The Scandalous Suffragette. Eliza Redgold

       Chapter Four

       ‘Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.’

      —Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)

      Violet’s mouth fell open as she stared at Adam Beaufort. ‘You’ve come to propose to me?’

      He turned on his heel and this time bowed directly towards her. There was the merest upturning of the corners of his mouth. ‘Indeed.’

      ‘Marriage?’ she gasped. Was that really what he meant? Had her ears deceived her? They had only met once. Well, twice, if she counted tumbling off the balcony into his arms and that meeting couldn’t be considered a formal introduction. And now he was suggesting they wed? Surely it could not be so.

      The upturning of Adam Beaufort’s mouth grew more pronounced. A dent appeared in his left cheek, then vanished as he spoke. ‘I can think of no other proposal I would make, Miss Coombes.’

      ‘Marriage!’ her mother and father repeated at the same time, her mother breathless, and her father’s voice a stunned bellow.

      ‘Upon my soul!’ added Mr Coombes.

      ‘I realise this is unusual,’ Adam said. ‘And quite sudden. I believe that is the phrase, in such circumstances. But the circumstances are unusual, to say the least.’

      ‘They certainly are.’ Violet found her voice was as breathless as her mama’s. She put her hand to her bodice. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.

      ‘Marriage to a Beaufort!’ Mrs Coombes reached for her fan. ‘Oh, my...’

      Mr Coombes clutched his chest. He staggered and reached for the side table to right himself, sending a tin of Floral Creams flying.

      ‘Papa!’ Violet rushed to help him. ‘You must sit down.’

      Mrs Coombes hurried to her husband’s side. ‘Reginald!’

      ‘I’m all right,’ he insisted, leaning heavily on the table, his breath coming in puffs.

      Violet steered him to the wing chair by the fireplace. Her papa sank on to it, half-raised himself up, then sank back again. His normally florid cheeks turned a sickly colour, sweat beaded his forehead.

      ‘Are you quite well, sir?’ Adam Beaufort asked, concerned.

      Mrs Coombes wrung her handkerchief in distress. ‘It’s his heart.’

      Panting heavily, Mr Coombes waved away their alarm. ‘I get the odd turn. Nothing to worry about.’

      ‘Shall I call for a doctor?’ Adam asked.

      ‘No need, no need.’ Mr Coombes puffed. ‘I’ve seen all the best quacks. There’s nothing they can do.’

      Violet moved swiftly to the drinks tray. ‘Stay still, Papa. I’ll pour you a glass of water.’

      ‘Give it a bit of colour, won’t you? For medicinal purposes.’

      ‘You know you ought not to drink spirits when you’ve had a turn.’

      ‘I’ll be all the better for a spot of whisky.’

      She shook her head and added the merest drop of whisky to the water glass. There was no point in agitating him further. The doctors had been clear—the best medicine for him was peace and quiet.

      Violet’s hand tightened on the whisky bottle. Clearly the morning’s events had upset him greatly.

       It was all her fault.

      Adam Beaufort frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t wish me to fetch medical help?’

      ‘I’ll be right as rain in a moment,’ Mr Coombes assured him, his voice already stronger. ‘I always am. Where’s that drink, Violet?’

      ‘Here you are, Papa.’ Violet gave her father the weak whisky and water and propped a cushion behind him.

      Mr Coombes took a sip. ‘Ah, that’s it.’

      Violet turned to her mother, who was still wringing her hands. She looked about to cry.

      ‘Sit down, Mama,’ Violet said gently.

      Mrs Coombes picked up her fan. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Reginald.’

      ‘I’m quite well, Adeline,’ Mr Coombes said stoutly. ‘Do as Violet says.’

      Violet tucked her mother beneath a silk shawl. Going back to her papa, she took his wrist, counted and waited. His pulse was faster than usual, but it wasn’t as bad as some of his turns had been in the past, as far as she could make out.

      She straightened her back and glanced at Adam Beaufort. His expression was inscrutable. He was a man who controlled his emotions. He’d moved out of her way as she helped her mother and father. Now he stood by the fireplace, a tall but surprisingly comforting presence.

      He stayed calm in a crisis. That was it. She’d witnessed it before, when he’d caught her under his balcony. She liked that about him.

      ‘Would you care for a whisky?’ she asked him.

      In an unhurried movement, he took out a pocket watch. ‘It’s rather early in the day for spirits.’

      ‘But in the circumstances...’ Violet prompted.

      His mouth cornered into a smile. ‘Indeed.’

      She poured a large measure into the cut-crystal glass. ‘Water?’

      He inclined his dark head.

      ‘Don’t drown it as you did mine, Violet,’ said Mr Coombes from the wing chair.

      ‘You ought not to be having whisky at all, Papa,’ she retorted, pleased that he appeared to be rallying. But her hand shook as she poured some water into Adam Beaufort’s glass, spilling it on to the drinks tray. Her papa had been so angry. He’d never said such things to her before.

      She blotted the spilt water. Crossing the room, she gave Adam Beaufort his glass of whisky.

      His fingers grazed hers as he took it. They were warm and dry. ‘Thank you.’

      His touch seemed to stay on her skin, steadying her as she returned to the tray and poured herself a generous finger of whisky. She threw it back, straight, letting the fire scorch the back of her throat, only to find Adam Beaufort surveying her over the rim of his glass.

      The heavy crystal clanked as she replaced it on the silver tray. Young ladies were not supposed to drink spirits, let alone before luncheon. Yet another rule for women that did not apply to men. How it irked her.

      Heading over to her father’s chair, she took away his empty glass. The colour had returned to his cheeks, she noted with relief. He always recovered quickly from his turns, as he called them, but she was sure they were becoming more frequent.

      ‘How are you feeling now, Papa?’