see you didn’t. Daphne Harbury was arrested after a suffragette demonstration. She’s to appear at Bow Street Court tomorrow and according to what was in the newspaper, it seems she’ll very probably receive a prison sentence.”
Rose paled. “Daphne is the daughter of an earl. Surely, considering who her father is, she’ll be let off with a fine?”
“I’d like to think so, Rose, but I very much doubt it. The demonstrations have become far too violent, and other aristocratic young women have been imprisoned—and are on hunger strike being forcibly fed.”
Rose sucked in her breath. She’d been isolated too long atSnowberry, far from suffragette activity. It was time she went back into the fray—and the first thing she had to do was to give Daphne moral support by being at Bow Street tomorrow morning.
She said decisively, “I’m coming to London with you. Your grandmother won’t mind me arriving at St. James’s Street unexpectedly. Iris will have to look after things while I’m away.”
That afternoon, with Rose en route to London with Rory, Iris took the dogs for a walk around the lake. She had something on her mind, something that was causing her intense distress. She was beginning to think that Toby was no longer as interested in her as she had believed him to be. Ever since he had joined the Coldstream Guards a little over a year ago it was almost as if the unspoken understanding that had existed between them for as long as she could remember had come to an abrupt end.
She came to a halt, staring out over the shimmering surface of the lake. Toby had commandeered her as his best friend when, in the years before he had gone to prep school, there had been no one else near Sissbury for him to be friends with. She had always been the tomboy in the family and had enjoyed racing her pony against his, swimming with him in Snowberry’s lake, fishing with him in the river that ran through Sissbury’s estate, climbing trees and making secret dens with him in Sissbury’s woods. She had enjoyed all that far more than she had enjoyed playing the dressing-up games Marigold so boringly always wanted to play.
Even after he had gone to Eton, they had still been inseparable whenever he was at home, and, as they had both grown a little older, their friendship had made her feel special in a way that—being the plain Jane of the family—was very important to her. She might not be as academically clever as Rose, or as stunningly beautiful as Marigold, or as sweetly lovable as Lily, but Toby never spent time with Rose or Marigold or Lily. He spent time with her—and she had grown up hoping he would always do so.
Then he had joined the Coldstream Guards and had begun moving in a world far removed from the Sissbury/Snowberry one they had shared for so long. Instead of riding with the local hunt, he now played polo at matches in Surrey and Berkshire that she wasn’t invited to; they were matches she knew would be attended by the kind of girls men regarded as being “a catch.”
She bit her lip, well aware that she couldn’t be described by anyone as “a catch.” She hadn’t even been a catch the year she had been a debutante. That was the year when girls hoped for proposals, and it was certainly the year she had hoped for a proposal from Toby.
When she hadn’t received one, it had been a disappointment, but a disappointment she had understood, for his father, Viscount Mulholland, had been seriously ill that summer with typhoid fever. Though Toby had waltzed her around her great-aunt’s ballroom at her coming-out ball in a manner that had caused happy speculation about the two of them, for most of her season he had been at Sissbury where his father had hovered between life and death for many weeks.
No one else had shown any interest in her at all.
At other debutantes’ coming-out balls and parties she had been a wallflower, seated with the chaperones, an empty dance card in her hand. Or she had unless Rory
Rose paled. “Daphne is the daughter of an earl. Surely, considering who her father is, she’ll be let off with a fine?”
“I’d like to think so, Rose, but I very much doubt it. The demonstrations have become far too violent, and other aristocratic young women have been imprisoned—and are on hunger strike being forcibly fed.”
Rose sucked in her breath. She’d been isolated too long atSnowberry, far from suffragette activity. It was time she went back into the fray—and the first thing she had to do was to give Daphne moral support by being at Bow Street tomorrow morning.
She said decisively, “I’m coming to London with you. Your grandmother won’t mind me arriving at St. James’s Street unexpectedly. Iris will have to look after things while I’m away.”
That afternoon, with Rose en route to London with Rory, Iris took the dogs for a walk around the lake. She had something on her mind, something that was causing her intense distress. She was beginning to think that Toby was no longer as interested in her as she had believed him to be. Ever since he had joined the Coldstream Guards a little over a year ago it was almost as if the unspoken understanding that had existed between them for as long as she could remember had come to an abrupt end.
She came to a halt, staring out over the shimmering surface of the lake. Toby had commandeered her as his best friend when, in the years before he had gone to prep school, there had been no one else near Sissbury for him to be friends with. She had always been the tomboy in the family and had enjoyed racing her pony against his, swimming with him in Snowberry’s lake, fishing with him in the river that ran through Sissbury’s estate, climbing trees and making secret dens with him in Sissbury’s woods. She had enjoyed all that far more than she had enjoyed playing the dressing-up games Marigold so boringly always wanted to play.
Even after he had gone to Eton, they had still been inseparable whenever he was at home, and, as they had both grown a little older, their friendship had made her feel special in a way that—being the plain Jane of the family—was very important to her. She might not be as academically clever as Rose, or as stunningly beautiful as Marigold, or as sweetly lovable as Lily, but Toby never spent time with Rose or Marigold or Lily. He spent time with her—and she had grown up hoping he would always do so.
Then he had joined the Coldstream Guards and had begun moving in a world far removed from the Sissbury/Snowberry one they had shared for so long. Instead of riding with the local hunt, he now played polo at matches in Surrey and Berkshire that she wasn’t invited to; they were matches she knew would be attended by the kind of girls men regarded as being “a catch.”
She bit her lip, well aware that she couldn’t be described by anyone as “a catch.” She hadn’t even been a catch the year she had been a debutante. That was the year when girls hoped for proposals, and it was certainly the year she had hoped for a proposal from Toby.
When she hadn’t received one, it had been a disappointment, but a disappointment she had understood, for his father, Viscount Mulholland, had been seriously ill that summer with typhoid fever. Though Toby had waltzed her around her great-aunt’s ballroom at her coming-out ball in a manner that had caused happy speculation about the two of them, for most of her season he had been at Sissbury where his father had hovered between life and death for many weeks.
No one else had shown any interest in her at all.
At other debutantes’ coming-out balls and parties she had been a wallflower, seated with the chaperones, an empty dance card in her hand. Or she had unless Rory
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