The Scandalous Suffragette. Eliza Redgold
off the table when he had his turn.
She clasped the tin to her bodice.
They always kept Coombes Chocolates in the drawing room. There were tins of Floral Creams in every bedroom, too. It was a point of pride for her family.
She looked down at the lid, with its swirled font and bouquet of flowers. Now it might never be adorned with the royal warrant they all wanted so much. Her papa had even left room for it in the design, believing that aiming high was the best method for success.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them.’ Her papa often quoted that. She’d been raised on the philosophy of Samuel Smiles, the author of her father’s favourite book, Self-Help. There was a handsome leather-bound copy of the book in pride of place at the factory office. It had been given to her papa by his employees one Christmas, after their annual party. Over two thousand people, men and women, worked at the Coombes factory. Violet knew each and every one of them. They all relied on their wages, for the well-being of their homes and families.
Now it was all at risk. The factory. Her papa’s health. Her mama’s happiness. The cost of being a suffragette had proved far greater than she had ever imagined.
She stared at the tin of chocolates. Its outline blurred before her eyes.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,’ she reminded herself.
The scent of cocoa and flowers wafted up as she opened the lid and held it out towards Adam Beaufort. ‘Would you like a chocolate fondant?’
He appeared startled, then smiled. ‘Perhaps later. I’m afraid my nanny drummed into me that sweets before luncheon were the road to ruin.’
Violet smiled back, the threat of tears retreating. He had a knack of lightening the mood of a situation.
She popped a violet cream into her mouth. The familiar taste, with its dark, almost spicy chocolate, the sugar-coated violet petal on top and the contrasting smoothness of the sweet fondant inside, gave her a surge of vigour.
Replacing the tin on the table, she ran her finger over the embossed picture of roses, violets, lavender and pansies. Her mother had confided once that they had planned a whole nursery full of children, the girls to be named after the flowers that had made their fortune and the first boy, her mother had said, would be named Reginald, after her papa. Those other children had never come. Violet hadn’t felt lonely on her own, so she’d not missed sisters and brothers. She’d never known that her father felt the loss of a son so keenly. Not until today.
Her papa didn’t have the heir he wanted. Instead, he had a daughter who had brought disrepute to the family name.
A pain stabbed at her heart.
She glanced at Adam Beaufort. His back half-turned, he stared out the window, seeming to sense she needed time to collect her thoughts. The noon sunshine coming in from between the velvet curtains outlined his profile. His jaw was strong, but there was no cruelty in it. Perhaps she ought to feel intimidated being alone with him, one of the most eligible men in London society, but she didn’t. She never dreamed she’d find herself in the drawing room discussing marriage with him. She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to check she was awake.
The cherub clock chimed. Yes, she was awake. Adam Beaufort was standing by the window in real life, not in a dream, staring out into that peculiar soft London sunshine that made the streets and buildings shine like marigolds. In spite of their lack of welcome by society, in some ways Violet had enjoyed being in the capital. She’d walked to Parliament Square and listened to Big Ben while gazing at the Houses of Parliament, dreaming of laws that might be changed inside its hallowed walls.
Votes for Women! Now her papa had forbidden her to be a suffragette, all that must be stopped. She couldn’t defy him now. She had already caused enough distress.
Yet the thought of giving up the Cause...
Violet moved towards to Adam Beaufort. ‘Shall we have some plain speaking?’
He turned to face her. There was no doubting his smile this time. His teeth gleamed white. ‘Do you speak any other way, Miss Coombes?’
‘I prefer it,’ she admitted. ‘I would very much like to hear more of your plan.’
His grin widened. ‘It isn’t a plan I’ve refined yet, as you may have realised. I haven’t been following you in the dark of night, plotting to catch you from balconies. And it’s not the reason I asked you to dance at the ball.’
‘Oh.’ Violet felt more pleased than she expected at his saying so. The sense of being safe with him returned.
‘It was an idea that came to me when I heard of your trouble. A moment of inspiration. Or perhaps it is an ill-conceived notion, something we ought to forget I ever mentioned.’
‘Oh, no,’ Violet said quickly. ‘I’d very much like to explore your suggestion.’
Adam Beaufort inclined his head. ‘Certainly.’
Violet took some air from deep in her chest, as far as her corset would allow. The breathlessness she’d experienced when he first proposed had returned, but she forced her voice to firmness. ‘Would you propose marriage to me if I didn’t have a fortune?’
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