Year of Folly

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “I do not,” Kosta said firmly. “Only, this world you live in does. Can you not see that? No matter how you feel about it, or how Lady Rothmere comports herself, most of the people in Inverness believe a woman should not vote, or Lord Shelby would not have said so. He knows how to say what people want to hear, or he would not have been elected in the first place. You must trust me in this.”

  His expression was earnest and Emma thought there might even be a touch of fear in his face. He was concerned for her.

  She gave him a small smile. “It doesn’t matter what most people think. If I only do things because it is what everyone wants, I wouldn’t be able to step outside the door for fear of offending someone else’s sensibilities.” She shook her head. “This is the right thing to do.”

  “You risk public shame and embarrassment.”

  “I know.”

  Kosta seemed to recoil just a bit. She had surprised him. Then he shook his head. “Then end this foolishness for me.” His tone earnest.

  Emma’s lips parted in surprised. “Kosta!” she breathed, wounded.

  “You do not understand,” he said quickly. “This is not behavior which would be well tolerated in Constantinople, or anywhere in the Empire. We are far more traditional…”

  Emma drew in a sharp breath. Her shoulders squared themselves. Her back straightened. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said stiffly.

  Kosta seemed to realize his mistake. He pressed his hand over hers where it rested on the swirling end of the newel post. “I only mean how others in Constantinople would view such an affair.”

  She pulled her hand out from under his. “Then you were not threatening me?”

  Kosta looked shocked. “You think me capable of such a thing?”

  “Why not?” Emma replied. “Every man I have ever met has tried in some way to control what I do or how I behave.” She climbed two steps and looked over her shoulder. “I will vote on Monday, Kosta. It is likely to be the first and last time I am ever extended the privilege, if it happens at all. Do not try to take it away from me.”

  She climbed to the landing, almost stomping upon each step. As she turned around the landing to climb the other half of the stairs, she saw Morgan standing at the door to the breakfast room. How much had he heard?

  Emma decided it did not matter. Nothing she had told Kosta was a lie.

  MONDAY, JULY 14TH, 1873, WAS a dim, cool day, with little to recommend it. The damp view through her bedroom window matched Emma’s equanimity. She dressed with care that morning, as conservatively as possible, in a dark walking dress made with Kirkaldy tweed, and a minimum of lace and embellishments.

  She intended to forego breakfast. Her torso was too tied up in painful knots to eat. Instead, Emma stood before the long mirror and tried to assess her appearance, the way she had always done in London before a society event. How would her appearance be measured by more critical eyes than her own? How would she be judged?

  As she removed the lace at her throat in favor of a plainer collar, she paused.

  “I am behaving the way someone else wants me to behave…” she whispered to the mirror.

  She was doing exactly what she had told Kosta she resented.

  Her hands shaking, Emma stripped the conservative tweed from her and rang the bell for Cookson. When the maid reached the room, breathless, for she had thought her duties for the morning were done, Emma said quickly, “I am sorry, but this outfit simply won’t do. It must all be changed.”

  Cookson drew in a deep breath and blew it out, her cheeks billowing. “Very well, miss. What would you like to wear instead?” As she spoke, she moved around behind Emma to untie and unhook.

  “The new black and white striped afternoon tea dress,” Emma said. “And my lace gloves, too.” She considered. “The choker with the green cameo and my emerald earrings. Oh, and the sun hat.”

  The sun hat was almost completely flat, with a wide brim to shade her face against the bright summer sun, with a black velvet ribbon around the shallow crown, and red silk roses with dark green leaves.

  “Parasol, too, miss?” Cookson said, as she worked to draw Emma’s corset in another half-inch to fit the new dress.

  “Oh yes,” Emma said. She considered her shoes peeping beneath the ruffles of her petticoat. “And the silk stockings and the heeled shoes with the black buckles.”

  “Very fancy, miss. Are you strolling with His Highness, then?”

  “No, Cookson. I am going to vote at the town hall.”

  In the mirror, Emma saw Cookson’s mouth drop open. She caught it up again. “You, Miss?”

  “Me,” Emma confirmed. “At least, I intend to try to vote. We shall see if the old guard let me through the door.”

  “Goodness, Miss, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes at all,” Cookson said, as she shook out the striped silk dress and prepared to help Emma into it.

  “As I am in my shoes, that is a good thing,” Emma said firmly.

  She still did not feel like eating when she went downstairs in her finery, but she did feel as though she was a very fashionable and correct young society lady. Now she had refused to worry what anyone thought of her, she felt far more relaxed and at ease.

  As she stepped down the second half of the stairs to the front hall, she saw Morgan was standing at the bottom of them. His gaze moved over her, in one heated sweep.

  For a moment, it was as though they were back in the attic, just the two of them, with nothing and no one between them. None of the intervening days of cool distance existed for that moment.

  “You are as lovely as the day you arrived in Inverness,” Morgan said softly.

  Emma sighed. “How long ago that seems!”

  “A year ago, almost exactly.”

  “How foolish I was.”

  Morgan’s smile was fleeting. “There are many who will tell you that what you attempt to do today is folly.”

  She gripped the handle of her parasol, feeling the lace of her glove dig into her palm. “But you are not one of them, are you?”

  Morgan’s gaze was steady. “That is not what I would tell you, no.” His voice was very low.

  Emma’s throat tightened. “Oh Morgan,” she breathed.

  “Emma, may I speak with you?” It was Kosta’s voice.

  Emma tore her gaze from Morgan’s face, to look at Kosta standing by the drawing-room door. He had his hands behind his back.

  “Yes?” she asked him, her tone cool.

  Kosta brought his arm around from behind. He held an enormous bouquet of white roses.

  Morgan cleared his throat. “I will leave you alone.”

  “No, Morgan, please…” Emma said quickly

  His hand, by his thigh, tangled with her fingers. Then he moved away quickly, heading for the wide promenade corridor which lead to the ballroom and his office.

  Emma hid her sigh and turned back to Kosta, who moved across the hall, the roses held out in front of him.

  “I would apologize in whatever way I can, if only you tell me how I might make amends,” Kosta said, placing the roses in her arms.

  “They’re beautiful,” Emma admitted.

  “So are you, especially today. You are the very specimen of summer.”

  Emma tried to smile. “I haven’t the energy to banter today, Kosta. I am too distracted.”

  Kosta nodded. “You intend to go through with this voting business, then?”

  Her middle tightened even further. “I know you do not understand—”

  “I do not,” he said quickly. Firmly. “However, I do not need to understand anything other than this is your wish. Can I escort you to the town hall, Emma?”

  She shook her head. “That is the part you do not understand,” she said gently. “I must appear to do this alone. Otherwise, I could travel to Inverness with Will and Morgan, when they go to vote. Only that would make it seem as though I am merely following along in their shadow. Do you see?”

  Kosta rubbed at his bearded chin, making a sof
t rasping sound. His black eyes were thoughtful. “I cannot countenance you traveling alone.”

  “I have done so many times,” she assured him. “It is only a few miles and I am well known in Inverness now.”

  “That is my concern,” Kosta replied. “Let me travel with you in the carriage. I will remain in the carriage if you must appear to be acting alone, yet I will still be nearby to help, if you need it.”

  He was concerned for no reason, yet trying hard to comply with her wishes, which moved her to reply; “Very well. The carriage, but no farther.”

  “I will get my hat,” he said, his hand pressing to his chest. He hurried over to the bell pull and tugged on it to bring Bakersfield and his hat.

  Emma laid the roses on the hall table and picked up her reticule instead. She already had her parasol and the day was warm enough that no coat or wrap was needed.

  The carriage rolled around to the front of the house as Bakersfield arrived with Kosta’s hat and cane. The top of the carriage was down, as usual, even though the day was overcast. George, the driver, seemed to have an uncanny knack for predicting the weather correctly. If he thought there was little chance of rain, she believed him.

  There was no need to raise her parasol. The cloud kept the sun from being too dazzling.

  The journey into Inverness took only a few moments. The carriage slowed as they wound through the outer streets toward the center of the town, where the High Street and the town hall were located. There was a great deal of traffic.

  “It seems everyone has decided to vote this morning,” Emma said, peering around George’s wide back. The High Street was thick with pedestrians and carriages—far more than usual. She could see the sand-colored walls and pillars of the town hall just ahead.

  George glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, Miss Emma. It’ll take me a few moments to get closer.”

  “Take your time, please, George,” Kosta told him. “We do not want to run over anyone.” He lowered his voice. “Why do they not remain on the footpath, as is sensible?”

  Emma frowned. Everyone was walking along the street in the same direction the carriage was moving. “I think they are on their way to vote,” she murmured. “There simply isn’t room on the footpath.”

  Ahead, the road was completely blocked with people standing about the cobbles. They were all facing the big doors of the town hall. They were not talking, or even shouting. No one was standing in front of the town hall doors for them to watch, either.

  “How odd,” Emma said. “It is as if they are waiting for something.”

  Kosta cleared his throat. “George, can you turn the carriage around?”

  “Why?” Emma said sharply.

  Kosta shook his head. “They wait for you, Emma. Do you not understand? They know you will attempt to vote some time today and they intend to stop you. I am taking you home. Now. George! Turn the carriage!”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, your Highness,” George said softly, as he stamped on the brake. “There’s too many people around us. We’re stuck here.”

  “Here” was only fifty yards from the doors of the town hall.

  Emma picked up her parasol. “Fine, I will walk.” She reached for the door handle.

  “There she is!” The man’s cry was loud and startling.

  The crowd milling in front of the hall turned en masse toward the carriage.

  Emma paused with one foot on the step, fright spearing through her. It felt as though every single person in the High Street was staring at her accusingly. There were no welcoming faces there. All she could see was angry faces and grim expressions.

  “Get in,” Kosta urged her. “Emma, sit down. Now.”

  In that moment, Emma understood that Kosta was right. The townsfolk of Inverness did not want her upsetting what they saw as the natural order of their quiet and comfortable lives. They didn’t want to be forced to think in new ways. They didn’t want to change.

  Yes, there had been vocal support in the newspapers for her intention to vote, yet those few voices were the only voices raised in support, and they were not here on the High Street. The silent majority of people did not agree with her at all.

  Almost as if they agreed with her thoughts, the people gathered around the carriage hissed and waved their fists at her.

  Emma swallowed.

  “Emma, I beg you, stay in the carriage,” Kosta urged. His low voice was almost drowned out by the muttering and grumbles from the crowd.

  “If I do, I will be unable to vote.” She took the last step down to the cobbles. There was barely any room between the carriage door and the men and women who had gathered around the carriage as it came to a halt.

  Emma straightened her dress and clutched her parasol. “Excuse me,” she told the people in front of her, fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. “Please make way for me.”

  She raised the hand holding her parasol and eased it between the murmuring, angry people, and swung her arm out, to shepherd them to one side.

  “You should stay at home!” a man shouted. “This is none of your business!”

  “Strumpet!” came the cry, this time from a woman.

  Emma flinched.

  Suddenly, everyone began to shout. The voices merged into an angry roar, filled with epithets and curses.

  “Go back to your manor!”

  “You’re ruining it for all of us!”

  “Go home! Go home!”

  Behind her, Kosta muttered something in his native tongue.

  Emma stepped between the two people in front of her. She didn’t look at their faces. Her heart thudded unhappily. She reminded herself she had come here to vote, and the only people who might stop her doing that were the officials themselves. This mob should not dictate her choice, no matter how angry they became.

  She heard the carriage rock, the suspension squeaking, as Kosta moved. He was coming after her.

  Emma didn’t wait for him to pull her back. She pushed through the next wall of people, using her elbows and her parasol.

  Her parasol was batted from her hand and skidded to the ground. She saw boots stomping on it, before it was hidden from her view by the bodies pressing in around her.

  Would they really harm her? Over something as ephemeral as voting in an election? How did her vote possibly hurt them?

  Emma glanced over her shoulder, for the first time weighing the wisdom of forcing her way any farther ahead.

  The carriage was farther away than she thought. The buildings lining the High Street were closer. Kosta was also forcing his way through the mob, using his arms and his considerably wider shoulders to push and shove.

  Emma squeezed between more people, fighting this time to reach the footpath and the buildings, as the shouting and the cursing continued.

  Her hat was torn from her hair, the pin ripping locks loose as it was yanked away with the hat.

  Fright gripped her. Even if they did not mean to hurt her, they could still harm her accidentally. “Kosta!” she cried.

  “Keep moving!” he shouted at her, as he rammed his way through the jostling bodies. “Don’t stop!”

  She nodded and pushed forward, stepping over ankles and boots and turning herself sideways to squeeze between people. Like Kosta, she shoved and used her elbows and arms and shoulders. She was not nearly as strong.

  Her hem tore as someone stepped on the short train. She yanked the train out from under their feet and kept it in her hand. It would be too easy to halt her by standing on her dress.

  Her fear gave her added strength. Emma struggled through the last of the people gathered around the carriage, and blocking the street, and stepped onto the footpath.

  She was not out of danger yet, for she was the focus of their anger. As she made the footpath, they turned and tried to hem her in. Immediately, she realized she had miscalculated. Against the side of the buildings, she would be trapped as they closed in around her.

  Kosta shoved a man aside, physically picking him up and almost t
ossing him. He muttered in a language not English and staggered onto the footpath. “Into the building,” he said quickly, nodded at the store behind her. His hair was ruffled and the sleeve of his jacket torn.

  Emma spun and edged around the people to the door of the shop and yanked at the handle. The door was locked.

  Kosta gripped the handle and heaved. Then he put his foot against the frame and tore at it, while the people behind them screamed their rage and insults. They were edging closer and closer. What would they do to them when they were close enough to lay hands on them?

  The door gave way with a screech of metal. Kosta yanked the door open for her and pushed her inside. He followed her in, stumbling as everyone outside leapt to stop them escaping.

  Emma slammed the solid oak door shut leaned against it with both hands. “Kosta, the bar. Quickly.”

  Kosta brushed at the tear in the sleeve of his long jacket with a grimace of distaste. “This is utterly outrageous!”

  The door flexed and trembled as fists pummeled on it from the other side. The volume of voices rose as the mob pressed up against the windows and peered in, looking for their quarry.

  “Kosta, the bar,” Emma repeated. “Please help me. I don’t know what they will do to us if we let them in.”

  “These are your people,” Kosta pointed out. “Do they not know who you are? Who I am?”

  “They don’t care a whit about that,” Emma snapped. “Kosta, please!”

  Hands slapped upon the glass in the window Kosta stood beside. He flinched and moved over to pick up the thick timber bar propped against the wall. Awkwardly, he lowered it into the brackets on either side of the door.

  Emma backed away from the door, watching it warily as it trembled with the blows and slaps being laid upon it. She gathered up her train so she did not trip over it, and discovered the ruffle on the hem had been torn away and hung in a sad loop of black and white striped fabric. Her glove was torn.

  Emma glanced around the building they had taken shelter within. She was surprised to discover the shop was for men. The bow window displayed shaving equipment and all manner of male accoutrements. Where was the shopkeeper? He was not in the store.