A Mother's Love (14 page)

The letter unfolded, the single sheet fluttered in her trembling fingers, so that the writing wavered in front of her. ‘It’s
this
that makes me ill, Henry. Wondering, worrying. Two years! I can’t let it go on. I have to …’

He was at her side, gentle now, controlling his temper with an effort. ‘Give it to me, my dear. It’ll only upset you more to read it. Things are best left as they are.’

Her hands palsied now, he took the sheet with ease and, as she watched, gnawing her lip with a weak and trembling bite, he screwed it up and laid it back upon the waiting salver.

‘That’ll be all, Honeyford,’ he said abruptly. The butler bowed briefly and moved from the room, while Henry took his wife gently into his arms for her to have her little weep. Weeping did women a power of good. In a while she would feel better and forget all about it.

In her room Eleanor sat at the little walnut escritoire writing to her son. She could hardly see her words for the tears misting her eyes from memories:

Matthew as a baby being brought to her by Nanny Edwards to be kissed goodnight; Matthew playing with his brother, Richard, and his little sister, Evelyn; going off to preparatory school, then away to public school, then, a young man, to university.

When had she lost him? Not that awful New Year’s Day when he had stalked out of the room, out of the house without saying goodbye, but before then. Perhaps when they had first employed a nanny for the children, puffed up with their own new opulence, Henry going from strength to strength with his estate business. Yes, she must have lost Matthew then – all that time ago.

But she hadn’t lost her other two. Happily married, they visited regularly. Not often, but regularly enough. So why had Matthew been the one to sever himself from all family ties without a fight? But then, he’d never been the type to fight with any strength of will. He had always been the one who had never caused her a moment’s anger, the one who was the gentlest, the most loving, the most thoughtful … Until that day, that dreadful New Year’s Day. Eleanor’s shudder shook her whole frame visibly, and a pain shot through her head, making her groan aloud.

Slowly, she laid down her pen, took the half-finished letter upon which the words were becoming more and more laboured, and, folding it carefully, laid it between other old letters in a small drawer of her escritoire.

The shop, as Matthew called his two printing presses and the rest of the paraphernalia downstairs, was becoming cramped. The journal was selling well, thanks to national news coverage of the Independent Labour Party’s Sunday meetings at a park called Boggart Hole Clough, near Manchester. The meetings had never made news before, until this May, in 1896, when the city’s parks committee had suddenly taken exception to them. The police warned the speakers, Mrs Pankhurst among them, that they would be booked if they persisted. The warnings were ignored, and in fact prompted even bigger crowds to attend, numbering thousands, until finally Mrs Pankhurst and several others were summonsed for, went the excuse, occasioning an annoyance.

Eagerly, Matthew contacted a news agency in Manchester, asking them to forward him all they had on the events. It cost him quite a bit, but he was delighted by the information flowing in on how Mrs Pankhurst had courageously dared the magistrate to put her in prison, causing the summons to be adjourned for fear of public indignation. To Matthew’s joy, further news came in that, rather than people being deterred, even more had crowded into the park on the following Sundays, eager to hear Mrs Pankhurst and Keir Hardie speak.

On the strength of it, Matthew kissed Harriet goodbye in July at the height of the controversy, and took a train up to Manchester to get the news first-hand. There on that first Sunday of the month he was in time to witness a crowd of nearly forty thousand, Dr and Mrs Pankhurst arriving in an open barouche to roars of applause.

It was a sight to behold. The Clough, as the park was known, was sited between two hills, the slopes forming a perfect amphitheatre for the enormous throng. Positioned near to the speakers’ platform with the ready group of news reporters, though still jostled by the crowd all around, he had a good view of Mrs Pankhurst and her young fourteen- and fifteen-year-old daughters, Sylvia and Christabel; Dr Pankhurst and James Keir Hardie, Labour MP, as they mounted the stage.

‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ Matthew yelled excitedly to no one in particular as anticipation built up through the crowd like some giant intake of breath.

‘Yes, and to think it is in aid of women’s freedom to choose,’ came a smooth female voice beside him.

Glancing in the direction of the voice, he saw at eye level a mass of frizzy fair hair beneath a black toque, and a longish pale face above a severe black coat. He smiled, and the handsome face with its high cheekbones and long straight nose smiled back.

‘Are you for women’s enfranchisement?’ The tone was somewhat demanding.

‘Rather!’ His chuckle sounded stupidly boyish. ‘I’m here to get something for my journal. It’s called the
Freewoman.
It’s a London journal. Not very big yet. But one day …’

‘Good for you.’ The face looked away. Keir Hardie had his arms raised for the crowd’s attention. The hush, beginning at the front, flowed back in waves up the hillsides. A few moments of silence followed, and then Keir Hardie, a small but imposing figure with a full beard and deep-set commanding eyes beneath low heavy eyebrows, began to speak.

Matthew took in every word, glad that he possessed a good memory, as he tried desperately to write it all down in the notebook he held ready.

After Keir Hardie, Dr Pankhurst said a word or two, then came Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, her voice ringing strong and clear, while her two daughters threaded through the crowd collecting money.

It was over so soon. The hovering ring of policemen containing the assembly remained well behaved as, amid deafening applause, the speakers moved off and departed. In his enjoyment of the proceedings, Matthew had forgotten the woman who had spoken to him, but as he put his notebook away, well satisfied with his morning’s work, her voice commanded his attention again.

‘Are you going back to London now?’

‘No. I rather thought I’d stay for a few days, see what else develops.’

‘Oh, a lot will develop,’ she said emphatically. They were walking together now, moving with the dispersing crowds. ‘Mr Leonard Hall is to be released next week from Strangeways Prison. He was given one month’s imprisonment for refusing to pay a fine for “occasioning an annoyance”.’ She spoke the words with a sneer. ‘Mrs Pankhurst would have been proud to share that honour with him, but the magistrate had not the courage to sentence her.’

She paused suddenly to look him full in the eyes and he noticed that hers were green, a true green that quite took his breath away.

‘I say, would you care to come along and see him emerge? I guarantee there’ll be a thousand or more people there to welcome him. If you want something to put in your journal, that’s where you’ll get it.’

‘I’d like that very much.’ He smiled.

‘Then I’ll meet you on Saturday. That’s the eleventh. Go early to the near gate and I’ll find you. In the meantime, would you care for a spot of tea?’

Matthew stared wordlessly at her. He’d never met a woman with such self-assertiveness before, except for his mother, who mainly used it to emphasise her ill health.

‘There’s a teashop not far from here,’ she went on as if he had already agreed, or, more precisely, accepted. He nodded.

‘Good.’ She held out a hand in such a way as to compel him to crook his arm for her to thread her waiting hand through. Together they moved off out of The Clough and along a narrow street. At the far end they turned into the designated teashop. ‘I shall pay my own share, by the way,’ she whispered as they entered and were shown to a small table at the bow window by a thin, pinch-faced but smiling waitress. ‘You pay and I’ll settle up afterwards.’

Again Matthew nodded, a little awed by his companion’s manner. But as tea and the plate of cakes he had ordered arrived, he found himself becoming more at ease. He told her his name, where he lived, again what he did. He didn’t mention Harriet. ‘I haven’t discovered your name yet,’ he broke off to ask.

‘Constance Milne-Pitford,’ she offered. Matthew felt her first name suited the person very well and the hyphenated surname certainly spoke of someone of at least middle-upper-class upbringing. But as she offered no more than what he had requested, he felt he dared not intrude further to prompt any more information from her.

The conversation turned to the day’s events and he detected the animation mounting in her tone as she spoke of the release of Mr Leonard Hall. ‘We expect thousands,’ she said confidently. ‘Not during the day, of course, because people have to work. But we are holding a meeting near to the prison in the evening and then we expect a multitude to turn up. And they will.’

Matthew noticed she referred to ‘we’ most of the time and asked if she was a prominent member of the ILP.

‘Not a
prominent
member,’ she corrected, staring down at her tea. He noticed she hadn’t touched the plate of cakes he had ordered. ‘One day I hope to be.’

‘I bet you will,’ he agreed enthusiastically. ‘I’m certain that one day you’ll be up there with the Pankhursts and Keir Hardie …’

She looked at him sharply, cutting short his words. ‘I wouldn’t presume.’

There was a light in her green eyes that might have shone in those who once spoke of gods on Mount Olympus. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly, and she relented sufficiently to wave his apology away with one gloved hand, the gleam now fading.

‘What shall we do after finishing our tea?’ she asked suddenly.

Matthew was taken aback. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘I would like to go back to my lodgings and rest. I feel quite exhausted now from this morning.’

‘You live in lodgings?’ He was surprised.

‘Of course. You don’t think my family would abide me, with my so-called outrageous ideas on women’s franchise, to reside with them? Nor do I want to. I need air to breathe, space to fling wide my arms, a room to write my journal, a place to be myself, to be with those who speak out against the tyranny over women.’

‘You’re writing a journal?’

‘I hope one day to turn it into a book and have it published for everyone to read. I shall not use my own name, of course. My family would consider that as bringing disgrace upon them.’

Her handsome lips curled in contempt, but she did not mention who her family were or where they lived. Again, Matthew considered this to be none of his business and that should he attempt to make it so, he would be rebuffed in no uncertain terms.

‘What will you do?’ she enquired.

‘Go back to my hotel, I suppose.’

‘You could come back to my lodgings to share my rest for the afternoon. There’s really not much else to do.’

‘I couldn’t do that,’ he exclaimed, shocked.

‘Why not? Are you married?’

‘I … No …’ The word came out of its own accord before he could stop it. Good God! He felt stunned, frightened that he could deny his marriage by that one word. Marriage – that was a laugh. Harriet, as cold as ice, said she loved him yet she could still deny him. And he loved her, he had always told her he loved her. But three days away from her, he hadn’t once thought of her. Was that love? Was he married in God’s eyes? A contract unsigned after eighteen months was no contract at all, was it? Harriet had herself to blame if …

Constance gave a low, ringing laugh. ‘I’m not asking you to be naughty, Matthew, if that’s what you’re thinking. Heavens, I am not a woman of frail virtue, you know.’

‘I wasn’t thinking that at all,’ he blurted out, and she laughed again.

‘The look on your face!’

He was silent, and drained his cup to cover his embarrassment. His cake, a rather dry little thing with very few currants visible, was only half-eaten, but he couldn’t have touched it now to save his life.

‘It’s not right – you shouldn’t risk your reputation …’

‘My reputation! I’m not even known around here.’ Again that low, ringing laugh, then she leaned towards him as though confiding in a child. ‘I do have a lady who shares my rooms. She is very proper, and will see to it that nothing untoward occurs. We can have Sunday dinner together, the three of us, and afterwards play a game of cards if you wish. Then you can go back to your hotel. It will help while away a drear Sunday afternoon. As for what people think who see me enter my lodgings with a man – to you-know-what with them! Do say you’ll come, Matthew.’ She reached out and laid a hand upon his. He felt a thrill run along his arm, upwards to his heart, and cursed himself for the sensation.

‘Will you?’ she pressed. ‘I would dearly love to hear more about your journal and how women fare in London.’

Matthew took a deep breath. ‘I would be delighted,’ he heard himself saying.

There was no harm in it now and he felt annoyed with himself for serving Harriet so by his denial of being a married man. But he could hardly go back on his denial now and make himself look a fool. After all, he’d be going back to London in a week’s time and would probably never see this woman again. In the meantime he might learn a lot from her.

They took a horsebus back to the centre of Manchester, her arm through his in a most familiar way, so that they could easily have been mistaken for husband and wife. They walked the short way to where she was living, where she unhooked herself from him to fish in her small black reticule for the door key. Inside, he followed her up the dark narrow stairs, feeling a little unusual now, at any moment expecting to be leapt out on by some landlord’s wife and asked where he thought he was going. He was glad there would be someone in her rooms to lighten the sense of unease creeping upon him.

With a second key, Constance opened the door to her own rooms and went in, obviously expecting him to follow. He did so, rather cautiously, then heard her give a little cry of annoyance as she hurried to the fireplace to pluck a small square of white notepaper propped against an ornate glass-domed clock on the mantelpiece.