Miss Fortescue's Protector in Paris

by Amanda McCabe

  Emily gave the bell three short rings and, after a moment, there was the patter of footsteps, the click of locks and the door swung open. To Emily’s surprise, it was Mrs Hurst herself who stood there.

  Short, plump, greying brown hair in a knot atop her head, dressed in a plain shirtwaist and sensible dark blue skirt, no one would take Mrs Hurst for a radical, either. She smiled and reached out to take some of the ledgers. ‘Oh, my dear Miss Fortescue! You are the first to arrive. Do come in. You can help me set up.’

  Emily followed her up a narrow flight of stairs and into a small room with a low platform set at one end, faced by rows of chairs. Mrs Hurst handed her a stack of papers to place on each chair, with an article of issues to cover at the meeting: going over the financials, groups sent to seek volunteers in other cities, a roster of speakers at other meetings.

  ‘I’m sure you have all the figures to present during the budget talks,’ Mrs Hurst said, bustling around setting up more chairs.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. We’ve come out rather ahead last month, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘All because of your hard work, Miss Fortescue! You are quite the most efficient treasurer we have ever had. If you were Minister of the Exchequer, I am sure every problem of the Empire would be quite solved!’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not such a whiz as all that,’ Emily said with a sigh. The accounts had never been the most interesting part of business to her, but they were none the less essential. She made her way down the rows, leaving the agendas at each place. ‘I’m not sure we have such a rosy picture for the rest of the quarter, though, unless we can hit on an idea for another fundraiser.’

  ‘It never is especially rosy,’ Mrs Hurst said, laughing. ‘But I might have a plan to change that, if you’re willing to help.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Emily answered, intrigued.

  ‘I was at the Pankhursts’ At Home in Russell Square last week. Have you been there?’

  ‘No, but I should dearly like to meet them,’ Emily said. She had heard of Richard Pankhurst, a Liberal M.P., and his wife, who were interested in many causes such as suffrage, and the fascinating people they attracted to their drawing room for evenings of music, refreshments and radical conversation.

  ‘Oh, you simply must! Richard and Emmeline are the most astonishing people, so open-minded and full of ideas, and simply everyone goes there. I saw Grant Allen last week and that Italian anarchist, Malatesta. Mrs Stanton-Blatch is visiting from America next month. Well, I also met a woman called Madame Renard, who runs an organisation much like our own in Paris. They have faced problems similar to ours, I fear—having the funds to do our work, attracting women of every social station. But she has a few intriguing ideas for raising funds.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘It’s a gentleman from Germany she knows, an Herr Friedland. Much associated with the court of Emperor Frederick and his wife, our own Princess Royal still affectionately known as Crown Princess Vicky, of course. The royal couple were very interested in new ideas, in following the English liberalism of the Empress Dowager’s father, much unlike the rest of the German royals, and the Empress Dowager still is interested. Herr Friedland says he can act as liaison with her to set up a sort of roundabout fund for organisations like ours. The Empress Dowager wants to show her support to do so publicly.’

  ‘Really?’ Emily was intrigued, but rather dubious. The support of people like the Princess Royal would be very valuable indeed, even if it had to be discreet, but how could this man be trusted? So many men would do anything at all to make sure women never had the vote, never had any power. And she knew Germany was a very different place from England. ‘How can we verify his credentials, if it all must be so quiet?’

  ‘Well, that is where you can come in, my dear Miss Fortescue,’ Mrs Hurst said, practically clapping her hands with enthusiasm. ‘Madame Renard is to meet with Herr Friedland in Paris and has invited us to send someone to take part, to learn how we can all benefit. I cannot go, but I know the matter can be in no more capable hands than yours.’

  ‘Paris?’ Emily said, astonished. A visit to the city coming up twice in one day—it must be a sign she was meant to be there. ‘I am meant to go there soon anyway, on business for my father, but I don’t know...’

  ‘Excellent! Then it is meant to be, I’m sure,’ Mrs Hurst cried happily. ‘With enough financing, we can spread our operations to every corner of England at last and ensure freedom to every woman. I will have Madame Renard send you the particulars.’

  Before she could ask any more questions, though, the bell rang again and Mrs Hurst dashed down the stairs to let in the others. Emily heard the burst of laughter as the women clattered up the steps and she knew she couldn’t focus now on anything but the important business at hand.

  Chapter Three

  The streets were quieter than Emily expected when she left her friends at the meeting, and she couldn’t glimpse any hansoms. She glanced at the watch pinned to her tweed lapel and realised it was later than she usually was. But the city was not completely deserted. She still saw a few carriages leaving late, post-theatre suppers, some lingering diners in cafés. So she decided to walk for a time until a hansom came by, a few minutes to clear her head.

  After a League meeting, she always felt filled with energy, fizzing away so she could hardly rest. The rightness of what they were working for filled her with such a sense of purpose, of being right where she should be, that it felt as if she was floating in another world entirely from the real one of parties and appointments.

  It was just like that when she was absorbed in her work. Or like those moments hidden in the thick green maze with Chris, his lips on hers, all else vanished...

  ‘No!’ she muttered aloud, stabbing at the pavement with the tip of her umbrella. She wouldn’t think about Christopher Blakely now, not tonight. It was only the idea of being in Paris again that brought him back to her so vividly. Paris had been a magical place and time, so beautiful and sparkling, and Chris had been such a part of it. Just as beautiful and sparkling as the Champs-Élysées itself, lit up at night, and just as illusory.

  Yet she couldn’t help but wonder—what was he doing now? Did he ever think about her at all?

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself. Of course Chris didn’t think of her. He was too busy doing his Chris-like things: gambling clubs and horse races, theatres. He never had serious thought and he was all wrong for her.

  But, oh, he was fun. Handsome and merry, so unlike her own serious self. Yes, she did rather miss him now. Blast him.

  Emily heard an echo behind her, a slow, steady sound like a footfall on the paving stones, and she suddenly realised how quiet everything had become. While she was daydreaming, she had turned from the busier lanes of restaurants and hotels to a silent residential street. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, but could see nothing but shadows in the pale light that fell from a few windows. The echo of footsteps stopped.

  A memory flashed through her mind, of Gregory Hamilton and that deserted terrace, of the claustrophobic feeling of not being able to get away. She thought of the strange letters that had recently started to arrive at her house, notes she couldn’t explain, but had dismissed as the ramblings of an overzealous mystery suitor. She shivered and felt the hairs on her arm prickle a bit.

  She spun back around, feeling foolish, and hurried ahead, as fast as she dared. The footsteps started again, also moving faster, and as she turned a corner a hand suddenly seized her arm, appearing from the darkness.

  She was suddenly caught in her own nightmare, the cobwebs closing around her feet, tripping her as she tried to flee in the darkness.

  Using her weight, Emily whirled around towards her attacker instead of trying to pull away. She drew back the hand that held her umbrella and lashed out with it at the shadowy figure.

  He just looked like a phantom in the night, feat
ureless, pale, terrifyingly tall and swathed in a black coat, a hat tugged low on his brow to conceal his face. But the iron grip on her arm was all too real.

  She screamed and lashed out again with her umbrella. He muttered a low, rough curse and tried to grab her other arm as she landed a lucky blow to his skull. She screamed again, desperately, and tried to bring her boot-heel down on his foot.

  A window somewhere along the street opened and someone called, ‘Here, what’s this about? Leave off or I’ll call on the constables, right now!’

  As if startled, her attacker suddenly released her and fell back a step. Emily broke away and started running, as fast as she could. It had been a long time since her days of chasing tennis balls and rowing on the pond at Miss Grantley’s, but she could still move like the wind when she needed to. She didn’t stop until she somehow reached her own front door and she pounded her fists on it frantically.

  She stumbled inside when the butler opened it and only then did she feel the ache in her struggling lungs, the pain in her legs. He stared at her in astonishment as she collapsed on the nearest chair.

  ‘Miss Emily,’ he said. ‘Whatever is the matter? Are you ill?’

  Emily shook her head, gasping too hard to say anything. She wanted to beg him not to alert her father, but it was too late. Albert had already appeared at the top of the stairs in his dressing gown, his face creased with worry.

  ‘Emily,’ he cried, hurrying down to her side. Mary appeared behind him, her face shocked. ‘Fetch a doctor right away!’

  ‘No, I don’t need a doctor,’ Emily managed to say hoarsely. ‘I just had a bit of a fright, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Emily, was it him? The letter writer?’ Mary gasped. ‘I knew he would show up!’

  ‘Him?’ Emily’s father said sharply.

  Emily shot Mary a reproachful glance, but she didn’t blame the maid, not really. When Emily had confided in Mary about the notes, they had both determined it was probably just an overzealous suitor. Emily had begged Mary not to say anything, not to worry her father, and surely the letters would stop soon enough. Mary had agreed, but had they been very wrong after all?

  ‘I’ll just fetch a brandy, Miss Emily,’ Mary said, and she and the butler hurried away.

  Albert sat beside Emily and gently took her hand. She felt steadier already, being in her own home with her father, and anger was beginning to replace the fear. ‘Emily, what does Mary mean? Was someone pestering you tonight? Someone you have had problems with before?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘Someone was following me, I think, and I did receive one or two letters recently—very, um, affectionate letters. From someone nameless. But I am sure they are not connected.’

  Albert looked shocked, his face turning red. ‘I never should have let you go alone to that blasted meeting! If only your mother were here. She would have known what to do.’

  Emily held tightly to his hand. ‘It has nothing to do with the meeting, Father, I’m sure of it. It happened long after I left the hall. I was just being silly, distracted by a daydream. I will always take the carriage from now on, I promise.’

  Mary returned with a glass of brandy and Emily took a bracing gulp of the amber liquid, glad of its steadying warmth.

  ‘Well, Paris is out of the question now,’ her father said.

  ‘Oh, no, Father,’ Emily argued. ‘We can’t let one strange incident get in the way of our business. I swear to you, I will be much more careful in the future.’ And the letter-writer, and that night’s follower, if they were indeed one and the same, could never be allowed to interfere in what really mattered: her work.

  Her father looked as if he very much wanted to argue with her, but he just shook his head and patted her hand. ‘We will talk about it tomorrow, my dear. You look exhausted. Let Mary take you up to bed now. You need some rest.’

  Emily nodded. She was exhausted, but she feared she wouldn’t find quiet sleep that night. She let Mary lead her up to her chamber, brush her hair and help her into her nightdress. The maid stayed beside her, reading from a book of poetry, as Emily climbed into bed. She closed her eyes and for a moment the fearful image of the dark alley wasn’t there at all. Instead she saw a sunny French garden, Chris’s teasing smile as he kissed her in that garden maze, and she was able to drift into slumber.

  * * *

  Albert Fortescue glanced through the darkened doorway at his peacefully sleeping daughter. In her slumber, she looked younger, serene, all the cares of the day, her endless energy, still for the moment. It reminded him of when she was a little girl and he would read her a bedtime fairy story, tuck her in before he went off to a dinner party or the theatre. Those quiet, precious moments, gone much too quickly.

  But what wasn’t gone, what would never be gone, was his need to protect her. To keep her safe. He had promised Emily’s mother, as she lay dying, that their daughter would always be safe. Now he feared he was failing in that vow.

  He remembered with an anguished pang the frightened look on her face earlier and the anger that anyone would dare treat her like that. His Emily, his precious girl!

  Albert knew he had not raised her as most girls were. But how could he have done differently? He had been on his own for most of their life together. Emily had no mother, no aunt, no grandmother to guide her. Perhaps he should have married again, given her a stepmother, but the business took all his time. They had seemed to do well, the two of them, and his Emily was so smart, so full of energy, so independent. She was a true assistant in his work.

  Yet he was not as young as he had once been. He could feel his own strength flagging and one day, perhaps much sooner than he could have wished, he would have to cease working so much. It was time to organise, once and for all, things he had put off for too long.

  Emily needed a protector, someone to stand by her side in life. A husband who could give her a secure place in society, give her a family so she would never be alone and perhaps take over the reins of his business once he could no longer do it. She needed someone—before it was too late. The danger she’d run into that night only proved that to him.

  Albert sighed and ran a hand over his face as weariness and worry washed over him. How to convince Emily of this urgency? Every time he thought he had found a proper suitor for her, his darling, headstrong girl turned her nose up at them! She always had an argument against them and he would never want to see her with someone she could not love. Someone she could love as he had once so loved her mother.

  Surely, though, there was a man out there who would be worthy of his intelligent, kind-hearted daughter? A man they could both trust?

  Emily sighed in her sleep and Albert hurried to tuck the blankets closer around her, just as he had done when she was a child. ‘Don’t worry, my dearest,’ he whispered. ‘I will find a way to make it right...’

  Chapter Four

  ‘And Lord Henry Haite-Withers is getting married! I’m quite sure you remember him, Christopher, he is the son of my dear friend the Marchioness of Barnsworthy,’ Beatrice Blakely said, her voice touched with barely concealed reproach. She gestured to the butler to bring in dinner’s next course as she told Chris of every bit of marital gossip.

  Was it only the fish course? Chris could have sworn they should be on the fruit and cheese at least. He felt as if he had been sitting there in the gloomy parental dining room for two days.

  It was ever thus with his monthly obligatory family dinners. The dining room was a cavernous space decorated in the dark greens and burgundies of the style of his mother’s youth, back when the Queen was a young mother and not grandmother of an Empire. Every corner was stuffed with tables of bibelots, porcelain figurines, old silver, vases of peacock feathers, and the dining table was laden with gilded bowls of fruit and flowers. It was draped in green damask, lined with rows of gold-rimmed crystal and platters, even when it was only he and his parents dining. It was
all dark, airless, lifeless.

  Yet the decor was only the outward representation of the unspoken emotions that always hung heavy in the air. His parents had not spoken a word to each other in years, if they could possibly help it, and when they did it was only for his father to send barely veiled barbs at his mother and his mother to ignore them and chatter on to no one in particular about gossip. It had been thus for nearly as long as Chris could remember. Leaving for school, even with its cold baths and canings, had been a blessing.

  Matters seemed to have got even worse since Will left for his diplomatic postings abroad and married Diana Martin. Chris adored Di, she was the perfect sister-in-law, and had brought such laughter to his solemn brother’s life. Yet Chris still couldn’t fathom how Will had been able to take the matrimonial plunge in the first place. Not with such an example of connubial disharmony before them every day of their lives.

  Chris took a deep gulp of his wine. ‘Is he indeed? Old Harry... Who has he tricked into taking him on, then?’

  ‘Oh, Christopher...’ His mother sighed. ‘Lord Henry is quite respectable now, running his father’s estate in Devonshire. His fiancée is Miss Golens, a very pretty girl, I think. Perhaps you remember her from last Season? Mrs Golens, her mother, is very charming and she and I had rather hoped you might hit it off with her yourself. She really is very sweet.’ She sighed again and picked at her trout amandine. ‘But, alas, I think every good debutante from last Season is now spoken for.’

  Chris’s father, who had said barely three words since the wretched meal began, shot his wife a thunderous glance. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Beatrice? Christopher is hopeless. He will never make a respectable marriage, never settle into any useful work at all. You should direct your energies elsewhere.’