The Scandalous Suffragette. Eliza Redgold
lessons. Music and chatter filled the air, along with the tinkle of laughter and champagne glasses.
The three of them sat alone on fragile gilt chairs in a small curtained alcove off the dance floor. The red-velvet curtains were open wide, unlike some of the other alcoves, inviting visitors to their table. So far, no one had approached. Her dance card, lying on the linen tablecloth, remained empty.
Her mother blinked rapidly. ‘I thought Violet would have plenty of partners. It was so fortunate for us to receive an invitation.’
‘It’s quite all right, Mama,’ Violet said stoutly. ‘I don’t care to dance. Not tonight, in any case.’
She stilled her foot beneath the skirt of her voluminous ball gown. In truth, she loved to dance and her slippers had been waltzing under her petticoats ever since she arrived.
Her cheeks were warm. She sipped some champagne. It was the heat of the ballroom, she told herself. She refused to be humiliated by their obvious lack of welcome at the ball.
Biting her lip, she glanced down at her gown with a frown. Perhaps it suited her ill. It had more frills and furbelows than she would have liked—her mama had insisted on them—but they’d been to the best dressmaker in London, so it was perfectly cut. The sleeves were short, leaving her forearms bare to her gloves, the bodice dipped down to reveal the skin of her décolletage, but not in a vulgar way, her train draped beautifully and the violet sash emphasised the tininess of her waist. Her brown hair had been dressed by her mother’s new French maid in a flattering style, swept up at the back into a high chignon.
In the glass above the mantel in the drawing room she’d seen her reflection before they left for the ball, her eyes cornflower bright and her cheeks rosy with unexpected excitement. Her chin, the same strong chin as her papa’s, a feature that meant that she would never be considered a classical beauty, was slightly pink, too.
‘You’re a belle, Violet, just like your mama,’ her father said proudly when she spun a pirouette, narrowly avoiding a porcelain trinket box crashing to the floor. Her first ball. Surely every girl longed to attend a ball. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as dreadful as she expected.
It was, possibly, worse. Her trepidation about the ball had been justified. No one spoke to them. They weren’t being cut, exactly, for they hadn’t been formally introduced into society. But they were certainly not welcomed with open arms, or even an extended hand. One of the young ladies who had chatted with her at their horse-riding lessons in Hyde Park behaved as though Violet was invisible when she gave her a small wave across the room.
She didn’t mind for herself, she told herself firmly. But she did mind for her father, with his high hopes, who’d beamed as they climbed into their new carriage drawn by four horses, and for her mother, too.
Upon their arrival, where she’d taken the opportunity to scan the entry hall, she’d stood near some disapproving Dowagers and overheard a snide, whispered conversation.
‘The Coombes have come to London for the Season to try for a match for the daughter,’ one of the Dowagers whispered. ‘They don’t seem to be having much luck.’
‘Even with all those chocolates,’ the other woman had tittered.
‘My dear, no wonder. Have you spied the mother? Covered in feathers and weighed down with so many diamonds she rivals the chandeliers.’
Violet had turned hot with indignation. Why shouldn’t her mama wear as many diamonds as she wanted to? They were newly cut gems, not the old, rose-cut kind that glinted in the dull unpolished settings slung around most of the other ladies’ necks, but her mama loved her diamonds and her papa had been so pleased to be able to give them to her. Her parents had faced some hard times in the early days, before the chocolate business became a success.
Now, her mother picked up her huge ostrich fan. It was too big, by the unkind Dowagers’ standards, but who were they to judge her beloved mama?
‘What should we do?’ her mama whispered from behind the feathers. ‘Should we go home?’
‘Certainly not!’ Violet and her father spoke at the same time.
‘Let’s sit it out,’ her father said.
Her mother’s lip quivered.
‘I’ll take you for a turn on the floor, Adeline, cheer you up.’ He glanced at Violet.
‘We can’t leave Violet sitting alone,’ her mother protested.
Violet picked up her own fan, white lace trimmed with ribbon to match her sash. She’d stopped her mama from having peacock feathers added to it and she wore a simple pearl necklace like the other young women in white who appeared to be about her age, even if the pearls were perfectly matched and clasped with a first-rate diamond. ‘I don’t mind a jot, Mama. I don’t care if I’m a wallflower.’
‘Violets may grow in the shade, but they’re never wallflowers.’ Her father patted her shoulder as he stood and made an elaborate bow to his wife.
They made their way to the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another waltz. Her father took her mother in his arms.
The sensation of being held in the arms of the man who had caught her when she fell from the balcony came back to her. She’d relived it more than once, that sense of safety and danger, too, with his lips so close to hers. He’d even appeared in her dreams the night before, shouting something at her from the garden below as she leaned out of the first-floor window of a big house she didn’t recognise.
She wondered what it would be like to dance with a man, held like that. She wasn’t likely to find out. Tonight, she wasn’t even going to dance.
Never mind. She jerked up her chin.
She’d made her secret decision long ago, when she first became a suffragette. Of course, she hadn’t confided in her parents, any more than she’d told them about her suffragette activities. They wouldn’t understand. But she would stick to her decision. She would put aside those hopes and dreams, her own desires, for the greater good. For the Cause.
Violet could so clearly recall the moment the Cause had seized her, body and soul. She had read about the suffragettes in The Times newspaper, which she much preferred to the fashion papers. A thrill of excitement had run through her as she learned about the women fighting to be allowed to vote, led by Emmeline Pankhurst. Like Violet, Mrs Pankhurst came from Manchester, in the north of England. ‘Deeds, not words,’ she urged her followers.
‘Deeds, not words’, Violet repeated to herself. In her own way, she’d vowed, she would make a difference, add her daring deeds to the Cause. She might not be able to join suffragette rallies, or go to meetings, or march in the streets, as she longed to. Her parents would never allow it. But she kept sewing her banners. No one would stop her.
‘You keep your promises.’ A deep voice came back to her. The man on the street had sensed she was someone who would keep true to her word and her deeds. She had sensed the same in him, too.
Her parents twirled past. Her father was surprisingly light on his feet and her mother was smiling now, to Violet’s relief. She did so want her parents’ happiness.
Sometimes she wished they had stayed in Manchester. They were happier there in their large house a few miles outside the town. But her mama wanted Violet to have everything and so did her papa, and that meant moving to London for the Season. They believed there were more opportunities.
Dancing lessons. Elocution lessons. French lessons. Riding lessons. Music lessons. To please her parents she took them all and it left precious little time to herself. So she sewed her banners and carried out her plans at night.
Deeds, not words.
On the way into the ballroom, she’d spotted another excellent target. Two targets, to be precise.
Violet rubbed her thighs together and heard the rustle of silk.
* * *
Adam Beaufort