Wayward Winds

by Michael Phillips

  “I would want to know what you wanted of me in return. I would not expect you to contribute for the sake of family ties, nor out of concern for the advancement of society,” Amanda replied with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  Gifford smiled. He had not underestimated his cousin’s daughter in the least. It seemed he and Amanda understood one another perfectly. He rather liked this young firebrand. She might make a very suitable daughter-in-law at that.

  “It is a small thing, really,” he said at length. “You know of the Lawn Tea coming up next month at Kensington Gardens?”

  Amanda nodded.

  The two continued to talk for another few minutes.

  “Of course, you understand Geoffrey must not know that there are finances involved in our little arrangement.”

  “He will suspect something.”

  “You leave that to me. If you want the donation, you must say nothing.”

  ————

  Amanda had agreed. Now here she was paying a price she wasn’t sure was worth what Mrs. Pankhurst was to be given in exchange. But the day would soon be over, and Geoffrey would once again be out of her sight. And she had had her opportunity to mingle with high society.

  “Good afternoon, Rutherford,” said a voice nearby.

  Geoffrey turned toward it.

  “Oh, it’s you, Halifax. I didn’t know they let the press in.”

  “No less than bankers,” rejoined the newcomer with a smile. “I’m here because my dear mum secured me an invitation,” he added.

  “She doesn’t approve of your profession, I take it?” asked Geoffrey politely. It was with difficulty that he tried to act interested.

  “A bit too plebeian for her—all the riffraff associated with newspapers, you know. Ah, wouldn’t dear old Mum be proud of me if I were a banker like you!”

  “Sarcastic flattery will get you nowhere, Halifax.”

  “I don’t need to flatter you, Rutherford. I’ll never need money from your bank.—But aren’t you going to introduce me to this lovely young lady on your arm?” he added, turning toward Amanda.

  As he spoke, he tipped his hat and gave just the slightest bow, while locking his eyes onto Amanda’s. She answered his penetrating gaze with a smile of her own, her first of the day.

  The young reporter had learned from a tender age that things were not always what they appeared. This applied to relationships as well as events. He thus lost no opportunity to gain new acquaintances, no matter what prohibitions toward intimacy appearances might indicate. The fact that a lady was on the arm of another nowise deterred him from approach. One never knew what might come of it. Such assertiveness had made of him not yet a good journalist, but nevertheless one whose name was gradually coming to be known throughout London. He possessed a certain knack for discovery that lent itself well to his chosen profession, of which his wealthy dowager mother approved more than she was willing to let on.

  She had financed his Cambridge education, biding her time and keeping her own plans quiet for the present. These had, in fact, been well under way for years, which he suspected not in the least. So much the better if he could make the cause his own without knowing of her hand in some of the very associations he kept from her. His university affiliations could not have gone in directions more perfectly suited to her ends. He had fallen into circles full of liberal thinkers, several Marxists among them—the sort of company Amanda’s father had kept two decades earlier—and involved himself with two or three failed student publications. He left Cambridge after two years and was now working for the Daily Mail. Thus far he had been able to keep his leftist leanings from his editors. Both mother and son had secrets from one another, yet the same forces drove each toward common goals.

  The young lady who had caught the eye of young Halifax from across the lawn a few minutes earlier was certainly one he could not ignore for the rest of the afternoon. She was slightly above average in height, five feet six or thereabouts, with lovely brown hair, curled nicely and bouncing at the shoulder. She seemed altogether mismatched with the young banker whose acquaintance he had made two or three times. She was good-looking, though not so beautiful that her features would in themselves have drawn him. She was carefully dressed and knew how to comport herself. But she carried herself with a purpose and determination that he could detect even from a distance. It was her energetic and confident bearing that kept his eyes returning in her direction as the day progressed. He could tell she was a strong young woman—in what ways he would have to discover later. For that fact alone he must know her.

  On her part, in the few seconds she had to gather a first impression, Amanda judged Geoffrey’s acquaintance to be something over six feet, and probably twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. His lean frame fit his height, though he filled out the expensive tailored grey suit well enough to keep from looking ill fed. He possessed an ample supply of very black hair, parted down the middle, thick and dry rather than pasted down onto his scalp, as was the custom with so many young men—Geoffrey for one. He was handsome enough, though not what she would call dashing. He appeared comfortable with what she gathered had been an aristocratic upbringing. In his expression she detected a hint of what she could only call the unknown, which added to the intrigue about him, especially alongside her cousin. In this setting she would never have guessed him for a newspaperman. His eyes did rove about, it was true, which might have been a sign of a mentality awake to people and events around him—necessary for any seeker of news, especially one who sought to commit ideas to print. But he was not searching for news as much as for pretty faces, a character weakness which his previous words to Geoffrey indicated well enough.

  “This is my cousin,” replied Geoffrey to the question just posed. “—Amanda Rutherford. Amanda—may I present Ramsay Halifax.”

  “Charmed, Miss Rutherford,” said Halifax, still holding her eyes. “Are you of the Rutherfords of Devon?”

  “The same,” replied Amanda.

  “Heathersleigh, I believe the old family estate is called, is it not?”

  “You are remarkably well informed, Mr. Halifax.”

  “And the present lord of the manor would be . . . ?” he began in questioning tone.

  “Would be my father,” said Amanda, completing the sentence.

  “Ah, now it begins to become clear. The two scions of the Rutherford family coming together in harmony for the Kensington Tea!”

  Neither Amanda nor Geoffrey offered comment.

  “But if my memory serves me . . .” Halifax continued, then paused, glancing over Amanda’s face again with index finger pressed to his lips, “—I have the feeling I have seen you someplace before.”

  “Surely, Halifax,” chided Geoffrey, beginning to tire of the newsman’s presence, “you can be more original than that!”

  “No—I mean it. I’m sure I know your face. Did I see you in the Times about something or other?”

  “You may have,” answered Amanda. “There were reporters and photographers at one of our rallies two weeks ago.”

  “Rallies?”

  “She’s a suffragette, Halifax,” put in Geoffrey. “Come on, Amanda,” he added, attempting to move away.

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Halifax, ignoring him. “You were next to the Pankhurst girls. There was a picture on page three. So—you’re part of the radical new women’s movement!”

  “You disapprove?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Your tone implied it.”

  “Don’t assume too much, Miss Rutherford. Journalists have to walk both sides of many fences, and I’m better at it than most of my colleagues. Besides, you suffragettes have been relatively quiet since last November’s Black Friday and the Downing Street ruckus.”

  “It is said that the government plans to pass the Conciliation Bill later this spring or early in the summer. We can be patient.”

  “Is it true that Mr. Churchill actually had one of his wife’s close friends run off like a com
mon tramp during the Downing Street affair?”

  “That’s the report,” answered Amanda.

  “What about your father?” said Halifax in a slightly more journalistic tone. “It was a shock to the whole country when he resigned from the Commons.”

  Amanda did her best not to display her own emotions at the memory. She did not comment.

  “Although I must say he is managing to keep himself in the news, what with an occasional speech at university about modern inventions. And he’s become one of the country’s leading experts on the practical uses of electricity, from what I hear. What do you think about your father’s new approach to social involvement, or should I say non-involvement?”

  “I prefer not to think about it at all,” replied Amanda.

  “A noncommittal answer,” laughed Halifax. “Just what I should have expected from the daughter of a former M.P.”

  “Please do not read diplomacy into my words, Mr. Halifax. I really am completely uninterested in my father’s affairs.”

  Geoffrey, who had been growing more and more uneasy relegated to the role of listener, finally broke up the conversation.

  “Nice to see you again, Halifax,” he said. “Come with me, Amanda.”

  10

  A Surprise at Hastings

  Amanda sat down on the side of her bed, removed her shoes, and lay back with a deep sigh. The day had certainly ended more hopefully than it had begun.

  During the drive home in Geoffrey’s expensive new motorcar, she had wished she was riding with Ramsay Halifax instead.

  Anyone but Cousin Geoffrey!

  Yet she supposed she owed him at least a minor debt of gratitude for taking her to the Gardens in the first place. She had wondered after two or three years if she was ever going to meet anyone in London besides the Pankhursts! And now, thanks in part to Geoffrey and Cousin Gifford, she had made the acquaintance of the mysterious journalist from the Daily Mail.

  “Amanda dear,” said Mrs. Pankhurst the following afternoon at dinner, “you remember the meeting this Wednesday down in Hastings. You will be with us, I hope?”

  “Yes, of course,” answered Amanda.

  “We shall take the train down in the morning. The event is scheduled for two o’clock.”

  “Is it indoors or outdoors? What shall I wear?”

  “Your finest!” chimed in Sylvia. “I am. For once no one will be throwing things at us!”

  “Or yelling obscenities,” added Christabel.

  “Indoors, to answer your question,” said Emmeline. “The southern England committees have all joined to rent a large facility in Hastings. We will be speaking to every woman in the cause for miles. They will come from everywhere between Cornwall and Dover. And not a man among them!”

  “That’s a relief,” said Sylvia.

  “But how will it help?” asked Amanda.

  “To rally the troops, Amanda. Imagine five or six hundred women, on fire for women’s rights, taking the message to every city and town across southern England!”

  When it occurred four days later, the Hastings Women’s Suffrage Rally turned out to be everything Emmeline Pankhurst had hoped for. The hall was packed with enthusiastic supporters, and, except for a few hecklers outside, once the round of speeches and music and hoopla and organizational meetings began, the day went off without a hitch.

  Only one of the prophecies concerning the day proved inaccurate, that voiced by Emmeline herself. Just moments before she was scheduled to begin the opening address to the crowd of ladies, her daughter Sylvia came hurrying backstage to speak with her. The noisy hubbub of the hall filling with women finding their seats could be heard through the heavy curtain.

  “Mother, there is a man out there!”

  “I don’t think one man will cause us too many difficulties,” smiled Emmeline. “Dear Mr. Pethick-Lawrence could use some company. If only more men shared his vision for our cause. We need more male supporters. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Sylvia. “But he is sitting in the middle of the front row!”

  “Well, if he interrupts,” laughed Mrs. Pankhurst, “I shall call upon every woman in the place to throw him out!”

  The unknown intruder, however, uttered not a peep throughout the proceedings. When the daughter of former M.P. Charles Rutherford was introduced, Amanda walked to the podium. Instantly, she saw the man whose presence had so unnerved Sylvia.

  His eyes bore straight into hers. A slight smile spread over his face. With difficulty she flustered her way through her speech in support for the cause of women’s rights.

  As soon as the gathering broke up, which was to be followed shortly by a meeting of all the committee chairwomen, the uninvited guest sought her out. Amanda sensed his approach but did her best to pretend she did not see him.

  Such a presence, however, was impossible to ignore. The small group of women nearby quieted. Slowly Amanda turned. His eyes again stared straight into hers.

  “Mr., er . . . Mr. Halifax,” she said, attempting without success to act surprised, “whatever are you doing in a hall full of ladies?”

  Some of the women tittered. The newsman took it in stride.

  “My paper ran a piece yesterday announcing your little shindig,” he answered with a good-natured grin. “I thought I ought to come down and report on the affair firsthand.”

  “And what will you report?” asked Amanda. She drew in a steadying breath which she hoped would be invisible. Among so many women, she must not let it show that she was nervous around a man.

  “I must say I am impressed at the turnout,” replied Halifax, gesturing about the hall.

  “What about the content of what you heard?”

  “I must decline committing myself,” he smiled.

  “And we all know what that means,” rejoined Amanda with significant yet playful tone. “It is a rare man who has the courage to approve of what we are doing,” she added. Her voice contained more fun than jab. It was impossible not to be charmed by the man’s smile.

  “I told you when we first met, Miss Rutherford, that I was adept at walking many sides of many fences.”

  “Did you say that?” she laughed.

  “I think I said something like it,” Halifax rejoined. “So don’t be too quick to judge my opinions. I think you will find me more open-minded than most men, even most progressives.”

  Seeing that she was apparently acquainted with the stranger, the three Pankhursts now joined Amanda. Mrs. Pankhurst did little to hide her curiosity.

  “Emmeline,” said Amanda as her mentor approached, “I would like you to meet Mr. Ramsay Halifax—our lone male listener today. Mr. Halifax—Emmeline Pankhurst.”

  “I am honored to meet you, Mrs. Pankhurst,” said the journalist, extending his hand. “I have followed your career for some time with interest.”

  “Mr. Halifax is a reporter for the Daily Mail,” added Amanda.

  “Now your presence makes sense,” said Pankhurst, shaking his hand and allowing a smile of heightened interest onto her face. Publicity was the stock-in-trade of the movement she was spearheading. “These are my two daughters—Christabel and Sylvia.”

  “Charmed,” said Halifax, shaking each of their hands in turn.

  “You are doing a story on our cause?” said Pankhurst.

  “Actually, no,” replied Halifax. “I am here chiefly because of my acquaintance with Miss Rutherford.”

  A moment’s hesitation followed.

  “Ah, I see . . . well, we are happy to have you here in any case,” said Mrs. Pankhurst. “There are many men, you know, who support our cause. So you are welcome anytime. I hope your paper will see fit to give the event the attention it deserves.”

  “I will speak to my editor about running a feature piece.”

  “This is the largest such gathering yet.—But now you must excuse me. I see they are waiting for me across the hall. I am pleased to have met you, Mr. Halifax.”

  “Likewise, Mrs. Pankhurst,” he replie
d, with a respectful nod of the head.

  Both Pankhurst daughters smiled, then turned and followed their mother. Amanda and the journalist were left alone for the first time.

  “How did you come down from the city?” he asked.

  “By train,” Amanda answered.

  “Do you have more duties here?”

  “If you mean more speeches,” laughed Amanda, “no—I am through for the day.”

  “What would you say, then, to accepting an invitation to ride back to London with me?”

  “I don’t know—do you mean on the train?”

  “Of course not,” he laughed. “Anyone can ride the train. I mean by motorcar. It’s a lovely day—we’ll have a drive up the coast to Dover, then back up into town.—What do you say?”

  Amanda did not have to think for long.

  “I say that I will accept your invitation, Mr. Halifax!”

  11

  Larger World

  A warm sun shone down on the two people walking as they made their way across the grassy coastal plateau of Capel-le-Ferne a mile east of Folkestone.

  The drive in Ramsay Halifax’s bright new Rolls-Royce convertible touring car across Romney Marsh, and then along the shoreline of the Strait of Dover, made the suffragette rally in Hastings seem another world away.

  The wind blew Amanda’s hair in a thousand directions as she and Ramsay Halifax laughed and talked and sped along in the greatest invention, according to Ramsay, of the modern age. He had driven up the steep hillside from Folkestone, pulled off the road and parked, jumped out and run around to open the door for Amanda.

  “Come with me,” he said. “—I want to show you one of my favorite places!”

  After the windy ride, as they walked slowly away from the car, suddenly all became quiet and still. The grass underfoot was springy, soft, and thick. From this vantage point the sea was not yet visible, though the unmistakable aroma of salt spray in the air gave evidence that it was nearby, accented by the faint cries of gulls in the distance.

  Halifax paused, reaching out his hand to Amanda’s arm.

  “Stop right here,” he said. “Now look around you—”