The Scandalous Suffragette. Eliza Redgold

       Chapter One

       ‘The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon

       Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring

       The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit

       Of wisdom.’

       ‘Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul!’

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

      ‘What the blazes are you doing?’

      Violet peered down from the edge of the first-floor balcony and managed not to lose her footing. Her perch was precarious as she attempted to tie the banner across the balustrade. She hadn’t knotted either end yet, the banner still clutched in her tense fingers. It would have been much easier by daylight, and from the inside of the balcony, but there was no hope of that. It didn’t help being shouted at from down in the street.

      ‘What are you doing up there?’ he shouted again.

      In the dim street lighting Violet couldn’t make out the man’s face. All she could see was a tall figure clad in a dark coat. ‘It’s none of your concern, thank you!’

      ‘Of course it’s my concern!’ the man roared. ‘That’s my balcony you’re dangling from!’

      ‘What?’ Violet let go of the banner and shrieked. ‘Oh! My banner!’

      The purple-, green-and-white-striped banner floated away. Leaning out to catch it, she lost her footing on the edge of the stone balcony and tumbled down.

      Like lightning the man below jumped. ‘Damnation!’

      Violet landed in his outstretched arms. ‘Oh!’

      From the cradle of his arms she stared up at him. She saw him properly now, from the gaslight coming from over her shoulder. His hair was dark, falling over his brow. His eyes were a deep blue, so deep they seemed almost black. He was younger than she would have expected from the authority of his voice as he called up to her, but care grooved his mouth, shadowed his eyes.

      None of it detracted from him being one of the most handsome men Violet had ever seen.

      Time stilled. Clutched in his strong arms, her breathing slowed. Beneath her tight bodice her chest heaved. He, too, took her in, his gaze sweeping over her brown hair that had slipped free from her chignon in the fall, curls whispering around her neck. He scanned her wide brow, her full cheeks that she knew were too plump for fashion. His midnight eyes searched her blue ones that she knew must be wide with shock.

      She parted her lips to speak. His gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth.

      Then he plonked her upright on the cobbles.

      ‘No thanks, then, for rescuing you,’ he said caustically.

      ‘I’ve lost my banner!’

      ‘Your banner! You nearly lost your life!’

      Violet straightened her spine. ‘I’d give my life for the Cause.’

      ‘The Cause. You’re one of those damned suffragettes!’

      ‘I’m proud to be,’ Violet said hotly. ‘And there’s no need to swear.’

      ‘I’ll do what I damned well like!’

      ‘And so will I!’ She stamped her boot.

      ‘Is that so?’ His eyes blazed into hers. ‘Promise me you won’t go climbing any more balconies. It’s madness.’

      ‘Who do you think you are?’ she demanded. ‘I’ll make no promises to you.’

      ‘What were you doing up there on the balcony at this time of night?’

      ‘I thought it was the gentlemen’s club...’ Violet faltered. She’d chosen it as a prime target for one of her banners. Normally it was full of stuffy old men swilling port, or so she believed, but on a Sunday night it was empty, giving her a perfect opportunity to execute her plan.

      ‘That’s around the corner,’ he said curtly. ‘There are no signs on the club entrances. On purpose,’ he added with a glare.

      The tall stone mansions, with their columns and arched windows, were so similar. She’d been so pleased that the building appeared quiet that she’d quite forgotten to double check the address.

      Violet’s sense of humour got the better of her. She didn’t know London well and she had carried out her reconnaissance from a passing carriage. She suppressed a giggle, felt the start of a smile.

      The scowl on the man’s face wiped it away.

      She raised her chin.

      ‘I must ask you to accept my apology,’ she said with dignity.

      ‘You had the wrong balcony. This is my home.’ His jaw clenched. ‘For the time being, anyway. I could have you arrested for trespass. For all I know you might be a burglar.’

      ‘I’m not a burglar,’ she protested. ‘And you wouldn’t dare.’

      He raised a winged eyebrow.

      ‘Try me,’ he said grimly. ‘How did you get up there?’

      ‘That pillar.’ Violet pointed at one of the Roman-style pillars on either side of the front door and the portico where she’d balanced on top. ‘Then I climbed the drainpipe.’

      A rather dirty drainpipe, she realised, by the state of her