Chapter Eight
We all looked at Griffin: Helena in horror, full of concern for a beloved brother, Emma with thoughtful surprise, and me with more than a little amusement.
Griffin rolled his eyes at Helena’s question. “No one is trying to kill me. That suggestion was a figment of Miss Whitney’s mind, which she herself just admitted is overheated with the inane ramblings of women’s novels.”
“I admitted nothing of the kind! I can think of several reasons that someone might wish to murder your brother. I, myself . . .but we will not go into that. Doubtless, he has made many enemies with his abrasive manners and misguided beliefs.” A low growl emitted from the vicinity of the window. I continued at a louder volume. “And certainly there must be a vast number of women travelers who would be delighted to see him in the hereafter, but I must admit that his recent accidents seem more a result of his own clumsiness than a planned assault by an unknown person.” I thought for a moment. “Or persons, perhaps even an organized group with an international membership—”
“Blast you, woman,” he roared. “I am the mildest of men! I have no enemies other than the ever-increasing hordes of women who insist on getting in my way!”
Helena bleated at him in a distressed manner, while Emma stifled her laugher. Griffin, eyes alight and nostrils flaring, glared at me in a magnificent example of a righteously enraged Englishman.
As a dedicated New Woman, I could not resist toying with him a little longer.
“Do you mean to say that women who travel abroad do so with the sole purpose of placing themselves in your way? It seems a rather conceited idea, but if it pleases you to believe that the world revolves around you...” I ignored Griffin’s enraged bellow as Mullin brought in the tea, followed by Theodore with assorted teacakes. “Tea, Helena? Emma, you must try the seed cake. Cook does it particularly well.”
“Cassandra, I must know—do you really feel that Griffin is in any danger?”
I looked up from pouring tea and sighed. It wasn’t fair to torment Helena because I wanted to tease her brother. “Unfortunately for the future of women travelers, no, I don’t feel he is in danger. I think he is just clumsy—or accident-prone.”
“Typical female attitude,” he muttered as he accepted a cup of tea and plate of cake. “I’m fine as am I. If you women weren’t so determined to meddle in a man’s affairs . . . and speaking of that, this rally tomorrow—”
Wishing to avoid another argument, and to keep his mind from the subject of the Hyde Park gathering, I interrupted him. “Emma, did you know that Mr. St. John was recently in Arabia?”
“Really?” Interest lit her dark eyes. She looked at him. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly, stuffing half of the seed cake into his mouth.
“Why don’t you tell us about the trip?” I asked, smiling. “I’m sure Emma would like to hear about it, and I would be most interested. When exactly did you return home?”
“Three weeks ago.” He glared at me with a decidedly suspicious glint in his cat-like amber eyes.
“Arabia . . . it sounds so exotic,” I mused, my mind a thousand miles away. “Minarets.”
“Camels,” Helena said, a similar faraway look in her eyes.
“Rugs and tiny little cups of coffee,” I added.
“Harems,” Emma said, her voice breathy with pleasure.
Griffin snorted. “There is a lot more to the country than rugs, camels, and harems.”
“Tell us about it,” I invited.
He gave me a long look, then, grudgingly at first, told us about his latest journey. As he spoke, animation crept over his face, passion for a topic near to his heart softening his features and giving him a vitality that took him beyond merely handsome, to breathtakingly gorgeous.
My admiration grew as he spoke; here was a man who was not content to live in a settled, safe life. Not for him, the routine, the humdrum; instead he walked a path that few Englishmen had walked before. Brave, heroic, adventurous, he faced life and death on a daily basis, and relished every minute of it.
“How I wish I could have such adventures!” I cried, envious and rapt with admiration at the same time. “Oh, Emma, don’t you wish we could do the same?”
She raised her eyebrows, nibbling on a lemon tart. “It sounds very exotic, but I believe I prefer familiar surroundings to those of a more daring nature.”
“I would love to have adventures,” Helena declared, sitting forward on the chair. “Life here is so boring!”
“Can you imagine meeting a sheikh, Helena? Eating a meal of sheep’s eyes? Riding a camel across the desert? And the men, how dashing and handsome they sound, how brave and daring.” A sudden thought occurred to me, and I asked hopefully, “Did you see the sheikh’s harem?”
“Good lord, no!” Griffin looked at me askance. “No man is allowed to see a sheikh’s harem and live to tell about it.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “Why?”
His shocked look was answer enough.
Emma coughed. I patted her on the back as I murmured, glancing at Helena, “Perhaps another time. Now, you were saying something about a nomad tribe?”
I fell silent and let him continue his narrative. Although he was a fascinating orator, and told his spine-chilling tales well, I slowly found my concentration waning.
Instead of thrilling to his adventure with a camel thief in Baghdad, I found myself gazing appreciatively at his broad shoulders. He told of a narrow escape through a bazaar while I admired the way his hair curled back from his brow, my fingers itching to touch the silky curls. When he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve to show us a tattoo received at the hands of a Zulu warrior, I noticed the way the fine, golden brown hairs grew on his arms. The ease with which he strode about captivated me, his deep, resonant voice rolled around the small room, sweeping me up in its warmth, and making me tingle in places I had never known to tingle before.
This is no soup dribbler, I told myself. He is prime lover material, a virile man who thinks nothing of staring fear in the face. And I was determined to have him.
My mind wandered pathways that involved his bare flesh under my hands, my breasts growing heavy as the overwhelming desire to be pressed up against him washed over me. Having grown up with a father whose religious beliefs were borderline fanatical, I had no experience of the carnal acts, but I could not deny that there were parts of me, personal parts, tingly parts that had developed an intense interest in learning all about them with Griffin. I recalled every Greek statue I had ever seen, and wondered how he would compare. Would his fig leaf bulge in as enticingly a manner as the statue of Apollo I had once seen?
With a start, I realized he had stopped speaking. Both Emma and Helena watched me with evident concern.
“Fig leaf,” I said, then realized my mouth had spoken without my thinking, and cleared my throat. I picked up the cold teapot. “More tea, anyone?”
Helena and Griffin took their leave not long after that. As I was seeing them out, Helena stopped suddenly in the hallway.
“I have forgotten!” She darted forward and snatched up a package. “Your coat. Griffin returned it to me this morning. I had foolishly left it in the hall.”
She smiled warmly as our eyes met. There was no sign of trepidation about her countenance—I doubt if it had occurred to her to look in the coat pockets.
“Thank you for thinking of it,” I said weakly, relief flooding me.
She gave me a shy smile and turned to leave. As she did, Griffin leaned towards me and withdrew a familiar leather notebook from his coat and spoke quietly. “In the future, I would advise you to keep such information safe, and not make it available to people who could use it to your detriment.”
“Thank you,” I said in a small voice, too horrified by the thoughts running through my head to congratulate myself on keeping the topic of tomorrow’s rally from discussion. I watched silently as they entered their motorcar, then ran back to the sanctuary of
the library.
“They seem like pleasant people,” Emma commented as I stood panting at the door. “Without the odious sister-in-law. I like Helena very much. I think she’ll be good friend for you. Her brother is—what on earth is the matter with you?”
I caught my breath and staggered into the room, collapsing on the sofa next to her. Quickly I explained about the events the previous evening. “The question is, will he tell his brother? Familial duty would require it, but would he betray Helena and me in such a manner?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said thoughtfully. “Men are such curious creatures. So unpredictable.”
“Was that why he had warned me against any further demonstrations? Was he trying to tell me the Union’s secrets were no longer safe? Can I trust him, or not?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know any of those answers. Cassandra…” Emma gave me a curious look.
“Hmm?”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Griffin? Er…Mr. St. John?”
She laughed. “I can see you do.”
I set down the notebook and did my best to look like a worldly New Woman. “I am considering him for the position of lover, yes.”
“Considering him for—” She came to an abrupt stop, her lips pressed together tightly for a few seconds. “Have you told him of this opportunity?”
“No, I thought it best to wait until I had made a final decision,” I said, idly rubbing a spot on the knee of my gown. “Men, I have found, are often inflexible when it comes to such matters. It is best if I don’t mention anything until I’ve narrowed down the candidates to just him.”
“That would seem eminently wise,” she said with a suspicious tremor in her voice. “Would you think me rude if I asked about the other candidates?”
“Well, there’s Freddy of course, although I don’t really consider him a candidate. He’s my cousin, after all, and I although I have much affection for him, it is impossible for me to consider him in the light of a lover.”
“Very insightful of you,” she agreed.
“And then there was the dribbler.”
She looked somewhat startled. “Who?”
“Soup dribbler.”
“Ah.”
“I could never have carnal relations with a man who dribbled soup. Griffin doesn’t look in the least like he’d dribble, does he?”
“Not soup, no,” she said.
I narrowed my gaze on her. She seemed to be developing some sort of a facial tic.
“Any other candidates?” she asked.
“Not really, no. There’s Theodore the footman, but I caught him once picking his ear.” I shuddered.
She made a face. “Definitely not. I would say, then, that Mr. St. John stands a fair chance of being suitable for the position.”
I beamed at her, pleased with her approval of my choice. We chatted for a few minutes about her latest events—her literary circle was having some sort of reenactment of a historical event, and she wanted to get her costume just right—but my mind was consumed with worry, and I fear she noticed.
“The interpretive dance sounds lovely, Emma, although I don’t quite understand why you need to apply oil to the dancers. Does it have some historical importance?”
“You could say that. You have something on your mind, don’t you?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been a good friend at all.”
“You’ve been the truest friend I have, but you know that. Tell me what’s bothering you. Is it the business with this notebook?”
“Yes.” Tracing idly around the notebook’s leather cover, I let my mind play with suppositions.
“All right.” She set down my sister’s orange cat Marmalade who seemed to prefer the library to any other room of the house. “Let’s take this in an orderly fashion. You believe that Mr. St. John has read the notebook, and might have told his brother about it. What if Lord Sherringham saw the information? What possible damage could he do with it? It is not as if he could use it to stop the campaign.”
Marmalade wandered over and begged a piece of seed cake from me before settling down on my lap. I stroked him absently as I thought. “I’m not so sure about that, Emma. There’s the arrest of the ten women protesting at the Hospital Ball, not to mention the three women injured in Manchester that Griffin mentioned. If the police are losing their tolerance of suffrage protests, the information from my notebook could allow them to halt the demonstrations before they began.”
“That does sound rather ominous. What are you going to do?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, that’s just the problem. I will, of course, tell Mrs. Heywood about the mishap with the notebook. She will certainly see the potential for damage, and may go so far as to censure me. As for the other matter, I can see no way to find out whether or not Griffin has revealed the information to his brother without compromising myself.”
“Have you thought of simply asking him about it?”
“I couldn’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“He’s a potential lover. The question would be tantamount to accusing him, and I could not possibly treat a lover in such a cavalier manner.”
Her facial tic returned. “As I see it, you don’t have many options open to you. I suppose you considered asking his sister for help?”
“Yes, and dismissed her for similar reasons as her brother, although without the carnal implications, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
I could have sworn I heard laughter in her voice, but when I glanced at her, her expression was somber. “It is a difficult situation, to be true, but I feel sure that whatever course you choose will be the appropriate one.”
I nodded my head glumly. Emma exclaimed at the time and dashed off for her historical reenactment costume fitting. I retired to my typewriting machine and transcribed my notes, my heart heavy and my spirits dulled.
Chapter Nine
It was with great relief a few hours later that I sat down next to my aunt in her plaid boudoir, a tribute to the late Queen Victoria’s love of the Scottish.
“I’m so glad we’re alone. I just don’t think I could cope with any more of Freddy’s proposals,” I said, accepting a cup of China tea. “I have had a very trying day, and I much need a few moments of respite.”
“Trying how, dear?” she asked.
“It’s…it’s a rather delicate situation.”
“Really?” Aunt Caroline looked at me with undisguised interest. “You’re not going to tell me to change this room again, are you? If so, you know your uncle won’t let me—his mother was a distant cousin of the late Queen.”
“No,” I replied with a wry smile. I looked around the room and tried not to wince at the abundant, and somewhat garish, collection of plaid furnishings. “Although I’m sure by now he would let you change the décor—but we’ll go into that another time. What I was referring to is of a personal nature.”
She sat back on a Black Watch plaid chaise and looked at me eagerly. “How very intriguing. It wouldn’t have anything to do with—”
“Ah, good, tea time!” Cousin Freddy popped into the room rubbing his hands.
“Hellfire and damnation!” I exclaimed.
He stopped upon seeing me and clasped his hand over his heart in a fashion that would be perfectly at home on the music hall stage. “Dearest cousin, beloved Cassandra. I knew you could not refuse me for long.” He perched himself on the arm of my Stuart plaid chair, and clutched my hand in his. “You see, Aunt—she has come to her senses at last and has decided to accept me. Happy day!”
“You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met,” I said, irritability overriding the fondness I normally felt for him. “What are you doing here? I thought rakes like yourself spent your days pursuing young ladies of fortune.”
“There’s only one lady of fortune I wish to pursue,” he said with a waggle of his brows. “I was at my club, but it’s too tedious for words so I thought I would return home. Since
Aunt and Uncle have asked me to stay here while I recover from my broken heart, I think it only polite to be available when my presence might be wanted.”
“Your broken heart,” I muttered in disbelief.
“A heart, dearest one, that only you can mend.” He leaned forward and leered at me in a suggestive manner.
I was a little taken aback by the wolfish smile, and looked at my aunt. She watched us with a smile hovering around the corners of her lips. “You really are beyond the limit, Freddy. I wish to have a private talk with Aunt Caroline, so please take yourself elsewhere.”
“Have some good gossip, eh?” He looked interested. “Perhaps I should stay.”
“If you don’t go now,” I warned, sending him a look brimming with portent, “I will tell Uncle Henry what you did your last year at Cambridge when—”
There was no need to finish. Freddy made a polite bow and wished us well.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am that blackmail always works on those of weak character,” I said as he left.
Aunt Caroline asked curiously, “What did Freddy do at Cambridge?”
“I’ll tell you another time. How are you doing with him constantly underfoot?”
“He’s not so bad, and he has nowhere else to go. Henry feels it is important to support the family, so Freddy visits us when we are in town—though I admit that sometimes he is rather trying. But tell me about your problem. Does it concern the handsome Mr. St. John?”
I looked at her in surprise. “How did you know that?”
She smiled and ignored the question. “I like him very much. And his sister, of course.”
“Sometimes I think you’re a witch. The problem does concern the St. Johns, but not in the manner you think.”
“I was not thinking of him in any particular manner, my dear,” she said gently as she poured me another cup of tea. “Were you?”
I thought about my curiosity regarding Griffin stripped naked, and blushed. “Well…possibly. He’s on my list of candidates, you see.”
“Candidates? Oh, for a lover?” She considered that idea for a moment before shaking her head. “No, I think not. He wouldn’t be suitable in the least.”
Suffragette in the City Page 8