The Scandalous Suffragette

by Eliza Redgold

  Chapter Two

  ‘To alien ears, I did not speak to these’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)

  ‘What’s wrong with these fellows, not asking my daughter to dance? Can’t they see the prettiest girl in the room?’

  Across the small table Violet squeezed her father’s hand. Through her white kid gloves his hand was damp and hot.

  From his evening coat he pulled a spotted handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘Upon my soul, it’s stifling in here. Perhaps it’s a good thing not to be dancing, Violet, out in that crush.’

  Violet stared into the ballroom. Across the polished floor couples swirled, the men in black and white, the women in a rainbow of silks, taffetas, satins and lace. On a raised platform at the other end of the room the orchestra played a waltz by Strauss, one Violet had practised during her dancing lessons. Music and chatter filled the air, along with the tinkle of laughter and champagne glasses.

  The three of them sat alone on fragile gilt chairs in a small curtained alcove off the dance floor. The red-velvet curtains were open wide, unlike some of the other alcoves, inviting visitors to their table. So far, no one had approached. Her dance card, lying on the linen tablecloth, remained empty.

  Her mother blinked rapidly. ‘I thought Violet would have plenty of partners. It was so fortunate for us to receive an invitation.’

  ‘It’s quite all right, Mama,’ Violet said stoutly. ‘I don’t care to dance. Not tonight, in any case.’

  She stilled her foot beneath the skirt of her voluminous ball gown. In truth, she loved to dance and her slippers had been waltzing under her petticoats ever since she arrived.

  Her cheeks were warm. She sipped some champagne. It was the heat of the ballroom, she told herself. She refused to be humiliated by their obvious lack of welcome at the ball.

  Biting her lip, she glanced down at her gown with a frown. Perhaps it suited her ill. It had more frills and furbelows than she would have liked—her mama had insisted on them—but they’d been to the best dressmaker in London, so it was perfectly cut. The sleeves were short, leaving her forearms bare to her gloves, the bodice dipped down to reveal the skin of her décolletage, but not in a vulgar way, her train draped beautifully and the violet sash emphasised the tininess of her waist. Her brown hair had been dressed by her mother’s new French maid in a flattering style, swept up at the back into a high chignon.

  In the glass above the mantel in the drawing room she’d seen her reflection before they left for the ball, her eyes cornflower bright and her cheeks rosy with unexpected excitement. Her chin, the same strong chin as her papa’s, a feature that meant that she would never be considered a classical beauty, was slightly pink, too.

  ‘You’re a belle, Violet, just like your mama,’ her father said proudly when she spun a pirouette, narrowly avoiding a porcelain trinket box crashing to the floor. Her first ball. Surely every girl longed to attend a ball. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as dreadful as she expected.

  It was, possibly, worse. Her trepidation about the ball had been justified. No one spoke to them. They weren’t being cut, exactly, for they hadn’t been formally introduced into society. But they were certainly not welcomed with open arms, or even an extended hand. One of the young ladies who had chatted with her at their horse-riding lessons in Hyde Park behaved as though Violet was invisible when she gave her a small wave across the room.

  She didn’t mind for herself, she told herself firmly. But she did mind for her father, with his high hopes, who’d beamed as they climbed into their new carriage drawn by four horses, and for her mother, too.

  Upon their arrival, where she’d taken the opportunity to scan the entry hall, she’d stood near some disapproving Dowagers and overheard a snide, whispered conversation.

  ‘The Coombes have come to London for the Season to try for a match for the daughter,’ one of the Dowagers whispered. ‘They don’t seem to be having much luck.’

  ‘Even with all those chocolates,’ the other woman had tittered.

  ‘My dear, no wonder. Have you spied the mother? Covered in feathers and weighed down with so many diamonds she rivals the chandeliers.’

  Violet had turned hot with indignation. Why shouldn’t her mama wear as many diamonds as she wanted to? They were newly cut gems, not the old, rose-cut kind that glinted in the dull unpolished settings slung around most of the other ladies’ necks, but her mama loved her diamonds and her papa had been so pleased to be able to give them to her. Her parents had faced some hard times in the early days, before the chocolate business became a success.

  Now, her mother picked up her huge ostrich fan. It was too big, by the unkind Dowagers’ standards, but who were they to judge her beloved mama?

  ‘What should we do?’ her mama whispered from behind the feathers. ‘Should we go home?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Violet and her father spoke at the same time.

  ‘Let’s sit it out,’ her father said.

  Her mother’s lip quivered.

  ‘I’ll take you for a turn on the floor, Adeline, cheer you up.’ He glanced at Violet.

  ‘We can’t leave Violet sitting alone,’ her mother protested.

  Violet picked up her own fan, white lace trimmed with ribbon to match her sash. She’d stopped her mama from having peacock feathers added to it and she wore a simple pearl necklace like the other young women in white who appeared to be about her age, even if the pearls were perfectly matched and clasped with a first-rate diamond. ‘I don’t mind a jot, Mama. I don’t care if I’m a wallflower.’

  ‘Violets may grow in the shade, but they’re never wallflowers.’ Her father patted her shoulder as he stood and made an elaborate bow to his wife.

  They made their way to the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another waltz. Her father took her mother in his arms.

  The sensation of being held in the arms of the man who had caught her when she fell from the balcony came back to her. She’d relived it more than once, that sense of safety and danger, too, with his lips so close to hers. He’d even appeared in her dreams the night before, shouting something at her from the garden below as she leaned out of the first-floor window of a big house she didn’t recognise.

  She wondered what it would be like to dance with a man, held like that. She wasn’t likely to find out. Tonight, she wasn’t even going to dance.

  Never mind. She jerked up her chin.

  She’d made her secret decision long ago, when she first became a suffragette. Of course, she hadn’t confided in her parents, any more than she’d told them about her suffragette activities. They wouldn’t understand. But she would stick to her decision. She would put aside those hopes and dreams, her own desires, for the greater good. For the Cause.

  Violet could so clearly recall the moment the Cause had seized her, body and soul. She had read about the suffragettes in The Times newspaper, which she much preferred to the fashion papers. A thrill of excitement had run through her as she learned about the women fighting to be allowed to vote, led by Emmeline Pankhurst. Like Violet, Mrs Pankhurst came from Manchester, in the north of England. ‘Deeds, not words,’ she urged her followers.

  ‘Deeds, not words’, Violet repeated to herself. In her own way, she’d vowed, she would make a difference, add her daring deeds to the Cause. She might not be able to join suffragette rallies, or go to meetings, or march in the streets, as she longed to. Her parents would never allow it. But she kept sewing her banners. No one would stop her.

  ‘You keep your promises.’ A deep voice came back to her. The man on the street had sensed she was someone who would keep true to her word and her deeds. She had sensed the same in him, too.

  Her parents twirled past. Her father was surprisingly light on his feet and her mother was smiling now, to Violet’s relief. She did so want her parents’ happiness.

  Sometimes she wished they
had stayed in Manchester. They were happier there in their large house a few miles outside the town. But her mama wanted Violet to have everything and so did her papa, and that meant moving to London for the Season. They believed there were more opportunities.

  Dancing lessons. Elocution lessons. French lessons. Riding lessons. Music lessons. To please her parents she took them all and it left precious little time to herself. So she sewed her banners and carried out her plans at night.

  Deeds, not words.

  On the way into the ballroom, she’d spotted another excellent target. Two targets, to be precise.

  Violet rubbed her thighs together and heard the rustle of silk.

  * * *

  Adam Beaufort stared across the ballroom.

  There could be no doubt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the young woman who sat in the alcove opposite. She was accompanied, until they took to the dance floor, by an older man and woman, the man attired in a well-cut evening suit that nevertheless appeared to be straining at the buttons and the woman in canary-yellow satin.

  He moved slightly behind the half-closed velvet curtain. He could see the young woman, but she couldn’t see him. Yes. It was the climbing suffragette. Her hair had been loosened by her tumble when he’d last seen her and instead of a ball gown she’d been clad in smooth, slippery stuff that he could still seem to touch in his hands. Beneath it her flesh had been warm and soft.

  He took the covert opportunity to examine her more closely. Her hair was a glossy chestnut colour that reminded him of a horse he’d ridden as a child, when the stables had been full at Beauley Manor. Most of the horses had been sold off now. Her white gown was understated, in contrast with her mother’s, for he presumed the pair to be her parents. Its simplicity showed off her fine complexion that was possibly her best feature.

  Yes, she was pretty. Though he might not have remembered her if he hadn’t caught her in his arms.

  He grinned to himself.

  He’d been uninterested at the ball until he spotted her. The same faces, the same gossip. He couldn’t think why he’d consented to come. But it was preferable to sitting at his desk and going through the family papers and accounts yet again, hoping the numbers would add up differently.

  ‘Who is that in the alcove opposite?’ he asked.

  His mother lifted her lorgnette. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘No one we would know,’ said Arabella.

  Adam winced. Arabella could sound snobbish and sharp, but he knew that his elder sister often sounded sharp when she was anxious and she was anxious now. She was intelligent, too. She’d guessed the extent of their financial straits, even though he’d shouldered the burden alone. There was no point in alarming them until it was absolutely necessary, though he guessed both Arabella and Jane had some notion. They’d seen him work on the estate accounts night after night, ever since their father died.

  ‘Wait.’ His mother peered through her eyeglass. ‘She comes from somewhere in the north. Her father is Reginald Coombes. He makes some kind of confectionery. She’s the sole heiress, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, gosh,’ said Jane. ‘That must be Coombes Chocolates. They’re delicious.’

  A sweet heiress. Adam chuckled inwardly. Well, well.

  ‘She’s wearing a lovely dress,’ Jane said rather wistfully. ‘It’s so much nicer than mine. I’m surprised no one wants to dance with her.’

  Jane was wearing a debutante hand-me-down of Arabella’s, bless her heart. A couple of extra inches of white trimming that almost matched had been added at the hem. Arabella wore a gown in a shade of mustard that did nothing for her complexion or thin figure, the unfortunate fabric a bargain buy at the haberdasher’s. She hadn’t attracted many partners, either.

  ‘You’re a Beaufort,’ his mother said to Jane. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear.’

  ‘I think it might, Mama,’ said Jane, with a sigh.

  Indeed, being dressed in rags might matter, Adam thought grimly. He dreaded breaking the news of the extent of their diminished means to his mother and sisters. Telling them exactly what was left of the family fortune—precisely nothing—wasn’t something he looked forward to.

  Adam studied Reginald Coombes. Short and stout, he possessed the same bright blue eyes as his daughter. The mother, a blonde whose prettiness was almost overwhelmed by her yellow satin and more diamonds than Adam had ever seen on one person, gazed at her husband with obvious affection. It touched him that they seemed happier than many of the other married couples on the dance floor. Indeed, few married couples were dancing together at all. They certainly looked happier than he’d ever seen his own parents. Not that his parents were often together in the years before his father’s demise.

  He shunted the memories from his mind.

  Adam moved his attention back to the lone figure in the alcove, watched how she straightened her back, stiffening her spine and jutting out her chin, as if daring anyone to pity her for being a wallflower. She appeared to be smiling.

  But it must be hard, to sit there alone.

  He slid on his gloves.

  ‘Adam,’ his mother hissed. ‘What are you doing?’

  * * *

  ‘Miss Coombes?’

  Violet jumped. In her mind she’d left the ballroom and begun to carry out her plan. She shifted on the gilt-legged chair and widened her knees so her thighs didn’t touch. She couldn’t risk anyone suspecting what she had wrapped like garters around her silk stockings. ‘Yes? Oh! It’s you!’

  ‘Indeed.’ A pair of midnight eyes found hers. ‘We meet again.’

  Violet’s heart gave an unexpected thump. In her dream the night before, her rescuer appeared so impossibly handsome that she scolded herself in the morning. Surely her imagination had run wild. Now he stood in front of her in black-and-white evening attire he was even more attractive than in her dreams. In the dim streetlamp lighting she hadn’t fully taken in the firm set of his clean-shaven jaw, the line of his strong mouth.

  On the street after her tumble she’d been surprised that he appeared younger than his commanding voice suggested. He must be about five years older than she, rather than the ten she’d originally thought, perhaps close to thirty years of age, she guessed. The two forked lines between his dark eyebrows made it difficult to gauge. His shoulders were broad in the well-cut tailed jacket, which showed some wear.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’ Violet shifted on her chair again. There was the faintest rustle of silk.

  If he heard he made no sign. ‘Nor I you.’

  Violet cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m glad to see you. I wanted to thank you properly. I ought to have been more grateful to you for...ah...catching me.’

  It struck her later what a risk she’d taken. It could have ended very ill indeed if he hadn’t been there.

  A phantom of a smile glimmered in his eyes. ‘To catch you was my pleasure.’ He glanced around the ballroom. ‘I didn’t know suffragettes liked dancing.’

  ‘I haven’t been doing much dancing,’ Violet blurted out, then bit her tongue.

  ‘Perhaps we might remedy that.’ He bowed low and held out his gloved hand. ‘May I have the honour?’

  ‘But I don’t know your name.’

  ‘My apologies.’ He smiled. His teeth were even and white. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced. I know you are Miss Coombes.’

  ‘Violet Coombes.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Some comprehension, almost amusement, flared in his expression. ‘I’m Adam Beaufort.’

  ‘Beaufort. I know your name. Then that means you are... There’s a house...’ Violet tried to simulate the society page in her mind. She’d read something about his family home, she was certain of it.

  ‘The Beauforts of Beauley Manor. Yes.’ He inclined his head. ‘I recently inherited the estate.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ It came back to h
er now. Their historic estate was in Kent, and the Beauforts were an exceptionally old English family. The kind of society family she’d never expected to welcome the Coombes.

  ‘If you’re at all concerned about my pedigree,’ he said drily, ‘that’s my mother and my two sisters over there.’

  He indicated a group in the alcove opposite. A grey-haired woman, straight-backed, dressed in black, was studying Violet through her lorgnette. Behind her stood a tall, haughty young woman, wearing a mustard-coloured gown. She looked down her nose at Violet. Seated next to the grey-haired woman was a big-boned girl with hair escaping from her bun. Violet had seen her laughing across the dance floor. She flashed a quick smile.

  ‘My parents are here, too.’ Just in time Violet remembered not to point. She nodded towards her mother and father. Her mother was tripping over her train, trying not to stare at the tall, dark-haired man in their alcove.

  ‘Now we’re introduced,’ he said smoothly. ‘Shall we dance?’

  Violet stood up. Her head came just above his shoulder. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  She took his proffered hand. Instantly the sensation of being in his arms returned. Even through their gloves she could feel it. Safety. Danger. Mixed into one.

  Through the crowd he led her to the centre of the ballroom. The previous dance had ended and another was about to begin. A path cleared before him. Some of the men nodded in his direction, and more than a few pairs of female lashes fluttered. She sensed all eyes upon them, though he paid no attention to it.

  They stood face to face. He released her hand. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms. They hung awkwardly, by her sides.

  ‘I presume you waltz?’ he asked politely, as they waited for the orchestra to start up.

  ‘I’ve had lessons,’ she replied. Another thing she probably shouldn’t have said. Then she recalled stamping her foot at him. She sighed. It was too late to pretend to be other than whom she truly was and she wouldn’t have wanted to in any case.