Vanquished

by Hope Tarr

  In the midst of the melee, a high-pitched voice piped up, "It's 'er, the randy Maid o' Mayfair."

  Laughter greeted that remark. "Use your peepers, Jack. She's no maid as that photogruff shows."

  Holding her head high and her shoulders back, Callie motioned for silence. Clearing her throat, she began . . .

  Coming to Half Moon Street, Hadrian all but jumped off the carriage step while the hansom was still moving. Calling down from the box, the driver said, "I'm that sorry, sir, but this is as near as I can take you. There looks to be some goings-on up ahead."

  Heart in his throat, Hadrian paid the fare and jumped down to the street blocked by pedestrian traffic. Judging from the dull roar, it seemed that half of London congregated outside of Callie's front gate.

  Determined, Hadrian elbowed his way through the crowd. It took considerable doing, but eventually he pushed his way toward the wrought-iron gate. Being tall afforded him the advantage of seeing over most of the crowd to the house's Palladian facade. A thick-waisted woman selling fresh-cut flowers blocked the gated entrance. When she wouldn't budge in response to his request, he pushed a five-pound note in her meaty fist and all but moved her aside bodily.

  Circumventing her cart, he squeezed inside the gate door to join the dozen odd persons parading about the patch of frosted lawn. The gate had just fallen closed behind him when a hush fell and heads turned. He turned, too, in time to see the front door open and a tall woman with dark hair and large eyes step out onto the front steps. Callie!

  Hadrian froze in mid-step. The crescents carved beneath her swollen eyes spoke to her suffering, yet the dignity and self-possession that struck him the first time he set eyes on her was still there in abundance. But there was something different about her, too, something more than there used to be, a new ease that he noticed at once though she'd yet to speak so much as a single word.

  "Dear friends," she began as though the reporters and the newsboys and even the hawkers selling newspapers and sundry savories at her expense were all friends and neighbors she'd invited over for a chat. "Before we begin, I would like to thank you in advance for this opportunity to be heard in my own way and my own voice. I know the day is cold and the morning hour grows late, so I promise you I will be brief."

  From outside the gate, a cheeky male voice cried out, "Let's have a look at those lovely titties, love. We'll stand out 'ere all day for that."

  Other than a slight flushing of her face, she ignored the heckler and continued, "I would like to say I deeply regret any embarrassment my recent behavior has brought upon the supporters of women's suffrage throughout the country, the London Society for Women's Suffrage specifically, and my most esteemed colleague and mentor, Mrs. Fawcett. I trust that our distinguished representatives in Parliament will continue to weigh the suffrage bill on its own merits and give it all due and fair consideration when it is brought before them later this day."

  Inside his bruised chest, Hadrian's heart was swelling to bursting with pride and love. No, he would never be halfway to good enough for Callie nor could he expect her to forgive him let alone to take him back, but neither circumstance would stop him from loving her for the rest of his life.

  "On the personal front, however, I can admit to having few--if any--regrets. I may not have loved wisely, but I have loved well. Yes, I have bestowed my body outside of marriage, but not without first having given the whole of my heart. And while I hold to my conviction that every British subject should be born with the right to vote regardless of sex, I have learned that the most precious things in life aren't the rights wrested from governments or granted by princes, but the inalienable gifts bestowed by the Creator. The free will to love where and whom our hearts direct us is the greatest gift, the greatest freedom, that any man or woman might wish for."

  Callie, my splendid, brave girl, I love you. I've loved you all along.

  And because he loved her, with all his body, mind, and heart, he couldn't let her stand up there alone for so much as a moment more. He had to get to her. Amidst the pop and flash of cameras and the scraping of pencil stubs across notepads, he pushed a path through the dispersing crowd, stiff leg dragging.

  From the entrance, Callie's half-moon brows shot upward and her beautiful eyes widened. "Hadrian, dear Lord, what happened to you?"

  Taking hold of the rail, he climbed up to join her. "I'll explain later but first things first." He reached the top and turned to face out onto the yard, shouting to be heard above the hubbub. "Hold, hold, I say. I am the photographer who took this picture. If you want the full story, you'll stay and hear me out."

  From the crowd, someone demanded, "Who the devil is that?"

  Turning back en masse, the spectators reassembled. Keenly aware of Callie's gaze on his face, he announced, "Foremost, you need to know that it was Mr. Josiah Dandridge, MP for Horsham, who caused that photograph to be commissioned--yes, commissioned. In fact, Dandridge blackmailed me into discrediting Miss Rivers whom, you also should know, is the most moral woman I've ever had the honor of knowing--or loving."

  He slanted a gaze at Callie but her expression, riveted on his face, was unreadable.

  That admission won the crowd's attention as well as hers. The raised voices dimmed to a collective whisper. Satisfied his voice would carry, he continued, "When I declined to carry out Dandridge's scheme by turning over the photograph, he had my studio ransacked and Miss Rivers's photograph stolen. I confronted Dandridge last night and demanded he return the photograph. The coward informed me he'd already turned it over to the press, and then called in his henchman to beat and then drown me."

  Beside him, Callie's gasp found its way to his ear. He thought she said his name but couldn't be sure if it wasn't his own wishful thinking.

  "If the battered face you see before you won't stand as evidence enough of Dandridge's duplicity, I have proof-- indisputable proof--that Dandridge is the very last person to be passing judgment on another's morality."

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the gift from Sally, the one photograph for which that Dandridge's lackeys hadn't thought to look. The faded but still discernible tintype was of a much younger Dandridge, his raised fist a blur of motion as it connected with the face of the cowering prostitute, Hadrian's mother.

  Holding it up to catch the eye of the crowd, he said, "This tintype photograph was taken more than fifteen years ago by me and salvaged from my very own smashed camera by one Sally Potts, proprietress of a pleasure emporium in Bow." He paused to pat his chest where an inner coat pocket contained Sally's brief note. "Moreover, I have Mrs. Potts's admission, penned in her hand, that she has been fronting for Dandridge for years."

  A collective gasp greeted that announcement. It was common knowledge that it was illegal in England for a man to own a brothel. Dandridge could very well face a prison term for pandering if he wasn't convicted already for commissioning murder. Regardless, his political career was finished. In seeking to ruin Callie, to vanquish her, he had seen that fate visited upon himself.

  Slanting a gaze at Callie's pale profile, he resolved that brave though she was, she would not have to stand alone, not ever again. "Finally, I come before you not to pass judgment but to own the whole truth, to put the lies to rest once and for all, including my own. Dandridge, despicable though he is, is not the only person here guilty of deception. Though those of you who know me do so by the name of Hadrian St. Claire, my true name is Harry Stone, and that prostitute in the photograph is Annie Stone, my mother."

  There, it was done and ruined though he was, what a relief it was to own his true self, to let go of the last of the lies. He'd scarcely caught his breath when a deluge of reporters and curiosity seekers pressed in on him. Next to him, Callie slipped her hand into his.

  Angling her face to his ear, she whispered, "I think we've both stood out in the cold long enough, don't you?" Before he could answer, she turned away and opened the front door, pulling him in after her.

  Once inside, the
y broke hands. The maid moved to bolt the door, and then turned about. Standing by the stairs, Callie's aunt regarded him, face fatigued but otherwise unreadable. Pinned by three airs of female eyes, Hadrian felt perspiration prick his palms. He turned to Callie, almost afraid to hope. Back braced against the door, she stared at him, tears tracking her cheeks.

  He took a halting step toward her. "God, Callie, 'sorry' isn't much of an apology under the circumstances, but I am that and more. Sorrier than I've ever been in all my life."

  She released the door handle and pushed away from the door. "Is that all you've to say to me? That you're sorry?"

  He hesitated, and then shook his head. Recalling Sally's advice, he found the courage to forge ahead. "No, no it isn't. You're within your rights to turn me out here and now. God knows, I wouldn't blame you if you did only you need to know . . . Callie, I love you."

  "You love me?"

  "With all my heart." He would have said more but before he could, she closed the short distance between them and launched herself into his arms.

  "I love you, too, Hadrian," she whispered, brushing her mouth over his bruised lips, the sweetest of silencers. Pulling back, she sent him a watery smile. "I think I've loved you from that very first day when you barreled into me in the park."

  Almost afraid to believe, he said, "But can you ever forgive me, sweetheart? Even though Dandridge stole that photograph from my studio, had I never put myself in the position of working against you, he would not have . . ."

  She framed his face between her hands, her cool palms and gentle fingers balm to the bruises. "Oh Hadrian, don't you see? In facing down the press and revealing your connection to Dandridge, in owning up to your true self, you've done for me what no other man ever has. You've sacrificed your wellbeing, your happiness for mine, and if that isn't a measure of true love, I can't imagine what is."

  Whether he called himself Hadrian St. Claire or Harry Stone, either way he was the most fortunate man in the world. In spite of the myriad mistakes he'd made, this amazing woman loved him. Cupping her cheek in his cut palm, he could only look at her in wonder. "Oh, Callie, I can't come close to ever deserving you but if you think you can truly forgive me, truly trust me again, I'll gladly spend the rest of my life finding ways to make you happy."

  "You've already made me happy, happier than I ever thought I could be." Her arms slipped to his neck. "And Hadrian, you've taught me so very much."

  Seeing she was serious, he shook his head.

  "No really. Before I met you, I couldn't see beyond winning the vote for women. While universal suffrage will always be near and dear to my heart, I see now that the problems we face as a society, as a country, are so much broader than female emancipation. The issue, the cause if you will, isn't just a matter of women's rights but human rights, the dignity of all British subjects whether they be rich or poor, child or adult. Man--or woman."

  "Oh, Callie."

  "And I'd very much like to do something to advance that, only I can't do it alone. I'll need a partner for my new pursuit."

  "A partner?"

  Smile wobbly, she nodded. "An able photographer to help me publish a volume of photographic portraits of the East Enders as they really are--not just their poverty, but also their joys and aspirations, their wonderfully brave spirit in the face of adversity."

  From across the years, Gladstone's gravelly voice came back to him, as clear as it had been on that snowy night fifteen years before. Might you be that able young man?

  Face beaming, Callie said, "Oh Hadrian, I want so much to show it all, but I'll need a partner, a helpmate to bring it about. I need you."

  Heedless of his injuries, he swept her up into his arms and pressed fervent kisses over her dear, tear-streaked face. "Oh, Callie, my brave, beautiful, Callie, not nearly as much as I need you but for whatever it's worth, whatever I'm worth, you have me body and mind and soul."

  Smiling through her tears, Callie cautioned, "In that case, there is one small condition of employment you must first agree to satisfy."

  "Anything, my darling, you've only to name it."

  For the first time since he'd seen her on the front steps, her confidence seemed to fold. Gaze searching his face, she hesitated, biting at her bottom lip. "You must let me make an honest man of you."

  For a handful of seconds, Hadrian could only stare, heart so full that speech seemed not only impossible but needless. The most he'd hoped for was to someday earn Callie's forgiveness. Never had he expected to win the treasure of her trust, the bounty of her heart. The woman he'd set out to vanquish had turned the tables and vanquished him--with her honesty and integrity, her understanding and forgiveness, and most of all, her boundless, unconditional love.

  Drawing her against him, he bent his face to hers and brushed his swollen mouth over her soft lips. Forehead resting against her brow, he said, "My darling, dearest Callie, are you proposing marriage to me?"

  She answered with a slow nod. "Why yes, Hadrian, I do believe I am."

  From the vicinity of the stairs, Lottie and the maid exchanged smiling glances. One of them whispered "shackles of matrimony" and chuckled, but Hadrian couldn't have said who it was, for his ears, like his eyes, were all for the lovely woman wrapped up in his arms.

  Smiling at her through his bruises, he said, "In that case, my love, I'll gladly promise you that and more--a passionate partnership wherein we shall be lovers, best friends, and soul mates every day for the rest of our lives."

  EPILOGUE

  "I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me."

  --ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

  Parliament Square, London

  January 1918

  The victory was decades overdue and tempered by political compromise and yet it was a victory all the same. After nearly thirty more years of hunger strikes, property destruction, and staged protests on the part of suffragists around the country (including the now-infamous Black Friday riot in Parliament Square), the government had finally granted the vote to women, rate-holders aged thirty years and older. Turning her face up to catch the rare warmth of winter sunshine, Callie couldn't help but smile. Lobbying to place women's voting rights on the same universal basis as men's would be the future frontier to be forged, but with the so-called Great War still raging, even the most militant feminists agreed the fight would have to be postponed. Now that the United States had cast its lot with Britain and the Allies in declaring war on Germany the previous April, hopes were high that the war soon come to a victorious close. With two sons fighting in the trenches to hold the boundary line known as the Western Front, Callie heartily prayed it would prove so.

  Ironically, it was women's wartime service on the home front more so than the sensational tactics employed by militants like the Pankhursts that had overwhelmingly turned the tide of public opinion in favor of female enfranchisement. The example of British women of all ages and stations pitching in to undertake jobs in munitions factories, hospitals, and municipal offices had proven far more effective in marshaling support than had seventy years of protests and petitions.

  From across the square, the sound of a beloved male voice brought her back to the present. "Callie, love, do smile."

  She looked over to find Hadrian shaking his head at her, the very latest in roll-film cameras, which he'd ordered from the Eastman Kodak Company in New York, aimed in her direction. Given her husband's proclivity for taking pictures of her and their family whenever and wherever he would, thank goodness there were no longer any striking cords, chemical kits, or glass plates to haul about. And the new technology made photographic books such as Hadrian's and her expose of the poverty endemic to London's East End far more economical to produce than in the old days, when photographs had needed to be tipped in. A famous success, the book had just gone into its third printing, one of several such projects they'd undertaken together over the years.
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br />   Even after all this time, however, the sight of Hadrian cutting across the frost-parched grass at a brisk clip to reach her still had the power to set her heart aflutter. Coming to stand beside her, he said, "Has anyone told you lately you make a dreadfully uncooperative subject?" Before she could answer, he bent and brushed his mouth over hers. Grinning from ear to ear, he stepped back. "Now give us a smile, love. It's your day, after all."

  Laying a gloved hand alongside the lean face that time's chisel had rendered only more handsome and dear, Callie had no difficulty in finding her smile. "I was smiling. I am smiling, but then I have so very much to smile about. Only it's our day, darling. This day, and every one hereafter."

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  A degree of artistic license is part and parcel of most commercial historical fiction and Vanquished is no exception. The Bryant and May Strike took place in 1888, two years prior to Vanquished, and involved some 672 women and girls rather than the ragtag group of strikers I depict in these pages. Departing from the somewhat ambiguous scenario set forth in Vanquished, the actual strike had a quasi-happy ending. As is so often the case, the pen proved mightier than the sword--or even the striker's placard. An editorial entitled "White Slavery in London" by reformer Annie Besant in the weekly The Link detailed the B&M Factory's abysmal working conditions: the long hours, poor wages, system of fines, abuse by foremen, and generally boring, tedious, and dangerous nature of the work. The company threatened to sue the paper for libel and attempted to strong-arm the strikers into signing a statement denying the claims, but the women held firm. As a result, their leader received the sack. Public support, that most fickle of political gambits, came down squarely on the side of the workers. Within two weeks, the employers were forced to grant some concessions. The women (and ultimately the whole factory) walked out, supported this time by the trade-union movement. On July 18, the company conceded to all the women's demands, and on July 27 the women established the Union of Women Matchmakers. It was, if imperfect, the dawn of a new day.