Suffragette in the City (8 page)

“Helena?” I asked her gently. “Whatever can be the matter?”

Two fat tears spilled over her lashes as she grabbed for her handkerchief. She clutched my arm and sobbed onto my shoulder, weeping as if her heart were broken

“For heaven’s sake, Helena, you are the weepingest woman I know. Wipe your eyes and tell me what the problem is.”

Griffin
, suddenly grinning, seated himself on a nearby couch. His left hand was heavily bandaged, although the bandage appeared a big ragged, as if he had been worrying it.

“I’m so sorry, Cassandra. I would never have asked you to take me with you last night if I had known Letitia would return home early.”

I noted absently that she had begun the process of ruining yet another pair of gloves, and wondered if the destruction of hand wear was an inherited trait in the St. John family.

“Can you ever forgive me for exposing you to such abuse?”

“Don’t be silly, Helena. It wasn’t your fault at all. I knew full well the feelings of your family, and can’t blame them for being upset at your unexplained disappearance.”

I looked over at her brother, who was being unusually (and to my mind suspiciously) quiet.

“You are so good, so understanding,” she sniffled into her handkerchief. “Harold and Letitia have been particularly . . . unhappy since Rosewood burned down.”

“Rosewood?”

Griffin
spoke. “Rosewood was our family home in Devonshire. The house burned down a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I take it Rosewood was the earl’s country seat?”

He gave an odd bark of laughter. “You could say that.”

Gripping my hand, Helena gave me a strange, impassioned look. “I can’t tell you how I cherish your friendship. It means a great deal to me, and I wouldn’t want anything to destroy it. You are so good, so kind—”

“Hardly either,” I interrupted, uncomfortable with her fervent gaze. “No harm has been done other than a little damage to my pride, and that, I can assure you, will repair itself in no time. I admit that I was concerned about what sort of reception you would meet after I left.”

“I’m not afraid of Harold when Griffin is home.”

Griffin
fidgeted uncomfortably, scratching at his collar. “My sister has told me of the evening’s activities.”

“Did she?” I glanced at Helena, surprised that she would mention the exact details of our outing.

With an air of martyrdom, he continued, although he averted his gaze from mine. “I attach no blame to her or you for the events that transpired. I was glad she had you as a companion.”

Clearly she didn’t tell him about the purse thief. “I appreciate your support in this matter. I am just sorry that your brother and sister-in-law do not share your opinion.”

“This is not easy for me to say. You . . . er . . . know my feelings upon the subject of women’s suffrage.”

I started to make a face, then remembered he was a guest in my home and nodded instead.

He cleared his throat and glanced at his sister. “My feelings have not changed about the appropriateness of women’s participation in politics; however, I have discussed the issue with Helena, and have agreed to allow her to attend meetings as long as she is in your presence.”

Helena
leaned slightly to the left and prodded at him.

“Despite my better feelings, I have also . . . er . . . agreed to let her become a member of that women’s club you belong to.”

“The Women’s Suffrage Union.” I spoke absently, suddenly wondering about his bandaged hand.

As his words sunk in, I looked up in surprise. Given the feelings that the earl had so vehemently expressed the night before, I had no doubt that Helena’s foray into political activism would be swiftly and irrevocably nipped in the bud.

“However,” he said loudly and with some force, “that does not mean I authorize her to participate in any demonstrations or public displays. I cannot control
your
actions… “

My eyebrows rose at the very idea.

“. . . but I would recommend you stop your campaigning as well. I’ve heard from Sherry that the new head of Scotland Yard is proceeding with a strict policy of non-tolerance against suffrage demonstrators. If you don’t want to be arrested, I’d advise you to stay clear of any further public scenes.”

His speech over, he sat back down on the couch and looked at me belligerently, as if challenging me to make a defense. I wondered briefly if he had an ulterior motive in allowing Helena to join in the union, but was unable to think of any benefit her participation would have for him or his brother.

I surprised both of us by saying simply, “I agree with you. It would be unwise for Helena to expose herself to any danger by becoming involved in a suffrage protest, and I am sure she will agree to such a reasonable request.”

Helena
looked at me with open-mouthed surprise. “I don’t agree all!” she cried. “How can you say that—you who feel so strongly, and know how strongly I feel about the cause?”

I spread my hands in a placatory gesture. “I know you hold the cause very tightly to your bosom, but you must see that about this, your brother is right. There is no reason to risk your personal safety.”

“I see no such thing. I
will
be at the rally tomorrow!”

“Rally tomorrow?” Griffin repeated suspiciously. He turned to me. “What rally tomorrow?”

I waved my hand in a dismissive fashion. “A small rally in Hyde Park. It’s a minor gathering, no demonstrations, no protests, just an attempt to raise funds and public awareness for the Union.”

 “Helena will not be attending the rally, Miss Whitney.” He tugged at the bandage on his hand as he spoke. “And I strongly urge you to reconsider your attendance at such a public spectacle.”

“Mr. St. John, I took umbrage with you when you used that particular word before, and I take umbrage at it now. How you can interpret a peaceful, organized rally at Speaker’s Corner as a
spectacle
is beyond me!”

He looked surprised by the vehemence in my voice and absently continued to pick at the bandage. “You may consider your cause one that is peaceful and organized, but I would be willing to wager that the public does not see it that way. Helena will not attend.”

“Griffin!”

We both turned to look at Helena, who had risen and was standing with fists clenched. “I am twenty-one years old and of legal age. If I choose to participate in a peaceful rally in Hyde Park with my dear friend Cassandra, then I shall do so.”

I gave her a mental pat on the back for standing up for her beliefs, and smiled smugly at her brother, who looked stunned at her vehemence. A dull red color flooded his face as he started to answer, but I interrupted, unable, any longer, to stand him tearing away at the remaining bits of bandage. “What did you do to your hand?”

“Eh? Oh, my hand. I had an accident—some damned fool knocked me down with his motor car.”

“Good heavens! You were lucky to escape with only a minor injury.”

“Lucky?” he snorted, tearing off a shred of bandage and placing it absentmindedly into his pocket. “I would be a good deal luckier if people would learn to handle their motors before they took to the public streets with them.”

Helena
, reminded of her brother’s recent accident, lost her belligerent look. A glimmer could be seen in her eyes, and I hoped we wouldn’t have a repeat of her tears. “You are having too many accidents since you have been home, Griffin. First, there was the ruffian in Limehouse—”

“A common navvy under the influence of a local opium den. It was not a personal attack against me,” Griffin interrupted.

“And then there was the incident a few weeks ago when you fell down the back stairs—”

“A loose carpet rod.”

“And just last week you had that terrible bilious attack that Doctor Treadway called suspicious.”

Griffin
groaned as he glanced at me, obviously embarrassed by his sister’s candor. “I doubt if Miss Whitney wants to hear about my internal complaints, Helena. We are boring her. And I’m not through discussing this rally tomorrow—”

“On the contrary, you are not boring me at all. In fact, it sounds like you are a character out of a novel I am at present reading.”

He grunted and looked out the window as Helena asked, “A novel?”

“Your brother’s recent escapades strike me as the melodramatic stuff that makes up popular novels. The type with the dark, brooding hero who someone is trying to do away with. I picked up just such a novel the other day.”

Griffin
muttered a rude comment under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear. “About that rally you plan to go to tomorrow . . . .” he started to say, then fell silent as the butler stepped into the room.

“Miss Debenham.”

“Emma! How delightful to see you. You will remember Mr. and Miss St. John.” I rose to greet my old friend.

“Of course. It’s a pleasure to see you both again. Cassandra, I’m sorry to interrupt. I had no idea you had visitors. I can come back another time—”

“Don’t be silly. I’m always happy to see you. Mullin, bring tea.” I escorted Emma to a chair and sat beside her, giving her hand a little pat of support. Despite our success the other day at my aunt’s tea, I knew Emma still felt awkward in the company of anyone but her oldest friends.

Griffin
looked with much speculation first at Emma, then at my hand on hers, then to me.

“You look flushed, Cassandra. Are you feeling well?” Emma asked as silence descended in the room.

“Quite well. I had a busy morning. Helena—”

The slight young woman jumped as I spoke her name. Emma and I looked in surprise at her reaction.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. It’s just…” Helena knelt next to me, taking my arm. “You mentioned…you don’t think…oh, surely it can’t be true! Griffin, say it is not true!”

“It’s not true,” he obediently said.

“What’s not true?” Emma asked me.

“I have no idea. Mr. St. John?”

He shrugged. “Helena has a vivid imagination. No doubt that is giving her grief right now.”

“Helena, what—” I started to ask, but she gripped my hands then, her fingers digging into mine with unexpected strength. 

“Griffin,” she whispered hoarsely, her face a bloodless mask. “Do you really think someone is…someone want to…someone plans to do away with him?”

Chapter Eight

We all looked at Griffin: Helena in horror, full of concern for a beloved brother, Emma with thoughtful surprise, and me with more than a little amusement.

Griffin
rolled his eyes at Helena’s question. “No one is trying to kill me. That suggestion was a figment of Miss Whitney’s mind, which she herself just admitted is overheated with the inane ramblings of women’s novels.”

“I admitted nothing of the kind! I can think of several reasons that someone might wish to murder your brother. I, myself . . .but we will not go into that. Doubtless, he has made many enemies with his abrasive manners and misguided beliefs.” A low growl emitted from the vicinity of the window. I continued at a louder volume. “And certainly there must be a vast number of women travelers who would be delighted to see him in the hereafter, but I must admit that his recent accidents seem more a result of his own clumsiness than a planned assault by an unknown person.”  I thought for a moment. “Or persons, perhaps even an organized group with an international membership—”

“Blast you, woman,” he roared. “I am the mildest of men! I have no enemies other than the ever-increasing hordes of women who insist on getting in my way!”

Helena
bleated at him in a distressed manner, while Emma stifled her laugher. Griffin, eyes alight and nostrils flaring, glared at me in a magnificent example of a righteously enraged Englishman.

As a dedicated New Woman, I could not resist toying with him a little longer.

“Do you mean to say that women who travel abroad do so with the sole purpose of placing themselves in your way? It seems a rather conceited idea, but if it pleases you to believe that the world revolves around you...” I ignored Griffin’s enraged bellow as Mullin brought in the tea, followed by Theodore with assorted teacakes. “Tea, Helena? Emma, you must try the seed cake. Cook does it particularly well.”

“Cassandra, I must know—do you really feel that Griffin is in any danger?”

I looked up from pouring tea and sighed. It wasn’t fair to torment Helena because I wanted to tease her brother. “Unfortunately for the future of women travelers, no, I don’t feel he is in danger. I think he is just clumsy—or accident-prone.”

“Typical female attitude,” he muttered as he accepted a cup of tea and plate of cake. “I’m fine as am I. If you women weren’t so determined to meddle in a man’s affairs . . . and speaking of that, this rally tomorrow—”

Wishing to avoid another argument, and to keep his mind from the subject of the Hyde Park gathering, I interrupted him. “Emma, did you know that Mr. St. John was recently in Arabia?”

“Really?” Interest lit her dark eyes. She looked at him. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes,” he said gruffly, stuffing half of the seed cake into his mouth.

“Why don’t you tell us about the trip?” I asked, smiling. “I’m sure Emma would like to hear about it, and I would be most interested. When exactly did you return home?”

“Three weeks ago.” He glared at me with a decidedly suspicious glint in his cat-like amber eyes.

“Arabia . . . it sounds so exotic,” I mused, my mind a thousand miles away. “Minarets.”

“Camels,” Helena said, a similar faraway look in her eyes.

“Rugs and tiny little cups of coffee,” I added.

“Harems,” Emma said, her voice breathy with pleasure.

Griffin
snorted. “There is a lot more to the country than rugs, camels, and harems.”

“Tell us about it,” I invited.

He gave me a long look, then, grudgingly at first, told us about his latest journey. As he spoke, animation crept over his face, passion for a topic near to his heart softening his features and giving him a vitality that took him beyond merely handsome, to breathtakingly gorgeous.

My admiration grew as he spoke; here was a man who was not content to live in a settled, safe life. Not for him, the routine, the humdrum; instead he walked a path that few Englishmen had walked before. Brave, heroic, adventurous, he faced life and death on a daily basis, and relished every minute of it.

“How I wish I could have such adventures!” I cried, envious and rapt with admiration at the same time. “Oh, Emma, don’t you wish we could do the same?”

She raised her eyebrows, nibbling on a lemon tart. “It sounds very exotic, but I believe I prefer familiar surroundings to those of a more daring nature.”

“I would love to have adventures,” Helena declared, sitting forward on the chair. “Life here is so boring!”

 “Can you imagine meeting a sheikh, Helena? Eating a meal of sheep’s eyes? Riding a camel across the desert? And the men, how dashing and handsome they sound, how brave and daring.” A sudden thought occurred to me, and I asked hopefully, “Did you see the sheikh’s harem?”

“Good lord, no!” Griffin looked at me askance. “No man is allowed to see a sheikh’s harem and live to tell about it.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “Why?”

His shocked look was answer enough.

Emma coughed. I patted her on the back as I murmured, glancing at Helena, “Perhaps another time. Now, you were saying something about a nomad tribe?”

I fell silent and let him continue his narrative. Although he was a fascinating orator, and told his spine-chilling tales well, I slowly found my concentration waning.

Instead of thrilling to his adventure with a camel thief in Baghdad, I found myself gazing appreciatively at his broad shoulders. He told of a narrow escape through a bazaar while I admired the way his hair curled back from his brow, my fingers itching to touch the silky curls. When he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve to show us a tattoo received at the hands of a Zulu warrior, I noticed the way the fine, golden brown hairs grew on his arms. The ease with which he strode about captivated me, his deep, resonant voice rolled around the small room, sweeping me up in its warmth, and making me tingle in places I had never known to tingle before.

This is no soup dribbler
, I told myself.
He is prime lover material, a virile man who thinks nothing of staring fear in the face.
And I was determined to have him.

My mind wandered pathways that involved his bare flesh under my hands, my breasts growing heavy as the overwhelming desire to be pressed up against him washed over me. Having grown up with a father whose religious beliefs were borderline fanatical, I had no experience of the carnal acts, but I could not deny that there were parts of me, personal parts,
tingly
parts that had developed an intense interest in learning all about them with Griffin. I recalled every Greek statue I had ever seen, and wondered how he would compare. Would his fig leaf bulge in as enticingly a manner as the statue of Apollo I had once seen?

With a start, I realized he had stopped speaking. Both Emma and Helena watched me with evident concern.

“Fig leaf,” I said, then realized my mouth had spoken without my thinking, and cleared my throat. I picked up the cold teapot. “More tea, anyone?”

Helena
and Griffin took their leave not long after that. As I was seeing them out, Helena stopped suddenly in the hallway.

“I have forgotten!”  She darted forward and snatched up a package. “Your coat. Griffin returned it to me this morning. I had foolishly left it in the hall.”

She smiled warmly as our eyes met. There was no sign of trepidation about her countenance—I doubt if it had occurred to her to look in the coat pockets.

“Thank you for thinking of it,” I said weakly, relief flooding me.

She gave me a shy smile and turned to leave. As she did, Griffin leaned towards me and withdrew a familiar leather notebook from his coat and spoke quietly. “In the future, I would advise you to keep such information safe, and not make it available to people who could use it to your detriment.”

“Thank you,” I said in a small voice, too horrified by the thoughts running through my head to congratulate myself on keeping the topic of tomorrow’s rally from discussion. I watched silently as they entered their motorcar, then ran back to the sanctuary of the library.

“They seem like pleasant people,” Emma commented as I stood panting at the door. “Without the odious sister-in-law. I like Helena very much. I think she’ll be good friend for you. Her brother is—what on earth is the matter with you?”

I caught my breath and staggered into the room, collapsing on the sofa next to her. Quickly I explained about the events the previous evening. “The question is, will he tell his brother? Familial duty would require it, but would he betray Helena and me in such a manner?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said thoughtfully. “Men are such curious creatures. So unpredictable.”

“Was that why he had warned me against any further demonstrations? Was he trying to tell me the Union’s secrets were no longer safe? Can I trust him, or not?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any of those answers. Cassandra…” Emma gave me a curious look.

“Hmm?”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Griffin? Er…Mr. St. John?”

She laughed. “I can see you do.”

I set down the notebook and did my best to look like a worldly New Woman. “I am considering him for the position of lover, yes.”

“Considering him for—” She came to an abrupt stop, her lips pressed together tightly for a few seconds. “Have you told him of this opportunity?”

“No, I thought it best to wait until I had made a final decision,” I said, idly rubbing a spot on the knee of my gown. “Men, I have found, are often inflexible when it comes to such matters. It is best if I don’t mention anything until I’ve narrowed down the candidates to just him.”

“That would seem eminently wise,” she said with a suspicious tremor in her voice. “Would you think me rude if I asked about the other candidates?”

“Well, there’s Freddy of course, although I don’t really consider him a candidate. He’s my cousin, after all, and I although I have much affection for him, it is impossible for me to consider him in the light of a lover.”

“Very insightful of you,” she agreed.

“And then there was the dribbler.”

She looked somewhat startled. “Who?”

“Soup dribbler.”

“Ah.”

“I could never have carnal relations with a man who dribbled soup. Griffin doesn’t look in the least like he’d dribble, does he?”

“Not soup, no,” she said.

I narrowed my gaze on her. She seemed to be developing some sort of a facial tic.

“Any other candidates?” she asked.

“Not really, no. There’s Theodore the footman, but I caught him once picking his ear.” I shuddered.

She made a face. “Definitely not. I would say, then, that Mr. St. John stands a fair chance of being suitable for the position.”

I beamed at her, pleased with her approval of my choice. We chatted for a few minutes about her latest events—her literary circle was having some sort of reenactment of a historical event, and she wanted to get her costume just right—but my mind was consumed with worry, and I fear she noticed.

“The interpretive dance sounds lovely, Emma, although I don’t quite understand why you need to apply oil to the dancers. Does it have some historical importance?”

“You could say that. You have something on your mind, don’t you?”

I sighed. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been a good friend at all.”

“You’ve been the truest friend I have, but you know that. Tell me what’s bothering you. Is it the business with this notebook?”