My stomach dropped. “He wouldn’t?”
“Definitely not. He is not the lover type of man. Some men are, you know. They may appear interested in one, and quite devoted, but after a certain length of time, their interest wanes. That is the type of man you should have for a lover.”
“I see.” I felt deflated again, as if someone had let all the wind out of my balloon.
She adjusted a pillow behind her back, giving me a gentle smile as she continued. “Mr. St. John is not at all that sort of a man—he is the type who, once his affections have been engaged, will be steadfast. His interest will not wane. You would find yourself with a permanent partner, not a lover whom you will eventually grow tired of and replace.”
The thought of having Griffin as a permanent lover didn’t sound at all unappealing. Quite the opposite.
“There is that, of course,” I said slowly. “But I admit that I’ve always had an admiration for constancy in a man. You and Uncle Henry, for instance, have been most devoted to you.”
“Yes, Henry is the same sort of man as Mr. St. John,” she said complacently, smoothing out the lace at her wrists. “He is the ideal husband, but as a lover…no. He would not have done.”
I made a little face as I thought over what she said, feeling as if the rug had been pulled from beneath me. Griffin had seemed so idea for the role of lover. What if, knowing I wished to remain unmarried for many years, he refused me? Would I ever be able to suffer the mortification of that? “Thank you for your candid advice,” I finally said, my mind full of miserable speculation.
“Not at all. Before I forget, dear, Henry and I would like you to attend the opening of that new opera tomorrow night. What is the name of it—the one where everyone dresses as peasants and drinks wine and the woman dies? Henry has taken a box for the season, and we both would like for you to use it.”
Almost as amused by her description of the opera as I was touched by her thoughtfulness, I thanked her and accepted. We chatted for a few minutes more, then I took my leave. As I stepped out into the hall, I was startled to find Freddy holding my russet wool coat.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked curiously.
Freddy jumped. “I was just going to help you on with your coat,” he said with a smile.
A faint sense of unease rippled through my mind. Freddy had always been so warm, so charming, and yet for the first time, I thought I saw something other than fond affection in his eyes.
“Might I take this opportunity, dearest—”
“Thank you, Freddy, I would prefer you not.”
He sighed and placed a hand over his chest. “My poor heart will never heal at this rate.”
I smiled and patted him on his cheek. “I have every confidence that your heart will make a miraculous recovery just as soon as you meet a woman with a larger fortune than mine.”
“Cousin, you wound me!”
I laughed and allowed him to help me into the carriage, directing the coachman to Mrs. Heywood’s house in Islington. When I arrived, I was shown into a small study on the ground floor. I paced the room, worried about Mrs. Heywood’s reaction to my careless actions, biting my lip as I tried to formulate an explanation that didn’t sound too cowardly or weak.
Loud voices interrupted my pacing. I would have ignored them had one not caught my interest. The Irish brogue strongly resembled that of Maggie Greene, one of the Union officials. Although I am not one for eavesdropping, curiosity got the better of me. I opened the study door a crack and held my breath as I listened.
“. . . take it to a vote of the full membership. I’m sure the members won’t consider any such actions, Maggie. They are dangerous, unnecessary, and deliberately inflammatory. Such a plan would alienate us from the very people we are striving to reach.”
“Unnecessary, is it? Inflammatory, is it? Shame on you, Lenore Heywood, for turning your back on danger! Where our glorious cause is concerned, the end is worth any means. No action is too extreme, no sacrifice too great. We must strike now, while the House of Lords is still debating, to show them that we will not go quietly!”
Mrs. Heywood murmured a soft answer.
“I warn you, Lenore, I’ll not be pushed aside as you have the others. There are many women both in the union and outside of it who are behind me on this. We are gaining strength, and have more support than you can conceive. The time is coming when you will find your precious non-violent Union disabled and ineffective. You have one last chance to achieve success. Will you take it?”
“I have told you that we will not adopt a militant policy—”
Maggie spat out an invective as she strode to the front door, pausing to point her finger dramatically as she said, “You have been warned. If necessary, we will bring the Union to its knees to attain our goal. We could survive such a division—could you?”
She turned and stalked through the doorway before Mrs. Heywood could answer.
I returned to my chair, and prepared to interest myself in the stuffed hedgehog that resided on a table next to it, and was examining its curious snout when, a few moments later, the butler entered and informed me that Mrs. Heywood would see me. Though it was early evening, she greeted me in a lovely morning room filled with flowers and tapestries.
“You must forgive me for having you brought here, but it is my favorite room. Please be seated. What can I do for you?”
I explained the situation with the notebook as quickly as possible.
“And so the brother of Lord Sherringham returned the notebook to you?” Mrs. Heywood asked quietly when I was finished.
“Yes.” I felt sick thinking of the consequences of my carelessness.
“I see.” She contemplated the typed notes that I had given her. “You are aware of Lord Sherringham’s position in the House of Lords, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I cannot tell you how badly I feel about this terrible, terrible calamity—” I stopped myself abruptly. I was beginning to sound like Helena.
“I don’t believe it is as terrible a calamity as that,” she said with a faint smile. “You have no indication that the information was disseminated, although I believe it would be prudent to change the dates and locations of those demonstrations to be held a few weeks hence. We cannot do anything about the events in the next few days, but we will trust that there is too little time for action to be taken against us.”
“The rally tomorrow?” I asked, still miserable.
“That is public knowledge, so we have no fear for the integrity of that gathering.” Mrs. Heywood walked down the stairs with me and placed her hand on my arm as I prepared to take my leave. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling that in the large picture of life, this incident will matter little.”
She turned to go when I was finally unable to hold my tongue any longer. “Mrs. Heywood?”
“Yes, my dear?”
I glanced at the footman who was standing at attention next to the front door in preparation for my departure. I moved closer to her and dropped my voice. “I couldn’t help but overhear Maggie Greene earlier.”
She sighed, and passed a long pale hand over her brow as if fatigued.
“Is there a problem with the Union? I am concerned that Maggie is trying to divide the membership. Is there anything I can do to help stop such a tragedy?”
She smiled wearily at me and patted my hand. “Thank you, I appreciate your concern. There is nothing you can do now, although there may be a time when you are called upon to stand behind the Union. As for Maggie…well, we won’t discuss her now. She is so very emotional, and is often overly excited about imagined slights. Good night, Miss Whitney, and thank you for bringing the situation with your notebook to my attention.”
I could not ignore that gentle but pointed hint, and so departed for home. When we arrived at my sister’s house, Jackson silently handed me down and prepared to leave.
“I’d like a word with you for a moment, Jackson—gracious!”
I turned to look at the man who
swayed into me as he walked past. He smelled of strong spirits and I would have thought nothing more about it except I saw a glint of gold when he begged my pardon. He moved off down the street in rather a serpentine fashion, pausing now and again as if lost in thought.
“Yes, miss?” Jackson reminded me he was still waiting.
I dragged my attention back to Jackson. A wiry man of about thirty-five, Jackson had shifty gray eyes, and hair that was so blond it was almost white. A short upper lip, combined with the inability to look me in the eye, gave me suspicions as to his moral character.
“It’s about Annie. . . .” I paused, still disturbed by the encounter with the drunkard. “Have you ever seen that man before?”
“No, miss. You mentioned Annie?”
“Hmm. Yes. Annie. Oh, I understand you have been walking out with her.”
Jackson dipped his head, and mumbled that he had once or twice, but had not seen her lately.
I ignored his excuse and took a deep breath. “I realize that, as I am not your employer, it is not my place to question you about so personal a matter, but Annie is my maid, and I value her a great deal. I would not like to see her hurt in any manner.”
He looked in the vicinity of my left shoulder, and said, “No, miss. Nor would I want to see Annie hurt.”
“What, if you don’t mind my asking, are your intentions towards her?”
He shifted his focus to a spot some inches from the top of my head. “Intentions, miss?”
“Yes, intentions,” I said firmly. “Do you plan to marry?”
Evidently I startled him with my directness, for his gaze dropped to my right hip. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to—I’m not the marrying type, miss.”
“I see. Thank you, Jackson, you have told me what I want to know.”
I went into the house, more concerned than ever about Annie.
The next morning dawned with a clear sky, and as the sun rose, so did my spirits despite my concern over Griffin. A wire announcing my sister’s imminent return came, requiring a discussion with the household staff, but that was soon taken care of. I avoided thinking about Mabel’s reaction to my New Womanhood, and more specifically my support of women’s rights, by borrowing my aunt’s horse Marianne for a solitary ride in Rotten Row.
The Row was busy that Saturday, with couples and families out riding in the unusual spell of warm spring weather. I saw one or two acquaintances as I rode, but kept my conversations short.
A sudden, bellowed, “Good morning, Miss Whitney,” from immediately behind startled me into a precarious lurch, forcing me to jerk back on the reins to retain my seat. Marianne stopped abruptly, directly in the path of the horse behind, which responded to the sudden obstacle by giving her a sharp nip on the rump. She bucked in protest at the assault, and I slid out of the saddle and onto the ground with a solid thump.
I looked up from where I was sprawled in the dirt and commented, “I should have known it was you. What other man would find it necessary to knock me to the ground to greet me?”
Griffin, for it was he who rode the horse behind me, roared with laughter, slapping at his leg in a most common manner. He wiped his eyes, then leaped down and helped me to my feet.
“On the contrary, my dear Miss Cassandra, experience has shown that you are just as likely as I am to be the catalyst for such a greeting.”
I ignored the jibe. Brushing myself off, I went to retrieve my horse. I checked the bite; it was minor and did not require attention.
“Help me up,” was my only comment as I tried unsuccessfully to remount.
“Certainly,” he replied cheerfully. “Always glad to be of service. Put your foot here.” He made a step with his hands. Placing one hand on his strong shoulder and the other on the saddle, I stepped onto his hands. He heaved me up and almost over the other side of the horse.
Clutching the sidesaddle and arranging my skirt as best I could, I gathered the reins and reached for the offered riding crop. My hand closed on his, and I looked down on him for a moment.
“Are you riding alone?” I asked, flooded with the by-now-familiar conflicting emotions and various tingling body parts that seemed to accompany his presence.
“I am.” He jumped into his saddle from a standing position (something I have always wanted to learn, but have never been able to convince anyone to teach me), and walked his horse over to me. “May I join you?”
“It would certainly be better to have you where I can keep an eye out for you, in case your horse decides to take another bite out of Marianne.” I tapped at the mare with the whip, and we set off at a brisk trot.
Griffin eyed my tenuous riding posture with some concern. “Are you sure you’re not going to fall off again?”
“I never would have fallen off if you hadn’t startled me, and your horse brutally attacked mine.”
He grinned at me and my heart melted into a puddle. “Winston wouldn’t attack a lady unless provoked. He’s as gentle as a baby.”
“Oh really?” I questioned, noting the firm hand he used to control the gray stallion. “Then I am sure you wouldn’t have any qualms about letting me try him.”
“No.”
“But if he’s so gentle—”
“No!”
“He is lovely.” I reached over to pat the stallion’s neck. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to part with him?”
“I’d sooner cut off my left…er…no, I am not selling him.”
“I notice your hand is better,” I said conversationally.
“Yes.”
“It is curious, your having so many accidents since your return home. You don’t think—”
“No!” he snapped.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He seemed to be somewhat moody now, yet he made no move to part company. Deciding any further comments about his accidents would be poorly received, I broached a subject about which I was curious.
“Tell me about Rosewood.”
He looked startled by my request. “Rosewood? Why do you want to know about Rosewood?”
“It burned down, did it not?”
“Yes,” he said warily.
“Why?”
He gave me a considering look, then sent Winston into an easy canter. Marianne followed suit without my urging.
“Well?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“It’s part of my theory of why someone would want to do away with you.”
He frowned in response to my smile. “You’ve been reading too many novels. There’s nothing suspicious about my run of bad luck lately, and for the fire at Rosewood, it was caused by a faulty gas pipe.”
“Ah. So there is not a tribe in Africa that has condemned you to death for the sacrilegious act you committed upon the chief’s eldest daughter?”
“Not his eldest daughter.” He grinned suddenly, sending my heart soaring. “No, no angry African tribe. You’ll have to look closer to home for your murderous theories.”
“So, you admit it is more than one person,” I teased him gently.
“What about you?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly. His grin had evaporated, the familiar frown having returned.
“Me? I am not the one who is having suspicious accidents.”
“That’s not what Helena says.” He pulled the horse up, his voice suddenly grim. “Evidently you ran into trouble the night you both went to that blasted meeting.”
“Oh that,” I waved a hand, thinking for some reason of the man with the gold tooth. “He was a simple thief who saw an opportunity and took it. He was obviously intimidated by there being two of us, or else he would have asked for our jewelry as well.”
“Even you can hardly dismiss such an attack. Why were you walking home?”
“I like walking,” I said airily. “I find it beneficial to the constitution. You are making too much out of a little incident—nothing happened other than the loss of a bag and a few shillings.”
“Both of you could have be
en hurt.”
“But we weren’t.”
We glared at each other until a passing rider distracted us.
“You haven’t finished telling me about Rosewood,” I pointed out as our horses walked on.
“I wasn’t aware that I had begun telling you about it.”
I stopped Marianne. He rode on a few paces, staring ahead until he noticed we were not at his side. He turned back when I spoke. “Tell me, Mr. St. John, is it women in general, or is there something specific about my person that forces you into rude and belligerent behavior?”
He glowered at me for a minute, then a slow smile spread across his face. All those tingly parts of me began to cheer as he walked Winston over to me. “What do you want to know about Rosewood?”
Caught once again in the snare of his amber eyes, I felt a blush creeping up over my neck and face as he looked at me steadily. I stifled the sudden clamoring of my mind as it urged me to throw myself into his arm, and tried to remember what we had been discussing. “Why did it burn down?”
“I told you—it burned because of a gas pipe.”
“Gas pipes seldom burst suddenly into flames and burn down houses. There must have been a reason for it to do so.”
He looked away for a moment. Tension was written into every muscle, so much so that his fingers were positively white with strain, and his voice, when he spoke, was flat and devoid of emotion. “One of the gas jets was left open in my mother’s room.”
I gasped, horrified at the thought of a woman trapped in a fire.
“My mother has been dead since I was fifteen,” he said quickly. “The room was unoccupied.”
I knew by the pain in his eyes that there was more to the situation than a simple fire, and touched his hand, wanting to ease the pain. “I’m sorry. It must have been horrible for your family to lose your home in such a manner.”
He looked down at my hand for a moment, then met my eyes. I flushed with his nearness, with the sudden flare of heat in his eyes as he leaned toward me. I was suddenly aware that we were alone on a shaded bend of the Row, just the two of us, a man and a woman, and he was about to kiss me.
Suffragette in the City Page 9