had also been a guest; he had always come to her aid and ensured that, for a little while at least, she was the envy of a mass of other girls. Rory, though, was her second cousin and so didn’t really count.
She sighed, seeing spinsterhood ahead of her if Toby didn’t propose. That spinsterhood very probably lay ahead for Rose—who was now twenty-three and still not within a mile of becoming engaged—was no comfort. Like the vast majority of militant suffragettes, Rose believed that remaining single was all part of the battle; that to gain full equality with men, women had to be independent of them. It was an attitude that Iris, who longed for marriage and babies, found hard to understand.
As she continued to look out across the lake, she found herself wondering again about the weekend Marigold had spent at theirgreat-aunt’s. Rose had been so relieved about Marigold getting over her infatuation for Lord Jethney that for the moment she’d ceased worrying about Marigold. Iris hoped Rose wasn’t doing so prematurely. There had been an air of suppressed excitement about Marigold when she had returned from London—and if Lord Jethney wasn’t the cause, then knowing Marigold, another man was.
Feeling the need of Lily’s company, Iris began heading back toward the house. Lily, like herself, rarely left Snowberry. She was generally out of sight, though, in a large attic room that had been converted into a studio with huge skylights. There she spent hour after hour modeling busts and heads in clay. Rose had expressed the opinion that once her debutante year was over, Lily was talented enough to apply for a place at the Royal College of Art. It was a prospect that Iris knew both elated and terrified Lily. It was also a prospect Iris doubted Lily would ever have to face, for nothing was more certain than that Lily would be inundated with marriage proposals during her debutante year—and that all of them would be highly suitable.
Lily would, just by being herself, ease the hurt that was in her heart and would, for a little while at least, take her mind off the worrying anxiety as to when, if ever, Toby was going to pop the question.
Rory dropped Rose off at 4 Clement’s Inn, just off the Aldwych. The headquarters of the WSPU, it was, as always, a hive of frenzied activity.
“It’s good to see you again, Rose,” Christabel Pankhurst said to her as they squeezed into a comparatively quiet corner of the long inner office for a talk. “You can see how busy we are.”
All around them a score of women were working like beavers, addressing envelopes, making banners, printing leaflets, and manning phones.
“We intend stealing the show at the Coronation Procession of the Women of Britain on the seventeenth of June,” Christabel said explanatorily. “We don’t want the Women’s Freedom League outdoing us, do we? You will be there, Rose, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there. As for tomorrow morning, I shall be at Bow Street.”
Hearing the steel in her voice, Christabel narrowed her eyes. “Don’t do anything that might get you arrested, Rose. Not when there’s so little time before the suffragette coronation procession—and when five days later it’s the coronation itself. There’ll be plenty of time for heroics afterward.”
“If Daphne is given a prison sentence—and is sentenced to serve it as a common criminal and not as a political prisoner—then even if it means missing the procession and the coronation, I shall protest, Christabel.”
For a second she thought Christabel, who was the WSPU’s chief strategist and whose word was law, was going to forbid her to. Then Christabel flashed the wide, vibrant grin for which she was famous. “Quite right, Rose. If you can bring attention to the great indignity done to our members by being brought before ordinary courts when their offenses are political, then do so.”
Her grin widened. “Be sure to make it known that you are the great-niece of Lady Harland,
She sighed, seeing spinsterhood ahead of her if Toby didn’t propose. That spinsterhood very probably lay ahead for Rose—who was now twenty-three and still not within a mile of becoming engaged—was no comfort. Like the vast majority of militant suffragettes, Rose believed that remaining single was all part of the battle; that to gain full equality with men, women had to be independent of them. It was an attitude that Iris, who longed for marriage and babies, found hard to understand.
As she continued to look out across the lake, she found herself wondering again about the weekend Marigold had spent at theirgreat-aunt’s. Rose had been so relieved about Marigold getting over her infatuation for Lord Jethney that for the moment she’d ceased worrying about Marigold. Iris hoped Rose wasn’t doing so prematurely. There had been an air of suppressed excitement about Marigold when she had returned from London—and if Lord Jethney wasn’t the cause, then knowing Marigold, another man was.
Feeling the need of Lily’s company, Iris began heading back toward the house. Lily, like herself, rarely left Snowberry. She was generally out of sight, though, in a large attic room that had been converted into a studio with huge skylights. There she spent hour after hour modeling busts and heads in clay. Rose had expressed the opinion that once her debutante year was over, Lily was talented enough to apply for a place at the Royal College of Art. It was a prospect that Iris knew both elated and terrified Lily. It was also a prospect Iris doubted Lily would ever have to face, for nothing was more certain than that Lily would be inundated with marriage proposals during her debutante year—and that all of them would be highly suitable.
Lily would, just by being herself, ease the hurt that was in her heart and would, for a little while at least, take her mind off the worrying anxiety as to when, if ever, Toby was going to pop the question.
Rory dropped Rose off at 4 Clement’s Inn, just off the Aldwych. The headquarters of the WSPU, it was, as always, a hive of frenzied activity.
“It’s good to see you again, Rose,” Christabel Pankhurst said to her as they squeezed into a comparatively quiet corner of the long inner office for a talk. “You can see how busy we are.”
All around them a score of women were working like beavers, addressing envelopes, making banners, printing leaflets, and manning phones.
“We intend stealing the show at the Coronation Procession of the Women of Britain on the seventeenth of June,” Christabel said explanatorily. “We don’t want the Women’s Freedom League outdoing us, do we? You will be there, Rose, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there. As for tomorrow morning, I shall be at Bow Street.”
Hearing the steel in her voice, Christabel narrowed her eyes. “Don’t do anything that might get you arrested, Rose. Not when there’s so little time before the suffragette coronation procession—and when five days later it’s the coronation itself. There’ll be plenty of time for heroics afterward.”
“If Daphne is given a prison sentence—and is sentenced to serve it as a common criminal and not as a political prisoner—then even if it means missing the procession and the coronation, I shall protest, Christabel.”
For a second she thought Christabel, who was the WSPU’s chief strategist and whose word was law, was going to forbid her to. Then Christabel flashed the wide, vibrant grin for which she was famous. “Quite right, Rose. If you can bring attention to the great indignity done to our members by being brought before ordinary courts when their offenses are political, then do so.”
Her grin widened. “Be sure to make it known that you are the great-niece of Lady Harland,
Similar Books
