Suffragette Girl (40 page)

‘But I do, Gervase, I do. I was most dreadfully unfair to you. James told me everything that you’d tried to do, that you put yourself in danger of being court-martialled too. But it
shouldn’t have taken him to tell me. I should have known for myself that you would have tried everything.’

He sighed heavily. ‘I’m only sorry it didn’t work.’

‘Didn’t you get my letter telling you how sorry I was and begging your forgiveness?’

He stopped and turned to face her. ‘A letter? From you? You wrote to me?’

‘Yes, yes, I did. Oh, don’t say you didn’t get it?’

Slowly he shook his head. ‘I received one from your grandmother, but no, not from you.’

They walked in silence towards where the Richards’ groom – now with the grand title of chauffeur – stood waiting by the car. Gervase’s face brightened and he held out his
hand. ‘Good to see you, Bates.’

The man saluted and then took Gervase’s hand. ‘And you, sir. It’s good to have you home safely.’

‘How’s the arm?’ Gervase asked the man as he helped Florrie into the back of the car. Bates had served during the early part of the war, but had been invalided out of the army
early in 1915.

The man grinned. ‘Doesn’t bend quite like it used to, sir, but it’s good enough to drive your car.’

Gervase laughed and patted the man’s shoulder. ‘Glad to hear it.’ Then he climbed in beside Florrie, his left leg stretched out stiffly. He turned to her and smiled. ‘And
now, young woman, I want to hear all about this son of yours.’

The two families settled back into a routine, but it could never be quite the same as before. James was gone, yet never spoken of. And though there was a young male in the
Maltby family, Edgar refused to acknowledge Jacques as his heir.

Gervase, home just in time to celebrate the New Year of 1919, insisted on the revival of the old custom. Visiting Candlethorpe Hall, he said, ‘I hope you’ll all come to Bixley for
New Year’s Eve this year. I am right, aren’t I, Mrs Maltby? I’ve lost count a bit where we are. It should be our turn, shouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Augusta said spiritedly. ‘And it’ll be nice to get back to doing normal things again. At least—’ For a brief moment her old eyes clouded with sadness.
‘We can try.’

Clara, sitting with them, gave a sob and hurried from the room.

Augusta cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh dear, there I go again. I can’t seem to say the right thing for two minutes put together.’

‘Don’t worry, Gran. She is getting a little better. Now Jacques is running everywhere and getting into mischief, it gives her something to do.’

They smiled at each other. The change in Clara had been gradual, but now, with the child’s merry chatter echoing through Candlethorpe Hall, she had at last emerged from her room and begun
to take an interest in life again. Whilst Edgar set his face resolutely against the boy and would not acknowledge his presence in the house, Clara had been captivated by the innocent child and, for
the first time in her life, was ignoring her husband’s dictates.

‘I think you should know, Florence,’ Edgar had told her when the armistice had been announced, ‘that I intend to leave Candlethorpe Hall and the estate to Richards. Now that we
know he is safe and will return, there is no better person to inherit. No doubt – after everything that’s happened – the chap will come to his senses and find himself a
suitable
wife. He should have no difficulty in finding one. There’ll be plenty of choice now.’

Florrie raised her head a little higher. ‘And what of your grandson?’

Edgar glared at her, his eyes hard and cold. Slowly and deliberately he said, ‘I have no son. I have no daughter. I have no grandson. The Candlethorpe Estate will be in good hands with
Richards.’

‘I have no doubt of that, Father,’ Florrie replied. ‘But what if he should choose not to marry?’

Her father stroked his moustache and his eyes narrowed as he delivered his final knife thrust. ‘Then everything Gervase Richards owns will pass to his nephew – his
legitimate
heir.’

For a long moment, Florrie had stared at her father, then, giving a slight nod, she’d turned on her heel and left his study.

Now, as they sat together with Augusta in the morning room discussing arrangements for their lives to return to some kind of normality, Florrie wondered if Gervase knew what her father
intended.

‘So, you’ll all come?’ Gervase was insisting.

‘Well, I can’t speak for my son – or Clara,’ Augusta answered. ‘Her courage might fail her when it comes to the point, but we’ll be there, won’t we,
Florrie?’ Her level gaze met Gervase’s as she added pointedly, ‘With Jacques.’

Gervase smiled and said softly, ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, Mrs Maltby.’

As she saw him out, accompanying him to his motor car, Florrie asked, ‘What, no Bates? Are you driving yourself?’

‘Yes, it’s much more fun than being driven. And besides, Bates’s arm isn’t quite what it should be. It causes him quite a lot of pain, and turning the steering wheel
aggravates it.’

‘But what about your leg?’

‘Oh, it’s not too bad. Driving doesn’t seem to bother it.’ He chuckled. ‘But, of course, if I ever need a driver, I can always ask you.’

She linked her arm through his. ‘It was thanks to you and your motor car that I was able to be useful in the war.’

Gervase’s face sobered. ‘It was very dangerous work. I worried about you all the time.’

‘Did you? And I worried about you.’ She hugged his arm to her. ‘I couldn’t have borne it if you – if you – hadn’t come back.’

He turned to face her and took her hands in his. ‘Florrie, I can’t wait until New Year’s Eve. I’ve missed two years already. Darling, will you marry me? And please,
before you answer, think carefully. I’d look upon Jacques as my own – I promise you that. I’d adopt him, if you like. All that I have would be yours and, one day, would be his.
He’d inherit everything . . .’

Tears ran down Florrie’s face, but through them, she laughed. ‘You make it sound like the wedding service.’

But Gervase was serious. ‘The words of the wedding service have great meaning.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, serious now. ‘And should not be taken lightly. Dearest Gervase, you’re a good man and – and deserve better than me.’

‘Never say that, Florrie. Not to me.’

She was shaking her head slowly. ‘I can’t, Gervase. I can’t do that to you.’

‘There’s someone else? You’re still in love with Jacques’s father?’

Florrie hesitated. How she longed to tell him the truth . . .

But Gervase misread her hesitation. Sadly, he raised her hands to his lips. ‘I understand, my dear.’

Before she could utter another word, he’d turned away and the moment was lost.

Florrie was restless. Whilst Jacques was the focus of her days, the growing child had Beth as his willing slave and Augusta, and even Clara, to dote on him. He didn’t
really need her, Florrie told herself, ignoring the fact that it was her he ran to every morning with arms stretched wide, her he cried for in the night or wanted close if he was ill.

The battle for women to be allowed to vote was almost won. At the end of December 1918 women over thirty cast their vote for the first time.

‘Such ridiculous nonsense,’ Edgar declared at the quiet dinner party held at Bixley Manor on New Year’s Eve. They’d all been surprised that he’d come, especially as
the two children – Charlie and Jacques – sat at the table as a special treat. But Florrie thought she knew the reason. Edgar didn’t want to offend Gervase. ‘They’ll
only vote as their husbands or fathers tell them to,’ he went on. ‘The whole notion is preposterous. What do women know of politics or running the country?’

Florrie opened her mouth to retort, but Augusta beat her to it. ‘What arrogant nonsense, Edgar. You really do surpass yourself at times. I can assure you I cast my vote last week and I had
no need to ask you for advice before I did so.’

Edgar’s face grew red and he ‘harrumphed’, his usual reaction to his mother’s censure. Then he looked puzzled, as the realization of what she’d just said sank in.
‘But how come? You’re not a landowner, Mother. Nor do you hold a degree.’ It was a deliberate barb, a cruel reminder of her upbringing.

Augusta regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Ah, but Edgar dear, have you forgotten? I own the Dower House on the edge of the Candlethorpe Estate. Nathaniel had the foresight to leave that
to me. Just in case,’ she added mildly as she glanced at Florrie, ‘I should ever have need of it.’

‘And I didn’t ask my husband how I should vote,’ Mrs Ponsonby put in. ‘And as for Florrie – I know you’re not quite old enough, my dear, and perhaps do not
meet the other requirements yet, but when you do—’ She turned her attention back to Edgar Maltby now. ‘Surely her experiences in the war have given your daughter an insight into
how the country should be run? She’s an intelligent young women and it’s in the hands of people like her – men
and
women – that our future lies.’

Edgar glared around the table and muttered, ‘Then God help us all.’

But in the following December Lady Astor took her seat in the Commons and a new era was born.

As a new decade dawned – the Twenties – Florrie grew ever more restless.

‘You need a cause,’ Augusta said tartly. ‘It seems that caring for your
son
isn’t enough.’ She paused and then eyed Florrie shrewdly. ‘I thought you
said you were going to start a campaign to obtain a pardon for all those unjustly shot at dawn?’

‘I was – I am, but no one seems interested to help. I’ve spoken to Mr Jervis. He was sympathetic, but suggested – very gently – that I should mind my own business
and not meddle in matters that I don’t understand.’

‘It’s too soon,’ Augusta said sensibly. ‘Emotions are still raw and the authorities daren’t admit to being wrong. Not yet. It would cause an outrage.’ She
sighed sadly. ‘It’ll take years, my dear. I doubt I shall live long enough to see my poor grandson’s name cleared, but you might. So just leave it a while, Florrie. Then you can
begin the fight. Talk to other relatives, get their backing. But not now. It’ll still be far too painful for them all.’

She watched her granddaughter move restlessly around the room.

‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, go and stay with Isobel in London for a week or two,’ Augusta said at last. ‘Jacques will be fine with Beth, your mother and me. And he’ll
soon be starting lessons with the governess I’ve appointed. Though he’ll miss you,’ she added as a warning note that Florrie should not take this as a permit to stay away from her
child for too long.

So Florrie cut her hair into a fashionable bob, shortened her skirts and took the train to London, where the young danced the night away and drank champagne into the early hours. Despite her
love for Jacques, the child could not hold her at Candlethorpe Hall for more than a few weeks at a time. After the excitement of fighting the Cause and being needed as a nurse, Florrie found daily
life in the countryside dull. And, even in the city, the endless round of parties, the flippant proposals from idle, rich young men, seemed empty in a meaningless existence that began to pall after
a while.

Florrie was listless and unfulfilled. If only, she thought, she could go to Switzerland. Perhaps if she saw Ernst again and told him the truth . . .? But no, she argued with herself, there was
no way back. She’d made her decision and she would abide by it. For Jacques’s sake if nothing else. But just sometimes, in the loneliness of the night, she longed to see Ernst
again.

When Charlie turned eight years old in 1923, Isobel moved to the Richards’ town house for the major part of the year, returning to Bixley only during the school
holidays.

‘I can’t bear for Charlie to be a boarder. I’d miss him so, yet I know Lady Lee wants him to go to Tim’s old school. And he would’ve wanted that too. But
they’ve started taking day boys now, so we’re going to live in London during term time.’

‘And don’t think, young lady, that you can do the same with Jacques next year when he’s eight,’ Augusta said when she heard of Isobel’s plan and saw the devious
light in Florrie’s eyes. ‘That boy stays here and it’s where you should be too, Florrie. I fought your father long and hard that James should not be sent away to boarding school
until he was at least ten, and I shall do the same for his—’ She paused and glanced at Florrie with a strange look in her eyes. ‘His nephew. And whilst we’re on the subject,
Florence.’ At her use of her full name, Florrie held her breath. ‘It’s high time you spent a little less time plastering your lovely face with cosmetics and smoking cigarettes in
those ridiculously long holders. And you’re hiding your lovely figure – or at least you’re trying to – by wearing this new style of shapeless dress. And another
thing—’

‘Gran!’ Florrie was genuinely surprised. ‘I never thought you, of all people, would begrudge me a little fun.’

Augusta sighed and her manner softened. ‘Oh, Florrie dear, I can quite understand why you young things have gone a little light-headed – a little mad. You’re trying to forget
the horrors of the war. All of you, I know that. And I indulged you at first because I thought – despite everything – you deserved a bit of fun.’ Her mouth twitched with
amusement. ‘If I were your age, I’d be the first to try all these outrageous new fashions and hairstyles and the decadent dances from America that are all the rage. But, my dear,’
she was utterly serious once more, ‘you’ve a child to bring up. And,’ she added simply, ‘when you’re away, he misses you.’

Florrie was torn. Her grandmother was quite right. She was trying to escape from her bitter memories. Not only the terrible sight of the wounded and dying that still haunted her nights, but also
the face of a handsome Swiss doctor whom she’d loved and thought had loved her. If only she
could
forget. She’d tried hard enough. Tried to blot out everything with wild
excesses, dropping exhausted into her bed in Isobel’s London home with the dawn light. But the visions still invaded her alcohol-induced sleep.

The young men of the ‘deb set’ were feckless and shallow, the young women even more so. There was no substance to her life any more.