They had arrived at the steps of number six and Meredith opened the door. As Florrie followed her friend into the house, she couldn’t prevent a smile. Isobel had always been a magnificent horsewoman from an early age. In her childhood and awkward youth, it had always been plain to see that she was happier amongst the horses in the stables at Bixley Manor than entertaining in the drawing room. Until the arrival in her life of the Hon. Tim, people – apart from her beloved brother – had certainly taken second place in her affections. It seemed, Florrie thought, there were occasions when this was still the case.
The following morning, Lady Lee, Isobel and Florrie set out for Epsom. They were wearing purple gowns trimmed with green and white, and Lady Lee wore the most elaborate hat with ostrich feathers in the same colours. Florrie, of course, was wearing the brooch Gervase had given her and they each carried a banner declaring, ‘Votes for Women’.
‘Emily is going to Tattenham Corner,’ Lady Lee told them. ‘She wants us to choose another spot. If there are too many of us in one place, she thinks we might get moved on by the police. If we spread ourselves amongst the crowd, they’ll have a harder job to get to us. I suggest we separate and keep on the move; though, on second thoughts, maybe you should keep Florrie with you, Isobel.’
‘Oh, but. . .’ Florrie began, then stopped as she felt a warning squeeze from Isobel on her elbow. Charming though Lady Lee was, she did not like to be crossed and, after all, she was the leader of their small group.
‘Of course,’ Florrie murmured obediently. She’d already proved her commitment and willingness to do whatever was asked of her. There was no need to annoy Lady Lee by going against the plans already in place.
‘Come, we’ll go this way,’ Isobel said. ‘Just round the bend of the corner. We’ll be able to see Emily from there and, if we can get near the rails, we can wave our banners between the races, but not,’ Isobel whispered as they moved away from Lady Lee, ‘when the horses are passing close to us. I just don’t agree with frightening the poor creatures.’
Florrie hid her smile, but she agreed with Isobel.
They pushed their way to the front of the race-goers lining the white-painted rails.
One or two women drew their skirts away as if they would be contaminated, should they come into contact. The whisper rippled amongst those nearby. ‘It’s two of those dreadful suffragette women. Look at the colours they are wearing.’ But surprisingly, the men raised their hats, bowed politely and stepped aside to let them near the rails. Perhaps they regretted their courteous actions when Isobel and Florrie unfurled their banner, held it aloft and began to chant, ‘Votes for Women, Votes for Women.’
The races began and, each time the horses came thundering near them, the two young women lowered their banner and ceased their shouting, only to begin again when the animals and their riders had passed safely by.
‘Can you see Miss Davison?’ Florrie asked Isobel as they waited in the lull between races. ‘Or Lady Lee?’
‘I think Lady Lee’s gone the other way, but see, over there, close to the rail. That’s Emily.’ Isobel waved, but the woman didn’t appear to notice.
‘I’ve not met her yet,’ Florrie murmured, watching the tall, slight figure in the distance.
‘Maybe you’ll get the chance at the end of the meeting. She’s been to prison four or five times and once, when she went on hunger strike and they were going to force-feed her, she barricaded her cell. But they put a hose-pipe through the window and filled her cell up with water. Oh, watch out, the next race is just about to start,’ Isobel added, shading her eyes and squinting into the far distance towards the start line. ‘The King’s horse is running in this one.’ They lowered their banner and stood very still and quiet, watching the horses thundering round the curve of the track. Though they doubted that their thoughtful action really mattered, for the noise of the excited crowd around them was far louder than their own ‘Votes for Women’ chant had ever been.
The horses were coming nearer, rounding the bend at Tattenham Corner. The leaders passed by and then, suddenly, Florrie screamed and clutched Isobel’s arm as she saw Emily Davison duck beneath the rails and launch herself into the path of the last few horses. She seemed to be trying to catch hold of the bridle of one of them, and the galloping animal had no chance to swerve to miss her. It hit her full on and she was tossed into the air. Her hat flew off as her body hit the ground and bounced, rolling over and over several times before finally coming to a stop in a broken heap. The horse stumbled and fell and the jockey was thrown over its head to the ground where he, too, lay motionless. The two young women held their breath as the following horses managed to swerve around all three bodies on the ground.
‘That’s Anmer – the King’s horse – I know the jockey’s colours,’ Isobel cried. ‘She was making for it deliberately. I’m sure of it. She’s planned this, Florrie. That’s why she wanted to be alone – just in case one of us might have tried to stop her.’
‘What’s happening? I can’t see.’
‘I think the jockey’s moving. They’re trained to lie still until all the other horses have gone by,’ Isobel said, craning her neck. ‘And Anmer is on its feet. It doesn’t seem to be hurt. But Emily – oh, Florrie – Emily’s not moving . . .’
They stood for a moment, shocked and horrified. Then they dropped their banner and struggled towards the place where Emily lay. But the crowd, surging onto the track, prevented them from reaching her. Race officials and police reached the injured, but Isobel and Florrie could only watch with terrified eyes as the jockey and Emily were borne away on stretchers.
‘Do you think she’s badly injured. And the jockey? What about the jockey?’ Florrie was frantic for news. She couldn’t bear to think that hurt had been caused to any person – something that the suffragettes (even the militant ones) vowed they’d never do.
‘I couldn’t really see,’ Isobel faltered, ‘not properly.’ But the grim faces of those nearer the injured told them the worst.
A man close by rounded on Isobel and Florrie. ‘Now look what your foolishness has done. Likely maimed a good horse and injured a jockey. As for that young woman – whoever she is – well, she’s brought it upon herself. I hope you’re satisfied to have ruined a good day’s racing.’ With that he jammed his top hat on his head and pushed his way through the throng.
There were murmurs of agreement all around them as Isobel and Florrie walked away. It took every ounce of their courage to keep their heads held high and the tears from falling. Behind them a man picked up their banner and tore it to shreds.
Fourteen
‘She’s been taken to Epsom Cottage Hospital,’ Lady Lee informed them that evening when Isobel and Florrie hurried to her house for news.
‘How is she? Have you heard?’
‘She’s very seriously injured. They fear a fractured skull and serious internal injuries. They may try to operate, but they – they don’t hold out much hope.’
‘Why did she do it?’ Florrie was appalled.
Lady Lee sighed. ‘She’s tried to kill herself before. Three times, I believe. None of us condoned it, of course. But she’s a strong-willed woman who seems to think that the only way forward for the Movement is for it to have its own martyr.’
For a moment they were silent, each thinking her own thoughts as they sat in Lady Lee’s drawing room.
‘I can’t say I agree with her,’ Isobel said at last. ‘But one certainly can’t deny her courage.’
News came four days later that Emily Davison had died without regaining consciousness.
‘A huge funeral procession is being arranged. It’s what she’d have wanted and it’s the least we can do,’ Lady Lee told them.
‘Are you ready?’
Isobel and Florrie regarded each other solemnly. They were both dressed in white gowns with a black sash diagonally across their chests and they were both carrying white lilies. Florrie wore her brooch and Isobel her hat with purple, green and white ostrich
feathers. It was Saturday – the day of Emily’s funeral.
Florrie nodded, for the moment unable to speak. She was finding it hard to come to terms with Emily’s martyrdom and yet part of her was filled with admiration. That someone could be so passionate about the Cause as to give their life for it. . .
‘Come, we’re to go to Lady Lee’s and travel with her.’
A little later when the three women reached the place where the procession was to start, they gazed about them in awe. Thousands of women thronged the street; the younger women in white, the older ones – like Lady Lee – dressed in purple or black. Most carried flowers: purple irises or laurel wreaths. One or two women held banners aloft. One proclaimed Fight on and God will give the Victory, another declared Give me Liberty or give me Death.
‘I didn’t realize there’d be so many,’ Florrie gasped. ‘They must have come for miles. And look, there are men too and – oh, Iso – there are clergymen here. At least a dozen.’
‘I know and look, Florrie, look at the bandsmen lining up. There must be ten bands here, all going to march with us.’
The crowd formed up behind the coffin drawn on an open carriage by black horses and followed by four more carriages laden with hundreds of wreaths.
‘Is Tim here, Lady Lee?’ Isobel asked, trying to scan the crowd for sight of her fiance, but there were just too many people for her to be able to pick him out.
‘Oh yes – and Gervase is here somewhere, I believe.’
‘Gervase!’ Isobel and Florrie spoke together.
‘Yes, he came up early this morning, so I understand. No doubt you’ll see him later. I expect he’ll stay overnight at least.’
The cortege moved off slowly and Isobel and Florrie fell into step with all the other young women dressed in white, whilst Lady Lee joined the older women. The procession, accompanied by the bands playing funereal music, wound its way through the streets to St George’s Church and the crowd watched whilst the coffin, covered with the colours of the Movement, was carried up the steps and into the church for the service.
‘It’s no good trying to get inside, there are far too many already. We might as well wait out here.’
‘What happens next?’
‘The procession will go to King’s Cross. She’s being taken by train to the family grave in Morpeth.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Northumberland. I expect there’ll be another service there.’
‘What a sad day,’ Florrie murmured. ‘Her poor mother.’
‘It is,’ Lady Lee agreed. ‘But it’s also a triumphant one.’ She glanced around at the vast crowd. ‘Emily’s death – and the reason for it – will be remembered for generations.’
‘But will it serve any purpose?’ Isobel persisted. ‘Will it get us the vote?’
It was a question that even Lady Lee could not answer.
Gervase believed he did know.
‘She’s set the Cause back twenty years,’ he growled, standing in front of the drawing-room fire after they’d eaten their evening meal.
‘Nonsense, Gervase. People will begin to take us seriously if one of our number is prepared to give her life for her beliefs.’
‘I’m sorry, Iso, I can’t agree with you. A great many will dismiss such an act as that of an hysterical woman, and that can do your Cause no good. No good at all.’
‘Did you hear about Mrs Pankhurst on the day of the funeral?’ Florrie put in, trying to defuse the argument between brother and sister.
They both looked at her. ‘No,’ Isobel said. ‘What happened?’
‘She was determined to attend the funeral, but she was only out of prison on medical grounds and her licence had expired. She was arrested just outside her home.’
Isobel groaned. ‘Oh no!’ She was silent a moment, then she rose. ‘I’m so very tired. It’s been an exhausting day. If you’ll both excuse me.’
Their ‘goodnights’ said, Isobel left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. After a moment’s pause, Gervase sat down beside Florrie and took her hand in his.
‘You won’t do anything foolish, will you, my dearest girl?’
Florrie looked into his eyes and saw the anxiety there. ‘If you mean will I become a martyr for the Cause, no, I won’t. But I can’t promise that I won’t take part in activities that might get me arrested again.’
‘And then you’d go on hunger strike, wouldn’t you?’
‘I expect so,’ Florrie replied cheerfully. ‘But at least they’ve suspended the force-feeding for now.’ She shuddered involuntarily. ‘I have to admit – though only to you, Gervase – that took every ounce of my willpower. To my chagrin, I almost gave in several times. But next time, it won’t be so bad.’
‘You could damage your health, nonetheless – perhaps permanently.’
She smiled, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
But Gervase did worry. He was fearful for the safety of this girl he loved so very much.
Through the summer months the suffragettes continued their campaign of militant activity. The country homes of several Members of Parliament were bombed. Sylvia Pankhurst was imprisoned, but escaped. Her mother, Emmeline, visited America, was threatened with deportation, but then allowed to stay. When she returned to England in early December, she was arrested.
And all the while Lady Lee and her little band of women kept up a steady stream of ‘nuisance’ activities, as she called their demonstrations, petitions, window-breaking, and so on.
On the 19th December, Gervase arrived at the Richards’ town house.
‘Good Heavens!’ he exclaimed, teasing. ‘Are you both still here? I expected to have to scale the walls of Holloway at the very least.’
‘Whatever are you doing here, brother dear?’ Isobel greeted him with a fond kiss.
‘I’ve come to take you both home for Christmas and,’ Gervase paused and glanced meaningfully at Florrie, ‘New Year.’ He laughed as he added mischievously, ‘And I won’t take “no” for an answer.’
Florrie laughed with him, knowing that only the two of them knew the double meaning behind his words. She turned to Isobel. ‘What do you say? Shall we go?’
‘James is home and longing to see you,’ Gervase put in craftily. ‘He says he’s hardly seen you all year. He missed your birthday and you only came home for a flying visit during the summer.’
‘Well, I’m staying in London with the Hon. Tim and Lady Lee this year, brother dear. You can come here instead, if you wish.’
Gervase’s gaze was still on Florrie’s face. Softly he said, ‘But her family want to see Florrie.’
The girl gave a wry laugh. ‘My father won’t miss me. I’m sure he’d rather I stayed away. That way he can pretend I’m not disgracing the family name.’
‘But there’s Augusta and your mother and – like I say – most of all, James.’
At the thought of her little brother, Florrie capitulated. She turned to Isobel. ‘I won’t be missed here, will I?’
‘Of course you’ll be missed, my dear, by us all,’ Isobel laughed, ‘but you should go home for a couple of weeks. There’s nothing much planned for over the Christmas period – at least not by Lady Lee’s little band. No, Florrie, you go.’
So the next two days passed in a flurry of shopping for presents and packing her trunk. Gervase gallantly accompanied her around the London shops until he was hidden behind a mound of parcels.
‘If we’re coming again tomorrow,’ he gasped. ‘I shall bring Meredith. Good Heavens, Florrie, who on earth are all these for?’
‘Oh – just everybody,’ Florrie waved her hand.
‘Well, all I can say, it’s a good job your father hasn’t stopped your allowance.’
‘Oh, he has,’ Florrie replied cheerfully. Then she added impishly, ‘But Gran hasn’t.’
Gervase hooted with laughter and almost dropped the packages he was carrying. ‘Do let’s find a cab. My arms are breaking.’
�
��Just one last thing. I must get Grandmother something in the suffragette colours. A hat, I think, for her to wear to church. It’ll turn Father puce, but he won’t be able to say a word, particularly as the good Mrs Ponsonby is such a supporter.’
She set off at a swift pace through the store in search of the millinery department, Gervase following in her wake with an amused smile on his face. How he did love this girl!
Fifteen
Augusta wore the hat decorated with purple ostrich feathers and ribbons of green and white to church on Christmas morning. Beside her, Florrie wore a green coat and a huge purple hat with white flowers and green ribbons. The brooch Gervase had given her was pinned to her lapel. Augusta and Florrie sat side by side in the front pew alongside Edgar and Clara, gazing up innocently at Mr Ponsonby in the pulpit, but not daring to glance at one another for fear of collapsing into laughter.
‘Oh, you’re wicked,’ Augusta murmured as they left the church, her arm through her granddaughter’s.
‘I know. But so are you.’
‘Isn’t it absolutely delicious!’ Augusta chuckled. ‘I can’t remember when I last had so much fun. Did you hear the whole congregation whispering behind us? And I thought your father was going to burst a blood vessel.’
They paused as they heard pounding footsteps behind them and turned to see James running to catch them up.
‘I do declare you’ve grown taller since the summer.’
At fifteen, he towered over both his grandmother and his sister. He was no longer a boy, but a young man. ‘Here, give me your arm, Grandmother.’ He stepped to the other side of Augusta and crooked his arm. The two young people matched their steps to hers.
‘And you’re growing so like your dear grandfather . . .’ Augusta stopped suddenly. ‘Take me to his grave. Bowler promised to leave some flowers there today, but I’ve a mind to go and see him for myself.’
They turned off the pathway and wound their way amongst the gravestones until they came to the one bearing the name of Nathaniel Maltby. They stood for several moments before Augusta stooped and rearranged the fresh flowers in the holder. ‘It’s so nice our greenhouses produce flowers at this time of the year. We’re very lucky.’
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