Violet R. Coombes
She ran her hand over the print. It was the last time she would use her maiden name. It was fitting that she should use it now, for this special purpose.
Quickly, she wrote her reply and signed her name with a flourish, before sealing the envelope. She would take her reply and the lilac letter with her to the church. She couldn’t risk it being found.
Reaching into the dressing-table drawer again, she pulled out another item she had sewed.
Lifting her skirt, she stood and slipped it on.
‘Yes,’ she said aloud, to her reflection. ‘Yes.’
Violet tightened her sash.
* * *
Adam drummed his fingers on the chimney piece.
He’d been waiting for what seemed like hours for his mother and sisters to be ready to go to the church. They weren’t far from St George’s and they were planning to walk, but even so, he wanted to allow plenty of time. Brides might be able to be late to a wedding service, but not bridegrooms.
His bride. Miss Violet Coombes.
Perhaps she, too, had awoken early on this, their wedding day. He wondered whether she had woken happy, or with a sense of dread. Might she be experiencing cold feet?
He paced the drawing room, looked down on his own highly polished boots. Damnation. Was it his imagination, or were his own toes cold?
He chuckled, then sobered.
Their practical, platonic approach to marriage meant that their wedding day would be different from those of other brides and grooms. It was fortunate that Violet didn’t seem the kind of young woman to indulge in romantic dreams. She was a suffragette, after all. She knew their terms.
Thus far, their arrangement had gone well. He’d upheld his side of the bargain. He’d attended a number of social events with Violet and stood coolly at her side, daring any challenge. There’d been ripples of adverse comment, of course, but he knew that no one would dare cut him, or make a snide remark in his presence. The Beaufort family name hadn’t been wrecked by his father’s behaviour and his own reputation stood for something. Many men would have walked away from debts incurred by their fathers, but that wasn’t something Adam could ever do. In his life he upheld honour. Even in his schooldays he’d been known for it. But stopping the scandal for Violet had been a close-run thing. He’d needed to have a few quiet words with his club and court connections and only just in time.
His mother and Arabella had protested about the Beauforts having to mix with the Coombes, but they hadn’t protested long when he’d explained the financial embarrassment they would face was far worse than any imagined social embarrassment.
For himself, he liked the Coombes family more and more. They were a breath of fresh air. Hopefully his mother and Arabella would appreciate that soon. His mother might be too old to change, but he suspected Arabella might like Violet, if she got to know her.
The financial settlement her father had made astounded him. He’d known the Coombes were prosperous, but the dowry Violet brought with her would settle all the Beaufort debts twice over. He’d experienced relief in knowing that his family was saved from ruin, but it rankled. He’d never wanted to have been left by his father in such a compromised position.
So much for old money. It was Violet who had grown up with the best money could buy. The Coombes’s money could purchase the best homes, clothing and furnishings, but in some circles there were those who believed it could never buy class, just as some people thought women should never be able to vote. Perhaps there would come a day when class didn’t matter any more, when being a woman or a man didn’t matter either, when there was freedom for people to simply be themselves. He hoped so. That was what Violet wanted, too, as a suffragette. How easily she might have become spoilt, with all the money available to her. She could have sat on a chaise longue all day, eating chocolates. Leisured, languid, like some of the women he knew. Instead, she fought for women’s rights. He had to admire her for it.
He put his hand in the pocket of his silk waistcoat, as he’d done already a number of times that morning. He’d chosen a dark claret colour, paired with his black morning coat. Inside the pocket was the gold ring he’d discovered among the estate jewellery, to slip on her finger in front of the altar. Their initials, A and V, and the wedding date had been engraved inside the rim when he’d had it sized, guessing what might fit her. She was as tall as his sister Jane, but not as tall as Arabella, so he’d made the ring size smaller. He’d made sure that courtesy was done, although he’d not been able to buy her a decent engagement ring. That lack rankled with his gentlemanly pride, too, marriage of convenience or not. Using Violet’s own dowry to buy her a ring was, of course, tasteless and out of the question.
He rolled the gold band inside his palm before tucking it away again. No one knew the Beauforts had been so close to financial ruin. His creditors at the club, where debts were kept hush hush, had been all too obliging to allow time for him to pay his father’s debts when they learned of his upcoming nuptials and, with his careful management of the situation, both he and Violet managed to avert their respective scandals. He was glad, not only for the Beauforts, but also for the Coombes. Reginald Coombes had appeared devastated to the point of ill health at the thought of scandal tainting his business, and no wonder. The man had amassed a fortune, not only in the form of Coombes Chocolates, but also in property, rail and shipping. The Coombes had the golden touch.
‘Adam.’ Jane, dressed in her finest, though well-darned, frock, slipped her arm through her brother’s. ‘I’ve been watching you for the past few minutes. You’ve been pacing up and down so I thought you’d wear out the carpet and it’s quite worn enough.’
Adam looked down at the once-fine Persian rug. It was threadbare in places.
‘Is this what bridegrooms do?’ Jane squeezed his arm. ‘I thought it was the bride who ought to be nervous.’
Many brides would be nervous about their wedding night, Adam reflected, but it would not be an anxiety for Violet Coombes. He’d arranged for them go to Beauley Manor for their wedding night, away from prying eyes. He had no wish for them to keep up a farce of besotted newlyweds.
He shook his head in semi-disbelief. Their whole agreement was extraordinary, bordering upon the absurd. Yet he knew they both had a similar commitment to duty.
Duty would serve them both better in marriage than any romantic notions. Yet, damnation, if the aroma of violets hadn’t tantalised him ever since he’d tasted it on her lips.
As he’d done so many times in the last month, Adam pushed away his body’s recall of that violet-scented kiss.
He seized his top hat. ‘Let’s get to the church on time.’
Violet peered through her lace veil. Beyond it, the graceful spired outline of St George’s appeared misty, as if she were in a dream.
The footman opened the carriage door. Smiling gratefully at him, she placed one satin shoe, then the other, on to the carriage box.
Her father waved the footman away. ‘Take my hand, Violet.’
Violet stepped into the square and adjusted her train on its loop. A gust of wind caught at her veil.
‘Easy does it,’ said her papa. He handed her the bouquet of lilies and violets before, beaming, he tucked her arm in his.
Violet looked up the church steps. The heavy wooden doors were open. With each step higher, her trepidation grew.
Her breathing became fast and shallow. What was she doing?
In the safety of her bedroom, she had been so certain of her course. Now, it seemed inconceivable. She was marrying Adam Beaufort, a man she hardly knew. Surely making a marriage of convenience was madness.
At the church door, she stopped and let the train of her dress fall to the ground. Inside, the full length of the marbled aisle lay in front of her, with people crammed on either side, into every pew. Her breath came even faster.
At the far end of the aisl
e stood Adam. As she watched, he turned, waiting for her. He was too far away. She couldn’t see his face.
Unexpectedly, she yearned to push back her veil, to be able to see him.
The organ music started up, making her jump.
She had to step forward.
Loyalty and dignity. Purity. Hope.
Violet marched up the aisle.
Chapter Eight
‘Who is this? Behold thy bride,’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, as long as ye both shall live?’
Broad-shouldered in his frock coat, Adam knelt beside Violet at the altar. She peeped up at him from beneath her veil. His dark head was bowed, his profile stern. Beneath the line of his chin was a perfectly tied cravat, emphasising the set of his jaw.
His voice came strong and steady. ‘I will.’
Next, the priest addressed Violet. When her turn came to answer, she took a breath, so deep it sent the veil in a waft of air. After her bold walk down the aisle, her nerves and trepidation had returned as the marriage ceremony began.
There could be no turning back now. In spite of her quaking limbs, she forced her voice to come out as firmly as Adam’s. ‘I will.’
Mr Coombes then hurried forward, beaming, to give Violet’s hand to the priest, who placed it in Adam’s.
Adam’s long fingers curled arounds hers. As it had been when they shook hands on their marriage of convenience, only one month before, his grip was warm and strong, strangely reassuring.
In his deep clear voice he repeated the words.
‘I, Adam Edward Charles, take thee, Violet Regina, to my wedded Wife...’
Adam Edward Charles. That was her bridegroom’s full name. She hadn’t known. It struck her again how little she knew about the man who stood beside her.
They loosened hands, then Violet took his.
‘I, Violet Regina...’ She repeated the familiar phrases after him. It was strange how she seemed to know the words, how easily they came to her.
Adam released her hand. From the pocket of his waistcoat he took a gold ring and laid it on the prayer book. The priest returned it to him. As he reached for her left hand he gave a perplexed frown at the sight of the satin glove. Rapidly she freed her ring finger, tugging away the removable satin section of the glove, and saw his start of surprise. The dent appeared in his cheek. Her finger looked so bare, waggling there alone. She felt tempted to laugh, her tension gone completely.
We will be friends she told herself. That’s what we agreed. I don’t need to be afraid.
He slipped the ring on her finger.
Finally, they stood together, man and wife.
His fingers brushed her cheek as he lifted the white veil.
Violet stared up at him. Instinctively, she took a step forward and lifted her face to his. The filmy veil in his hands, he, too, leaned towards her, so close, their lips almost met.
Then, with a start, Adam backed away.
* * *
‘Adam tells us you’re a suffragette.’
Jane, Adam’s younger sister, smiled eagerly at Violet.
Violet lifted her glass of champagne. ‘I am.’
Raising the glass to her lips, she drank. She needed refreshment after the wedding service. In spite of her near giggle over her glove, it had been more solemn than she had anticipated, with Adam kneeling beside her.
She glanced down at her ring finger. It was no longer bare. On it was the smooth gold ring that had a look of antiquity about it, even though it fitted her perfectly. A wedding ring meant their marriage of convenience must be taken seriously. They had promised themselves to each other, before God. She was still unsettled by how much the ceremony had affected her. It had been a bigger commitment than she’d anticipated, one that resonated to the depths of her being, in the same way as when they’d shaken hands on the terms. Promises were promises. Vows were vows.
Violet creased her forehead. When Adam lifted the veil she’d worn throughout the service, they had almost kissed. His lips had nearly brushed hers, then he’d stepped away. It was customary, though not always followed, for the groom to kiss the bride at that moment in a wedding ceremony, but no one else had noticed what had happened, she was sure. She’d been amazed at how instinctive it had been to seek to seal their vows with a kiss. Of course, they intended to keep their marriage on a friendly basis, but she couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like. Would it have been brief, a mere formality, or more like the kiss they had already shared?
It came again, the recollection of his lips on hers, when they had set their terms. She took another quick sip of the bubbly champagne.
‘I want to know everything about the suffragettes,’ Jane said, to her surprise.
Violet spluttered her champagne. ‘You do?’
‘They’re marvellous!’ said Jane. ‘Why would women not want to vote?’
‘I want to vote for my government,’ Violet said seriously. To make a difference in their homes, in their communities, in their country, women had to have a voice.
We will do all that can be done to win the vote... No longer will we be angels in the house. We will be devils in the street.
The phrases from the letter she’d received before she set off for the church came back to her. In the pretty bridal reticule that matched her dress was her signed reply, along with the letter. It seemed to burn through the satin pouch.
Adam’s elder sister, Arabella, joined them.
Violet smiled at her. Arabella inclined her head haughtily, but did not smile in response.
‘So you’re a suffragette, not a suffragist,’ Jane said to Violet. ‘I believe there is a difference.’
Violet nodded. ‘The suffragists have been making polite argument for the vote for fifty years. They’re led by Millicent Fawcett, who advises patience and convincing men that we are worthy of the vote. I admire Mrs Fawcett, but if we go by her methods, we suffragettes believe we’ll be waiting for eternity.’
‘And the suffragettes...’
‘That’s what the press call the group founded by Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters Christabel and Sylvia,’ Violet explained. ‘The Pankhursts formed the Women’s Social and Political Union. They considered Mrs Fawcett’s progress too slow.’
Jane’s eyes were on stalks. ‘Have you met any of the Pankhursts?’
Violet shook her head. ‘I’ve heard them speak. They are fine leaders for the Cause. Mrs Pankhurst and her daughters are the most inspiring women. They have such resolve, such determination, that on this issue women must be seen and heard. Deeds, not words.’
‘That’s the suffragette motto, isn’t it?’
Violet nodded. It was one she was prepared to live by.
Taking another sip of champagne, she glanced around the reception hall. She spotted her mama, looking terrified, conversing with Mrs Beaufort, grand in grey silk and pearls. Adam had been standing beside them, but she couldn’t see him now.
It suddenly struck her. She, too, was Mrs Beaufort. Mrs Adam Beaufort, for women’s first names were not generally used. Precedence in address went to the men, like the vote.
One day, she said to herself.
‘We saw a suffrage play once,’ said Jane. ‘It was called Votes for Women! It was all about the Cause.’
‘Oh, I did want to see that play,’ said Violet. It hadn’t reached Manchester, to her disappointment.
‘It was marvellous,’ Jane told her. ‘Do you remember, Arabella?’
Arabella pursed her lips. ‘Vaguely.’
‘The suffragettes have been undertaking all kinds of dar
ing deeds here in London,’ Jane said, agog. ‘Holding rallies and going on marches. I read about suffragettes who throw eggs at Members of Parliament and chain themselves to railings, and smash glass windows.’
‘They’re breaking the law,’ said Arabella coldly.
Violet lifted her chin. ‘Militant means are necessary.’
‘Would you be jailed for the Cause, Violet?’ Jane asked breathlessly.
Hanging her banners was against propriety, certainly, and climbing Adam’s balcony had been dangerous enough. And now...
She twisted the handle of her reticule. ‘If you believe in the Cause, as I do, then you must be prepared to go to any lengths.’
Arabella sniffed. ‘It sounds foolhardy to me.’
‘Doesn’t it bother you, Arabella?’ Violet asked passionately. ‘That we have no rights? What are your views on the Cause?’
‘I am not opposed to suffrage, but there are methods that seem much more respectable.’
Violet lifted her chin higher. ‘The time for being respectable has passed.’
‘So you’d put yourself in danger.’ Jane sounded awed.
‘We suffragettes won’t wait any longer. The vote won’t be given to us—we must seize it ourselves. Increase the pressure. Be more active, more visible. We must rally to the Cause in a bold new manner.’
Unexpectedly, Jane hugged her. ‘Oh, Violet, Adam is the best brother in the world and I’m so glad you’re our new sister.’
Arabella looked down her nose.
Champagne glass in hand, Violet hugged Jane back. How lovely it would be, if they became good friends. She was an only child and, though she’d never felt lonely, she would value Jane’s sisterhood.
Sisterhood.
Smiling and nodding to the guests, Violet made her way out of the ballroom into the hotel lobby and looked towards the front door of the hotel. She needed some space and air. A moment to think, to breathe.
Then, from the satin pouch, she pulled out the lilac letter.
* * *
The Scandalous Suffragette Page 9