‘I could look at her for ever,’ Violet whispered, holding her close.
Adam leaned down to stroke the side of the baby’s cheek. ‘Her skin is so soft.’
Violet smiled with respect at her sister-in-law, swathed in a purple, white and green sash. Pinned to Arabella’s bodice was a silver hunger-strike medal, inscribed with the words ‘For Valour’ on the bar. It had been awarded to her by the Women’s Social and Political Union in recognition of her efforts. She was thinner than ever, after another spell in prison. It had been particularly gruelling, but Arabella swore she would never give up her militant activities or surrender the Cause. She was held in high esteem by the suffragettes.
‘Will you hold her during the speeches, Arabella?’ asked Violet.
Arabella gazed at the baby with complete devotion. ‘Of course.’
‘And there’s the suffrage play later,’ Violet said.
Adam chuckled. ‘I must say I’m looking forward to seeing Jane perform in the play.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be marvellous,’ said Violet.
She passed the baby back to Arabella. ‘Go to your godmama, Liberty.’
‘Liberty,’ Arabella repeated. ‘It’s an unusual name.’
Adam clasped his hands momentarily around Violet’s corseted waist, so swiftly that no one else could notice. Yet the effect of his fingers was instant—warm, firm—through her dress. ‘Her parents were married in unusual circumstances.’
‘The best circumstances are those in which people make the best of them,’ Violet said.
‘Indeed,’ said Adam. ‘I’ve not heard that expression. Is it Samuel Smiles?’
Violet shook her head. ‘No. It’s mine.’
He grinned. ‘You’ve grown wise.’
She grimaced. ‘I’ve learned some lessons.’
‘So have I,’ he murmured in her ear.
‘I’ll find a chair near the front,’ said Arabella. ‘I want to be sure I can hear every word, Violet. It’s almost time for the speeches.’
Bearing Liberty with care, she hurried away.
Violet glanced around the garden. She spotted her mama, looking less terrified than she had in the past, conversing with Mrs Beaufort, Adam’s mother. Both were attired in the colours of the suffragettes. Her mama’s cartwheel hat sported huge purple and green feathers.
‘Where is my papa?’ she asked Adam.
Adam pointed to a hedge. A curl of cigar smoke came up from behind it.
‘Oh, Papa.’ Violet sighed.
‘His health is so much better now,’ said Adam. ‘He hasn’t had a turn for some time, has he?’
Violet shook her head. At least her papa was his old self again, if not better, with his new Royal Warrant.
‘Are you ready to speak?’
‘Yes.’ Not just to speak out for herself, Violet vowed. For Jane, for Arabella. For her mama. For her mother-in-law. For the women of Beauley. For Hannah Walsh and the women at the Coombes Chocolates factory. For all women everywhere. For Liberty.
‘It’s my duty,’ she said. Until all women could vote, and speak out, for themselves.
Adam pulled the brim of his hat down in front of them. ‘How fortunate we are to have to do our duty.’
‘I agree,’ Violet whispered.
She reached up and kissed him.
Epilogue
‘In that last kiss, which never was the last...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
On the podium, Violet adjusted her hat. Her hands were perspiring; they felt clammy in her lace gloves.
Courage, Violet said to herself.
She adjusted her sash. It was striped in the colours of purple, white and green, of course, but it was longer than usual, to make room for her rounded belly. Perhaps it would be a boy, this time.
‘Shall we settle upon one of each?’ Adam’s voice came back to her.
She looked up at him, standing tall beside her on the podium. His jaw was set firm above his necktie. She could see the lines of fatigue on his face after the long weeks of campaigning, but his eyes were bright blue as he glanced back at her, full of intensity of purpose, full of love.
‘Adam Beaufort.’
He smiled as he stepped forward, back straight, head high. Only she could see the slight clenching of his fingers.
Violet held her breath.
‘Twenty-two thousand, six hundred and eleven votes.’
A roar of applause went up in the hall.
Adam whirled around and swept Violet in his arms, lifting her off her feet to kiss her.
‘You did it,’ she choked, through tears and laughter. ‘You won the election!’
‘There’s still one vote I haven’t won,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Whose is that?’
‘Your vote,’ Adam said. ‘It will happen, one day soon. I’m sure of it.’
‘Women will have the vote,’ Violet vowed. ‘One day.’
As Adam held her in his arms, she knew it would.
* * *
If you enjoyed this story,
check out these other great reads
by Eliza Redgold
Enticing Benedict Cole
Playing the Duke’s Mistress
Keep reading for an excerpt from Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior by Greta Gilbert.
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Historical Note
Violet’s story celebrates every woman who ever fought for the rights we enjoy today.
Deeds, not words: Today we might not be able to imagine what it was like to have no vote and few legal rights, but in Violet’s time this battle had not yet been won. In 1903 the Women’s Social and Political Union was founded by Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters Christabel and Sylvia. They demanded that women have the right to vote and they were not prepared to wait.
‘I invited a number of women to my house in Nelson Street, Manchester, for purposes of organisation,’ wrote Mrs Pankhurst. ‘We voted to call our new society the Women’s Social and Political Union, partly to emphasise its democracy, and partly to define it object as political rather than propagandist. We resolved to limit our membership exclusively to women, to keep ourselves absolutely free from party affiliation, and to be satisfied with nothing but action on our question. Deeds, not words was to be our permanent motto.’
You can find out more from The Pankhurst Centre.
Activists and Militants: In the early twentieth century, frustrated by their lack of progress, the women’s movement splintered into various groups with competing means to achieve the goal of suffrage, including those who used radical and militant means, from civil disobedience to property damage, arrest and even arson.
Some suffragettes supported these activities; others thought they harmed the Cause. Violet’s story represents this turbulent period.
Find out more at the British Library: https://www.bl.uk/votes-for-women/articles/suffragettes-violence-and-militancy
Votes for Women! The suffrage play that Violet, Jane and Arabella discuss was written by Elizabeth Robins, an actress, playwright and ardent suffragette. Many pamphlets, books and plays were written by women to support and broadcast the aims of the Cause. The themes in Votes for Women! capture the mood and conflict of the day.
It was first performed in London in 1907 and the script of the play was published by Mills and Boon in 1909, the same year as this story.
Chocolate Empires: The time period in which Violet’s story is set was when great chocolate empires such as Cadbury and Fry had come to prominence. The confectioners generally provided excellent conditions for their workers, including women. In this, Violet’s
goals at Coombes Chocolates make her very much a woman of her times.
You can discover more about chocolate factories and their history at: https://www.cadbury.co.uk/our-story
If you’d like to taste a floral-flavoured chocolate fondant, try my recipe at the end of this book.
Shrinking Violets: Are violets shy? These bright purple flowers from the viola family, which includes violets and pansies, are colourful and easily seen. They got this poetic epithet in the nineteenth century, which describes their growing places in the shade and undergrowth. But violets are no wallflowers; they thrive in sunshine, too.
The Blue Danube: Violet and Adam dance at the ball to the immortal waltz ‘The Beautiful Blue Danube’ by Strauss. Take a twirl around the floor yourself. In this rendition by Andre Rieu and his orchestra, the female musicians wear beautiful ball gowns—and watch out for the white-gowned debutantes and their partners who appear on the balcony: https://vimeo.com/258077067
Love and Duty: Interwoven into the story is Tennyson’s poem ‘Love and Duty’ (1842). Full of desire and conflict, it is the inspiration for Violet and Adam’s choices which, fortunately for them, had a happy ending.
Between chocolate, duty and love may we never have to choose...
Violet Creams
A recipe for chocolate violet fondants, to share on International Women’s Day (March 8th).
Fifteen ounces of granulated sugar
Half a pint of water
Two teaspoons of glucose
Two tablespoons of violet syrup or violet liqueur
Three tablespoons of double cream
One ounce of icing sugar
Eight ounces of dark couverture chocolate
Violet food colouring
Crystallised violet petals
To make the fondant, put the icing sugar and water in a saucepan, place over a low heat and stir until the sugar is melted. Add the glucose and bring quickly to the boil. Let it keep boiling until it forms a soft ball if you drop a small piece into cold water. When it is at that consistency, turn off the heat. While the mixture is still warm add the violet flavouring and colouring as you desire. Let it cool and add the cream.
Pour the fondant mixture on to a damp marble slab or wooden board. With a flat-bladed knife fold the outside of the mixture into the centre, several times. When it is cool enough, using icing sugar on your hands, knead the mixture until smooth and creamy.
Let the mixture set for a minimum of three hours, then roll into any shape you fancy. Cover the shapes with melted chocolate and allow to set again after topping with a crystallised violet petal.
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Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior
by Greta Gilbert
Chapter One
Rome—101 CE
Atia always knew she would die young. Even before she visited the ancient sisters she sensed her days were numbered.
On the morning of her twelfth birthday, Atia’s mother shook her awake. ‘Dress quickly, my dear,’ she said. ‘Today all will be revealed.’
Together they hurried down the Via Sacra, their heads hooded, their eyes fixed upon the paving stones.
‘Faster, Atia,’ her mother urged, for gossip moved like brushfire through the streets of Rome. ‘If your father finds out about our errand, we will feel his wrath in lashes.’
Atia hurried after her mother as they made their way into the Subura slum. They entered a towering insula and began to climb—one floor, five floors, ten. Finally, they reached the highest floor and stood before a door. Atia’s mother knocked and it creaked open.
‘May I help you?’ called an ancient voice. Atia peered into the shadows and beheld a short, round woman with hair as white as the moon.
‘We have an appointment,’ said Atia’s mother. ‘A reading for my daughter.’
‘Ah yes—the ladies of Palatine Hill,’ said the woman. She gave Atia’s mother a second glance, as all people did. ‘Please, seat yourselves,’ the old woman said, then disappeared down a dark corridor.
Atia and her mother took their seats at a large circular table. Soon the round woman re-emerged, carrying an incense lamp. A chunk of amber-coloured rock smouldered inside the lamp’s wide belly, producing a rich, otherworldly scent.
‘Frankincense,’ her mother remarked admiringly.
‘To invite the goddess’s favour,’ said the woman. She set the lamp on the table, then pulled a large scroll from beneath her belt and ceremoniously unfurled it.
Atia gazed in wonder at the eerie drawing: a perfect circle divided into twelve proportionate wedges. Strange symbols decorated the insides of the wedges and colourful lines crossed between them—some of the lines blue, but most of them red.
The round woman placed the scroll on the table and studied it, then fixed Atia with an onyx stare. ‘The girl is good,’ she pronounced.
Atia released a breath she did not realise she had been holding.
The woman pointed to a blue line. ‘This means her heart is tender. She abhors the suffering of others.’
‘It is true,’ trumpeted her mother. ‘Atia has always been kind. A blessing from Juno.’
‘And look at this,’ said the woman. ‘Mercury conjunct Saturn. A disciplined mind. Like a general or a politician.’
Her mother smiled wistfully and Atia knew what she was thinking: If only Atia had been a boy.
‘Sensitive to the thoughts and feelings of others!’ exclaimed the woman.
Atia took a long whiff of the sacred smoke and began to relax. ‘The girl is loving and helpful,’ said the woman. ‘The girl likes to jest.’ Atia was almost enjoying the game now. ‘She is a natural peacemaker.’
The woman puzzled over the wheel some more, tugging her silver chin hairs. She pointed to a symbol that looked like the moon. ‘Here is the girl’s mother. Very well aspected in the house of Venus. So much beauty.’
Since Atia could remember, strangers had remarked on her mother’s uncommon beauty, often expressing disbelief that Atia was indeed her mother’s daughter.
‘You speak only of my daughter’s gifts, Grandmother,’ said Atia’s mother, turning the subject back to Atia. ‘What of the ill? What challenges will she face?’
‘The ill? I am sorry, domina. We do not usually speak of ill in such a reading.’
Atia’s mother gave a loud tsk, then plunged her fingers into the depths of her coin purse. She held up two gold coins. ‘One for the good and one for the ill,’ she said.
The old woman shook her head. ‘The ill can be difficult for some to bear.’
‘You mean that it can be difficult for some patricians to bear,’ her mother said.
<
br /> The old woman only bowed her head.
‘Grandmother, I was born in this very neighbourhood. I rose to my station by the blessing of this alone.’ Atia’s mother gestured to her own face. ‘I can bear whatever it is you have to say and so can my daughter. We are stronger than we look.’
Atia had never heard her mother speak so forcefully in all her life. Nor had she heard her lie with such conviction. After all, her mother had been born to a family of Roman patricians from the province of Hispania.
Had she not?
Her mother pressed the coins into the old woman’s palm and a kind of knowing passed between the two women.
‘Decima!’ the round woman called.
Suddenly, another old woman emerged from the corridor. She was tall and thin and wore a pronounced scowl. Her bones made creaking complaints as she walked.
‘At your request, I present you with my sister,’ said the round woman. ‘She has a talent for seeing the ill.’
The thin woman gave a curt nod and seated herself beside Atia. She pointed a bony finger to a symbol inside the seventh wedge. ‘Here is Saturn in the girl’s house of marriage. It bodes ill. Many obstacles. And look here—it makes a bad angle to Jupiter, the planet of progeny.’
Atia’s mother nodded gravely. ‘Anything else?’
The thin woman sighed. ‘Where to begin?’ She pointed to a red line. ‘The girl will labour beneath the control of a wicked, powerful man.’ She pointed to another red line. ‘She will travel to foreign lands where she will face grave danger.’ She pointed to yet another red line. ‘She will witness terrible things and her heart will break a thousand times.’
Atia did not understand. She looked to her mother for reassurance, but her mother’s expression was ghostly. ‘What can be done?’ her mother asked.
The thin woman shrugged. ‘The girl must weather the storm and wait to be reborn.’
What did she mean, wait to be reborn? Atia opened her mouth to ask, but no words came.
The Scandalous Suffragette Page 25