The Scandalous Suffragette

by Eliza Redgold

  Again she noted a flicker of amusement. ‘Excellent.’

  The music struck up. It was ʻThe Blue Danube’, one of Violet’s favourite pieces of music. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, ‘I trust you dance as well as you climb.’

  He swirled her into his arms.

  Violet’s breath surged up through her body. In an instant he swept her away, across the polished floor. Her lessons were nothing like this. She had never danced with such a partner—why, she never really danced before. In his powerful arms her feet glided over the floor as if she floated above it. The waltz started slowly, then became faster. The violins soared and shimmered, the horns played the beguiling tune as the woodwinds kept time. Her slippers chased his black-leather shoes, speeding with the melody as it rose and fell. His grip never wavered as he lifted her off the ground with every turn.

  She’d wondered what it would be like to dance in his arms. Now she knew.

  Violet threw back her head and closed her eyes. The music swelled. Now she wasn’t following the rhythm, or his skilful feet. She stopped thinking about her steps, just allowed herself to blindly follow his lead as he looped her in circle after circle. The tune rippled inside her, sending her dizzy, as if she were spinning with her arms outstretched, the way she used to do in the garden as a child. Her lips widened. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it.

  When she opened her eyes his were upon her. Hardened to impenetrable sapphire, they moved from her open lips to her bared neck, her head still thrown back.

  He pulled her closer, his body pressed against her petticoats. Gripped by his eyes, his hands, she twirled, spun, twirled again.

  Past his staring family in the alcove. Past her amazed parents. Past the girl from riding lessons, goggle-eyed. To Violet they became a blur. She could have danced for ever as he swept her across the floor, sending the other couples scattering in their wake.

  All too soon the music ended. The final crescendo shattered in a crash of cymbals. He broke their gaze, let her go.

  Violet put her glove to her racing heartbeat. ‘Oh!’

  Adam Beaufort, too, seemed to need to regain his breath. He bowed, but not before she’d glimpsed the dart of a smile. ‘Perhaps you’d like some air, Miss Coombes. The balcony? I know you enjoy them.’

  She laughed. ‘Yes. The balcony. Please.’

  As they passed a waiter Adam seized two glasses of champagne and led her through the French doors on to the empty balcony that overlooked the rear garden. She sensed eyes from the ballroom burning into her back. She raised her chin.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gratefully she grasped the stem of the glass he offered her and drank deeply. She was tempted to drain it. Instead she put the cool glass to her burning cheeks.

  He, too, drank, surveying her over the rim. ‘Your dancing lessons have been effective.’

  ‘My lessons never taught me to dance like that,’ she said frankly. ‘It was wonderful. Thank you.’

  He shrugged. ‘There are certain skills in life that must be mastered.’

  ‘Surely dancing is a pleasure, not a skill,’ she protested.

  One corner of his mouth curved. ‘Most of life’s pleasures become more pleasurable with greater skill, Miss Coombes.’

  Violet removed the glass from her cheeks and stared out into the garden. Music wafted from inside the ballroom. Tiers of stone steps flowed down into a rolling lawn. Pale moonlight shone. Her breath began to return to her lungs, but she still felt as if she were spinning. With her free hand she clutched the edge of the balcony. The balustrade was made of stone rather than cast iron, in thick pillars. Below was a sheer drop into a huge rhododendron bush.

  Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow. ‘Assessing your descent?’

  Violet laughed. ‘No. I promised you I wouldn’t climb any more balconies.’

  Though she hadn’t promised anything else. Her thighs brushed together, reminding her of her plan.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He lounged against a pillar, sending his face into shadow.

  ‘Tell me. What made you do it? Climb, I mean.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  He shook his head. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘It was for the Cause. I intended to drape a women’s suffrage banner over the front of the gentleman’s club as a protest,’ she explained. ‘You must know how long women have been fighting to be granted the vote. The women’s colours are purple, green and white, you see. I sew the banners myself. Unfortunately I lost that one,’ she added regretfully.

  He fell silent for a moment, took another draught of champagne. ‘Is it the first banner you’ve hung?’

  ‘No. I’ve hung others.’ And it wouldn’t be the last.

  ‘What’s your reasoning behind such an action?’

  ‘Wouldn’t any woman want to be treated as an equal?’ she asked passionately. ‘We’re treated as children who don’t know their own minds. Why shouldn’t we have the vote, take a role in choosing the government of our own country? Deeds, not words. That’s what we need now, for the Cause.’

  ‘You’re quite convincing, Miss Coombes,’ he drawled.

  She clenched her fist around the champagne glass. ‘You’re mocking me.’

  ‘Not at all. Who can’t admire such conviction? How did you become involved in...the Cause?’

  ‘I’m only involved in a small way. I’m not a member of any organisation. I act alone. I’m just trying to do my part.’

  ‘Do your parents know what you’re doing?’

  Violet sighed and shook her head.

  He raised a brow. ‘I take it they wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘It’s a secret,’ she said rapidly. ‘I must ask you not to betray my confidence.’

  ‘You have my promise. I, too, keep my word.’

  Violet let out a sigh of relief. Somehow she knew he told her the truth, even if in the shadow of the pillar his expression was unreadable.

  ‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ he asked.

  Violet’s hand clenched on her glass. ‘I’m sorry?’

  His teeth gleamed. ‘I suspect you have a more personal reason for your passion for the Cause.’

  ‘How did you know?’ she gasped.

  He shrugged. ‘Human nature.’

  She took a sip of champagne.

  ‘I do have a reason,’ she said at last. ‘You may know of my father’s business. Coombes Chocolates.’

  At his nod she went on.

  ‘My father is a self-made man. He started the business and built it up from nothing. It’s gone from a small enterprise to a national name. Thousands of people work for him now in the chocolate factory and many more thousands enjoy our wares. Why, someone is probably biting into a Coombes Floral Cream right now.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Adam Beaufort drawled.

  Violet took a deep breath.

  ‘I want to follow my father into the business,’ she said rapidly. It was the first time she ever said it aloud. ‘I have so many ideas, so many plans. Times are changing, a new century is here. There are new ways of doing things. Opportunities for social reform, for new methods. If women are given the vote...’

  ‘It might make it easier for you to become a woman of business.’

  He’d grasped it immediately.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve always admired my father and what he’s achieved. The people in there don’t see it,’ she added with a jerk of her head towards the French doors.

  ‘Surely you exaggerate.’

  ‘Not at all. We should have stayed in Manchester where we belong, not tried to be part of London society,’ she said fervently. ‘It means so much to my papa, but they look down on him, despise him. Who knows? Perhaps you do, too.’

  Startling her, he stepped out of the shadow of the pillar.

  ‘My father was a drunkard,
Miss Coombes, who lost our family fortune,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If you think I despise your father for being determined, hardworking and ambitious, you’re very much mistaken.’

  Violet’s mouth dropped open.

  Silence fell between them.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ve been under some pressure of late. Such conversation is not fit for a ballroom.’

  ‘It’s honest conversation. I prefer it,’ she replied quickly. ‘And I ought to ask your pardon. You asked me to dance. No one else did.’

  As she spoke she impulsively moved forward, raised her face to his. He stared down at her, an expression she couldn’t decipher in his eyes. All she knew was that she took another step forward and lifted her chin higher, just as he moved closer to her and lowered his head, so close he surely felt on his lips the sigh that escaped hers.

  From the ballroom came a crash of cymbals. Inside, the orchestra ended another piece of music with a rousing crescendo.

  They leapt apart.

  He retreated to the pillar. ‘It seems this moonlight and champagne is having an effect on us.’ His voice sounded deeper to Violet’s ears. ‘We’ve both revealed secrets tonight. Perhaps we ought to return to safer topics.’

  Violet clutched the stem of her champagne glass so hard it threatened to snap. Her heart pounded.

  He bowed. ‘Would you care for another dance, Miss Coombes?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, I mean, thank you.’ Suddenly flustered, she lay down her glass. ‘Oh!’

  Adam frowned. ‘What is it?’

  She froze. Beneath her petticoat she felt an unravelling.

  She took a step.

  A slip between her thighs.

  ‘Miss Coombes...’

  Another step.

  A silken slide down her legs.

  He stared at her face. ‘What the blazes has happened now?’

  ‘I can’t dance with you. I’m sorry!’

  Violet raced through the French doors and out of the ballroom.

  Adam gazed after Miss Violet Coombes in astonishment.

  She had refused another waltz with him.

  Momentarily he felt affronted.

  Then through the French doors he watched her scuttle across the ballroom. She scurried, crab-like, her knees held together, in a curious dance step of her own.

  Once more he started to laugh. She was up to something. He’d stake his life on it.

  He never expected to have such an extraordinary conversation with her. They’d both revealed more than they intended. The pressures of trying to sort out his father’s estate wore him down, a constant worry, a permanent burden across his shoulders. He experienced a curious relief sharing it with Miss Violet Coombes. It lightened his burden, for a moment.

  She preferred honest conversation, she’d told him. Her frankness disarmed him and she possessed a curious sweetness, too.

  He grinned inwardly.

  Like a Coombes Floral Cream.

  He’d wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t the first time. When he caught her in his arms in the square the instinct roared through his body, too. Tonight, when she stared up at him in the moonlight, her bright blue eyes full of understanding and concern, her pink lips parted, he wanted to take her in his arms and taste that sweetness. Hold that warm, soft flesh in his arms again.

  Why the blazes had she fled from him?

  It wasn’t that near kiss. Such things weren’t done on ballroom balconies, but he sensed she wasn’t frightened by the honesty of that moment.

  She’d wanted to kiss him back. Her soft, fast breath told him that.

  Swiftly he followed her path across the ballroom and out into the entrance hall. There was no sign of her. The huge hall, with its marble floor, gilt-framed paintings and statues, appeared empty. Then a scuffling noise came from behind a column of marble.

  A long, shapely leg clad in a white-silk stocking extended from behind the pillar, followed by a familiar tricolour silken banner.

  It must have been under her skirt.

  Stifling his chuckle, not wanting to alarm her, Adam backed behind another marble column. After a moment she appeared, glanced around furtively and raised herself up on tiptoe. One after the other she hurled the two billowing banners into the air.

  Adam frowned. He couldn’t quite make out what she was doing, but he could make a fair guess. He was about to reveal himself and remonstrate with her when her parents appeared and bore her off in a carriage.

  He leapt out from behind the pillar and swore.

  Her aim was excellent.

  ‘Damnation,’ he muttered below his breath.

  The ballroom doors flung open. Before Adam could grab the banners a group surged into the hall.

  A woman squealed and pointed.

  All hell broke loose.

  Adam groaned. Violet Coombes had no idea what she’d done.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Shall Error in the round of time

  Still father Truth?’

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

  ‘Whoa.’ Violet pulled the reins of the grey mare. All morning the mare had been frisky, playing up. It took all Violet’s strength to stop her breaking into a gallop in the middle of Hyde Park. It was a day to gallop, the sun golden in the summer sky. Around her all the flowers in the garden beds were in bloom, their colours as bright as ball gowns and their perfumed scents heady. Instead, Violet slowed to a sedate trot.

  A groom from the riding school rode up to her. ‘That’s it, miss. Give me the reins now. I’ll lead you back to the others. That’s probably enough for today.’

  Violet passed them over with her thanks. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Dancing at night and riding in the morning was strenuous exercise. Her tight-fitting blue-velvet riding habit, trimmed with a lace jabot at the neck, suddenly seemed much too hot. She’d have something made in a cooler fabric for the summer and try to prevent her mama from adding too much trimming. The riding habits of the other young ladies, all in black, seemed to have marked signs of wear, as if to emphasise use.

  While the groom led her to the group, her mind roved over the events of the night before. It had been so unfortunate that the banner had unravelled from around her thigh before she had a chance to dance once more with Adam Beaufort. She would probably never have another opportunity to dance with him, to be swept across the floor in those powerful arms, after running away from him so publicly. He must have been insulted.

  She sighed. She owed Adam Beaufort another apology and yet another explanation, if she ever saw him again. He must have wondered what made her run off in such a peculiar fashion, but she had to move quickly before the banner fell to the floor from beneath her ball dress. She had made it just in time. She dashed behind a pillar and whipped out the banner from beneath her petticoats, yanked one free and then the other. Quickly she seized the moment, did what she’d set out to do. She’d intended to wait until the end of the ball, to linger until the crowds dispersed, but with the banners released she grasped her opportunity while everyone else was in the ballroom. She had just completed the deed when her parents appeared, full of concern after seeing her leave the ballroom. Steering them away from the evidence of her activity, she pleaded a sudden fever, with her hand to her forehead. They called for the carriage instantly and took her home. She didn’t see Adam Beaufort again.

  She released another sigh. He was the only person she had ever told about how strongly she believed in the suffrage cause. Had he been mocking her? As she replayed the conversation in her mind she decided not. She could only hope he’d keep his word and not betray her secret.

  He’d trusted her with a secret, too. The lines of care on his face she’d noticed when they first met; she hadn’t mistaken those. She wondered what he might look like without the burdens he carried.

 
Their honest conversation had seemed to bring them closer together than the waltz. When she’d finally fallen asleep that night she had dreamed about him again. In the garden of that unidentifiable house, he called up to her at the window. She leaned out, almost tumbling from the window as she tried to hear what he said, but she couldn’t make it out.

  When she awoke she’d puzzled over it. She recalled how he whispered in her ear, ‘I hope you dance as well as you climb.’ His deep voice had sent quivers through her. When she got out of bed she’d washed her face with cold water from the pitcher, instead of hot.

  Even now, the next morning, in the sunshine of the park, thinking about him made her pulse flicker at her wrist under her riding glove. The night before as she lay in bed, she’d found herself lifting her fingertip to her mouth, remembering the look he gave her as he lowered his mouth so close to hers. Had he meant to kiss her? Was that blackness in the midnight of his eyes...desire?

  If she were going to daydream about such matters, which of course she was not, he was the kind of man she would daydream about. But she had other matters to think about rather than waltzing with Adam Beaufort, no matter how extraordinarily wonderful it had been. Yet if she were scrupulously truthful, as she always tried to be, she had to admit her attraction to him. He was, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in London, or so her thrilled mama had enlightened her on the way home in the carriage.

  ‘He’s related to the royal family!’ her mama had gasped.

  Whether Adam Beaufort was eligible or not, there was no point in daydreaming. She’d made her decision.

  She took the reins from the groom.

  He tipped his cap.

  She halted next to the girl she had spotted the night before in the ballroom who sometimes chatted to her.

  With a clip of her whip she moved her horse away from Violet’s.

  Violet lifted her chin. It hadn’t been pleasant to be snubbed at the ball, nor was it pleasant to be snubbed now, and she wasn’t sure why. It seemed a more blatant cut than pretending not to see a waving hand from across the room. If Adam Beaufort hadn’t asked her the night before, she would have sat out every dance. It made her even sorrier that she had missed being whirled into another waltz. The way he danced with her would remain in her memory, but that was all.