Wayward Winds (9 page)

 14 
The Derby

The drive south to Epsom remained quiet and strained. Halifax did his best to keep up a conversation with Amanda, though with limited success. Not a word was spoken from the backseat.

They arrived shortly after noon. Crowds and vendors were already gathering throughout the auto and buggy park. Though Ascot, which would be run two weeks later, remained a far more exclusive horse race, the overwhelming popularity of the Derby had long before necessitated that it be shared with the masses, and it was widely attended by a great cross section of society. Halifax parked the automobile, and the trio walked toward the main entrance across the wide expanse of lawn. Only moments after they were inside the grounds, Amanda suddenly realized she and Ramsay were alone.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience of that intrusion,” she said. “I had no idea such a thing was going to happen. I cannot believe Mrs. Pankhurst did that!”

“No harm done,” laughed Halifax. “Bit of a strange one though, I must say. Are all your suffragette friends so wild-eyed?”

“I've only met her once,” replied Amanda. “I really know nothing about her.”

“I assume she is
the
Emily Davison?”

“What do you mean
the
Emily Davison?” repeated Amanda.

“You don't know?” said Halifax.

“I guess I don't. Know what?”

“It didn't strike me until we were on our way, then I began to remember an incident from last year. Seems your friend was discovered beside the Parliament Street Post Office with a pile of paraffin-soaked rags and matches—all ready to set the place ablaze. That's when all the militancy began. Prior to that, even your Mrs. Pankhurst had been reasonable enough.”

“I've never seen Emily around the house.”

“What's done is done—we will enjoy ourselves nonetheless for it.—Ah, Witherspoon!” he exclaimed, observing an acquaintance walking toward him.

“Halifax,” said the other with a nod. The two men shook hands.

“May I present Miss Amanda Rutherford, daughter of Sir Charles Rutherford—”

At the words, Amanda cringed inwardly. She wanted to be known for
herself
, as a suffragette, not as her father's daughter.

“—Amanda, meet Lord Leslie Witherspoon.”

“Charmed, Miss Rutherford,” said Witherspoon. “Tell me, what does your father think of the situation in Morocco—will France go to war with Germany?”

“I really could not say, Mr. Witherspoon,” replied Amanda, bristling again. “My father and I do not discuss political matters. Actually, I have not seen him for some time.”

“What about you, Halifax,” persisted Witherspoon. “What do you think? I'll wager some of
your
friends are closely watching events in the east,” he added with a grin that seemed to imply more than the words divulged.

“What I think, Lord Witherspoon,” said Ramsay, laughing off the question, “is that Miss Rutherford and I came today to watch the horses, not talk continental politics.—By the by, have you seen my mother?”

“I do believe I saw her, old man,” replied Witherspoon, glancing around. “About here someplace with old Harry Thorndike's widow, I believe.”

“Right . . . we'll find her. Cheers, Witherspoon.”

As Halifax led Amanda away, he leaned toward her ear with a low voice. “He'll talk your ear off if you let him!”

“I'm glad you rescued me from such a fate,” she laughed. “What did he mean about your friends?”

“Oh, nothing—just my news colleagues . . . always watching events. Looking for a story, you know.—Ah, there's Mum now. We'll be sitting in her box for the race.”

They walked across the lawn in the direction of two women.

“Ramsay dear,” said the younger and taller of the two, glancing toward them as they approached. “This must be Amanda.”

“Yes, Mum—Amanda Rutherford, my mother, Lady Hildegard Halifax.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Halifax.”

“I have heard so much about you, Miss Rutherford dear,” said Ramsay's mother, shaking her hand with uncommon strength and vigor. The voice which met Amanda's ears was low, and contained an accent which could not have originated anywhere in Britain. The very sound of it reminded Amanda of mystery. “I would like you to meet my dear friend, Mrs. Thorndike,” added Ramsay's mother.

“How do you do?” said Amanda, now shaking the hand of the older woman. She took Amanda's palm in her soft fleshy fingers and gave it the slight up-and-down motion that passed for a handshake between women of the British nobility.

“I was sorry to hear about your husband's death,” said Amanda, turning again to Mrs. Halifax.

“Thank you, my dear,” she replied. “It was not altogether unexpected. It was two years ago, and he was my second husband. I am twice a widow. However, I have managed to adjust to life without dear Burton. And dear Lady Thorndike, widowed near the same time as myself, has been staying with me since shortly after our husbands' deaths.”

The brief silence which followed gave Amanda the chance to take in the woman's features. She judged Ramsay's mother to be somewhere in her mid-fifties, several inches taller than her companion, stout yet with a solid, robust, Germanic stoutness rather than a soft plumpness. Her face seemed to wear several expressions at once, as in layers, as of one whose awareness of people and events about her was deeper than she allowed herself to divulge.

“Excuse me, will you a minute, Mother, Amanda?” came the sound of Ramsay's voice intruding into her thoughts. “I see someone over there I need to speak with.”

He walked off across the lawn. His mother's eyes followed him, squinting slightly when they fell upon the man Ramsay met. Whatever
she was thinking, she said nothing. Soon she and Amanda and Lady Thorndike were engaged in more of the meaningless chatter of which such gatherings are comprised, though Mrs. Halifax seemed at the same time to keep an eye subtly roving about the crowd.

“There is Sarah Marlowe,” said Lady Thorndike in a low voice of disdain. “However in the world did
she
get an invitation? Do you know her, Hildegard?”

“I believe I met her one afternoon at your house for tea, several years ago,” replied Ramsay's mother.

“Oh yes, I remember now.—And there's the prime minister's wife,” the English socialite went on. “We really should speak to her. Won't you excuse us, Miss Rutherford?”

Lady Thorndike waddled off toward Mrs. Asquith. Lady Halifax followed. Amanda hesitated, glancing around momentarily for Ramsay. In the second or two that followed, she found herself standing alone. She was about to set out to overtake the two women, when she heard her name. She glanced in the direction of the voice.

It was Geoffrey's mother Martha bustling her way!

“Why, Amanda dear,” said Gifford's wife, “what an unexpected delight.”

Amanda was not surprised to see Cousin Martha with billows of flowing fabric trailing behind her. Indeed, the indistinct form presented to her eyes matched the indistinct image of the lady in her fading memory.

“Hello, Cousin Martha,” said Amanda.

“Won't Geoffrey be upset at himself for not coming with me,” said the woman. “If he'd only known
you
were going to be here.”

Silently Amanda breathed a sigh of relief at the answer to the question she had been afraid to ask—whether Geoffrey was here too.

“Who are you with, dear?” asked Mrs. Rutherford.

“I came with Ramsay Halifax. Perhaps you know his mother?”

“Oh, so you are with Lady Halifax's party,” said Mrs. Rutherford.

“I came with her son Ramsay,” repeated Amanda. “I only just met Lady Halifax for the first time a few minutes ago.”

“Oh . . . I see,” said her cousin, drawing out the words with obvious inflection of significance. An awkward silence followed.

“How, uh—how are your mother and father, Amanda dear? You were not at Heathersleigh the last time we called.”

“I've been in London nearly three years.”

If Martha was astonished at the news she did not show it, though how much she knew of Gifford's approach to the girl was doubtful. “We try to make the trip to Devon every few years,” she went on as if nothing were so strange in what Amanda had said. “My dear husband considers it his duty to visit the old family estate upon occasion.”

“I've been busy myself here in the city,” rejoined Amanda, unconsciously glancing around for sign of Ramsay. This was already becoming tedious.

“I hear—though I cannot believe such a thing myself, but there are those who say you have had some association with that Pankhurst woman,” said Martha. “What a dreadful business. I'm sure I don't understand a bit of it.”

Amanda pulled herself up slightly. “What you hear is true,” she said.

What would the dull woman say if she told her about the afternoon she had spent in jail!

“There you are, Miss Rutherford!” came the voice of Ramsay Halifax to her rescue. “I've been looking all about for you. Mum said she lost track of you. It's time we were in our seats. The announcements are about to begin.”

Amanda turned to go. “Good-bye, Cousin Martha,” she said.

“We must get together for tea now that you are in London,” the billowy lady called after her.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough. The horses ran without major upset. Amanda saw neither Martha Rutherford nor Emily Davison again. The odd-looking young woman did not return home with them, and both Ramsay and Amanda were left wondering why she had accompanied them to the Derby at all.

 15 
Setting the Bait

The conversation in the home of the London Rutherfords that same night, as Martha reported to her financier husband what she had seen and heard at the Derby, had nothing to do with the winning thoroughbred or his odds.

As Gifford listened, he realized he had underestimated the little shrew. He had taken too much for granted, assuming that their previous talk and the girl's acceptance of Geoffrey's invitation to the Lawn Tea insured a deeper loyalty between their two houses than she apparently did.

He could not confront her too boldly, however. If he accused her of playing false, she would bolt. He knew her kind well enough. He would lure her into his web by giving her something she wanted—something more than a donation to a cause she might not be that interested in anyway.

Geoffrey would also have to play his hand more aggressively, thought Gifford. It would not do for the girl to get involved with other men, or the cause of his son might be lost. Wealth notwithstanding, the father knew as well as anyone Geoffrey's limitations as a potential suitor. To make this match would require more cunning than he had initially thought.

“I'm worried about Amanda, Gifford,” said Martha as she prattled on about the day. “She knows absolutely nothing about society etiquette.”

“Yes . . . hmm, I see what you mean,” mumbled her husband as he turned the thing over in his mind.

“And to have dealings with those suffragettes!”

“It
is
unfortunate to see such an attractive young thing falling in with such influences. I must admit,” Gifford went on, assuming the dignified tone of wisdom, “that I find it impossible to understand how some parents can neglect their most basic responsibilities. I would never have thought such about my cousin Charles.”

“I had not exactly thought of it in such terms,” replied Martha, “but now that you say it . . . yes, it
is
rather shocking. And
why
would they have been so neglectful? That is what I cannot understand.”

“Who can say? But then . . . the results would seem to speak for themselves. It is scarcely any wonder the poor girl is estranged from them. She is languishing for lack of proper training and upbringing. Whatever pretense they tried to put over on others publicly, I don't know what other conclusion to draw other than there was simply a lack of love in the home.”

“It is
such
a sad thing to see.”

“Perhaps we ought to help,” suggested Gifford.

“What could
we
do?” asked Martha.

“I don't know, my dear,” he replied with feigned innocence. “But it is clear my cousin has not done his duty by the poor girl. Perhaps we ought—”

He stopped for effect.

“—yet it is hardly
our
place,” he added.

“Our place to what?”

“I was just thinking,” replied Gifford, the engines of his brain beginning to spin more rapidly, “—I was thinking that, since we live in London, and since the girl
is
here, and the season is now in full swing . . . perhaps
we
should take it upon ourselves to present her to society. She is our cousin after all, one generation more distantly removed, of course, but blood is blood, and I have always thought of her as the daughter we never had.”

“Oh, that is a wonderful idea, Gifford,” exclaimed Martha. “How delightful it would be to take her to the season's round of balls and parties.”

“I'm sure Geoffrey would not mind
occasionally
being seen with her,” suggested Gifford, casually lifting an eyebrow. “Once I explain
the thing to him, I'm certain he would be glad to help—for the sake of the family, of course.”

“And I could take her shopping for suitable attire,” said Martha excitedly. “Perhaps we might even make a dress together.”

“I think you are absolutely right, my dear,” said Gifford. “That is a very good idea. It is kind and selfless of you to suggest it.”

“Oh, what fun we shall have!”

“Perhaps we ought to have a talk with the dear girl. Why don't you invite her for tea next week?”