Suffragette Girl (4 page)

‘I’ll – er – go to my room,’ Clara murmured, scuttling out as if desperate to escape from a scene that she feared was going to erupt into angry words and cause a
tense atmosphere throughout the house that would linger for weeks, if her wayward daughter refused Gervase’s proposal.

‘Gervase – how lovely to see you,’ Florrie said brightly. ‘Can I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Or maybe something stronger?’ she added mischievously.

‘No – thank you. Florrie – I—’

‘My word, Gervase, you look very smart today.’

He was wearing a dark, pinstriped three-piece suit instead of his usual country tweeds. He was tall and broad-shouldered, happiest when he was striding about the fields of his estate, but not
out of place or awkward in an elegant drawing room. He was at ease in any surroundings – but not today.

‘Florrie – darling,’ he held out his hands. ‘Please, come and sit down.’

She allowed him to lead her to the sofa. They sat side by side.

‘You know why I’m here, don’t you?’

She looked up into his gentle blue eyes that usually twinkled with merriment but at this moment were unusually serious and intense. She felt an urge to smooth the wiry fair hair that curled so
vigorously that no amount of plastering it down would make it lie flat.

‘Please, Gervase, don’t say it. Please don’t. I – I don’t want to hurt you. You mean the world to me as my dearest friend, but I really can’t marry
you.’

His handsome, craggy face fell into lines of disappointment. ‘Why not, Florrie? Just tell me why not?’

The young girl sighed. This was so difficult. How much easier it would be just to give in and say ‘yes’. All her family would be pleased with her, and she’d no doubt –
and it was not conceit – that her acceptance would make Gervase ‘the happiest man on earth’. She could almost hear him saying it. But what none of them could understand was that
it would be a fleeting happiness. It wouldn’t last forever. And she couldn’t bear to think that they might come to hate each other. She couldn’t do that. Not to Gervase – or
to herself.

‘I love you dearly,’ she began badly. That was quite the wrong thing to say.

Hope sprang into his eyes. ‘Then—’

‘As I love James,’ she added firmly, trying to make him understand. ‘And you know how much that is.’

Her brother, younger than her by four years, was the darling of the family. Their mother doted on him, their father had high hopes for him, and even Augusta – though she’d never
admit to having favourites – melted like butter at the sight of him. Florrie had never felt jealous of James; she adored him just as much as everyone else. He’d been a handsome little
chap and at fourteen showed all the promise of breaking girls’ hearts throughout the county. Florrie just prayed that when his turn came he would fall in love with someone whom Father would
think ‘suitable’. She believed that she could get away with disappointing him, but if James were to go against Edgar’s wishes, then . . . Well, it didn’t bear thinking
about.

‘You mean you love me as a brother and not as a husband,’ Gervase said flatly.

‘That’s it exactly.’

‘I won’t stop trying, Florrie. Every New Year’s Eve, I shall propose again.’

‘Please don’t,’ Florrie pulled a face. ‘I shall dread every year end if you say that.’

Gervase laughed and some of the hurt left his eyes for a moment. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to put up with it. Maybe you’ll get so fed up of saying
“no”, one year you’ll say “yes”.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers one by one and, quite serious now, added, ‘Just remember, Florrie,
that if ever you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.’

‘Oh no, you’ll meet a lovely girl, get married and have a huge family. And I’ll be the best adopted auntie in the whole world.’

He regarded her steadily. ‘That’s not going to happen, Florrie. You’re the only girl I’ll ever love.’

His words and his tone were so sincere, so heartfelt, that for once Florrie could not make light of them. ‘I’m sorry, truly I am,’ she whispered, tears spilling down her
cheeks.

With tender fingers Gervase wiped them away. ‘Please don’t cry, Florrie.’ He smiled. ‘You always tell me you never cry.’

‘I don’t,’ she said fiercely. ‘At least – not often.’

‘So – let’s just go on being the good friends we are, eh? But I meant what I said.’

‘I know.’

‘I suppose I forget how young you are. Only eighteen. You need a little fun before you settle down, don’t you? You haven’t even “come out” yet, but you see
I’m so afraid if you go to London for the Season, one of those very eligible young men will snap you up. I wanted us to be engaged so that couldn’t happen. But I know it’s your
mother’s dearest wish that you should be presented at court. Just as she was.’

Now Florrie laughed aloud, her tears brushed away. ‘Well, it’s not going to happen – I promise you. If I go to London it will be for quite a different reason than doing the
round of balls and parties to meet eligible bachelors.’

‘What do you mean?’

She tapped him playfully on the nose. ‘Now
that
is my secret.’

‘Oh, you girls and your secrets. Well, I must be off. Still a lot to get ready for tonight. You’re all coming, aren’t you?’

It had long been the tradition that the two families spent New Year’s Eve together, alternating between the two homes. One year the Maltbys would play host at Candlethorpe Hall, the next
year it would be the turn of the Richards at Bixley Manor. It had been their greatgrandfathers who’d begun it. The two men had been brought together by business, their estates on the edge of
the Lincolnshire Wolds stretching to join each other. The natural progression had been that their families became friends. They dined together often, held shooting parties, picnics, balls and
bonfire nights. Together they’d seen the dawn of a new century, the passing of the old queen and her strict morality into an age of change. Over the years, the New Year’s Eve
celebrations had come to include not only the household staff of both grand country houses, but also all the estate workers and their families. Most of the inhabitants of the local villages worked
on one estate or the other, but even those who didn’t joined the merry parties that set off in farm carts and traps – the youths and young girls on bicycles – from Candlethorpe to
Bixley or vice versa. Laughter filled the frosty air as they travelled the six miles. Old and young alike were entertained to music and dancing in one of the huge barns, where trestle tables were
laid out laden with beer and enough food to feed an army. This year it was the Candlethorpe folk who were to travel to Bixley Manor.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Florrie smiled.

‘And tell your grandmother,’ Gervase said, ‘she can sit in the bay window overlooking the field where the bonfire’s been built.’

Florrie hooted with laughter. ‘Gran? Sit indoors whilst we’re all outside? I think not. Mother might – but not Gran.’

Gervase smiled fondly. ‘What a character she is. She’s a remarkable old lady.’

‘Old? Gran? Don’t let her hear you say that. She doesn’t think sixty-eight is old.’

Gervase laughed. ‘Well, on her it certainly isn’t.’

As Florrie led the way to the front door to see him out, the butler hovered in the hall. ‘It’s all right, Bowler, I’ll see Mr Richards out.’

‘Very good, Miss Florrie.’ He gave a small bow and turned away.

As they crossed the hall, Florrie asked casually, ‘Is Isobel still at home?’

‘Oh yes. She’s not going back to London until next Monday.’

Florrie held open the heavy front door and, as he passed by her, she reached up impulsively and kissed his cheek. ‘Dear Gervase,’ she whispered softly.

He paused a moment, looking down into her upturned face. The face he knew so well and loved so dearly. But the look in her eyes was that of a very dear and devoted friend, not of a girl madly in
love with him. He gave a little sigh as he put on his trilby. ‘Until tonight, my dear.’

‘Hey, Florrie!’ James was leaning over the banister at the top of the stairs looking down at her in the hallway below. ‘Have you quite broken poor old Gervase’s heart
then?’

She closed the front door and turned to look up at him. She grimaced and then grinned. ‘So you’ve heard. I expect everyone knows by now then.’

‘Cheek!’

She climbed the stairs towards him. ‘You’re not renowned for keeping secrets, my dear little brother.’

James threw back his head and laughed. ‘You can’t keep any secrets in this place. The servants have their own grapevine and the tiniest whisper goes round them all in a
flash.’

She reached the top. ‘You know I’ve refused him then?’

‘Not exactly, but I guessed you would.’ James chuckled as he added, ‘I’ve always wondered why he cultivates my friendship. After all, he’s so much older than me. I
must seem only a boy to him. Now I know. It isn’t me at all he wants to be with, it’s you.’

Florrie was thoughtful for a moment before saying, quite seriously, ‘I think he likes being here with all our family. He’s no brother, and his only sister is six years older than
him. And she has her own circle of friends—’

‘Oh, the Votes for Women brigade.’

Florrie ignored his remark. ‘His mother died when he was a baby and his father five years ago. And Isobel spends a lot of time in London.’

‘Rumour has it,’ James said in a loud whisper, ‘that his sister has a lover in the city.’

‘James! What do you know about such things!’

He guffawed. ‘A chap can’t be at a boys’ boarding school for the last four years without learning all that sort of stuff. Want to know what else I know?’

‘No, thank you!’ She held up her hand, palm outwards, as if fending him off. ‘I don’t want to hear your smutty schoolboy talk, thank you very much.’

‘It isn’t smutty,’ he began indignantly and then grinned. ‘Well, not all of it.’

‘Oh – you!’ She linked her arm through his and they walked together along the landing towards the room that had once been the nursery and which they still used for their own
private space. Nannies and tutors within the household were a thing of the past. James had attended a boys’ boarding school since the age of ten and there was talk of Florrie being sent to a
finishing school before being presented at court. But she had no intention of going, not since Gervase’s sister had told her all about the wonderful things the suffragettes were doing.
Florrie knew exactly why Isobel Richards spent a lot of time in London. That was where all the action was to be found. And soon – very soon – Florrie hoped to be a part of it. How on
earth her grandmother had guessed her plans, she couldn’t imagine. Sometimes she wondered if the old lady had second sight!

Once they were safely in the nursery, James said, ‘So, what
are
you going to do, old girl?’

Florrie looked at him sharply. Surely, he hadn’t heard too? ‘Do? What do you mean?’

‘Well, won’t Father banish you from the old homestead and tell you you’re never to darken his door again?’

Florrie breathed a sigh of relief and laughed. ‘James, I’ve just refused a proposal of marriage. I’m not pregnant.’

‘That might be as bad in his eyes.’

‘Oh no, nothing could be as bad as that. Not in Father’s eyes. I certainly would be cast out if that happened.’

James flung himself down on the battered old sofa and put his feet up on the arm. Crossing his ankles and putting his hands behind his head, he said languidly, ‘Then perhaps I should tell
you the facts of life, old thing.’

Florrie picked up a cushion and began to beat him about the head with it until they fell to the floor together, laughing and rolling over and over, their arms around each other. At last they lay
still, panting from the exertion of their mock fight. James’s arms tightened around her. ‘Oh, Sis, just so long as you know you’re doing the right thing. Gervase is an awfully
decent chap, you know.’

Florrie rested her head against James’s chest. She could hear the pounding of his heart and her voice was muffled as she murmured, ‘Yes, I do know. That’s just why I have to be
honest with him.’

James stroked her thick mane of glossy hair. ‘Poor old Gervase’ was all he said now. There was a long silence before he went on, ‘But we’re still going to the bonfire and
fireworks tonight at Bixley Manor, aren’t we?’

‘Of course.’ Florrie’s heart quickened with excitement. She would see Isobel tonight and their plans would be finalized. And next Monday – as soon as that – they
would both be on their way to London. And there was something else she hadn’t told any of her family. James was quite right. Isobel had a lover in London, but there was nothing furtive about
it. Tonight, at the New Year’s Eve party, she was to announce her engagement to the Honourable Timothy Smythe, son of Lady Leonora Smythe – a well-known figure in London society and an
ardent supporter of Mrs Pankhurst and her followers. Lord Smythe, it seemed, indulged his wife and was happy to stay on his Dorset estate.

Florrie got up from the floor and pulled her brother to his feet. Impulsively, she flung her arms about him and gave him a bear hug.

‘Hey, what’s that for?’

‘Oh, just – you know,’ she said and her voice was a little unsteady. No one – not even James or her grandmother – knew of her plans. And she couldn’t tell
them, not yet. ‘Just because I love my little brother.’

‘Hey, not so little now, old thing. I’m taller than you.’

‘So you are.’ She gazed at him fondly, as if committing every line of his face to her mind.

For after Monday, she realized, it might be a very long time before she saw him again.

‘You haven’t told anyone,’ Isobel Richards whispered as she drew Florrie into her bedroom at Bixley Manor and closed the door firmly behind her.

‘Of course not.’

‘Right. Now – I need to speak with your grandmother tonight and ask her if you can come with me to London on Monday. You’re sure they don’t know about my – um
– activities?’

Pushing aside her grandmother’s remark, Florrie answered, ‘No one’s said anything and I’m sure they would’ve done if they’d known.’