“I say we strike, and strike hard!” Maggie cried, rising to her feet. Several other members nodded. “You talk about marches and protests and petitions—we have tried them all, and they have failed. This is the time for action, and without it, our cause is doomed.”
“Maggie Greene, you are out of order,” Mrs. Heywood, the head of the Union said.
“I have a voice just as does any other member in the Union!”
“A voice, yes, but the National Women’s Union has never condoned violence, and we will not start now. We will not start now,” Mrs. Heywood repeated over the grumbling of a handful of women who favored such extreme forms of protest.
I held my breath, worried that the militant faction would continue to press the issue, but although they demanded a vote to determine the type of future actions, they were outvoted by a clear majority. The NSU would continue its policy of non-violent protest. I breathed a sigh of relief, and promised to type up the report on my new typewriting machine. As the meeting ended, Helena and I walked down the steps to the street with several of the other ladies.
“We can take you home, if you don’t mind being crowded,” one woman offered, indicating her motor.
“Thank you, but the evening is fine, and I need a good walk. But perhaps Miss St. John...”
“I’ll walk with you,” she said quickly, with a bright smile.
“You are welcome to take a cab home,” I said as we set off. “I really don’t mind walking by myself.” I stopped to allow her to catch up to me.
“I never thought of the problems of walking any distance when I bought this terrible gown,” she said, vexed.
I surveyed the narrow skirt with some skepticism. “Why men want to hobble women in the name of fashion is beyond me.”
“It is pretty.”
“Very.” I took her arm and slowed my steps to hers. “And we have a lovely evening for a leisurely stroll. Since we are closer to my house, I suggest we head there first. I will have my sister’s coachman drive you home from there.”
As we walked, I was surprised and, I confess, dismayed to find that the woman I thought so frail and gentle had a spirit that more than matched my own.
“But surely you must agree that the public will never take us seriously unless we make them do so,” she demanded after ten minutes of debate.
I was silent a moment, considering how best to calm her impassioned and rather bloodthirsty heart while not dampening her spirit for the cause. “I can’t say I agree with you, Helena. I understand the reasoning behind Maggie Greene’s desire to advance the Union to a more militant stand, but the thought of using violence to further our cause is abhorrent to me. I don’t believe it is needed.”
“But consider the past twenty years! If, according to the pamphlet you gave me, women have been trying by constitutional means to get the vote and failing, then the time has come to make the public aware of our cause. What better way can we prove that we are serious?”
I opened my mouth to argue the point, but all that came out was a loud “Ooof!”
A sharp blow to the middle of my back sent me sprawling into a nearby lamppost. I slumped against it, dazed and stunned. Shaking my head to clear it, I attempted to stand up. On the third try I was successful, and looked around for my attacker.
“Next time ye’ll think twice afore ye go meddlin’ in matters that don’t concern ye,” a thick voice growled from the shadows of the building. A dark shape moved in the shadows, clearly retreating down a darkened alley. I rubbed my head and limped over to the street.
Helena had been dumped unceremoniously about thirty feet away, directly into a large mound of horse droppings. “Cassandra, I can’t…and it’s all over…it’s oozing on my leg!” she wailed as she tried to get up.
I helped her to her feet and surveyed the result. Her lovely pink coat now covered in muck.
“What am I going to do?” Helena held her arms out stiffly, and promptly burst into tears.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, looking for signs of injury.
She shook her head.
“Thank heavens for that. Take off your coat, let me give you my handkerchief. You are certainly a mess. Damnation! My bag has been stolen.”
She shivered in her thin gown.
“Here.” I removed my own coat and handed it to her. “Wrap this around you. You’ll have to have your coat cleaned before you can wear it again.”
She protested, but I was in no mood to argue with her. I buttoned her into my coat and picked up her soiled garment with two fingers.
“This is covered in filth. Luckily, it’s long enough to prevent most of your skirt from coming in contact with the refuse.” I set the coat down again and considered our situation. “We are less than a mile from my home, further from yours. I suppose we could go back to Mrs. Knox’s and beg for assistance.”
“No!” Helena wailed. “I could not face that, I could not!”
“Then we shan’t go there,” I said soothingly, knowing full well that she would not be able to stand up to ridicule, however politely spoken. I looked at her critically. “Oh, dear, you are a mess.”
Muck was smeared up to the ankles of her lovely boots, her hemline was soiled, and her face was tearstained and grubby. Her chin quivered ominously, and her eyes shined with tears on the verge of falling again. Clearly, I could not leave her to her own devices. I gave a mental shrug and looked around for a cab. “Do you still have your bag, Helena?”
She nodded.
“Do you have any money?”
“A little. Not much, though.” Tears began to course down her cheeks again as she peered forlornly into her bag. She handed me a few coins.
A hansom cab loitered far down the street at an intersection. Indicating it, I grabbed the spoiled coat in one hand, Helena’s arm in another, and pulled her towards it.
Her tears had stopped by the time we were settled in the cab, although she was still sniffling in an unladylike manner. I pointed this out to her, and waited until she had composed herself. “Did you see the thug who attacked us, Helena?”
“It was so quick, I didn’t see him at all.”
“Oh, dear. I didn’t see him either, I was too busy seeing stars from my collision with the lamppost. All I saw was his shadow, but I did think his voice was quite rough and common.”
“Oh, Cassandra,” she gasped, turning to me with concern. “Were you injured?”
“Just my pride,” I said grimly. “I shall ring the police from home and report the attack.”
Helena looked scared and turned pale, her cold hand gripping mine with surprising strength.
“Don’t worry, I won’t mention your name.” The grip relaxed. “The last thing I want is for your family to find out you were attacked because I wished to walk home rather than take a cab. We will drop you off first, then I will go home and telephone the authorities.”
Helena was very quiet during the ride to her brother’s house, and a quick peek at her strained, white face told me she was nervous about her reception.
“Your family is away this evening, you said?” I asked cautiously.
“Yes, they are at the Edward Smythe’s tonight.” She had found one of my best Irish linen handkerchiefs in my coat pocket, and unconsciously twisted it into a knot.
“Good. You should be able to smuggle your coat in and have your maid attend to it before they return home.” The coat currently resided on the outer seat next to the cabby. “You might tell her that you slipped and fell.”
Helena surprised me by bursting into laughter. “I certainly won’t tell her I was assaulted by a strange man as I walked home from a secret suffrage meeting, when I was supposed to be in bed with a headache.”
There is nothing more infectious than laughter at an inappropriate time, and before long the cab pulled up outside Lord Sherringham’s house in Balmour Street with the pair of us mopping our streaming eyes, trying to control our outbursts.
We were still giggling like schoolgirls when, telling
the cabby to wait, I accompanied her and her coat to the door. Hushing both of us to be quiet, she let herself in with a latchkey and waved me across the threshold.
“Let me take the coat directly to Mariah,” she said quietly.
I held the repulsive garment out to her at arm’s length. We looked at it in disbelief for a moment, then catching each other’s eyes, dissolved once more into a silly display.
“Really,” I gasped through the tears of hilarity, “it is a horrible thing to behold.”
Helena clutched her sides, not doing any better than me at retaining control. She pointed at the coat, and opened her mouth to make a further comment. Looking past me, her face suddenly froze. The transformation was so quick, the expression on her face so awful that I stopped laughing and looked over my shoulder to see what grisly sight had such a terrible effect on her.
Lady Sherringham came out of a nearby door. Swift on her heels was the stout, bald man I remembered from the scene outside of the Hospital Ball. Across the hall, another door opened and the tall figure that had taken to haunting my thoughts stepped out.
I closed my mouth, and with a swift move scooped up the coat from where it had fallen and turned to stand in front of Helena. She gripped my arm from behind, her hand shaking as she moved to my side.
“Helena, my dear sister. How is it you come to be here and not in your bed?” her sister-in-law inquired in an acid tone, looking not at Helena, but at me. “We rushed home to tend you, and now we find that you are not in bed, but instead sneaking into our home in the company of this…this woman!”
Before I could think up a reasonable explanation, the earl spoke directly to me.
“Who are you, madam, that you feel it appropriate to wrench my sister out of the safety and security of her family at this time of night? Have you no feelings of decency? What are your morals that you would secretly spirit away a young girl from those who are responsible for her welfare?”
Lady Sherringham saved me the effort of answering the question.
“Surely you recognize her, Harold,” she crowed. “This is Cassandra Whitney, Sir Henry Benson’s niece. She is the woman we saw outside of the Hospital Ball—the one who threw herself upon Griffin in that repulsive attempt to attract our notice.”
“I did no such thing,” I retorted, finding my voice at last. “It was an unfortunate accident. I had no intention of throwing myself on anyone, least of all Mr. St. John. And as for your sister, my lord, I did not wrench her from your house—she willingly attended a meeting with me. Furthermore, I find your insinuations offensive and boorish.”
I would have continued along similar lines, but a consideration of my less than blameless role in the evening’s events, not to mention Helena’s strained, pale face, caused me to bite back anything else I might say.
“Isn’t it clear, Harold?” The countess’s voice had a barbed quality that made me flinch. “She has taken our dear Helena to one of those anarchistic suffrage gatherings! I knew this would happen—I could tell at once what sort of person she was. This is what comes from allowing women of her low morals to mingle with decent people. Helena, dear, are you hurt in any way? Those women are so rough, there is no telling what they might have done to you. Come, child, let me look at you.”
Griffin stood outside of the circle of light with his arms folded across his chest, a shadow on his face leaving his expression unreadable. He watched us, saying nothing until Helena turned to him with her hands held wide in a gesture of distress. Walking forward, he put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him. He faced his brother and sister-in-law, the symbolism of his stance clear—he would support Helena against any further attack. Relieved and warmed at the example of brotherly love, I felt it an opportune time for my withdrawal. Excusing myself in a low voice, I turned to leave.
“Young woman,” a voice trumpeted across the hallway, stopping me in mid-step.
I turned slowly at the earl’s harsh voice. His face was red with fury.
“Let there be no misunderstanding whatsoever concerning my feelings in this matter. I forbid you to see Helena again. I forbid you to meet her. I forbid you to have any further contact with her. She is young and innocent, and I will not have you dragging her down to the level your type inhabits. Women such as you ought to be flogged and placed in prison with the whores, where you belong.”
I stood still, my gaze on Griffin as he comforted his sister. His head was bent close to hers as she clung to him, sobbing quietly into his chest, and in a most inexplicable burst of emotion, I wanted to be in those arms, I wanted to be the one who was comforted. Instead, I stood alone and unprotected against the earl’s attack.
“I have no qualms in consulting with the police over your behavior. It is shameless and godless, and if I had my way—”
A low growl broke in. “That’s enough, Sherry.”
“I have a great deal more to say, and I’ll thank you to stay out of this, Griffin.” Lord Sherringham’s voice cut through me like a knife. “You may not be aware, madam, but I am currently very much taken up with the foolish topic of suffrage at the House of Lords. Your offensive and reprehensible behavior is more proof of just how dangerous is the idea of giving women the vote. You may be assured I will remember your actions when discussing the issue with my fellow peers.”
“I see no reason why you should,” I said, stung into a response. “It is quite apparent from your rude and insulting comments that you have already made up your mind against women’s suffrage.”
“Of course I have,” he snapped. “It is a ridiculous subject, one no decent man would even consider.”
“Stop it!” Griffin roared.
The volume and tone of his voice were surprising in their intensity. He turned to me and said in a voice thick with fatigue, “My apologies for my brother’s rudeness, Miss Whitney. Thank you for accompanying Helena home.” He looked down at her tenderly, then up at me with a faint smile.
Silence filled the hall as I turned towards the door, the familiar numbness that I associated with the aftermath of one of my father’s rages leaving me silent as I left the house. I gave the cabby my address automatically, and rode in an unthinking state until I arrived at home.
Chapter Seven
A restless night dawned into an equally restless morning. Exhausted, I lay in bed and watched the sky lighten from indigo to a soft blue-grey as I considered the matter that consumed my thoughts.
“Let us look at it from a strictly analytical point of view,” I told Annie when she brought me my morning tea.
“If you like, miss, although I’ve often found that affairs of the heart can’t often be analyzed.”
“Hmm. Well, we shall try. You will admit that I have been unusually sheltered during my years with Father.”
“That is true, miss.”
“With no one who could even remotely be considered a suitor.”
“Very true.”
“Thus it’s perfectly reasonable that this attraction I feel for Mr. St. John is simply my mind reacting to the pleasures to be found in the company of a man who you have to admit is devastatingly handsome.”
“Mr. St. John?” Annie appeared to consider it. “I haven’t seen him, but if you say so, then he must be.”
“It is merely a brief and mild infatuation, no more,” I said as I slipped on my dressing gown.
Annie made a noise somewhat resembling a stifled laugh.
“And everyone knows that an infatuation of the brief and mild variety is best treated as if it is any other minor physical affliction—I will ignore it and it will go away on its own.”
“Is that so?” she asked, handing me my brush.
“Yes.” I was tired but resolute. I would forget about Griffin and concentrate on more important things.
Following that plan, I tended to some correspondence, then settled down with my typewriting machine, and prepared to transcribe my notes from the prior evening. I looked around the desk, but could not find my notebook. Fr
owning, I tried to remember what I had done with it. The horribly memory of the night before returned with a sick feeling in my stomach. “Oh, blast! The attack. I forgot all about it.”
Due to my emotional state after returning home from the Sherringham’s, I had neglected to report the assault to the police. Annoyed at the distraction, I dutifully placed a telephone call to the local police station and explained the situation. While waiting for a constable to stop by and take my report, I went upstairs to locate the notebook.
“Annie, have you seen my notebook? The one with the brown leather cover?”
“No, miss, I haven’t. Would it be in your bag?”
I pulled my head out from where I had been peering under the bed and sat back on my heels. “No, it’s too big for that. I thought it might have fallen out of my skirt, but I can’t find it. You didn’t take it out of my skirt pocket, by any chance?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Hmmm.” I chewed my lip again in thought. “It must be in my coat. Have you seen . . . oh, good heavens!”
The sudden, horrible thought came to me that I was no longer in possession of my coat—I had given it to Helena the night before when her own had been ruined. I raced downstairs to locate the coat I had brought home. I had a vague memory of throwing it into the corner of the hall because of its stench.
My sister’s household staff is nothing if not efficient…no coat was lying anywhere in the hall. I went through the green baize door, hoping Mullin would know of its whereabouts. “Mullin, did you find a coat I left in the hall last night?”
He looked up from polishing a particularly ugly silver fish knife. “Yes, miss, I did. It seemed to be soiled, so I sent it to Smith. I hope I have not acted expeditiously.”
“No, not at all,” I said over my shoulder as I flew down the stairs to the basement. Smith was the laundress who came in three days a week to do our laundry. Luckily today was not one of her days. With a muted groan, I lifted Helena’s pink coat from the pile of garments.
“Oh—damn!” I swore out loud as I surveyed the offensive item, checking to be sure the notebook had not magically appeared in its pockets.
Suffragette in the City Page 6