant so much to women like her. Surely they could agree to disagree on something so vital.
Guy came back into the bedroom and went directly into his dressing room. Petra got out of bed and began to pick up her discarded clothing from the previous evening. Usually she would have rung for Dottie, who would have brought her tea and tidied up the bedroom, but she thought it unwise for Guy and Dottie to be maneuvering around each other at the moment. She shook out her crumpled stockings, laying them over an ottoman, following them with the rest of her undergarments.
“Do you never wear a corset?” Guy asked suddenly, appearing from the dressi
ng room, knotting a tie at his throat.
Petra looked down at the heap of underclothes on the ottoman and then up at him in surprise. “No, of course not. Why are you asking this now? You’ve never mentioned it before.”
“It didn’t seem appropriate to express a preference on your choice of undergarments before I gained a husband’s prerogatives,” he said.
“And dictating whether I wear a corset or not is a husband’s prerogative?” she asked, momentarily dumbfounded.
He shrugged. “Not dictating, no, of course not. But, as I said, expressing a preference.”
Petra stared at him, astonished. “Do you know what such constriction does to one’s insides?”
“I know what it does to a woman’s outsides,” he commented with a smile that she found infuriating. “And I have to say, my dear, that in general I approve.”
The image of Clothilde Delmont’s elegant hourglass shape popped unbidden into Petra’s head. Every inch of the woman was molded by a corset, the outthrust shelf of her bosom, the minute, nipped waist, the curve and projection of her hips and rear, all designed to draw the predatory male eye, a tantalizing feast put on for his delectation.
“You’re not a modern man at all, Guy,” she snapped. “You have the most outdated ideas. You’re not even that old to be so old-fashioned.”
His expression darkened and there was an unmistakably dangerous spark in his eyes. His voice was frigid as he said, “You’re on very thin ice, my dear. I suggest you take a step back from whatever line you’re about to cross.”
Petra felt suddenly cold. She turned away and went into her own dressing room, carefully leaving the door slightly ajar, unwilling to exhibit a display of anger that could have been accused of childishness by slamming it as she wanted to. She sat down on the daybed fighting with her fury. Somehow these two bones of contention were connected. His opposition to the WSPU and his outdated desire to see her constricted, constrained, dominated by the whalebone prison of a corset.
How could he possibly want that? She heard the bedroom door close and waited a few more minutes before venturing from the dressing room. The bedroom was empty. Petra began to pace the room, muttering to herself as she gave her outrage free rein in the safety of solitude. It was absurd that they should be fighting over such fundamental issues now. The time for that was before they got married, not after. She had known what he was like after all. Why had she been so blind to the real dangers of his naturally controlling instincts? She had blithely thought she could manage them . . . manage Guy.