In 1905, led by student unrest and striking workers, revolution against tsarist rule broke out in Russia. The unsuccessful attempt was repressed. But the foundations of Europe’s political underpinnings had been shaken more violently than even its leaders recognized, and the house of its peace was about to crumble.
The handwriting of this collapse was written on the wall, of course. The European equivalent of mene, mene, tekel, parsin was a message to be discerned by the few Daniels extant in the land. It was not to the Medes and Persians that twentieth-century Europe would fall captive, however, but to the rising empires of the Germans and Russians.
For the women of the United Kingdom the changes ushered in by the twentieth century concerned a more foundational issue than technology or politics, psychoanalysis or revolution. On their minds was the fundamental question of what role women would play in the social fabric of this rapidly shifting new society. Did the new socialism of freedom and equality extend to all . . . or only to the male of the species?
Let men drive their machines, invent whatever they pleased, spin out their theories of personhood, origins, and revolution. Let men soar like birds . . . let them fly to the moon if they wanted! Most women cared less about such things than about taking their rightful place as human beings of worth and merit and equal voice. They wanted to be accorded the right to exert power and make decisions free from the dominance of male authority.
In order to exercise that power and ply those rights . . . women had to have the vote.
In the first decade of the new century, therefore, while invention, progress, and social upheaval occupied man’s dreams, suffrage was the focus of woman’s.
Besides what she read in the newspapers, Amanda Rutherford had not followed this cause of her kind with great passion. The topic arose occasionally in the most general of terms within family discussions. But she did not know the names of those at the forefront of the fight. She had heard of Richard Pankhurst, the radical Manchester barrister and political reformer who pioneered the woman’s suffrage movement two decades earlier. She was also vaguely aware that Pankhurst’s widow, Emmeline, had taken up leadership of the cause upon her husband’s death, forming only two years earlier the Women’s Social and Political Union as a women’s arm of the Independent Labour party.
But Amanda was soon to learn more about this movement and its proponents. And her life would never be the same.
82
Fateful Encounter
It was February of 1907. Amanda Rutherford would turn seventeen the next month.
No plans had been made for an elaborate celebration on her birthday. Mention had been made of an extended visit to London in the spring so that Amanda could experience a portion of the social season. Neither father nor mother was eager for such a trip. But they were afraid that, without some concession in Amanda’s direction, a greater revolt than they had yet seen would ultimately result. The proposed trip was a calculated risk, about which they were understandably apprehensive.
Anticipation of a London excursion had temporarily melted the ice between Jocelyn Rutherford and her eldest daughter, for at last Amanda saw some hope of expanding the horizons of a country life she viewed as dull, uneventful, and offering no future whatsoever to one such as herself. Ever since talk of London began, Amanda had grown considerably more cheerful and cooperative.
Buoyed by Amanda’s improved attitude, Jocelyn found herself proposing a shopping trip to Bristol. An appointment required Charles’ presence in that city. Jocelyn decided to accompany him and take the two girls along. The trip would give mother and daughters a chance to have fun together in the city and also begin the process of acquiring proper attire for the London season. If all went well, they would each come home with a couple of new dresses and hats, and perhaps a new pair of boots. Amanda brightened noticeably at the prospect.
Nineteen-year-old George, however, elected to remain at Heathersleigh with the servants while the others traveled to Bristol. Two years ago, George had left for university, but had neither enjoyed nor felt ready for the experience and had quickly returned home. Now he was making plans to reenter Cambridge the following year and continue with his engineering studies, honing his practical skills in the meantime by working on various projects with his father. Far preferring a few days of quiet tinkering to an excursion to the city, he waved goodbye to them at the door and, whistling, returned to his work while father, mother, and daughters made their way to the train station and northward to Bristol.
As soon as they arrived in the city, Charles left in a cab to attend to his business, while the women of the family sought the central shopping district. Three hours later mother and daughters were walking along Bristol’s streets, packages from their shopping adventure in hand, chatting and laughing together as they rarely had in recent years, when they heard voices ahead.
Jocelyn immediately suspected their source. She attempted to lead the girls onto an adjoining street and away from the gathering crowd. But Amanda had already heard enough to cause her ears to perk up.
“. . . is why we must make our voices heard,” a young woman was crying out in a voice that could be heard.
“—men’s talk of equality must become more than mere words,” the voice continued. “Are women forever to be treated as second-class citizens, with no right or say in their own destiny?”
Entranced with what met her ears, Amanda took several steps in the direction of the voices.
“I say no!” the speaker went on. “The American colonies declared their independence from our own King George III over this very principle—that they had no voice of representation in Parliament. It has been more than one hundred years since then, and yet still the women of England and Great Britain—”
“Come, Amanda . . . Catharine,” said Jocelyn, “we must be on our way. We are to meet your father in thirty minutes.”
“I want to hear more of this, Mother,” insisted Amanda. Already she was halfway across the street, walking toward the thin crowd of listening ladies that had gathered in an open area. Reluctantly Jocelyn and Catharine followed.
“—still suffer from the same grievous lack of equality! The time has come for us likewise to insist that our voices be heeded, that we be granted the vote. If we are ignored indefinitely, we too shall declare ourselves in revolt against a system which grants so-called equality to some, but withholds it from—”
By the time Jocelyn and Catharine reached the scene, Amanda was already engaged in earnest conversation with a young woman not much older than herself. Nothing her mother said could tear Amanda away.
“Mother,” said Amanda after a few minutes, “this is Sylvia Pankhurst.” Her eyes were bright with sudden new enthusiasm. “She and her sister are in charge of this rally, which is about giving women the vote.”
Jocelyn shook the hand of a lady who looked to be twenty-six or twenty-seven, then introduced Catharine.
“That is her sister Christabel speaking,” added Amanda, pointing to the young woman whose strong voice still rang out from the center of the crowd.
“I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Rutherford,” said the younger of Emmeline Pankhurst’s two daughters. “Are you one with our cause?”
“I must confess,” replied Jocelyn, “that I am not as interested in being able to vote as you apparently are.”
“We must assert ourselves as women, Mrs. Rutherford. It is imperative that we demand our rights.”
Jocelyn smiled but said nothing. She knew expostulation under such circumstances would be less than useless. She simply turned with the rest of them and listened to the remainder of Christabel Pankhurst’s speech, watching with some trepidation the passionate glow that now lit her oldest daughter’s face.
As soon as the speech was through, Christabel Pankhurst stepped down from the back of the carriage upon which she had been standing. Her sister introduced her to Amanda, Jocelyn, and Catharine, and the four of them conversed briefly—though Amanda and the Pankhurst sisters did most
of the talking.
“We really must go, Amanda,” said Jocelyn after a short time. “Your father will be waiting for us.”
“Where are you staying, Mrs. Rutherford?” asked Sylvia. “We could bring Amanda to meet you later, that is—” she added, glancing toward Amanda, “if you would like to go with us. We have one other scheduled speaking engagement this afternoon.”
“Oh yes!” cried Amanda. “We’re staying at the Royal Coach. Mother, will you be able to manage my boxes?”
“Amanda, I would really rather you came with us.”
“I want to go with Sylvia, Mother. We have nothing else planned today. You and Catharine can go have some tea or something.”
Jocelyn sighed and took the packages from Amanda’s hands. “Very well then, it looks like it’s all been decided,” she said reluctantly. “We’ll see you back at the hotel this evening.”
Amanda had already turned and was excitedly talking with Sylvia as Jocelyn and Catharine wandered off in the opposite direction. By the end of the afternoon, a fast friendship had begun between Amanda and the two Pankhurst girls. They exchanged addresses, and promised to remain in touch.
Throughout the train ride home, Amanda’s eyes glowed—not from thoughts of the city or of turning seventeen in less than a month, but from the serendipitous exposure to people and ideas that were new and exciting . . . and that resonated so deeply within her own soul.
83
Birthday Reflections
The hilly countryside north of Heathersleigh flew beneath the galloping hooves of a glistening grey by the name of Celtic Star II, a high-spirited filly named for her gentle grey mother.
Amanda Rutherford sat gracefully in the man’s saddle, still the only kind she ever used. With eyes shining wide and her long light brown hair trailing wildly behind her, she urged the horse yet faster over the springy heath. She had become nearly as skilled on the back of a horse as her brother George, and twice as daring.
The family dinner on this, her seventeenth birthday, had been a happy one. No arguments had marred it, and everyone had been in good spirits. Her father had even stood to toast her health, her happiness, and her future.
Her future!
At last she was seventeen and could look forward to the chance—no longer years off but only a few weeks away!—to step into adulthood in her own right. She would go to London, meet new people, and face opportunities she couldn’t even imagine.
Yet Amanda could not help being assailed by lingering doubts.
What would her future bring? She wasn’t about to leap at the first man who presented himself and to marry at eighteen or nineteen as so many young women did in her position. She certainly wasn’t interested in squandering the best years of her life as some man’s submissive wife and housekeeper! Yet . . . what opportunities realistically lay available on the horizon to one such as her?
Never—save in her girlish daydreams of participating in Parliament—had Amanda thought of a career. Even now, she was astute enough to realize that, aside from marriage, the options for one like her were limited. She wanted to be independent from her family, but she really had no idea how to go about achieving it. The older she had grown, in fact, the more anxious she was about what would become of her.
It was the age of opportunity . . . but what opportunity would present itself to her?
She might well go to London for the season and then, when it was over six months from now, find herself back at Heathersleigh for another cold, boring winter with nothing to do. What if she never escaped this place? What if she was doomed forever to live under her parents’ stuffy roof, hearing them drone on and on about the Bible?
It was a horrible thought.
In the midst of such morbid reflections, the faces of Christabel and Sylvia Pankhurst came to mind. She had already written to them once and received a lengthy reply. Here were two new friends who were not in any way part of her parents’ world. Her parents would not even approve of what the Pankhursts were doing.
Perhaps the future was not so hopeless after all. On the threshold of entering into the very society her father had left behind, she had met two exciting young women who were doing something with their lives.
Maybe there were possibilities looming on the horizon of her future. Women could be involved in what was going on in the world!
How she might fit in with all that, Amanda could not see at present. But at least her prospects no longer appeared quite so drab and empty. More would come into focus during the London season in which she was at last old enough to participate. She would be a modern woman. Maybe she could be part of changing the world just like the Pankhursts!
Amanda urged Celtic Star on, though the way had gradually steepened and she now had to slow the mare’s stride and exercise more caution. Gradually she worked her way in a northwesterly direction, toward a high ridge that overlooked the plain in which Milverscombe and the estate of Heathersleigh were located.
Everything would have been so different, she said to herself as she bounced along now at a more leisurely pace, had her parents not so thoroughly insulated their family from the rest of the world.
The thought brought a cloud over Amanda’s countenance. She knew her parents frequently received invitations to parties and social functions. Yet they usually turned them down. Even if they didn’t want to go to London, they could have found opportunities to let her mingle with the society of her peers right here in Devonshire. They could have introduced her to a dozen families or more of high standing. They could have taken her about during last year’s season when she was sixteen. But they hadn’t gone anywhere the whole spring!
There had been the Christmas party in Copperstone her parents had let her attend. That had been a wonderful night—the one bright spot all year. Why they had accepted the invitation she never quite understood. But it was the only such event she had attended in more than a year.
She had met Hubert Powell, the son of the Marquess of Holsworthy, for the first time that evening. He had casually mentioned a party his father was planning and said he would be sure an invitation was sent to Heathersleigh.
“I hope I might see you there,” he said. “Tell me, will you be in London for the season?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” replied Amanda. “I’ll be seventeen in March.”
“Ah, I see,” he nodded, taking in her statement with interest. The information clearly meant more to him than that it offered Amanda her entrée into the season’s festivities.
Hubert Powell was a dashing young man. A smile came to her lips as Amanda recalled the brief conversation. She had heard of him but had never met him before that night. No wonder every young woman in Devon knew of him—he was rich and handsome!
And true to his word, an invitation had arrived at Heathersleigh for the festive party to be held at the Holsworthy estate. However, it had been addressed to her father, not to her. That had been just last month. Amanda had seen the invitation and asked about it. “We’ll see to it later,” was her father’s reply. But as in the case of nearly all the others, her parents had never even mentioned it again.
This year, however, would be different. It was so close she could taste it! Within two months the London social season would be in full swing, and she had to be part of it. She would not be left out again! Just let her parents try to stand in her way.
Even the attentions of someone like Lord Hubert, however, could not sway Amanda’s head. She wanted influence, not romance. She hoped opportunities would come to her that would open all the right doors.
Amanda and Celtic Star entered a grassy clearing. She dug her heels into the mare’s sides and galloped across it, then up the steep incline some hundred and fifty yards beyond. At last horse and rider crested the summit of the ridge she had been steadily climbing for thirty or forty minutes.
She reined in the horse, who was breathing heavily. They stopped. Slowly Amanda gazed about in every direction.
Northward, just beyond her sight, lay
the sea.
Stretching around in the saddle, she looked behind her. Off in the distance, quiet and appearing so small from this vantage point, sat Heathersleigh Hall. Milverscombe lay just beyond it. Seventeen years she had lived in that place, seventeen years to the very day.
The reminder that today was her birthday filled Amanda with a curious melancholy. Her first seven years there had been so happy. Then everything had changed, and now . . .
She tried to force the unpleasant memories of the past ten years from her mind.
This is my birthday, Amanda told herself. Freedom, that’s what I want. Things are going to change from this day forward!
She drew in a deep breath, and continued to slowly turn her head as she took in the view around her.
To the east beyond her sight lay London, city of her dreams. She often gazed in that direction. Now, at last, the future she envisioned there did not seem quite so distant, nor her dreams quite so unattainable.
84
Surprise Caller
As Charles Rutherford had predicted ten years earlier, the new century brought advances in the development of electricity, and they came even more rapidly than he had himself imagined. Only ten years had passed since that ride when he and his son and daughter had discussed fuel and electricity and the future. Then, he had predicted there would be lights in every room at Heathersleigh when young George was lord of the manor.
But now George was a mere nineteen, and the future Charles predicted was about to come to Devonshire much sooner than expected. Charles and George were busily engaged from morning till night stringing wire up and down through the length and breadth of the Hall in preparation for the installation of an electrical lighting system. Heathersleigh would be the first estate house in all the southwest of England to employ the new technology throughout its walls. Charles had not been so excited about anything in years.
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