“You have guessed my thoughts,” I said. “Four months ago you threw a brick through my window. I little thought that it would find a way to my heart. But it has done, and more, for you have changed me as you have touched me, made of me a person I am happier to be.”
“I will take no credit,” she said softly, “unless you acknowledge the better woman you have made of me.”
“Such mutual flattery!” We laughed then at ourselves and at each other.
Elizabeth gazed about for a moment at the view.
“It is lovely here,” she said. “And it has been lovely at Barrowteign this past month. Thank you so much for bringing me.”
“Thank you for coming,” I said. “Alas, the time has sped by and soon we will have to return to London.” For a moment we each thought of what that would mean, then I put it into words. “I have grown so used to spending each day with you. It will seem strange and hard not to once again.”
“It will seem hard for me too.”
“There is of course an alternative.” Elizabeth said nothing, nor I for a moment. Then I continued. “You could agree to marry me.”
“What are you saying, Edwin?”
“What I am saying, Elizabeth, is will you marry me?”
“Oh, I would so like to say yes.”
“Then will you?”
“What about your career?”
“It could only be enhanced by a wife as lovely as you. You have already seen how my constituents have taken to you.”
“But in London?”
“There too. The Prime Minister is no ogre and would have, I judge, no grounds to object.”
“Not even the grounds of my own politics?”
“Not even those. But I would not expect you to abandon them.”
“Then what about your family?”
“Mother adores you.”
“But surely Florence does not.”
“A commendation in itself.”
“You seem to have an answer to every objection.”
“Only because there can be no objection to something so right.”
“Then I will say yes, Edwin, with all my heart, and learn to obey my future husband.”
We smiled, knowing that obedience would never be expected in our marriage, and I drew her close and kissed her, the breeze blowing her hair onto my face.
“I love you, Elizabeth.”
“And I love you, Edwin.”
There reached its zenith, on that high boulder in Devon, my hope for what life had to offer. It had offered me ministerial rank in the counsels of my land and I had taken it, though with what benefit to those I was set to serve I could no longer clearly see. Now it had offered me Elizabeth, whose happiness I saw as a sure, attainable objective amidst all the shifting compromises of politics. We sat atop Blackingstone Rock that bright September noon, smiling with a mutual nervousness at the certainty of our love, knowing that the granite beneath our feet could be no firmer than our trust in each other.
Yet even granite can be broken. And the first cracks were even then appearing. What I did not know until long after was that Florence, fearing her own eclipse in the family and, worse still, some sullying of her name by an unfortunate marriage, had taken it upon herself to consult her father’s solicitor and to commission some discreet research into Elizabeth’s background, her suspicion having been aroused by some reticence she detected in our accounts of it. At first, no doubt, she was concerned only to satisfy herself that Elizabeth was an appropriate bride for me in her own watercolour social terms. But I can imagine the horrified glee with which, on her latest visit to Dartmouth, she received the report that Miss Latimer, orphan of Putney, was an active member of the Women’s Social & Political Union who had already come to the notice of the police and been fined for at least three breaches of the peace in the pursuit of militant suffragism.
So, when Elizabeth and I returned to Barrowteign and delighted my mother with our announcement, we were but shortly followed home by Florence, in a secret ecstasy of spite rewarded. She knew her husband as she thought she knew her prey and, in response to our tidings, brought some of her own to Robert’s ears, couched, no doubt, in terms of concern for my welfare. Robert, decent pliable man that he was, realized (as his wife reminded him) that there was nothing to be gained by challenging me on the subject, so thought to have a word with that most pragmatic of counsellors, Flowers, who, alive to his responsibilities as my agent, determined that covert action was required to save a career which he had laboured long to protect. This took the form of an approach to the mandarins of the Liberal Chief Whip’s Office, who thereupon began to move with all their dread inertia against two unwitting lovers.
Of all this, I was in ignorance. Likewise my mother and Elizabeth, who drew even closer after our announcement than before. And if Robert looked straight at times and Florence sour, I would have seen nothing in it. My mind was set on a spring wedding and the imminent resumption of Parliamentary business, strictly in that order.
In the middle of October, with the leaves falling at Barrowteign, we set off to London, my mother sending us on our way with entreaties to return at Christmas and to fix a date soon. To neither were we in the least averse. We motored back happily with the roof up against the autumn chill, talking of ourselves and the future – now conjoined – as the countryside slid serenely by. Mercy had been warned by letter and greeted us with fulsome approbation. High tea with her in Putney, Elizabeth on my arm making plans with her aunt which I was happy to indulge, made me feel glad to be back in London.
I still felt so next morning, when I reported to my office in positively buoyant mood. Despatch boxes had kept me in touch with events in my absence but I was looking forward to Meres’ customarily thorough briefing nonetheless. Before there was a chance of that, I received a message to telephone 10 Downing Street at once. The Prime Minister’s secretary told me that Mr Asquith wished to see me in his office at four o’clock that afternoon. He declined to elaborate.
There was much to busy myself with in the interim. Accordingly, I walked round to Downing Street that grey afternoon in a mood more of curiosity than foreboding. I was admitted without delay to the presence. I found Asquith slumped at his desk and knew at once from his posture that he was in a taciturn frame of mind. He asked me to sit down.
“Did you have a good break, Edwin?” he growled.
“Thank you, yes, Prime Minister.”
“And you return refreshed?”
“Indeed – ready for the fray.”
“I can guarantee some of that. I’m confident that the Budget will be passed by the Commons early next month.”
“And so to the Lords.”
“Quite. I am reliably informed that they will reject it.”
“Then they will have to bear the consequences.”
“As will we all. We will find ourselves on the horns of a constitutional dilemma.”
“Surely that can only hurt the Lords.”
“Alas no. We will almost certainly have to go to the country for a mandate to overturn the Lords’ decision.”
“If we must we must.”
I had grown by now more than a little puzzled. This issue had been debated, our reaction to the Lords rejecting the Budget rehearsed, many times before in Cabinet. Our conversation now was adding nothing, so to what purpose had I been urgently summoned? Asquith rose and began pacing the room.
“At a time such as this, Edwin, we can ill afford public embarrassment. The people must respect us as the repositories of good sense in opposition to irresponsible aristocrats.”
“Have we not established that position?”
“We had. I now find that it is imperilled by one minister’s imprudence.”
“What has happened?”
“What has happened is that the Chief Whip has told me that, during your recent stay in Devon, you became engaged to marry a notorious Suffragette.”
I was taken aback. I had to set aside for a moment enquiry into how the Chief
Whip had come by his information and face what appeared to be an unwarranted intrusion into my private life.
“Is this true, Edwin?” Asquith asked, facing me.
“Yes. I would quibble with your description of Miss Latimer as notorious, but she has certainly been active in the suffragist cause. And we are engaged to be married. But I can see no …”
“Who knows of this?”
“Our respective families and, it seems, the Chief Whip. But what …”
“Not the WSPU?”
“Certainly not. Miss Latimer and I proposed to say nothing about it for a while yet.”
“That, at least, is something.”
“Prime Minister, what is the problem?”
Asquith sat heavily back down in his chair, sighing as he did so.
“Edwin, you showed yourself from an early stage to be a calm, incisive thinker, neither a demagogue nor a sycophant. You were that invaluable asset to the man at the wheel – a young, energetic, impartial adviser, a good worker with a good brain. That is why I promoted you when I came to office. How can you therefore be so naïve as to ask where is the problem in your marrying a Suffragette?”
“I have thought it through and see no problem. My private life is just that: private. I have made no secret of my support for female suffrage in the long run but I accept that it must take its place in the queue. My fiancée appreciates that now too and has foresworn illegal acts. But neither of us wishes to force our convictions upon the other. I really do not see why two unattached young people should not marry if they wish.”
“Because neither of you is unattached. You are a member of a government many of whose supporters deplore militant suffragism and would impute to you, for marrying a Suffragette, just that degree of irresponsibility of which we are now accusing the Lords. It would do immeasurable harm to our standing with the electorate, at a time when we must have popular support to force through those social reforms which a Cabinet of which you are a member considers so vital. Miss Latimer is, by contrast, a member of an organization which seeks to promote by violent means its own sectional interest above those with greater needs and fewer resources. Your marriage is not to be countenanced in these circumstances.”
“Then I will resign.” There was nothing else I could say. No amount of argument would sway Asquith in this mood and Elizabeth deserved such a sacrifice of me. Yet I knew, in the back of my mind, that resignation was the one card that might win me this hand, for the Prime Minister could ill-afford to lose me at a time when Lloyd George, with Churchill’s willing assistance, was threatening to seize the initiative from him. I was one of the few able young lieutenants he could look to for aid. Sure enough, I saw his face fall at my words.
“Edwin,” he said, “I trust it will not come to that. Your proposed marriage is not to be countenanced at this time and in these circumstances. That is not to say that there will not be a better time and more propitious circumstances. What I am asking you – and Miss Latimer – to do is wait and keep silent for a while.”
“How long would that be?”
“Let us suppose that matters fall out as we expect, that the Lords do reject the Budget next month. There would then have to be a general election – probably early in the New Year – to give me the right to ask the King to create sufficient new peers to swamp the Lords if they will not then concede. The matter would be resolved by the spring.”
“I see.”
“Is that too long to ask you to wait? Just a few months may see us establish for ever the right of a democratically elected government to legislate without hindrance from an hereditary upper house. These are grave issues indeed. Would you see our case weakened by the impatience of youth?”
There seemed, again, no choice in how to respond.
“No, Prime Minister, I would not. And if all you need are six months to finish the job, then you can rely upon my discretion – and that of Miss Latimer – in the interim. Do I take it that we could proceed after that without objection?”
“Of course. I have no wish to stand in your way. All I ask is your support in the trying months ahead.”
“You have that without the need to ask.”
When I left Downing Street, I felt disappointed by Asquith’s excessive caution but consoled by the esteem for me evident in his reaction to the idea of my resigning. I proceeded at once to Putney and told Elizabeth what had happened.
“What the Prime Minister is saying then,” she remarked with composure, “is that he has no objection in principle to our marrying but that he expects us to keep it quiet until his problem with the House of Lords is resolved next spring.”
“Precisely.”
“And you gave him an undertaking to that effect?”
“My dear, what else could I do? We had spoken of a spring wedding anyway. Is it such a great hardship to announce nothing until then?”
Elizabeth crossed to where I stood and took my hand. “No, it is not, Edwin. It is a small price to pay for your remaining a minister and I would not wish for all the world to damage your career, which, after all, may achieve so much good.”
I was relieved. “I am glad to hear you say so. I felt presumptuous in speaking for you as well as for myself this afternoon.”
“There is no need. We must both learn to speak for each other henceforth. But do not think” – her eyes flared theatrically – “that this will let you off the hook, Mr Strafford. The day after the Lords pass the Budget, I shall expect an announcement in The Times.”
We laughed and kissed and were surprised by Mercy in search of her embroidery. I did not stay for dinner, leaving Elizabeth to impress upon her aunt the need for discretion whilst I penned a letter to my mother with the same injunction.
Next day, there was a Cabinet meeting at which Asquith informed us all of his expectations for the progress of the Budget. Lloyd George uttered threats to dismantle the Lords which confirmed my suspicion that the Prime Minister had need of me at this time. There was, naturally, no mention of our conversation the previous day.
Rather as Asquith had predicted, the Budget passed the Commons on November 4 and was rejected by the Lords on November 30. The government’s reaction was pre-ordained: we would go to the country in January and, upon re-election, force the Lords to pass both the Budget and a bill depriving them of the right to veto legislation by the threat of creating sufficient new peers to swamp their Tory majority. Asquith set about persuading the King that he should cooperate in this by being willing, if necessary, to create those peers and gave us in the Cabinet to understand that he was encountering no difficulty. There remained only the slight problem of winning the election.
I went down to Barrowteign for Christmas – Elizabeth (and Mercy) joining me a few days later in the name of discretion – and stayed on for the campaign in the constituency. This time, Elizabeth was not much seen in the area, again for discretion’s sake. She chafed at her relative confinement, but was kept amused by Mother and Mercy. Robert and Florence had gone to Dartmouth for Christmas, which was probably as well. I made no attempt to determine the provenance of the communication to the Chief Whip, though I harboured various suspicions. Still and all, the impending election kept me occupied, knowing as I did that a great deal more hung upon it than was normally the case. One help to the government in general and its Home Secretary in particular was that the suffragist organizations called a truce for the campaign, hoping for their reward in the new parliament. So far as she had been able, Elizabeth had supported this move in her branch of the WSPU and it had been implemented despite Christabel Pankhurst’s trenchant opposition.
The citizens of mid-Devon did not betray me. I was returned with another enlarged majority, taking me past the figures Sir William had been wont to attain. The election went less well for the party as a whole, however. We won rather fewer seats than in 1906, losing more than a few to Labour, who seemed to gain (as I had feared) by the frustration generally felt at our inability to bring about the reforms which we had prom
ised. Fortunately, the Conservative vote collapsed. Nevertheless, we lost our clear majority and, though much the largest party, were dependent upon the Irish members to pass legislation.
When Elizabeth and I returned to London – again separately – in the middle of January 1910, it was in a mood of cautious optimism. Despite the less than clearcut nature of our victory at the polls, I had no doubt that we could at once set about breaking the power of the Lords forever. Once that was done, I could turn with a clear conscience to the sealing of my personal happiness by marriage to Elizabeth. Never at any point in this, our trial by tiresome parting, did I doubt the ultimate triumph of our love.
I left Strafford there and went up to bed. The silence and shadow of his own drawing room seemed no place to follow his chronicle into its darker phase, the phase I knew must follow, when all his flair and promise turned to pathos and despair. At first, I’d been fascinated by the transformation and how it had come about. Now, it was beginning to appal me.
Yet some of the grimness had gone by morning. The sounds and light of another hot Madeiran day reminded me of a there and then sufficient for my purposes. There was no sense in falling under the spell of my long-dead research subject. Apart from anything else, it wasn’t professional. I went down to breakfast with a remedial jauntiness.
Alec was on the verandah, eating a grapefruit. I helped myself to some coffee, which stood ready, and sat beside him.
“Bad news, Martin,” Alec said between spoonfuls. “Today we go back to Funchal.”
“Well, I didn’t expect to stay this long anyway, but I’m nowhere near finishing the Memoir.”
“Don’t worry. Leo’s thought of that. He’s asked me to get a photocopy done. He doesn’t want to part with the original for long, so we’ll take it with us, make a copy, then I’ll return it to him.”
“Fine. When do we go?”
“Pronto, I’m afraid. I need to be back in Funchal for this afternoon’s soccer. As sports correspondent, I can’t afford to miss the island’s fortnightly big match. And that’ll mean catching the bus. There aren’t many on a Sunday. I’ll ask Tomás what time the next one passes.”
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