Summerset Abbey: A Bloom in Winter

by Brown, T. J.

  “Why don’t your servants do the laundry?” she’d asked after her first trip down to the cellar.

  “I don’t have any servants,” Prudence had confessed. “I made that up.”

  Susie’s brown eyes widened. “Why on earth did you tell me you did if you didn’t?”

  Prudence shrugged helplessly because she wasn’t sure about that herself. “I don’t know. Maybe because I knew you would tell Vic and Ro what I wrote to you . . . and I wanted them to think I traded Summerset for some grand life in London . . . not for this.” She swept a hand around her flat.

  Susie’s mouth turned down and she gave a disapproving sniff. “I’d say you were a bit spoiled if you don’t think this is a fine life. You have beautiful clothes to wear, a lovely flat, and a good, smart man who loves you. You don’t have to conjure up servants.”

  Prudence shook her head and smiled over at Susie, still pounding horseradish with ferocity. In many ways, Susie, who had spent only a few years in school before going out to work, was more knowledgeable than Prudence despite her years of education.

  “Now you drop the fish in the hot water, take them off the heat, cover them, and let them soak for ten minutes,” Muriel instructed.

  Prudence did what she was told. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now the fish plump back up. Remember that bloaters still have their innards, which make them extra tasty.”

  Prudence pressed her lips together to keep from whimpering. Tasty?

  A few hours later, after the bloaters had been prepared in several different ways, Prudence had to admit they weren’t as bad as she thought they would be. She had a large jar of paste flavored with horseradish and cayenne pepper to take home for dinner and she was even feeling confident she could duplicate the Suffolk rusks, a sort of twice-baked scone Muriel had taught her to make. Andrew would be delighted.

  Her favorite part of the lessons came after they had cleaned the mess in the kitchen and sat down for a cuppa before Prudence went home. It helped break up her lonely afternoons. Today she had the added bonus of Susie, who got along with Muriel, no doubt because they were cut from the same tough cloth. Prudence smiled as Muriel tried to persuade Susie to move to the city.

  “But there are so many opportunities for girls such as yourself,” Muriel said. “You don’t have to waste your talents in the country anymore. The world is changing. You could work in a factory or take classes and get a job in an office, like my Katie did. Young women have many more choices these days. And when we get the vote . . . ”

  Susie scoffed. “As if that will ever happen!”

  “Oh, it will, mark my words! One of the women renting a room from us is working for just such a thing.”

  “So is Victoria,” Prudence said.

  Muriel nodded. “I know. She works with Lottie.”

  So that was how Victoria found her job. “What’s Lottie like?” Prudence asked, curious. She wanted to know about the life Victoria had made that no longer included her.

  Muriel made a face. “I guess she’s nice enough. I don’t want to be uncharitable, but she’s a bit too serious for my taste. Very committed to the cause, though. Of course, women with no prospects of a husband often are.”

  Susie laughed.

  “Victoria seems very committed,” Prudence said.

  “That’s different. Victoria is a saint. Lottie is just lonely.”

  Prudence thought about that later on her afternoon walk. Susie had begged off, wanting to write some letters, so Prudence had gone on her own. This time she had taken the Tube to her old neighborhood, a place she hadn’t been to since she had picked up her furniture.

  Prudence strolled along, swinging her reticule and umbrella, though she hadn’t needed the umbrella in a week, as unseasonably warm weather had brought March in like the proverbial lamb. Walking the streets of her former neighborhood left her with a lonely, bittersweet feeling. No matter how things had turned out, she had been happy here. Everywhere she looked, memories played out behind her eyes. She spotted the small park where she, Rowena, and Victoria had taken their riding lessons. Three bright, mischievous girls dressed in severe riding habits, following the riding master on three fat, roly-poly ponies. Oftentimes it was just she and Rowena, if Victoria wasn’t feeling well, and Prudence almost laughed out loud, remembering the time she and Rowena had taken off cantering when their master had dismounted to remove a rock from his horse’s hoof. They hadn’t gotten far, of course, they had nowhere to go, but the freedom had felt wonderful.

  But as always, the depth of her antipathy toward Rowena colored her memory and she turned away from the park and hurried on. She stood for a moment in front of the Mayfair house, emotion constricting her throat. She wondered what her life would be like if Sir Philip hadn’t died. She never would have met her husband.

  Noting the menacing clouds gathering in the sky, she hurried down the street, hoping to make it to the Tube before the rain let loose. Prudence knew that Susie would have hot tea waiting for her when she got home and supper would be on the stove. Bringing Susie for a visit had been a stroke of genius on Victoria’s part. Prudence loved Susie’s company and would still be drowning in housework without her cheerful help, though with each passing day it felt as if her camaraderie with Susie was alienating Andrew more and more. She resolved to make it up to him. He’d been so very good to her.

  The trees, which had just recently sprouted tender young leaves, whipped around in a frenzy, and a newspaper, having been freed from its confines, scattered and blew in the wind like dozens of kites. One hit Prudence in the face and wrapped itself around her head like an octopus. She grabbed at it, laughing, and tried to pull it off as another one curled around her ankles.

  “I do believe you’ve been attacked by the news,” a voice said.

  Prudence froze, knowing the voice instantly. He plucked the newspaper from her eyes and halted the moment he recognized her. They stared, transfixed. Immobilized. It was like the first time they had spotted each other at Sir Philip’s funeral and when they met again at Summerset. A complete annihilation of everything around them, as if nothing had existed before the moment they met and nothing would exist again after. She hadn’t felt anything like it since the night she had fled from Summerset, alone and beaten by the knowledge of who she really was. Sebastian didn’t know—and if she had her way, he would never know—just how stupid it had been to think even for a moment that they might have had a future together. They didn’t then, and they most certainly didn’t now. She was married. He was engaged to Rowena.

  So why couldn’t she will herself to break his gaze, to look away? Why did she want more than anything for him to take her into his arms?

  “Thank you,” she finally managed, casting her gaze downward.

  He still held the offending newspaper in his hand. “Why did you leave so quickly? I thought we had an . . . understanding?” He blurted out the words as if they had been on his mind for months.

  They probably had.

  For a panicked moment, she wanted to deny she knew what he was talking about, but she felt enough shame at the way she had left without a word to him that she knew she owed him an explanation, or at least a response. If she could.

  Droplets of rain started coming down and still they stood. Finally she said, “You know of the argument, correct? Of what Rowena did?”

  “She didn’t mean to—” he started, and she held up her hand. “Don’t defend her to me. I’m trying to answer you . . . ”

  He subsided.

  “After the argument, I was taken upstairs to talk to Lady Summerset.” She bit her lip as he waited. The rain came down harder, but neither of them wanted to move, afraid to break the fragile spell that bound them together. She fought with herself. His eyes were as dark as coal, and filled with more pain than she ever could have imagined. The sure knowledge that she was the cause of his pain lacerated her. She’d never meant to hurt him.

  “I learned some things that made a—friendship—bet
ween us impossible.”

  He let go of the paper then, but the rain had taken away its ability to fly and it sank to the ground. He moved closer and she put her hands between them. He reached up and took hold of her elbows. She could feel the warmth of his fingers through the light wool of her coat.

  “What things? What things did you find out, Prudence? Didn’t you know I would have helped you? Stood by you?”

  She shook her head, tears forming behind her eyes and spilling over. They were undetectable since the rain was already covering her face.

  “If you want to know how impossible it was, ask your fiancée!” She spit the words out from the depth of her pain and his head snapped back as if he’d been slapped.

  “Maybe I’ll do that, Mrs. Wilkes.”

  They stared at each other, and Prudence felt the chasm widening between them, and though she knew it was for the best, it still cut deeply, painfully, into the part of her that had been holding on to hope that maybe there would come a time when they could still be together.

  And then he kissed her. His lips smashed against hers, hurting her at first, and she knew he meant to hurt, needed to hurt. Then he made a noise deep in his throat and everything changed, his lips changed, became gentle, kissing away the pain, and though she didn’t want them to, her whole body and heart responded to him. She kissed him back in a way that she had never kissed anyone back.

  Not even Andrew.

  Gasping, she pulled away. They stared at each other, and his eyes were filled with things unsaid, things that could never be said, and Prudence turned and ran. She heard him call her name, but she couldn’t turn back.

  * * *

  Victoria ran diagonally across Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery. It had taken her a little longer to reach the Gallery than she had anticipated and she saw Mary Richardson pacing at the top of the steps. The skies over the square were gray and ominous, as if they threatened a downpour at any moment.

  She’d learned from Martha that Mary Richardson had been jailed several times in her zeal for women’s suffrage and Victoria swelled with pride at the idea that this dedicated person wanted to meet with her.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Victoria said. “I didn’t get your message and—”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine, you’re here now. I knew I could count on you. We only met that one time and all I could think of was that you were a young woman a person could count on.”

  Mary’s pale skin was even paler than Victoria had remembered and her dark eyes seemed to look right through her. She seemed agitated, though Victoria couldn’t think why. She wore a long, dark coat and held one of her arms so stiffly to her side that Victoria wondered whether she’d hurt it somehow. “What did you need to tell me?” Victoria asked.

  “Not yet, let’s go inside. You’ll understand better then.”

  Because it was a free day, the Gallery was filled with people, and for a few minutes Mary and Victoria followed the crowd. Then they left the crowd and walked into a room filled with Dutch paintings.

  Victoria tilted her head and regarded a small one by God-fried Schalcken titled A Man Offering Gold and Coins to a Girl. “I’ve never been much of a fan of the Dutch school of painting. The colors are so very depressing.”

  “Do you know what’s depressing?” Mary said, continuing her walk around the room. She didn’t seem to be looking at any of the paintings in front of her and Victoria wondered why she had chosen to meet at a museum if she didn’t want to look at pictures.

  “It’s depressing that money is more valued than human rights. The government is filled with such hypocrisy. If men could figure out a way to profit from suffrage, women would have had the vote long ago.”

  Victoria nodded. “I agree. I—”

  “You have heard of Emmeline Pankhurst, haven’t you?” Mary went on as if Victoria hadn’t spoken. “And her daughters? She is the head of the WSPU and such a sincere person. Absolutely tireless in her work for women.”

  Victoria nodded as Mary continued her aimless, unseeing walk through the Dutch Masters.

  “She was taken last night from a train platform after a meeting in Glasgow. They treated a woman of such character as they would a common criminal.”

  Mary bristled like a dog, and it was on the tip of Victoria’s tongue to ask whether she was all right, but clearly the woman was not all right. She wished Martha were there, or even Prudence, who had the ability to calm crying children, lovelorn girls, and even mad dogs. Surely she would know what to do with Mary Richardson, who seemed to grow more and more agitated as the minutes passed.

  “They’ve taken Mrs. Pankhurst from us; now it’s time to take something of value from them.”

  “What?”

  Mary shook her head. “Never mind, never mind. Here, come with me.” Mary took her arm and they left the Dutch room and went through several other displays until they came to the Spanish room.

  “Stand here. Pretend to be studying the Madonna. On my signal, create a diversion.”

  “What?” Victoria asked, confused, but Mary had already walked away from her side. Ice formed in the center of Victoria’s stomach and she stood exactly as she had been instructed. What was Mary going to do? Part of Victoria wanted to run, but her limbs seemed frozen. She studied the Madonna as though her life depended on it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mary take a sketch pad out of her reticule and begin sketching as she sauntered around the room. Not far from where Victoria stood, two guards sat, watching everyone who came into the room. At the door was another museum attendant, helping people find their way. Mary appeared to notice none of these things as she walked.

  Victoria felt very conspicuous just standing in front of the painting, but fear kept her rooted. She frowned and squinted her eyes at the Madonna, as if studying the brushstrokes. Surely someone would notice that she wasn’t moving? But no, this was what people did at museums.

  Sweat beaded on Victoria’s forehead and her muscles cramped from tension. It occurred to her that she could just walk away. No one would connect her with whatever Mary was about to do, with whatever act of protest she had planned. Mary’s words ran through her mind, that Victoria seemed the kind of woman she could count on. Victoria’s legs began to tremble and she felt her chest grow tight. Oh, no. Please, no.

  Just then Mary gave her a nod and walked resolutely toward a canvas. Victoria watched and it seemed as if Mary were walking in slow motion. At the same time, she pulled an ax out of the sleeve she had held so protectively against her side.

  It was when she saw the ax that Victoria screamed. The detectives and the attendant turned toward her and the moment they did, the sound of shattering glass filled the air. The detectives looked up to the skylight in the center of the room, puzzled.

  Still Victoria screamed. Behind the detective she saw Mary striking blows with the ax against a painting of the Venus.

  The detectives and two attendants turned then and went after Mary. One of them slipped, while the other successfully grabbed her ax. It was then that Victoria turned to run. The attendant who had slipped tried to redeem himself by grabbing onto Victoria, but she eluded his grasp and made her way to the stairs. She could hear Mary screaming in the background. She nearly threw herself down the stairs and finally the front doors of the museum came into view. Her only hope was to get outside. Maybe she could blend in with the crowd.

  But she couldn’t breathe. She slowed, her legs shaking as she felt her lungs closing off.

  She heard people yelling behind her and felt herself being grabbed from behind.

  “That’s her! They came in together!”

  Victoria opened her mouth to tell them she hadn’t meant for it to happen, that she had only screamed because she saw that Mary had an ax, but she couldn’t speak. Black spots floated in front of her eyes and everything went black.

  * * *

  It was dim when Victoria opened her eyes. She lay on a bed of white sheets and blankets. The room was so small she could probabl
y lie down and touch three of the walls at once. The scent of bleach and camphor couldn’t overcome the smell of human urine.

  She was definitely not at home. The door opened and she shut her eyes like a child afraid to look under the bed.

  “She still hasn’t come to yet,” said a woman.

  “She’s very lucky. She might have died. I’ve never seen someone struggle so hard to breathe,” a man’s voice said. “There’s nothing more we can do except alert the wardress when she has recovered.”

  Wardress?

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  The door shut again and Victoria heard the unmistakable sound of a lock being shut. Her eyes flew open. She struggled to sit up before realizing that her arm was handcuffed to the top of the iron bed frame. She stared at the cuff for a moment before a scream rent her body.

  The door opened. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” a woman with a starched cambric nurse’s cap cried, hovering over Victoria. Victoria could see a man in a dirty white coat behind her.

  “Shut her up. She may trigger another breathing attack,” the doctor said.

  The nurse slapped Victoria. Victoria stopped screaming and looked at the woman in horror. “You hit me.”

  “I did and if you scream again, I might do it again.”

  Defiance and fear took over and Victoria began screaming again. It was the doctor who moved in and hit her twice more as Victoria kicked her legs and screamed at the top of her lungs. The doctor made like he was going to hit her again, but the nurse who had disappeared after slapping Victoria the first time came back, holding a bottle and a rag.

  “Hold her down!” she commanded.

  Another young man crowded into the room and between him and the doctor they managed to hold Victoria still. The nurse put the rag over her nose and mouth and for the second time in a day everything went black.