A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  Thoughts clashed around my mind. What was Cumber-bunch doing there? She had told my mother she would be at Liberty right now. What if she saw me? I was filled me with so much anxiety that I felt I might start tearing at my hair. I could almost feel Aunt Maude’s terriers nipping at my ankles.

  “Queenie!” I heard a voice call out in front of me. Lucy Hawkins was coming down the pavement. She was wearing the same tailor-made suit she had worn the day I met her, although she had swapped the hideous hat for an equally ugly cloche. Today she was wearing a full-length apron, upon which were written mottoes and meeting times.

  “Well, this is a turnup,” she said when she reached me. “The way you acted at the police station, I didn’t expect to see you anywhere around here.”

  “Must you insist on calling me Queenie?”

  “I don’t mean anything by it,” she said cheerfully, swinging her arms as she walked. “It’s cute. It suits you.”

  I’d heard Americans were brash and forward. That was certainly true of Lucy Hawkins.

  “I can’t stop,” I said. “I have to go.”

  “I can see that. Where’s the fire?”

  I glanced at her. “Pardon?”

  “Where are you running to? Or running from?”

  “I’m just late for something.” I sped up. There wasn’t enough distance between me and Clement’s Inn for comfort yet. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in prison.”

  “Early release. I think they needed the space for some shadier characters. But forget about me. What happened to you?”

  “They let me go straightaway.”

  “Well, that’s good. But why are you here? Did you give that donation you were talking about?”

  “I want to sign up to help with the mural, but I can’t wait for Sylvia Pankhurst. I have to be somewhere.”

  “Really? You’re going to help?” Lucy lifted her hands, placing them on her cheeks as she said this, eyes widening in mock surprise.

  “Yes, so you see I’m willing to do the heavy lifting after all,” I said.

  Lucy could dish the sarcasm, but she didn’t rise when it was directed at her. “Don’t worry about catching Sylvia. I’ll tell her you’re coming. Just go to Avenue Studios at seventy-six Fulham Road whenever you can. She’s there every day from sunup to late in the night. She’s only at Clement’s Inn for a little while on Mondays.”

  I could barely focus on Lucy’s words; my mind was still racing with the fear that Cumberbunch had seen me. “Are you acquainted with a woman in the sewing room? She has red hair and wears spectacles.”

  Lucy looked at me, puzzled. “Sophie? I know her, sure; why?”

  “Does she help with the mural?”

  “No, she mainly sews banners and helps sell papers and whatever else we need. Why do you ask?”

  “Never mind.” I was relieved, but then I realized Sophie Cumberbunch might prove to be an ally. Mamma would never knowingly employ a suffragette, so Cumberbunch had to be sneaking. If she wouldn’t help me, I’d threaten to tell on her.

  “Well then, just pop in and help when you can. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Lucy had turned to go when I called out, “Wait! Just one more thing. Are there any churches near the studio?”

  Lucy scrunched up her nose as though I had asked her if there were any dead mice lying about. “Churches?” She shrugged. “I suppose. It is England, after all. Land of churches on every corner. Why?”

  “Do you know the name of one?”

  “I’ve seen one called All Saints, if that helps you.” She looked at me oddly.

  “It does.”

  “All right, then. Far be it from me to cast aspersions on the devout. Hope to see you there.”

  I left Lucy and headed back toward Temple Church, passing the time in Lincoln’s Inn Gardens until John would collect me. I sat on a park bench and thought again about Cumberbunch. She had to be a secret suffragette. Perhaps Cumberbunch wasn’t as much of a creature of my mother’s as I had thought.

  MY MOTHER WASTED no time tasking Cumberbunch to make an assessment of my wardrobe and a list of things I would need. As my mother had pointed out, I would be making my debut in June, so my youthful ankle-length skirts were no longer appropriate. Nor could I keep wearing my mother’s gowns. So the next morning I had to go through my clothing with Cumberbunch.

  “I don’t really care much for fashion,” I said to Cumberbunch. “I’m not one of those girls who feels the need to swan about all done up like a maypole.”

  “Hmm, is that so?” Cumberbunch said. She was pulling skirts and blouses out of my wardrobe and arranging them in piles on the bed. She was all business now—such a contrast to her carefree demeanor and dress at the WSPU headquarters.

  “I don’t want a dress that requires one of those long corsets,” I said. “I wore one of my mother’s on Friday, and I don’t wish to repeat that experience.”

  “S-bend corsets are going out of fashion,” she said. “I can make a ribbon corset for you, Miss Darling. You’ll wear it around your middle, and it’ll be more comfortable. I’ll get some boning tape and ribbons at Liberty.”

  Liberty, my Aunt Fanny, I thought. More like a quick side trip there and then off to the WSPU headquarters.

  “You go to Liberty a lot, it seems,” I said, watching her carefully. She was folding one of my shirtwaists and paused. “You know you can place an order. Mrs. Fitzhughes can telephone it in for you.”

  “That’s very kind,” Cumberbunch said quickly. “But I prefer to look at the goods before I make my selection.” She surveyed the things on my bed. “You have a lot here that I can recut to make new garments. Do you like tailor-mades? The jacket and skirt with a shirtwaist? That will give you the practicality you’re looking for. And they aren’t cumbersome to wear.”

  “I liked the green one I saw you—” I snapped my mouth shut. “I mean, I liked one I saw on a girl once.”

  Cumberbunch blinked. “I . . . all right.” She looked taken aback but then she shook her head. “Here, wait a moment. I have something in my room that might do for you.” She went away and came back a few moments later with a tie in her hand. “I make these ties from offcut fabrics I find. This one would suit you well, I think.” She held out a tie patterned with a repeating design of navy and green plants, red strawberries, and blue and golden birds.

  I took it from her and went over to my mirror and held it up under my chin. I had never seen anything like it. The birds and the flowers mixed with the red berries created an artistic pattern that was reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites. The blue of the birds’ wings and the flowers brought out the blue in my eyes.

  I wanted it. I wanted to wear it more than anything. And I wanted to wear it on Thursday when I met Will.

  “What would I wear it with? I don’t have a tailor-made.”

  “You have an older brother don’t you?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Any chance his boyhood clothes are still about?”

  “If they are, they would be in the attic.”

  “Let’s go have a look,” Cumberbunch said.

  We trooped up the two flights of stairs to the attic. I searched around and found Freddy’s trunk under the window next to his old rocking horse and my dollhouse, which was the worse for wear after I had decided to decorate the walls with inky scribbles when I was eight. My mother had not been amused.

  Cumberbunch opened the trunk lid, rummaged around, and pulled out a shirt and a collar, setting them to the side. She handed a blue flannel jacket to me. “Try those on, Miss Darling. There are several jackets, summer and winter fabric, in here, all sorts of colors. I can do a lot with those.”

  I removed my blouse and put the shirt and jacket on. I went over to a hall mirror, which my mother had pronounced old-fashioned, relegating it to the attic forever. I looked ridiculous. I
laughed. “This will never do. It’s miles too big.” I spun around to show her, holding my arms out to my sides. The jacket fell to the middle of my thighs, and the sleeves hung over my hands. “My brother is tall. Even when he was at school he was tall.”

  “Never mind. That’s what I’m here for.” She came over and looked at the jacket carefully. Then she pinched in the sides and secured them with pins from a cushion tied around her wrist. “Nip this in a bit here.” She folded up the hem so the jacket hit just above my hips. “We’ll shorten it to here. See, it will fit you a treat. This is how I get a lot of my clothes. From reach-me-downs on Petticoat Lane in the East End. Can’t afford new.”

  I looked in the mirror again, and suddenly I could see the possibilities. Many tailor-made jackets had puffy sleeves, which I had always thought fussy. This one, being a boy’s, did not, but the way Cumberbunch altered it made it look very feminine. It was almost cheeky, as if I were saying, I could fit right in with the blokes, but I prefer not to.

  “You’re very good at this,” I said.

  “Thank you, miss.” She attached the collar and then slid the tie around my neck, wrapping a long end twice around a short end, and then looping it through to create a knot. “There.” She stepped back. “I can let the hem down on that silk russet skirt you have. A tailor-made skirt is only meant to be just below the ankle, so there’s heaps of room in the hem.”

  I untied the tie and then tried it myself.

  She knelt on the floor and began pinning the bottom of the jacket.

  “Do you think you could have this done by Thursday?”

  “I don’t see why not.” She looked like she wanted to ask me why, but it wasn’t her place to ask, and I certainly didn’t volunteer any information.

  Cumberbunch stood up, fished around in the trunk, and pulled out my brother’s straw boater. She reached up and placed the hat on my head and smiled at me in the mirror. “How do you feel about fashion now?”

  I adjusted the hat, cocking it forward. I couldn’t wait for Will to see me in this new outfit. What would he think of it? What would he think of me in it? “I changed my mind,” I said. “I like it.”

  Sixteen

  Darling Residence, Tuesday, twenty-third of March

  Later in the day, Miss Winthrop’s Social Graces Academy, Kensington

  THE NEXT DAY, Cumberbunch helped me get dressed for Miss Winthrop’s Crushingly Boring Social Graces Academy. I sat at the dressing table while Cumberbunch did my hair, and I thought about the final piece of the puzzle—art materials. I had a model, an idea for a reference, and some money. But the acquisition of art supplies was proving the hardest of all because the only art shop I knew was in Kensington. There were no churches nearby, as it was on a busy high street. Furthermore, I could only fake a charity visit once or twice a week or Mamma would get suspicious, and I needed those precious days for drawing Will and for working on the mural. As it was, I’d have to go to a real meeting once a week in case Mamma should ask the charity organizers.

  What really rankled was the proximity of the art shop to Miss Winthrop’s academy. It was so close—a minute’s walk down Kensington High Street, if even that. If only I could escape for just a few minutes, I could—

  Goose bumps rose on my arms, and I sat very still. I knew how I could do it. I knew how! But it would take a bit of planning and some acting.

  “Miss?” Cumberbunch was holding my hair in a knot at the top of my head. “Would you like your hair swept up here or rolled at the nape of your neck?”

  “Uh, I don’t mind. Whatever you prefer.” And then I put my hand to my forehead. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit poorly.”

  “Shall I tell your mother you’re unwell?”

  “No . . . it’s important I should attend. Maybe I’ll feel better soon,” I said.

  “I’ll get you some headache powder,” Cumberbunch said. She looked at me sideways, hesitated for a moment, and then went to fetch the medicine.

  WHEN WE ALIGHTED from the carriage, I waded in with the first part of my scheme.

  “Cumberbunch, actually, would you mind at all going to Harrods to purchase some Turkish delight for my aunt’s birthday? She loves the pistachio and rose flavors.” I held my breath, waiting for her reply.

  “Your mother said you were dancing today. Don’t you need help changing into your skirt and dancing slippers?” Cumberbunch looked at me strangely when I said no, but it was not a maid’s job to question, so she accepted the money I held out and went off toward Knightsbridge.

  Thankfully I knew none of the eleven other girls in the class, so there would be no reports to my mother through other girls’ mothers. Girls my age were the biggest tattletales going. Not a one of them could keep her mouth shut.

  Without Cumberbunch’s help, it took me longer to change into my dance things, which was to my benefit. I was able to hold back for a moment as the other girls and their maids went into the ballroom. I tiptoed into the hall and bundled my dance bag behind a potted fern next to the door. Then I joined the class.

  Owing to the fact that it was a girls-only class, we were to dance with one another, taking turns to lead. My dancing was terrible because I couldn’t concentrate. I was so nervous about my scheme that I kept stepping on my partner’s feet and turning right when I was meant to go left.

  “Ouch! I say, do pay attention!” my partner said after I had mashed her toes for the third time.

  I didn’t have a moment to waste, so ten minutes into the class, I told Miss Winthrop that I was unwell. She took me to the dressing room and bade me rest a moment. As soon as she returned to the other dancers, I jumped up from the chaise and crept down the hall, grabbed my dance bag from behind the pot, and stole outside. It was all I could do not to break into a run, so I walked as quickly as I could, dodging around the other pedestrians on the crowded pavement.

  And then I was there. My favorite place in all the world: Baldwin Art Purveyors. I had purchased my art materials there practically ever since I could grasp a pencil. I always felt as if nothing horrid could ever happen to me in such a wonderful place.

  The tiny shop was at the end of a small arcade of shops. It sat underneath its sign: a drawing of a paint palette. I always loved to see what the owner, Mr. Baldwin, chose for his window display. This time he had arranged a life-size art mannequin dressed in a painter’s smock in front of an easel, while another mannequin posed in front of him, arms held aloft.

  A bell tinkled as I stepped inside. Although it appeared tiny from the outside, the shop was an Aladdin’s cave on the inside. The long room stretched far back and was filled with every imaginable kind of art material. Drawers were crammed with tubes of paint with names like burnt umber, copper beech, cadmium blue, and vermilion. Shelves bristled with jars of paintbrushes, and boxes upon boxes of pencils and pastels of all sorts were stacked from floor to ceiling against one wall. A coal fire flickered merrily in the small fireplace near the till, creating a cozy atmosphere. And there was that deliciously earthy scent of pencil shavings, oil paint, and mineral spirits that I loved so well.

  A clerk I had never met before came to the front of the shop. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said. “Do you require assistance?”

  I looked around me. I hardly knew where to begin. “I am in need of just about everything.”

  “You are in luck. We have just about everything,” he said, smiling.

  I drew my list out of my bag, and the two of us went round the shop selecting everything I needed: a Reeves & Sons charcoal set in a pretty beech-wood box with a sliding lid; a silver dip pen; a bottle of golden iron-gall ink and a pot of ebony bister ink; a small tin of conté crayons in portrait colors; a wooden box set filled with both Derwent graphite and colored pencils; two erasers, gum arabic and kneadable; several blending stumps; a glass-paper sanding block; and finally a beautiful new sketch pad with an Italian leather cover filled with cream-
colored cartridge paper. I hesitated over a wind-up easel, but it was ridiculous to think I could sneak something that large into my house.

  As the clerk toted up my purchases at the till, I wandered over to look at the watercolor caddies, considering whether I needed one or not. Should I show the examiners I had a grasp of something other than drawing? Watercolors weren’t my favorite medium—I preferred colored pencils—but I did like the effect of gouache on tinted paper. Maybe next time. My dance bag would be full as it was.

  “Miss Darling,” a soft voice said.

  I turned, and there stood Mr. Baldwin, the shop’s owner. He had a solemn look on his face.

  “Mr. Baldwin!” I said. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. How do you do? The shop looks beautiful, as usual. I’ve been admiring these caddies. Are they new?” I held one up.

  “Miss Darling, I . . . I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” His homely face crinkled into a frown.

  I set the caddy down. “Pardon?”

  “It’s your father, you see. He sent me a letter saying we weren’t to sell you anything, and he closed his account here.”

  “My father?” I said stupidly, barely able to take in what Mr. Baldwin was saying.

  “I do beg your pardon. Mr. Ashby is a new clerk here, otherwise—”

  “I have money of my own; I don’t need my purchases to go on my father’s account, Mr. Baldwin.”

  He shook his head.

  I had known Mr. Baldwin since my childhood. I considered him a friend. He always welcomed me in the shop, even putting to one side new things I might like. The shop was like a second home, and now it was barred to me because of my father. Anger flickered inside me. “But Mr. Baldwin, I’m begging you. All my art materials are gone. I haven’t a single stump of pencil to my name.”

  Mr. Baldwin looked dismayed. “I simply cannot go against your father’s request, Miss Darling. I’m sure he has your best interests at heart.”