A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

“I don’t know what they are fighting for anyway,” Lady Carrick-Humphrey went on. “I don’t want to be forced to vote. Politics sounds so dreary.”

  “You wouldn’t be forced to vote, Lady Carrick-Humphrey,” I said. “I think you’d be able to choose. And Sir Henry, what do you know of what it’s like to be a woman?” I had the bit between my teeth and there was no stopping me. I leaned forward in my chair and tapped the table emphatically. I decided to bestow a little of Lucy’s speech on them. “Doesn’t the government make women pay taxes? How would you like it if you didn’t have a say in how that money was spent? That’s how the Revolutionary War in America began, after all.”

  Ha! That told him. I sat back feeling pleased with myself and glanced around. It was deathly quiet. Everyone was staring at me. India looked confused. Mamma’s mouth had dropped open. Edmund, finally breaking the silence, laughed as if what I said was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  Oh, no. The brandy might be nectar of the gods, but it must have given me a false sense of security. I had never spoken in such a way in front of my parents.

  “And what do you know about this, Victoria?” There was a measured tone to my father’s voice. His expression was calm, but I could see anger seeping through. I knew I had gone too far.

  “I just heard some people talking,” I said. My cheeks felt hot, and I hoped they weren’t as red as they felt.

  “People talking where?”

  “I forget,” I said weakly, realizing how feeble that sounded.

  “Your daughter seems to have interesting opinions, Mr. Darling,” Sir Henry said, and then smiled. But there was little humor in that smile.

  “It appears so,” my father said shortly.

  “Do you have an occupation, Miss Darling? Are you finding yourself taxed?” Sir Henry asked, a patronizing smile on his face, as if he were addressing a naughty little girl who didn’t like the flavor of her lollipop.

  “No,” I said. “But I—”

  “Since you, like many women, don’t earn money, you shouldn’t have a say on how the taxes are spent. Perhaps you should keep quiet about things that don’t concern you.”

  “But I would welcome a way to earn my own money.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath from my mother.

  “And take work away from a man? Trying to support his family?” Sir Henry demanded.

  “What if I, or any other woman, had to support myself? Everyone deserves an equal chance at life, do they not?”

  “Such socialistic views you have, Miss Darling.” He picked up his spoon and turned his attention to his charlotte russe pudding, dismissing me.

  “Just because I have an idea of my own doesn’t make me a socialist, Sir Henry. Not that there is anything wrong with socialists, after all.”

  “Victoria!” My father was too polite to shout at the table, but I could hear the warning in his voice.

  “But that’s not fair,” I said, looking round the table. “It isn’t fair to treat women unequally. We aren’t children.”

  Sir Henry set his spoon down. His face was pickled with anger. “I think my son will have to tie you to the table leg, young lady.”

  I stared at my plate. Shut it, Vicky. Just shut it! my saner self screamed at me. But my impulsive side, fueled by my father’s rather expensive brandy, prevailed. I lifted my head and looked Edmund’s father in the eye. “Let him try it.”

  I heard Edmund muffle a snort of laughter.

  “Ladies, I think we’ll go through,” my mother said, bringing a halt to the exchange. So, as usual, we ladies stood up and followed her up to the drawing room, where we waited for the men to smoke their cigars and talk of subjects not meant for female ears, which, of course, meant politics. Mamma chatted with Lady Carrick-Humphrey and India, blatantly ignoring me. I stood by the fireplace and wished I could become invisible.

  When the men joined us, Edmund asked me to accompany him onto the veranda. India followed us but went down the steps and wandered out into the garden. I was glad to go out, because the fresh air cleared my head a bit, and anyway I did not want to be in the same room with Papa and Sir Henry.

  Edmund leaned against the railing, his hands in his pockets. “What a row, Miss Darling,” he said. “The way both our fathers looked, I thought lives would be lost.”

  “I didn’t mean to create a scene.” I brushed an insect away from my sleeve.

  “Blathering on about women’s rights, how funny. I thought you were never going to take a breath. You are a one. I’ve never known the like.”

  I shifted under his candid gaze. “I have opinions. Is that so wrong?”

  He shrugged.

  “Do you agree with your father, that I should be tied to the table leg?” Perhaps Freddy was wrong. Perhaps Edmund wasn’t as forward-thinking as my brother thought. Perhaps I had made a terrible mistake.

  “No, of course not,” he said, to my relief. “It was amusing to watch you get one over on my father. Lord knows I wish I could do the same.” There was a bitter note to Edmund’s words. “I’m sick of him ordering every direction of my life.”

  “How so? You’re at school and away from him, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, his reach is long.” He made a little noise and grinned. “Let’s just say I made a bit of a mess recently. My father had to tidy it up and he was not amused.”

  “What happened?”

  He waved his hand. “Some gambling debts. And I may have borrowed money against my inheritance that needed paying back. I’m sure they barely made a dent in his coffers, but he’s demanded recompense, and so my wings are to be clipped. I get married and find an occupation or take up a commission in the navy. And life on a ship is not for me. I can’t see myself sailing o’er the Spanish Main fending off all boarders. Too Robert Louis Stevenson for words.”

  “The navy sounds refreshing compared to my sentence. If I don’t marry, I must go live with my Aunt Maude, never to be seen or heard from again.”

  He looked at me frankly. “Is the reason you have to get married because you took your clothes off? To dilute the scandal, so to speak?”

  “There are other reasons. My father feels the steadying influence of a husband would be good for me. But if he thinks I’m going to quit drawing and painting just because I’m married, then he’s sorely mistaken. I plan to be a great artist, no matter what he says.”

  I must have looked irritated, because Edmund placed his hand over mine and laughed. “Never fear, Miss Darling. We will be our own masters, I shall see to that. We’ll do anything we like.” He shifted a bit closer to me, squeezing my fingers for a moment before dropping his hands onto the veranda wall. He nudged my shoulder with his. “It’s a cliché, old thing, but I think we’re two peas in a pod.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Few marriages have begun with so much in common.” He laughed.

  “My parents were barely acquainted with each other. I’m not sure if my mother knew whether she was marrying my father or his best man.”

  “I hope that will not be the case with me, although my best man, Kenneth, is much better looking, so you might want to hedge your bets.”

  “Aren’t you terrified of marrying a scandalous woman?” Although Edmund had besmirched his own name, it was easier for a single man to recover from scandal than a woman. But because a married man was thought to be responsible for his wife’s behavior, a husband was often painted with his wife’s tarry brush.

  But truly, Edmund didn’t seem to care a whit. “None of my friends give a toss about society whispers. The king doesn’t let scandal mark his life, so why should the rest of us?”

  “That’s a refreshing view.”

  “A modern one. Time to sweep away the past and embrace the new, that’s what I say.”

  We looked out into the darkened garden for a bit. India was under the pergola; her dress glowed a
ghostly blue in the moonlight. It felt strange to be standing next to a boy I barely knew but who would be the person I would have breakfast with every morning and share a bed with for the rest of my life. How would we go from being acquaintances to intimates? Perhaps it could start now. Edmund had been so humiliated by his father. Maybe if I showed him that I understood . . .

  I turned to Edmund and put my hand over his. “I’m so sorry about what your father said to you earlier,” I said. “I know that must have hurt you.”

  He looked at me and shook his head. “Hurt me? Don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry if I misspoke . . . only—”

  And then, without any warning, Edmund took me in his arms and kissed me. Startled, I took a step back, but instead of letting go, he followed and gripped me with even more determination.

  I had never been kissed by a boy before, and my mind flickered through several emotions at once: shock, embarrassment, and then a tiny bit of excitement. My arms hung at my sides, and I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do with them, so I just left them there.

  The kiss went on and on and on, and Edmund’s arms began to feel too tight around me, his cologne too cloying.

  My corset pressed hard against my ribs. I forgot the warning from Bailey to breathe from the top of my lungs. The brandy rose up inside me.

  I broke from Edmund’s embrace, leaned over, and was sick all over his brilliantly shined shoes.

  Twelve

  Trafalgar Square,

  Saturday, twentieth of March

  THE STENCH OF the manure in the streets and the smog from coal fires and motorcars made my pounding headache worse. My eyes were sore and hot from crying. It was the morning after the dinner. I was on my way to my charity, Friends of London Churches, at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square, accompanied by Emma, our parlormaid. And I was, once again, in utter disgrace.

  My father was angrier than I had ever seen him. It wasn’t my vomiting over Edmund that made him angry; he’d never discovered I’d been drinking brandy. Edmund had stepped forward and defended me, saying I’d probably gotten a bad oyster at dinner.

  No, Papa was angry because I had spoken my mind. After the Carrick-Humphreys left, my father accused me of purposely trying to sabotage the engagement and humiliate him in front of Sir Henry. He paced round the sitting room calling me a wicked, wicked girl, over and over.

  “Sallying forth with that ridiculous speech about women’s suffrage and arguing with Sir Henry is inexcusable.”

  “What did I say that was so wrong? Am I not allowed an opinion?” I said.

  “No, you are not! You, like many women, are overly emotional and have no ability to judge a matter well enough to form an opinion. If you behave in this fashion again, Victoria,” my father went on, “you will be on the next train to Norfolk.”

  And then, true to his word, he had the servants remove every pencil, every paintbrush, every pastel and piece of paper that he could find in my room, even my childhood drawings. And worst of all, they took away my sketchbook, which I had left sitting on my dressing table.

  Because I knew Mamma had been on my side once, I sought her out in her bedroom while Bailey was readying her for bed, and begged her for my art things, but she would not budge.

  “But you convinced him before, he told me,” I said.

  “And I see now that I was wrong,” she said. “Your father is quite right. He feels that this obsession you have with art has turned your head and is the source of your willful behavior.” She flapped her hand. “So no more drawing. You shall concentrate on your social obligations and your trousseau.”

  “What about my sketchbook, Mamma? What has Papa done with it?”

  “I have it.”

  “You have it?”

  “And you should thank me. If your father saw what was in it, he would chuck it into the fire,” she said.

  I swallowed. “You looked inside?” Mamma had never seen any serious work I’d done. I couldn’t bear it if she cast aspersions. I held my breath, but she looked away for a moment, saying nothing. Then she spoke again.

  “I won’t give your art things back to you now. But I will give them to Mr. Carrick-Humphrey once you are married, and it will be up to him as to whether you can have them back.”

  “Mr. Carrick-Humphrey?”

  “Of course!” My mother looked exasperated. “He will be head of your household, so he will make your decisions for you. The everyday running of the household will be in your hands—dinners, parties, decoration and the like—but my dear, what did you think?”

  “My husband will not be my jailer, Mamma. Times are changing, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Not that much,” she said, “despite your little speech on women’s suffrage. I would advise you to be kind to Mr. Carrick-Humphrey so that he gives you what you want. If you harangue him and are willful in your behavior, then he may not grant you what you wish.”

  “Edmund Carrick-Humphrey is a new man, Mamma, not some buttoned-up, dusty old Victorian. I don’t think he wants a simpering wife hanging on his every word so he’ll be inclined to hand out wishes like sweeties from Father Christmas. My brother doesn’t treat Rose that way.”

  My mother sighed. “Frederick has no need to. Rose is not a willful girl. She understands what it means to be a good wife. She follows his lead, and that is the way it should be. I fear you will come down to earth with a bump, my dear.”

  I had no chance of going to the RCA now. How could I create enough work for my application in such a short space of time, with no implements or supplies? And finding models to sit for me would be a near impossibility. Lily and the models at Monsieur’s studio were the best models I’d ever had. In the past, whenever I’d asked people to model, they’d fidgeted with embarrassment under my steady gaze or chattered to hide their discomfort, shifting away from the light and rendering pointless the whole exercise. If I tried to draw people in public on the sly, they’d see me staring and leave or rebuke me for being rude. And of course no one, no one would be willing to pose for me undraped.

  It was a problem that had hounded me all night, and I was still fretting over it as the carriage turned toward Trafalgar Square, and I saw the four bronze lions surrounding Nelson’s Column. Usually this sight cheered me, but nothing could make me smile today. The carriage paused behind a queue of traffic. We sat there for the longest time, not moving. Finally, I let the window down and poked my head out. The reason for the traffic queue seemed to be the crush of people milling around.

  I saw a line of women joining up by the fountain in the square. They were wearing sashes and carrying banners that said Women’s Social and Political Union. Some of the women stood arm in arm, singing, while others handed out leaflets to passersby. In the back, several younger women dressed in matching green livery marched in step, playing recorders and beating drums.

  A thought struck me. Lucy had said Christabel’s sister Sylvia Pankhurst had graduated from the RCA and was looking for artists to help paint a mural. If I helped with artwork for the WSPU and showed Sylvia what I could do, she might write a reference letter. Of course I would still need new art supplies and models, but at least securing a letter of reference would be a start.

  If only I could remember where the WSPU headquarters were. I’d left the leaflet in my sketchbook, but I vaguely remembered Lucy saying it was in an inn off the Strand. She must have meant one of the Inns of Chancery, where solicitors used to live and work. There were a group of such buildings that had been turned into apartments and offices. But which one held the WSPU?

  I opened the door to the carriage and stepped out, Emma trailing behind me. John, my father’s coachman, looked down at me with surprise on his face.

  “We can make our way from here, John. Don’t worry about me.” I pointed to the women. “There are so many other women about. It’s as though I’m being chaperoned alre
ady,” I joked. “By the time you get the carriage through, I’ll be quite late. The church is just there anyway.”

  John looked at the women and then at the traffic near the church. Thankfully he was sensible and not prone to fits of drama like our housekeeper was. Mrs. Fitzhughes would have abandoned the carriage in the street rather than risk the chance I might run astray in the hundred yards between the carriage and the church. “Righty ho, then,” he said. “I’ll return home and be back for you in two hours.” John had turned the carriage around and headed back toward Pall Mall.

  I glanced at Emma, who was looking at a man selling sugared almonds by the pavement. I dug into my reticule and pulled out a tuppence. “Go on, Emma. Buy us a packet each.”

  “Oh, thank you, miss!” She took the coin eagerly and headed over to the seller.

  I picked up my skirt and darted over the road. As the line began to move down Whitehall, the musicians drew near and I caught up with a girl who had a snare drum slung across her shoulder, her knees lifting high as she marched along. I touched her sleeve.

  She glanced up, startled, her drumsticks in midair. And then a smile spread over her face. “Oh, hello!”

  “I was wondering if you could assist me. I’m interested in helping with Sylvia Pankhurst’s mural for the Women’s Exhibition.”

  “Oh! Are you?” she said, her drum thumping against her leg as we walked. “The exhibition is going to be ripping! They’ll be selling hats and cakes and all sorts. The band is going to play, and Mrs. Pankhurst is speaking. Should be heaps of fun.”

  “I was told to go to the headquarters, but I don’t know where it is.”

  “Four Clement’s Inn, just west of the law courts and north of the Strand before it turns into Fleet Street. Just follow the chalk arrows on the pavement. If you go Monday at one o’clock, Sylvia Pankhurst is sure to be there.”

  Suddenly, Mamma’s charity scheme was a godsend. I could tell Mamma my charity was meeting at the Temple Church off of Fleet Street. John would take me there easily enough.

  “Thank you. Where is everyone off to?”