Suffragette Girl (3 page)

‘But you like him, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. There’s nothing anyone could
dislike
about him.’ She smiled at the thought of the young man who’d been her friend for as long as she could
remember.

‘And you get along with his sister, don’t you?’

There were only the two of them left now, living between Bixley Manor and the Richards’ London town house. Isobel Richards seemed to spend most of her time there, leaving her brother to
live at the Manor and run the family estate.

‘Of course.’

‘Then for Heaven’s sake, girl . . . ?’

‘Because I care enough about him
not
to marry him. He deserves better than me.’

‘What on earth do you mean by that? Our family is of equal—’

‘No – I don’t mean that.’ She gestured impatiently. Why, with her father, did everything have to revolve around their position in society? ‘He deserves a wife who
loves him in return.’

‘But then,’ Edgar said quietly, for once with an insight that was anathema to his nature,
‘he
won’t love
her,
now will he?’

For once, Florrie couldn’t think of a reply.

Dismissed from her father’s study in what amounted to disgrace, Florrie flew up the stairs, two steps at a time, and ran along the landing to the south wing of the house where Augusta
Maltby had her rooms.

‘Gran!’ Florrie burst into the elderly lady’s bedroom without so much as a knock on the door.

‘Goodness me, child, whatever brings you flying into my room shrieking like a banshee and without even the courtesy of announcing your impending arrival?’

Florrie was halted in her tracks, but she grinned. ‘Sorry, Gran.’ She loved the way Augusta pretended grandness when in truth she could have held her own amongst the rough and tumble
of the stable-yard lads.

‘And don’t call me “Gran”. It’s “Grandmama” or “Grandmother” to you, my girl.’

Florrie took a flying leap and landed on the end of the bed. ‘On our high horse today, are we,
Grandmama
?’

The twinkle in the old lady’s eyes belied her words. ‘Not for long with you around,’ she muttered, pretending to be offended. She gazed at the lovely face of her granddaughter.
Such clear skin – and without the aid of any cosmetics, she was sure; such mischievous eyes that gave warning of a steely resolve. And that beautiful long hair – a rich, dark brown
– curling and waving around her head. So like Augusta’s own ‘crowning glory’ had once been.

Florence Maltby was what many would call ‘a little madam’, but to her grandmother she represented all that was good in the youth of the Edwardian era. Though, Augusta reminded
herself, even those days were gone with the death of the old king two years earlier. Now his son, George V, ruled an unsettled world – a world where a young woman would need spirit and
determination to survive.

Augusta smiled fondly, her brief irritation forgotten. ‘So, what is it this time? You’re going to London to join Mrs Pankhurst and her followers?’

Florrie’s eyes widened. ‘How – how did you know?’

Augusta’s eyes sparkled with mischief and the indomitable spirit that even age could not quench. ‘Because if I was your age right now, that’s exactly what I would do. But
I’m a little old to be chaining myself to the railings outside Number Ten or Buckingham Palace.’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ Florrie laughed. At sixty-eight, her grandmother was still slim and energetic and Florrie could easily visualize her marching at the head of a protest waving a
banner.

‘Besides, I’m needed here.’ Her eyes twinkled wickedly. ‘Who would keep your father in check if I disappeared off to London?’

They exchanged a smile, then Augusta said, ‘Brush my hair, dear girl, will you?’

As Florrie scrambled off the bed, her grandmother raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Tut-tut, whenever are we going to get you to behave in a more ladylike manner, child?’

‘Never, I should think,’ Florrie said cheerfully as she picked up the silver-backed hairbrush from the dressing table and returned to the bedside. Gently, she brushed her
grandmother’s grey hair. It was thinning now, but once it had been as luxurious and vibrant as Florrie’s own locks. There was silence in the room for a moment. Augusta shut her eyes and
submitted to the pleasure of the brush strokes and the feel of the girl’s tender fingers.

Florrie glanced around her. She never tired of coming to her grandmother’s rooms. Augusta’s belongings, cluttered around her, had fascinated Florrie for as long as she could
remember. The furniture was heavy, Victorian mahogany that was polished lovingly every week. Every surface was covered with lace runners, photographs and ornaments – mementoes of a happy
life. Even the walls were almost covered with paintings and pictures, hung haphazardly, and every one of them held a special meaning for the old lady. Especially the huge portrait of her late
husband, Nathaniel Maltby, that hung opposite the end of her bed.

‘Actually, it wasn’t about that,’ Florrie confided, bringing her attention back to her grandmother’s question. ‘He – he doesn’t know about that
yet.’

‘By
he
I presume you mean your father.’

‘Mm.’

‘So – what is it that my son won’t let you do now?’

‘Well, this time, it’s what he wants me to do that I won’t.’

‘Ah, that makes a change,’ Augusta remarked drily.

There was a pause whilst Florrie continued to brush.

‘So, out with it, girl.’

‘He – he wants me to marry Gervase.’

Augusta twisted round to look up at her granddaughter, so quickly that Florrie almost caught her face with the brush. But she managed to snatch it away just before the bristles touched the soft,
wrinkled skin.

‘You don’t want to?’ Even Augusta was surprised at this. ‘But – but you’re always together. He’s your best friend. Yours and James’s
too.’

Florrie dropped the brush and sat down on the bed again. ‘I know,’ she said and now there were tears in her eyes. Gervase was the last person in the world – outside her own
family – whom she wanted to hurt. ‘I do love him, Gran—’ This time Augusta didn’t complain at the shortened name. ‘But not like that. I – I love him like a
brother, not – not—’ A faint blush tinged her cheeks. ‘Like a husband.’

‘Ah.’ Augusta gave a deep sigh. ‘I see.’ She lay back against the plump pillows and regarded her granddaughter thoughtfully.

‘Are – are you angry with me too?’ Florrie asked. She could stand up to her father, but her grandmother was a different matter.

‘I should be.’

Florrie clasped the thin, purple-veined hand. ‘But you’re not! Oh, Gran, please say you understand.’

‘My dearest girl, of course I do.’

‘I – I thought this time you might agree with Father.’

Augusta snorted. ‘That’d be a first.’ Florrie giggled, but now her grandmother was thoughtful. ‘I had a similar problem with my own father. Only he
dis
approved
of the man I wanted to marry.’

Florrie gasped. This was something she hadn’t known. ‘You – you mean, you were in love with someone before Grandpops?’

Augusta laughed. ‘Good Heavens, no! Your grandfather was the only man in my life. No, it was him my father disapproved of.’

‘Disapproved of Grandpops?’ Florrie’s voice squeaked in surprise. She couldn’t believe it. ‘But how could anyone have disliked him?’

‘Exactly!’ Augusta’s mouth twitched with amusement, then more seriously she added, ‘Actually, he quite liked him, but he thought he wasn’t suitable.’

‘Ah – he thought he wasn’t good enough for you? Not your class?’

Augusta chuckled. ‘Well, he certainly wasn’t my class, but it was the other way about, my dear.
I
wasn’t good enough for
him.
’

‘What! I don’t understand.’

The elderly lady regarded the guileless young face in front of her. ‘I think perhaps I should explain,’ she said slowly. ‘Though you must promise me not to speak of this in
front of your father – or your mother for that matter.’ Her mouth moved with wry amusement. ‘Your dear papa doesn’t like to be reminded of the lowly stock he comes
from.’

‘Lowly stock? Father?’ Florrie began to laugh.

‘Oh, you can laugh, child, but your father takes it all very seriously and has been at pains to hide his true ancestry.’

‘But – but we’ve a family tree in copperplate handwriting hanging in the hall for all to see. It even has a coat of arms somewhere way back in great-great-great somebody or
other’s time.’

Augusta chuckled. ‘I know, but have you ever noticed that it just follows the
male
line of the Maltbys – never the distaff side?’ She paused and then added pointedly,
‘There are none of
my
family shown on the tree, are there?’

Florrie stared at her. ‘No – there aren’t. But I never realized.’

‘Well, you go and take a good look.’

‘I will – but first tell me about you. Why weren’t you good enough to marry Grandpops?’

Augusta’s eyes glazed over for a moment. She began slowly at first, but then the past came flooding back. ‘My father worked on this estate, but he wasn’t even a tenant farmer.
He was even lowlier than that. He was a good man – a God-fearing man, hard-working and as honest as the day is long – but he was a waggoner for one of the tenants. We lived in a tied
cottage and at twelve years old I was sent to work in the big house.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’ Augusta nodded. ‘Here in Candlethorpe Hall as a scullery maid.’

Astonished, Florrie said, ‘Like little Beth was when she first came here?’

‘Yes – just like Beth, though I hope we’ve always been kinder to the little lass than they were in my day. After a year or so, your great-grandmother took a liking to me and
made me her personal maid. The other servants didn’t like it when a lowly scullery maid became a lady’s maid in one jump. But I was determined to go up in the world, though I never
imagined . . .’ Her voice faded away for a moment as she became lost in her own memories.

Florrie was thoughtful. It hadn’t escaped her notice that her grandmother always treated the household staff with great respect. ‘Little Beth’ as they called her was just such
a case. She’d come to Candlethorpe Hall as the lowliest of all servants – a scullery maid. But she was quick and eager, and Augusta soon made sure she was promoted to second housemaid
and, before long, to her own lady’s maid. Florrie smiled as she remembered the consternation her grandmother’s action had caused both above and below stairs. The first housemaid was
aggrieved that she’d been passed over and Mrs Dewey, the housekeeper, who had charge over all the female staff, had been none too pleased either. But it had all settled down, most probably
because it was
Augusta
who’d wanted Beth. Florrie had seen for herself how everyone from the lowliest kitchen maid to the superior butler adored her grandmother. They’d even
been known to go against the master’s wishes if Augusta decreed differently. Edgar Maltby might think himself the head of the household, but it was his mother who still ruled. Now, it seemed,
Augusta had been helping a young girl who deserved a better place in life, just as she’d once been helped.

Florrie’s thoughts came back to her grandmother and a dreadful image entered her head. She’d heard tales of how the sons of the well-to-do took their pleasure with the servant girls.
She bit her lip to stop the question escaping, but it seemed her shrewd grandmother had already guessed what was running through the young girl’s mind. ‘No,’ she said, answering
the unspoken question that must have shown itself in Florrie’s expression. ‘Nathaniel didn’t seduce me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Oh, Grandmother, you know me too well.’

‘So I should. I’ve looked after you since you were born. Your poor mother – well, we won’t go into that just now. Let me carry on with my story, else I’ll lose my
thread. That’s the trouble with being old. One gets so forgetful.’

Florrie chuckled. Anyone with a sharper mind than Augusta Maltby she’d yet to meet.

‘We fell in love. It was as simple and – in the circumstances – as complicated as that. Nathaniel’s family disapproved, of course. That was to be expected, but I was
surprised that my own father did too. He took me away from my position in the big house and sent me to work miles away for a crotchety old lady who used to lash out at me with her stick if I
didn’t suit.’

‘But – but Nathaniel followed you?’

‘Oh yes. He found out where I’d gone from one of my brothers and he came one night and took me away with him.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Seventeen by then.’

‘Did you get married? I mean, right away, because you’d have been underage, wouldn’t you? Oh, Grandmother—’ Florrie laughed delightedly. ‘You eloped. Do tell
me you eloped.’

Augusta laughed. ‘Yes, we did. We went all the way to Scotland to be married.’

‘To Gretna Green? Oh, how romantic!’

‘Your father doesn’t think so.’ Mention of Edgar’s name sobered them both. ‘So – stick to your guns, child,’ Augusta said firmly. ‘You’ll
never know a moment’s happiness unless you do.’

‘And you were happy? You and Grandpops?’

Nathaniel Maltby had died when Florrie had been nine, but she still remembered the rotund, bewhiskered, kindly old gentleman who’d always smelt of tobacco smoke when she climbed onto his
knee.

Augusta returned her gaze steadily, but her voice trembled a little as she said, ‘More than I can ever put into words, my dear.’

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Beth’s heart-shaped little face peered around it. ‘’Scuse me, madam, but Mrs Maltby says would Miss Florrie come down to the morning
room. Mr Richards is here to see her.’

‘Thank you, Beth.’ As the door closed behind the maid, Augusta touched her granddaughter’s hand. ‘Off you go then, my dear, and get the dirty deed done.’

‘Oh, Florrie dear, there you are.’

‘Yes, here I am, Mother,’ Florrie said gaily, closing the door behind her and walking towards the fireplace where her mother and Gervase sat, one on either side.

The young man had risen at her entry and was now smiling at her, looking, Florrie thought, unusually nervous. Now Clara rose and there was no mistaking her agitation, but then her mother was
always anxious about something or other and was often confined to her room, quite unable to face the rigours of running the household in the way that Edgar demanded. That was left to Augusta.