A Mad, Wicked Folly (7 page)

E TURNED DOWN
Warwick and rounded
the corner to Eccleston Square, where my
brother lived. I had been right: the constable shadowed me right up the steps to my

brother’s maisonette.
PC Fletcher dropped the knocker against the door.
While we waited, I removed the WSPU pin and dropped it
into my satchel. I caught him watching me.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.” He let out a little laugh and then muttered
something under his breath.
It took all of my will not to shove him off the porch. I
imagined him landing right in the prickly bushes.
The door opened. My brother’s maid of all work stood
there. “Oh, Miss Darling.” Her eyes widened as she took in
PC Fletcher in all his law-abiding glory.
“Who is it, Becky?” a voice called out. Blast! Rose.
Becky stood back and let us in. “Miss Darling, madam.
And she’s got a police constable with her.”
Rose swished into view. Rose. A painfully soppy person
if there ever was one. How my fun, handsome brother got
saddled with her I shall never know. But there it was. And
now she was expecting their second child. My mother, who
adored her, had to threaten me with dire consequences or I
would never visit her of my own accord. I’d sit there leaning over my teacup listening to the grandfather clock in
the hall tick down the minutes as my mother laughed and
nodded in all the right places, her face a picture of contentment, ever so grateful to have at least a daughter-in-law
who was so reasonable, so domestic.
Rose pursed her lips together, looking as though she
had bitten down on a wasp and sucked on a lemon at the
same time. “Victoria. Your mother has been ringing constantly, asking of your whereabouts. For the life of me I
cannot understand why you continue to get yourself into
such mischief.” She looked at PC Fletcher. “She’s naught
but a troublemaker. You have no idea.”
Oddly, PC Fletcher said nothing.
“Auntie Vicky!” a little voice chimed. Charlotte, my sixyear-old niece, came running down the hallway, adorable
in a pink frock with a candy-striped pinafore. Charlotte
had inherited Freddy’s cheeky expression. It made me
laugh sometimes to see some of his looks echoed in
Charlotte’s childish features. I knelt down and hugged her.
She wrapped her little arms around my neck and pressed
her nose against mine. “Auntie Vicky, will you draw me a
picture?”
“Not today, dearest,” I said.
She stared at PC Fletcher, her eyes enormous. “Who is
that?” she whispered.
“That’s a police constable,” I said.
PC Fletcher bowed. “How do you do?” he said in a very
formal voice.
Charlotte giggled. “Can
you
draw me a picture?” she
asked him.
“The police constable’s busy, darling. Come along now,”
Rose interrupted.
And then, thank heaven, Freddy came into the hall.
“Go into the sitting room with Mummy, sweetheart,” he
said. Rose took Charlotte’s hand, frowned at me, and then
drifted into the parlor. My brother turned to me, his eyes
full of reproach. “I told Mother you’d turn up soon enough.”
He held out his hand to PC Fletcher. “Frederick Darling.”
“Darling?” PC Fletcher said. “I thought your name was
Smith.”
“We have different fathers,” I said quickly.
My brother glanced at me sideways, but thankfully he
let the comment pass by. “Well then, PC . . .?”
“Fletcher, sir.”
“Is my little
half
sister in some sort of trouble?”
“Not exactly, sir. Bit of a misunderstanding is all. She
was caught up in the arrest of some suffragettes.”
“Suffragettes?” Freddy’s gaze cut to me.
“Yes, sir. I was tasked to bring her home.”
“Oh!” Freddy laughed. “Poor sod. I don’t envy you.” He
reached into his jacket, pulled out a little silver case, and
drew out a card. He handed it to PC Fletcher. “Here’s my
card. If there’s anything I can do to repay the favor, please
do not hesitate to ask.”
PC Fletcher looked at the card. “Darling and Whitehouse
Publishing. You do the tuppenny novelettes, then?”
“Why, yes. You’ve heard of us?”
“Never miss an issue.” PC Fletcher glanced down at
the card again and then slid it into his pocket. “I’d best be
going.” He touched his hand to his hat and then looked at
me; a smile lifted his lips. “Good-bye then, Miss Smith.” He
held out his hand. I crossed my arms, and his hand hung
there in the air unshaken. He pulled it back. “Well, then. I
guess that’s it. Best of luck to you.”
Freddy showed him out. And then he rounded on me.
“What the devil, Victoria? Smith?”
“I didn’t want him to know my real name.”
“Of course; I should have known!” He sank down on
a bench in the hall. “You’re in enough trouble as it is. Now
you’re mixed up with the suffragettes? I knew you’d go
there.” He lifted his hands and let them drop into his lap.
“This really takes the biscuit. I don’t understand you, Petal.
You have a lovely life but you do insist on creating trouble
for yourself.”
I loved my brother dearly, but he just did not understand what it was like to be told what to do from sunup to
sundown. His life was his to call his own.
“You had a lovely life too,” I said with a pointed look.
His face reddened. “It’s not the same. And don’t change
the subject. I want you to stay away from those suffragists.”
“What’s so wrong with what they are doing?”
“Don’t tell me they’ve converted you already?”
“So what if they have? Don’t you think women have the
same right to vote as men do?”
“It is not a question of rights, it’s a question of understanding. Women know naught of politics!”
“That might be true of some, but not of every woman,
surely! I’m positive there are men who know naught of politics. And if a woman wished to be informed, she’d only
have to read a newspaper or two—”
“I’m not going to have this discussion with you. You
show up here dripping wet and in the company of a constable and under an assumed name after haring about with
suffragettes. What am I to do with you?”
“Just don’t tell Father about the suffragettes . . . and the
constable.”
Freddy rolled his eyes. “And what am I to say? Honestly,
Vicky! The things you ask of me. You deserve to take your
punishment.”
“If you care about me at all you won’t tell.”
He heaved a very exasperated sigh. “Very well.”
“And make sure Rose doesn’t tell either.” I leaned
against the wall. “You’re the only one who speaks to me,
Freddy. Father won’t even look me in the face.” I traced a
finger around a lilac printed on the wallpaper.
Freddy stood up and came over to me. He put his hand
on my cheek. “I know it grieves you, but in time it will ease.
Just remember, no matter what, I’ll always be on your side.
Come along, let’s dry you off and get you home.”
Freddy hailed a cab, and before we made for home, I
asked him to send the cab driver to Parliament so we could
look for my sketchbook. We got out, and from a distance
I caught sight of something that looked like my book. But
then my heart sank. It was just an old box lying on its side.
My sketchbook was not there.
I searched around on the ground and saw the crushed
remains of my graphite pencil where Lucy had chained
herself. The pavement was littered with rubbish; the street
sweepers had not been through yet.
Someone must have taken my book.
We climbed back into the cab, and the driver clucked
to his horse. I leaned my forehead against the window and
watched the scenery go by. The rain fell harder, filling the
streets with puddles and giving the buildings a gloomy
cast. The pavement was a sea of bobbing umbrellas.
I wondered who had taken my book. I pictured one of
the men in the jeering crowd ogling my work, turning the
pages with his grubby hands, perhaps using the paper to
light a fire to cook sausages over.
I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach. I had nothing to
submit.
The book was gone; I had to accept that, so I tried to
think of a way to replace half a year’s work in five weeks.
Still life I could probably do in the garden at home, but
figure drawing was out. I needed a model for that. An
undraped model preferably. There were other art classes
for in London that my mother would approve of, but they
gave mostly beginner classes, focusing on watercolor for
decorative paintings to hang in one’s home. The thought of
painting a subject suited only to matching a sofa made my
artistic sensibilities cringe.
Freddy finally broke the silence. “Petal, you have to
stop this headstrong behavior. Mother says you climbed
out a window.”
“Yes, well, maybe if I were given a bit of freedom, I
wouldn’t have to resort to climbing out windows.”
“She said you refused to consider the marriage
proposal.”
I shrugged.
“I’ve met Edmund Carrick-Humphrey. He’s a bit aimless, but most are at his age. He’s a very nice chap, all in
all.”
“I don’t give a fig if he’s a nice chap. I don’t want to
marry him. I’m not ready for marriage yet. I have things
to do first.”
“You’ll need money to do those
things
you say have to
do. You’ll have money when you get married.”
“I doubt father will settle on me, Freddy.” Although
there was a tradition of bestowing a sum of money upon
one’s child after marriage, it wasn’t in my father’s nature
to hand over a socking great wad of cash. Especially not
to me.
“You haven’t thought it all the way through, have you,
Petal? Carrick-Humphrey comes from a wealthy family.
You want to go to that college of yours so badly. Who needs
Dad’s coin when your husband has coins aplenty?”
Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible choice. I wouldn’t have
to compete for that one scholarship.
“And from what I know about the fellow, he’s not the
sort who would care what you did.”
“How do you know?”
“I had a word with him at the Reform Club last week.
Do you think I’d let my little sister marry a bloke without
vetting him first?”
“What did you say to him?” I said, feeling somewhat heartened, yet anxious at the same time. Suddenly
Mr. Carrick-Humphrey’s opinion seemed immensely
important.
“I told him you weren’t the type of girl to sit around
a house kicking your heels, and that you wanted to go to
college.”
I gripped his arm. “What did he say? Tell me Freddy?”
“He laughed and said—and I quote: ‘what a corker of a
girl.’ So I think you have to little to worry when it comes to
Mr. Carrick-Humphrey.”
I sat back in the carriage’s seat and thought about it.
If what Freddy said was true, a marriage to Mr. CarrickHumphrey. would get me out from under my parents’
thumbs and into a home of my own. And into a life of my
own. Lessons at the art college began in September, so I
would have to be married as soon as possible.
A little tingle sparked inside me, setting a glow of hope
alight. I had a little over a month to get work together. I
could do it. I was sure I could do it.

HE NEXT MORNING
I awoke to the noise of
snipping and of branches scraping the wall. I got
out of bed and crossed to the window. My curtains billowed in the wind. The rain had gone and
it was a fine day. A fine day, apparently, to cut down a wisteria vine. Harold stood on a tall ladder wielding a saw.
There would be no wisteria blossoms this May.

He looked up then and saw me, a pitying expression on
his face.
Only my father would have ordered such drastic action.
My mother would certainly never sacrifice flowers for any
reason.
I hoped that would be the end of it. I hadn’t spoken to
my father last evening. He had come home from work very
late, missing dinner, which had become a common theme
since I had returned from France—much to the dismay of
my mother, who had had to turn down many invitations
for lack of an escort. I knew it was I who kept him away.
My father didn’t want to see me or speak to me. He had
always dealt with me in this fashion. But it wouldn’t make
any difference whether he spoke to me or not; he would
never understand why I’d chosen to pose nude.
I delayed as long as I could, but finally hunger won the
day. So I dressed in the first skirt and blouse to hand in
my wardrobe, and brushed my hair, pinning the sides back
with tortoiseshell combs and letting the rest fall down my
back. This done, I went to breakfast, hoping that my father
had been and gone.
I entered the breakfast room and saw my father sitting
behind his newspaper, a cup of tea at his elbow. I hesitated
for a moment, considering going back up to my room.
“Don’t hang about like that, Victoria,” my father said
from behind his newspaper. “Come in and have your
breakfast.”
“Good morning, Papa.” I tried to keep my voice bright
and cheerful, as if nothing had happened whatsoever. I
went to the sideboard and filled my plate with egg, kippers, toast, and marmalade. I sat down in a chair next to
him, glanced at his newspaper, looked at it again.

Two Suffragettes
Arrested
at Parliament

iss Lucy Hawkins and Miss Victoria Smith
were arrested yesterday afternoon for
obstruction of the pathway near Parliament.
Additionally, Miss Smith was accused of resisting arrest and causing grievous bodily harm to
Police Constable William Fletcher.

Miss Hawkins refused to pay her fine and has
been jailed for a fortnight at Holloway Prison.
All charges were dropped against Miss Smith.

For a moment I thought I might laugh out loud. There my
father sat, calmly reading the newspaper, while another
scandal involving his daughter was front-page news. I sat
openmouthed, leaning in, staring at the story.

My father folded down a corner of the paper and saw
me. His brow furrowed and he snapped the paper shut and
placed it under his plate. My father did not like me reading
newspapers. It might undo my delicate constitution.

Quickly, I turned my attention to my breakfast, slicing
the top off my boiled egg. Thank goodness I had thought to
give a false last name.

I’d imagined PC Fletcher’s Christian name might
have been something like Reginald or Rupert or Simon.
Somehow the name William didn’t seem to fit a policeman.
It seemed more of a nobleman’s name: the name of a man
loyal to Henry Tudor during the War of the Roses, who
would ride out in a suit of armor under the dragon banner
of red, white, and green. Considering the kind of person
PC Bumptious was, he probably would have turned coat
and fled Bosworth Field directly the horns for battle were
blown because his horse had thrown a shoe or some such.