The Scandalous Suffragette

by Eliza Redgold

  Among the fountains, Adam strolled the hotel garden. The hotel the Coombes had chosen for the wedding reception was magnificent, a pure white building that reminded him of Violet’s wedding dress. No expense had been spared, although it was a small wedding, by society standards. Only one hundred guests, but the reception room had become constricting. He’d had to get away.

  He liked London and knew it well, of course, but at moments like this he longed for Beauley. He preferred the space of the Kent countryside. The manor wasn’t far from London, but it was far enough away to feel the freshness of the country air, to see the broad fields, the open sky.

  He breathed in and frowned. The London air held its own scent of carriages and coal, but that wasn’t it. He could smell violets. He could pick out the fragrance easily now, as if he’d become sensitised to the scent.

  Sure enough, following his nose he found a tiny clump of them in a corner of the garden, hidden in the undergrowth, as if shy. Yet their fragrance was lingering, powerful. He stroked a purple petal with his finger.

  Walking on, he passed a pond, spotted a wrought-iron seat. He slumped on to it and rested his top hat in his hands.

  The wedding ceremony had been more demanding than he had anticipated. When the organ struck up, he’d watched Violet coming down the aisle, frosted in a pure white veil. Her step was firm, her head high. In spite of her purposeful stride, he’d sensed her nerves during the ceremony. He’d sought to steady her with his presence and, after a while, she’d calmed.

  The threat to his own equilibrium had come later, when he’d lifted her veil.

  He’d never dreamed that one simple act would be so provocative. At that moment, it was as if he’d never seen her before.

  She was now his wife.

  His wife.

  He’d lifted the filmy veil over her hair, revealing its rich chestnut tones, piled up in loose curls. Encountered those blue eyes, so wide and frank. Seen the steady chin and the pink bow of a mouth he’d avoided thinking about for the past month, reminding him of that stupendous kiss.

  Then she’d smiled.

  That smile.

  Open.

  Alive.

  Free.

  He’d almost kissed her then, his new bride, lured by that intoxicating violet scent that wafted around her like the filmy veil. Just in time he remembered his prudent plan not to do so. Their marriage had to be maintained on a platonic footing. It was best to start as they meant to go on. But his own reaction, that surge of desire, had been impossible to ignore.

  He’d known it at that instant.

  He had feelings for her. Dangerous feelings that he must resist. Feelings that weren’t part of their terms of agreement. The kind of feelings that meant a gentleman should not enter into a marriage of convenience.

  Damnation.

  ‘Cheer up, old chap.’ A voice came from behind a rhododendron bush. ‘You’ve only just got married.’

  Adam looked up to see Mr Coombes approaching, puffing an enormous cigar.

  Mr Coombes chuckled. ‘Marriage takes a fellow by surprise.’

  That was one way of putting it, Adam thought drily.

  ‘Cigar?’

  Mr Coombes plopped on to the bench beside Adam with an audible groan. His belly protruded, imperilling his waistcoat buttons.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Adam replied. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to.’ Mr Coombes winked. ‘Bad for my heart.’

  ‘How is your health now?’ Adam had been concerned for the man.

  ‘Fully recovered. No more turns. But the ladies worry. That’s why I’m hiding out here, out of sight of Mrs Coombes.’

  Mr Coombes inhaled, coughed and blew out a puff of smoke. ‘Fear not. I know I’m now your father-in-law, but I’m not going to give you any marital advice.’

  Adam’s shoulders relaxed. Even though he’d grown in respect for Reginald Coombes and his considerable business prowess, he didn’t want any personal advice. He’d done without it all his life. His father had never proffered any, nor been capable of it. And Adam’s marital situation was unique, to say the least.

  ‘Best thing there is, marriage,’ said Mr Coombes.

  Adam jerked back his head. ‘A man doesn’t hear that view very often.’

  Certainly not at his club, where many men hid from their wives on a daily basis. Or at home, growing up. His parents had demonstrated how marriage could deteriorate into bitterness and acrimony, with continual arguments over money. He’d done his best to protect his sisters. Jane had escaped the worst of it, being younger and still in the nursery, but Arabella, like himself, had unfortunately witnessed many distressing scenes. His father’s drunken anger, his mother’s storms and tears. All he knew was that, in marriage, emotions could run out of control. He would ensure that in his own they did not.

  Mr Coombes gazed into the distance, took another puff of his cigar. ‘Look after her, won’t you?’

  ‘I’m sure Violet would say she can look after herself.’ Adam recalled his first sighting of her on his balcony. She’d been fearless.

  ‘She would at that,’ Mr Coombes agreed, with a chuckle, as he tapped the end of his cigar on the edge of the cast-iron seat. ‘She’s no shrinking violet.’

  Adam smiled. He had to admit his instinct to rescue her had come into play at first. But she had made it clear she didn’t need rescuing. Her negotiations in their marriage of convenience had been endearing, as well as intelligent and remarkably businesslike. She was so like her father with his honest stare. She’d clearly inherited his skills as a businessman. Coombes Chocolates was an empire, not as vast as King Edward’s, but one that required astute management all the same. It was a shame Violet couldn’t follow him into the business. She had the ability.

  Adam stood, and put on his top hat. ‘If you will excuse me, I must find Violet.’

  Mr Coombes waved his cigar. ‘Of course.’

  Adam strode away. He knew what he had to do. He had to be with her, alone.

  Inside, the hotel ballroom with its vast ceiling picked out in swirls of gilt seemed even more crowded. The chamber orchestra played on valiantly in spite of the noise. Yet after a few minutes pushing through the gabbling crowd of people, some seated at tables, some standing, all swilling champagne, and many of whom he barely recognised, he still hadn’t found her.

  No bridal veil. No white dress was to be seen.

  ‘Have you seen Violet?’ he asked Jane, after another hunt.

  Jane shook her head, surprised. ‘I spoke to her earlier. She was telling me all about the suffragettes.’

  Adam returned to the hotel garden.

  Past the fountains. Down the path through the flower beds. Past the pond. The only sign of life was a curl of cigar smoke from behind the rhododendrons and an audible cough.

  Through the French doors, back inside the ballroom. At a corner table he could hear his mama still holding forth in conversation with Mrs Coombes, who looked rather pale.

  He searched on, with increasing urgency.

  Jane rushed up. ‘Have you found her?’

  Adam shook his head.

  Up the stairs, two at a time, to the landing and hotel chambers. Downstairs, through the lobby, outside, down the steps, the heels of his boots crunching on to the curved gravel drive.

  At the doors of the hotel Adam came to a halt.

  There could be no doubt.

  Violet had vanished.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye...’

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

  ‘Have you seen the bride?’

  The hotel doorman, resplendent in a royal-blue jacket with gold epaulettes on his shoulders, looked at Adam with startled expression and shook his head. ‘I’ve only just come on duty, sir.’

&n
bsp; ‘Thank you.’ Adam spun on his heel and headed back into the hotel lobby. The huge chandelier sent light dancing over the marble floor, but he didn’t stop to admire it.

  ‘Sir!’ the doorman called.

  Adam rushed back to the front of the hotel.

  The doorman pointed. ‘I’ve not seen any other brides today. Is that yours?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Adam said through gritted teeth.

  A slender, firm-footed figure, dressed in white, hurried towards the hotel. There was no mistaking her. Her veil was gone and she wore a white-satin wrap, thrown loosely over her head and shoulders. The train of her wedding dress had disappeared. Just another detachable part of her attire, it seemed. He recalled how she had whisked away the finger of her satin glove to allow him to slip on the wedding ring. He’d heard her suppressed giggle. He’d wanted to laugh himself.

  He didn’t feel like laughing now.

  Relief at the sight of her safe and well flooded his veins, combined with a blast of anger.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded, when she reached the columns that flanked the front steps.

  She looked up at him with her candid blue eyes. They flickered with surprise, followed by caution. She removed the wrap from her hair, let it fall to her shoulders. ‘I needed some air. And... I had some business to attend to.’

  He drew her behind one of the stone columns, away from the doorman. ‘What in damnation do you mean by that? What kind of business could you possibly have today?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Suffragette business.’

  Adam took a step back. ‘On our wedding day?’

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  He ran his hand through his hair, pushed it back from his forehead. He’d long lost his top hat, searching for her. ‘You left the reception. Without telling me.’

  Again, a nod. Nothing more.

  ‘Where did you go?’ he asked, infuriated. Somehow he managed to keep his voice low. Her behaviour was outrageous.

  She set her lips together. ‘I can’t say.’

  He gazed at her in disbelief.

  ‘I didn’t go far,’ she reassured him. ‘It wasn’t on purpose, but it took longer than I expected. I’m very sorry. I hoped no one would notice I was gone.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t think your bridegroom would notice?’

  Her mouth twitched. ‘I’ve never had a bridegroom before.’

  The humour of the situation finally found him. He felt the corners of his own mouth lift.

  ‘It’s quite disconcerting,’ he said drily, ‘to have misplaced one’s wife so soon after the ceremony.’

  The twitch of her mouth became a tentative smile. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Please don’t disappear like that again.’

  She seemed to debate with herself, then the pink bow of her mouth set again in a firm line. ‘I can’t make any promises.’

  He jerked his head back. She reminded him again of Reginald Coombes, her self-made millionaire father. They were made of the same stuff.

  She lifted her chin, in what was becoming a familiar gesture. ‘I warned you. Being a suffragette means everything to me.’

  Adam exhaled. He’d never anticipated this from her. Even on suffragette business, as she called it, he couldn’t allow her to simply set off on her own.

  Adam glanced around. The doorman was making a patent effort not to appear to listen. He would have to pursue the matter another time. He would let it go, for now.

  ‘Why were you looking for me?’ Violet asked.

  ‘I want to take you to Beauley Manor,’ he said.

  * * *

  Adam glanced at Violet from the opposite seat of the carriage. ‘We’re almost home.’

  Home.

  From beneath the brim of her hat, Violet stared out of the open carriage window. They had been on the same woodland road for many miles. Mingling with the woods was a patchwork of fields and hedgerows, and winding lanes that led to houses, orchards and hop farms.

  Such a lane would soon lead to Beauley Manor. She wondered what it would be like. It was old, she knew that, since Adan had told her it dated from Tudor times. Beyond that she knew nothing of his home.

  His home and now hers.

  The evening sky was clear of clouds and the lowering sun still shone, but the evening air had begun to chill. She took a gulp of air. The country air was so much fresher than in London and in Manchester, too.

  Violet pulled her satin coat tighter. It had the same pearl buttons and embroidered violets as her wedding gown. The long, lacy train of her wedding dress had been removed before the wedding reception. Now the dress formed an underskirt of the cutaway coat, designed for her going-away ensemble. It could be worn indoors or out. Beside her was the satin wrap she’d hidden herself under as she’d hurried to and from the hotel.

  They had travelled almost silently together, all the way from London. To her dismay, tension had developed between them at the hotel, when she got back from posting her letter and refused to tell him where she had been. It was a tension she regretted.

  In the hotel suite her father had provided, she’d rapidly removed her long veil and seized her satin wrap. She’d first intended only to take some air, but the idea had come to her that she might as well deliver her reply to the militant group, before she lost her nerve. She hadn’t wanted to ask anyone else to post it, for the sake of secrecy, and she hadn’t had a stamp, or thought to ask for one at the hotel. Presuming the Piccadilly address on the letter to be quite close by, she’d seized the chance and hastened there by foot. Once again, her lack of knowledge of London’s streets had landed her in trouble. It had taken her far longer than she had expected.

  She’d slid her reply into the brass letterbox of the anonymous-looking terraced building, then raced back full of anxiety, only to find Adam waiting for her between the marble columns of the hotel, glowering.

  How she loathed not being able to reveal where she had been, to have a deception come between them on their wedding day. It seemed wrong and not how she wanted to start their life together. But she had joined the top-secret suffragette group now. There was no turning back.

  She peeped at Adam. Hatless, still attired in his frock coat and cravat, the breeze from the open window blew a lock of dark hair across his profile. It shielded his expression as he stared out of the window, but she suspected his thoughts weren’t on the passing view.

  His flash of anger when she’d disappeared from the wedding reception had passed quickly, but it had alarmed her all the same. It didn’t bode well. He knew there was something she was keeping from him. And at the church, he hadn’t kissed her. Again the unsettling recollection popped into her mind.

  Pushing it away, she, too, forced her eyes to stay on the view outside the carriage, not on the man seated across from her, his knee only inches from hers.

  The oak woods they passed through were wild and beautiful. The trees were dense enough to be a forest, more than woodland. Among the trees she’d recognised the wings and calls of kestrels, wrens and swallows. Butterflies darted among the early bluebells and wood anemones. She thought she even glimpsed a badger, too.

  ‘Not far now,’ Adam said. ‘The road to the manor can be marshy. But we’ve been lucky today.’

  ‘The weather’s been marvellous,’ Violet replied.

  Help, she thought. We’re discussing the weather. Their new tension seemed like a dark cloud over them. But the day had remained sunny, for May. The bright sky beckoned them onwards, towards the setting sun. She took off her hat and lifted her face towards it.

  They turned down a lane, past a gurgling water mill, and into a small, pretty village. Thatched cottages lined the road, some stone, some half-timbered. In the square was a stone church, a public house, a bakery and a dairy, and a village green where a few boys were playing cricket.

 
; ‘The village of Beauley officially lies in the manor grounds,’ Adam told her. ‘Or rather, it used to. The cottages are still tied to the manor, but much of the land around the village has been sold off.’

  ‘Recently?’ she asked.

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘In my father’s lifetime, yes, if that’s what you’re asking. But perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps it isn’t right to own a village. The social reformists would certainly think so.’

  ‘The Cadbury family have built a village and they are social reformists,’ Violet said, eagerly, relieved to find a safe but interesting topic they could discuss. She wanted to return to their former ease. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of the place. It is called Bournville. It not only provides excellent conditions for their workers, but low-cost homes, too. It has three hundred houses, each with their own garden, for the growing of fruit and vegetables.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re not only a suffragette, but also a social reformer.’

  ‘If I could have my way, I would like Coombes Chocolates to provide more pleasant conditions for our factory workers.’ It was something she’d long wanted to discuss further with her father, if she had been able to follow him into the Coombes Chocolates business. ‘At Bournville they provide such marvellous facilities. There are kitchens for hot meals, a school for the workers’ children and a nurse to visit the sick. The factory is surrounded by parks and recreation grounds. It’s known as a factory in a garden.’

  ‘A factory in a garden,’ Adam mused. ‘Kent is known as the Garden of England.’

  ‘I can see why. It’s beautiful.’ She glanced out the carriage window again. The village of Beauley couldn’t be more charming. A few of the villagers waved as they went past, recognising the carriage. ‘I hope you don’t mind me discussing matters of business.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Some men do.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m a social reformist,’ Adam said slowly, ‘but I am certainly interested in such things. I, too, would like to make village life at Beauley as conducive to happiness as possible for those who live here.’

  ‘I’m of the belief that employers have significant social obligations,’ Violet said. ‘I suppose it is the same for landowners.’