Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Well, you go and take a good look.’

  ‘I will – but first tell me about you. Why weren’t you good enough to marry Grandpops?’

  Augusta’s eyes glazed over for a moment. She began slowly at first, but then the past came flooding back. ‘My father worked on this estate, but he wasn’t even a tenant farmer. He was even lowlier than that. He was a good man – a God-fearing man, hard-working and as honest as the day is long – but he was a waggoner for one of the tenants. We lived in a tied cottage and at twelve years old I was sent to work in the big house.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Augusta nodded. ‘Here in Candlethorpe Hall as a scullery maid.’

  Astonished, Florrie said, ‘Like little Beth was when she first came here?’

  ‘Yes – just like Beth, though I hope we’ve always been kinder to the little lass than they were in my day. After a year or so, your great-grandmother took a liking to me and made me her personal maid. The other servants didn’t like it when a lowly scullery maid became a lady’s maid in one jump. But I was determined to go up in the world, though I never imagined . . .’ Her voice faded away for a moment as she became lost in her own memories.

  Florrie was thoughtful. It hadn’t escaped her notice that her grandmother always treated the household staff with great respect. ‘Little Beth’ as they called her was just such a case. She’d come to Candlethorpe Hall as the lowliest of all servants – a scullery maid. But she was quick and eager, and Augusta soon made sure she was promoted to second housemaid and, before long, to her own lady’s maid. Florrie smiled as she remembered the consternation her grandmother’s action had caused both above and below stairs. The first housemaid was aggrieved that she’d been passed over and Mrs Dewey, the housekeeper, who had charge over all the female staff, had been none too pleased either. But it had all settled down, most probably because it was Augusta who’d wanted Beth. Florrie had seen for herself how everyone from the lowliest kitchen maid to the superior butler adored her grandmother. They’d even been known to go against the master’s wishes if Augusta decreed differently. Edgar Maltby might think himself the head of the household, but it was his mother who still ruled. Now, it seemed, Augusta had been helping a young girl who deserved a better place in life, just as she’d once been helped.

  Florrie’s thoughts came back to her grandmother and a dreadful image entered her head. She’d heard tales of how the sons of the well-to-do took their pleasure with the servant girls. She bit her lip to stop the question escaping, but it seemed her shrewd grandmother had already guessed what was running through the young girl’s mind. ‘No,’ she said, answering the unspoken question that must have shown itself in Florrie’s expression. ‘Nathaniel didn’t seduce me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Oh, Grandmother, you know me too well.’

  ‘So I should. I’ve looked after you since you were born. Your poor mother – well, we won’t go into that just now. Let me carry on with my story, else I’ll lose my thread. That’s the trouble with being old. One gets so forgetful.’

  Florrie chuckled. Anyone with a sharper mind than Augusta Maltby she’d yet to meet.

  ‘We fell in love. It was as simple and – in the circumstances – as complicated as that. Nathaniel’s family disapproved, of course. That was to be expected, but I was surprised that my own father did too. He took me away from my position in the big house and sent me to work miles away for a crotchety old lady who used to lash out at me with her stick if I didn’t suit.’

  ‘But – but Nathaniel followed you?’

  ‘Oh yes. He found out where I’d gone from one of my brothers and he came one night and took me away with him.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Seventeen by then.’

  ‘Did you get married? I mean, right away, because you’d have been underage, wouldn’t you? Oh, Grandmother—’ Florrie laughed delightedly. ‘You eloped. Do tell me you eloped.’

  Augusta laughed. ‘Yes, we did. We went all the way to Scotland to be married.’

  ‘To Gretna Green? Oh, how romantic!’

  ‘Your father doesn’t think so.’ Mention of Edgar’s name sobered them both. ‘So – stick to your guns, child,’ Augusta said firmly. ‘You’ll never know a moment’s happiness unless you do.’

  ‘And you were happy? You and Grandpops?’

  Nathaniel Maltby had died when Florrie had been nine, but she still remembered the rotund, bewhiskered, kindly old gentleman who’d always smelt of tobacco smoke when she climbed onto his knee.

  Augusta returned her gaze steadily, but her voice trembled a little as she said, ‘More than I can ever put into words, my dear.’

  There was a knock on the bedroom door and Beth’s heart-shaped little face peered around it. ‘’Scuse me, madam, but Mrs Maltby says would Miss Florrie come down to the morning room. Mr Richards is here to see her.’

  ‘Thank you, Beth.’ As the door closed behind the maid, Augusta touched her granddaughter’s hand. ‘Off you go then, my dear, and get the dirty deed done.’

  Three

  ‘Oh, Florrie dear, there you are.’

  ‘Yes, here I am, Mother,’ Florrie said gaily, closing the door behind her and walking towards the fireplace where her mother and Gervase sat, one on either side.

  The young man had risen at her entry and was now smiling at her, looking, Florrie thought, unusually nervous. Now Clara rose and there was no mistaking her agitation, but then her mother was always anxious about something or other and was often confined to her room, quite unable to face the rigours of running the household in the way that Edgar demanded. That was left to Augusta.

  ‘I’ll – er – go to my room,’ Clara murmured, scuttling out as if desperate to escape from a scene that she feared was going to erupt into angry words and cause a tense atmosphere throughout the house that would linger for weeks, if her wayward daughter refused Gervase’s proposal.

  ‘Gervase – how lovely to see you,’ Florrie said brightly. ‘Can I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Or maybe something stronger?’ she added mischievously.

  ‘No – thank you. Florrie – I—’

  ‘My word, Gervase, you look very smart today.’

  He was wearing a dark, pinstriped three-piece suit instead of his usual country tweeds. He was tall and broad-shouldered, happiest when he was striding about the fields of his estate, but not out of place or awkward in an elegant drawing room. He was at ease in any surroundings – but not today.

  ‘Florrie – darling,’ he held out his hands. ‘Please, come and sit down.’

  She allowed him to lead her to the sofa. They sat side by side.

  ‘You know why I’m here, don’t you?’

  She looked up into his gentle blue eyes that usually twinkled with merriment but at this moment were unusually serious and intense. She felt an urge to smooth the wiry fair hair that curled so vigorously that no amount of plastering it down would make it lie flat.

  ‘Please, Gervase, don’t say it. Please don’t. I – I don’t want to hurt you. You mean the world to me as my dearest friend, but I really can’t marry you.’

  His handsome, craggy face fell into lines of disappointment. ‘Why not, Florrie? Just tell me why not?’

  The young girl sighed. This was so difficult. How much easier it would be just to give in and say ‘yes’. All her family would be pleased with her, and she’d no doubt – and it was not conceit – that her acceptance would make Gervase ‘the happiest man on earth’. She could almost hear him saying it. But what none of them could understand was that it would be a fleeting happiness. It wouldn’t last forever. And she couldn’t bear to think that they might come to hate each other. She couldn’t do that. Not to Gervase – or to herself.

  ‘I love you dearly,’ she began badly. That was quite the wrong thing to say.

  Hope sprang into his eyes. ‘Then—’

  ‘As I love James,’ she added firmly, trying to make him understand. ‘And you know how much tha
t is.’

  Her brother, younger than her by four years, was the darling of the family. Their mother doted on him, their father had high hopes for him, and even Augusta – though she’d never admit to having favourites – melted like butter at the sight of him. Florrie had never felt jealous of James; she adored him just as much as everyone else. He’d been a handsome little chap and at fourteen showed all the promise of breaking girls’ hearts throughout the county. Florrie just prayed that when his turn came he would fall in love with someone whom Father would think ‘suitable’. She believed that she could get away with disappointing him, but if James were to go against Edgar’s wishes, then . . . Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘You mean you love me as a brother and not as a husband,’ Gervase said flatly.

  ‘That’s it exactly.’

  ‘I won’t stop trying, Florrie. Every New Year’s Eve, I shall propose again.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Florrie pulled a face. ‘I shall dread every year end if you say that.’

  Gervase laughed and some of the hurt left his eyes for a moment. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to put up with it. Maybe you’ll get so fed up of saying “no”, one year you’ll say “yes”.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers one by one and, quite serious now, added, ‘Just remember, Florrie, that if ever you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Oh no, you’ll meet a lovely girl, get married and have a huge family. And I’ll be the best adopted auntie in the whole world.’

  He regarded her steadily. ‘That’s not going to happen, Florrie. You’re the only girl I’ll ever love.’

  His words and his tone were so sincere, so heartfelt, that for once Florrie could not make light of them. ‘I’m sorry, truly I am,’ she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  With tender fingers Gervase wiped them away. ‘Please don’t cry, Florrie.’ He smiled. ‘You always tell me you never cry.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said fiercely. ‘At least – not often.’

  ‘So – let’s just go on being the good friends we are, eh? But I meant what I said.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I suppose I forget how young you are. Only eighteen. You need a little fun before you settle down, don’t you? You haven’t even “come out” yet, but you see I’m so afraid if you go to London for the Season, one of those very eligible young men will snap you up. I wanted us to be engaged so that couldn’t happen. But I know it’s your mother’s dearest wish that you should be presented at court. Just as she was.’

  Now Florrie laughed aloud, her tears brushed away. ‘Well, it’s not going to happen – I promise you. If I go to London it will be for quite a different reason than doing the round of balls and parties to meet eligible bachelors.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She tapped him playfully on the nose. ‘Now that is my secret.’

  ‘Oh, you girls and your secrets. Well, I must be off. Still a lot to get ready for tonight. You’re all coming, aren’t you?’

  It had long been the tradition that the two families spent New Year’s Eve together, alternating between the two homes. One year the Maltbys would play host at Candlethorpe Hall, the next year it would be the turn of the Richards at Bixley Manor. It had been their greatgrandfathers who’d begun it. The two men had been brought together by business, their estates on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds stretching to join each other. The natural progression had been that their families became friends. They dined together often, held shooting parties, picnics, balls and bonfire nights. Together they’d seen the dawn of a new century, the passing of the old queen and her strict morality into an age of change. Over the years, the New Year’s Eve celebrations had come to include not only the household staff of both grand country houses, but also all the estate workers and their families. Most of the inhabitants of the local villages worked on one estate or the other, but even those who didn’t joined the merry parties that set off in farm carts and traps – the youths and young girls on bicycles – from Candlethorpe to Bixley or vice versa. Laughter filled the frosty air as they travelled the six miles. Old and young alike were entertained to music and dancing in one of the huge barns, where trestle tables were laid out laden with beer and enough food to feed an army. This year it was the Candlethorpe folk who were to travel to Bixley Manor.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Florrie smiled.

  ‘And tell your grandmother,’ Gervase said, ‘she can sit in the bay window overlooking the field where the bonfire’s been built.’

  Florrie hooted with laughter. ‘Gran? Sit indoors whilst we’re all outside? I think not. Mother might – but not Gran.’

  Gervase smiled fondly. ‘What a character she is. She’s a remarkable old lady.’

  ‘Old? Gran? Don’t let her hear you say that. She doesn’t think sixty-eight is old.’

  Gervase laughed. ‘Well, on her it certainly isn’t.’

  As Florrie led the way to the front door to see him out, the butler hovered in the hall. ‘It’s all right, Bowler, I’ll see Mr Richards out.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Florrie.’ He gave a small bow and turned away.

  As they crossed the hall, Florrie asked casually, ‘Is Isobel still at home?’

  ‘Oh yes. She’s not going back to London until next Monday.’

  Florrie held open the heavy front door and, as he passed by her, she reached up impulsively and kissed his cheek. ‘Dear Gervase,’ she whispered softly.

  He paused a moment, looking down into her upturned face. The face he knew so well and loved so dearly. But the look in her eyes was that of a very dear and devoted friend, not of a girl madly in love with him. He gave a little sigh as he put on his trilby. ‘Until tonight, my dear.’

  ‘Hey, Florrie!’ James was leaning over the banister at the top of the stairs looking down at her in the hallway below. ‘Have you quite broken poor old Gervase’s heart then?’

  She closed the front door and turned to look up at him. She grimaced and then grinned. ‘So you’ve heard. I expect everyone knows by now then.’

  ‘Cheek!’

  She climbed the stairs towards him. ‘You’re not renowned for keeping secrets, my dear little brother.’

  James threw back his head and laughed. ‘You can’t keep any secrets in this place. The servants have their own grapevine and the tiniest whisper goes round them all in a flash.’

  She reached the top. ‘You know I’ve refused him then?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I guessed you would.’ James chuckled as he added, ‘I’ve always wondered why he cultivates my friendship. After all, he’s so much older than me. I must seem only a boy to him. Now I know. It isn’t me at all he wants to be with, it’s you.’

  Florrie was thoughtful for a moment before saying, quite seriously, ‘I think he likes being here with all our family. He’s no brother, and his only sister is six years older than him. And she has her own circle of friends—’

  ‘Oh, the Votes for Women brigade.’

  Florrie ignored his remark. ‘His mother died when he was a baby and his father five years ago. And Isobel spends a lot of time in London.’

  ‘Rumour has it,’ James said in a loud whisper, ‘that his sister has a lover in the city.’

  ‘James! What do you know about such things!’

  He guffawed. ‘A chap can’t be at a boys’ boarding school for the last four years without learning all that sort of stuff. Want to know what else I know?’

  ‘No, thank you!’ She held up her hand, palm outwards, as if fending him off. ‘I don’t want to hear your smutty schoolboy talk, thank you very much.’

  ‘It isn’t smutty,’ he began indignantly and then grinned. ‘Well, not all of it.’

  ‘Oh – you!’ She linked her arm through his and they walked together along the landing towards the room that had once been the nursery and which they still used for their own private space. Nannies and tutors within the household were a thing of the past
. James had attended a boys’ boarding school since the age of ten and there was talk of Florrie being sent to a finishing school before being presented at court. But she had no intention of going, not since Gervase’s sister had told her all about the wonderful things the suffragettes were doing. Florrie knew exactly why Isobel Richards spent a lot of time in London. That was where all the action was to be found. And soon – very soon – Florrie hoped to be a part of it. How on earth her grandmother had guessed her plans, she couldn’t imagine. Sometimes she wondered if the old lady had second sight!

  Once they were safely in the nursery, James said, ‘So, what are you going to do, old girl?’

  Florrie looked at him sharply. Surely, he hadn’t heard too? ‘Do? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, won’t Father banish you from the old homestead and tell you you’re never to darken his door again?’

  Florrie breathed a sigh of relief and laughed. ‘James, I’ve just refused a proposal of marriage. I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘That might be as bad in his eyes.’

  ‘Oh no, nothing could be as bad as that. Not in Father’s eyes. I certainly would be cast out if that happened.’

  James flung himself down on the battered old sofa and put his feet up on the arm. Crossing his ankles and putting his hands behind his head, he said languidly, ‘Then perhaps I should tell you the facts of life, old thing.’

  Florrie picked up a cushion and began to beat him about the head with it until they fell to the floor together, laughing and rolling over and over, their arms around each other. At last they lay still, panting from the exertion of their mock fight. James’s arms tightened around her. ‘Oh, Sis, just so long as you know you’re doing the right thing. Gervase is an awfully decent chap, you know.’

  Florrie rested her head against James’s chest. She could hear the pounding of his heart and her voice was muffled as she murmured, ‘Yes, I do know. That’s just why I have to be honest with him.’

  James stroked her thick mane of glossy hair. ‘Poor old Gervase’ was all he said now. There was a long silence before he went on, ‘But we’re still going to the bonfire and fireworks tonight at Bixley Manor, aren’t we?’