The Scandalous Suffragette
The Scandalous Suffragette
Eliza Redgold
Votes for women! Can she fight for freedom and for love? When chocolate heiress Violet Coombes is caught hanging her suffragette banner in a most shocking place, Adam Beaufort Esquire proposes a marriage of convenience! His good name will avert scandal for her family, and her money will save the estate Adam’s father gambled away. Violet accepts, but she’s determined nothing will distract her from the Cause – including her oh-so-tempting husband!
Votes for women!
Can she fight for freedom and for love?
When chocolate heiress Violet Coombes is caught hanging her suffragette banner in a most shocking place, Adam Beaufort, Esquire, proposes a marriage of convenience! His good name will avert scandal for her family, and her money will save the estate Adam’s father gambled away. Violet accepts, but she’s determined nothing will distract her from the Cause—including her oh-so-tempting husband!
ELIZA REDGOLD is an author, academic and unashamed romantic. She was born in Scotland, is married to an Englishman, and currently lives in Australia. She loves to share stories with readers! Get in touch with Eliza via Twitter @ElizaRedgold (http://www.@ElizaRedgold), on Facebook facebook.com/ElizaRedgoldAuthor (http://www.facebook.com/ElizaRedgoldAuthor) and Pinterest: pinterest.com/elizaredgold (http://www.pinterest.com/elizaredgold). Or visit her at Goodreads and elizaredgold.com (http://www.elizaredgold.com).
Also by Eliza Redgold (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
Enticing Benedict Cole
Playing the Duke’s Mistress
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Scandalous Suffragette
Eliza Redgold
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08890-9
THE SCANDALOUS SUFFRAGETTE
© 2019 Eliza Redgold
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my dear friend Anne in Devon,
with love and gratitude.
Thank you to the fabulous Nicola Caws, editor extraordinaire at Harlequin Historical in London, for her fantastic feedback and for agreeing that it was the right time to tell Violet’s story. Thanks to my agent Joelle Delbourgo in New York, for her continued support and much appreciated advice. Thanks to Dr Rose Williams, for her insightful reading of the manuscript. While to Pamela Weatherill, for so many conversations about these topics, must be awarded purple hearts. Many thanks to friends and family, including those who joined us in France, especially to Marina Gillam, who brought the violet creams. To Nikki and Stefan Gasqueres, for the inspiring house-swap in Provence, merci beaucoup. I didn’t expect to be writing fiction again, but I’m glad I did. And the biggest thanks to the suffragettes, for my vote.
Contents
Cover (#ub42eb4c7-9b2a-5bfc-906e-ca275a0b07bb)
Back Cover Text (#u3fdc6adf-9f7d-5b17-9081-9b010b0be844)
About the Author (#u4098a524-0bf3-52c1-9f4e-e1ddf5634961)
Booklist (#ub372a214-804b-5cb1-a838-8a8f248f0fd0)
Title Page (#uce3fd73e-9947-52af-b839-b76ff7651016)
Copyright (#u4f3a8d7a-d53f-5461-bb57-103f1fa630af)
Dedication (#ue72f6469-b0cd-557c-9a40-5fbcae6170f8)
Chapter One (#ucd757b17-3197-5b3a-bfb6-b57334c64ddf)
Chapter Two (#u5be76f65-0819-542b-a430-450cdcbf20bd)
Chapter Three (#u43bdea76-26e8-5bcd-ac47-6292ee33c236)
Chapter Four (#u9fcff901-95d9-52d0-814d-d17b0bad550e)
Chapter Five (#uc1eb281f-b3bd-564a-a190-36a89476f262)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Violet Creams (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘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 frock. The blue-striped taffeta was streaked with rust and dirt. Somehow she’d have to hide it.
His eyes followed the route of her climb. His hold on her arm tightened. ‘Promise me. No more balconies. It’s dangerous—surely you can see that.’
Violet shivered in the night air. She’d removed her cloak in order to climb more easily. Truth be told, the climb had been more difficult than she’d anticipated, teetering on the ledge, and her legs still trembled from her fall. If he hadn’t caught her...
‘Promise me,’ he demanded again.
‘How do you know I’m the kind of person who keeps her promises?’
He stared into her eyes. ‘You keep your promises.’
She found herself unable to break his gaze. ‘All right!’
Abruptly he stepped back. Beneath his coat his broad shoulders relaxed. ‘Then I’ll let you go without calling the constable. At least you won’t go climbing any more balconies, even if I suspect it won’t stop you tying more banners.’
Freed from his grip, Violet turned and ran.
‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder as she dashed away. ‘You can be sure of that.’
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared after the hourglass figure disappearing around the corner. Her fleeting footsteps clicked on the pavement as she vanished into the night.
He rubbed his eyes. What an extraordinary vision, witnessing the young woman stretched across the balcony, arms and legs spread like a spider. Her dress had hitched up as she inched across, clinging to the stone balustrade, using the columns as footholds, her banner clutched in one gloved hand. He had to commend her daring, even if it was sheer idiocy.
Then she had fallen into his arms. The feel of her as she landed right in them. Instinctively he’d leapt forward as she tumbled to where he guessed she’d land and caught her like a fish in a net.
He wouldn’t forget how she’d felt in his arms.
He scratched his head. Her brown hair was glossy, her eyes bright blue. When she’d realised that she had the wrong address a smile had curved her full cheeks, filling her eyes with laughter. Not beautiful, but pretty.
And soft. That’s what he’d felt, when he caught her. Frills and lace and, beneath it, soft, warm flesh. But her spirit—no softness there. She radiated strength and a cast-iron determination.
He had to admire that kind of female determination. His younger sister, Jane, had strength of character, too, although it was still developing. So did his elder sister, Arabella, but since their father had died the family relied on Adam for everything. Every decision, every penny.
Adam set his jaw. He didn’t resent the responsibility, but he had to make some hard decisions now. Damned difficult, sometimes, being head of the family.
‘There’s no need to swear!’ an irate voice echoed in his head. He frowned. She had an unusual accent. Northern, he guessed, beneath the carefully enunciated vowels. She wasn’t, as some of the more unpleasantly snobbish acquaintances of his mother would have put it, ‘one of us.’
His frown deepened as he stared at the shabby front door of their London home. Being ‘one of us’ took a lot of upkeep. The black paint was peeling on the wrought iron and the black front door needed a lick of paint, too. The marble steps leading up to the threshold were dull and dirty. The servants travelled back and forth with them, to and from Beauley Manor. He couldn’t afford to keep staff in both homes. The London mansion needed much more than a good clean, never mind what a country estate like Beauley Manor needed. Then he had to add what his mother and Arabella and Jane needed, too. They would be back in London to attend a ball tomorrow night. Neither of them had asked for new ball gowns that could cost a fortune.
A fortune he didn’t have.
From the corner of his eye he noticed something fluttering from the plane tree near the streetlight at the corner.
He strode over and pulled it down from the branch. It tore as it came free.
In his hand the banner unfurled. Purple, green and white. Under the streetlight he examined it more closely. It was made of silk, not cotton or sensible broadcloth. The tricolours were sewn together lengthways in somewhat imperfect stitches. In the corner of the white section was embroidered a tiny purple violet.
Scrunching up the silken banner in his fist, he shoved it inside his coat.
The sight of her, inching across the balcony, her suffragette banner aloft in her hand...
For the first time in months Adam laughed aloud.
* * *
Violet sighed over her embroidery as she unpicked a crooked seam. She’d been distracted ever since she fell off the balcony into the dark-haired stranger’s arms the night before. He had held her only for a moment or two, yet she had felt so comfortable, so secure in that strong grip, though a tremor of danger had run through her veins. It had been the most peculiar sensation. Still, it was unlikely she would ever see him again. Her heart gave a strange squeeze of regret.
She poked her needle, threaded with purple, into the white silk and put it aside into the sewing pouch on its polished rosewood stand. She needed to make another banner quickly. The only advantage of being able to sew was that she used her skill to make her suffrage banners, not that her mother knew that to be the reason, of course. She’d wondered recently, though, what had happened to all the purple silk.
‘I’ve been wondering if we should change your name.’
In astonishment Violet turned to her mother, who lay on the velvet chaise longue reading an illustrated fashion paper. ‘What on earth do you mean, Mama? Change my name? What’s wrong with Violet Regina?’
‘Just the spelling,’ her mother said hastily. ‘We could make it French-sounding. Violette.’ She added a trill to the final syllable. ‘French is quite the fashion.’
Firmly Violet shook her head. ‘No, Mama. No. We are who we are. I love my name.’
‘You’re named after a chocolate,’ her mother protested.
‘And a pretty little flower,’ said her father, coming into the drawing room and knocking over the porcelain shepherdess by the door, as he always did. The vast space was absolutely crammed with china ornaments. They, too, were the latest fashion, her mother insisted, whenever Violet suggested removing one or two.
‘What’s all this about, then?’ her father asked, replacing the shepherdess on the stand and giving it a cautious pat.
‘Oh, Papa.’ Violet leapt up, ran across the room and hugged him tight. It was becoming harder to wrap her arms around his waistcoat, she thought with a smile. He’d always been shaped like a barrel, but now he was like a barrel about to burst. ‘I thought you went up to Manchester, to the factory.’
Her father squeezed back. ‘I put off the trip north until next week. Your mama has persuaded me to stay in London and come to this dance tomorrow night.’
‘Ball,’ her mother put in from the chaise longue.
Her father winked at her mother. ‘Aye, we’ll have a ball, my beautiful Adeline.’
‘Reginald.’ Her mother pursed her lips, but her cheeks flushed pink.
‘So, do you have the most beautiful gowns money can buy?’ Her father beamed. ‘I want my girls to look fine.’
The final touches had been put on her own gown that morning at the dressmaker’s in Bond Street. Even such a gown didn’t alleviate the sinking in Violet’s stomach. If only her parents weren’t so eager. Still, she’d have to make the best of it.
‘My dress is beautiful,’ she replied. ‘White lace with a violet sash.’
‘The best Belgian lace,’ her mother added.
‘The best.’ Her father rubbed his hands together delightedly. ‘That’s right. Nothing else for the Coombes. The best.’
Violet picked up her needle and smiled at him. Not for all the lace in Belgium would she have told her father just how much she dreaded the ball.
Only the thought of what she planned to do there spurred her on.
Chapter Two (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘To alien ears, I did not speak to these’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘What’s wrong with these fellows, not asking my daughter to dance? Can’t they see the prettiest girl in the room?’
Across the small table Violet squeezed her father’s hand. Through her white kid gloves his hand was damp and hot.
From his evening coat he pulled a spotted handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘Upon my soul, it’s stifling in here. Perhaps it’s a good thing not to be dancing, Violet, out in that crush.’
Violet stared into the ballroom. Across the polished floor couples swirled, the men in black and white, the women in a rainbow of silks, taffetas, satins and lace. On a raised platform at the other end of the room the orchestra played a waltz by Strauss, one Violet had practised during her dancing lessons. Music and chatter filled the air, along with the tinkle of laughter and champagne glasses.
The three of them sat alone on fragile gilt chairs in a small curtained alcove off the dance floor. The red-velvet curtains were open wide, unlike some of the other alcoves, inviting visitors to their table. So far, no one had approached. Her dance card, lying on the linen tablecloth, remained empty.
Her mother blinked rapidly. ‘I thought Violet would have plenty of partners. It was so fortunate for us to receive an invitation.’
‘It’s quite all right, Mama,’ Violet said stoutly. ‘I don’t care to dance. Not tonight, in any case.’
She stilled her foot beneath the skirt of her voluminous ball gown. In truth, she loved to dance and her slippers had been waltzing under her petticoats ever since she arrived.
Her cheeks were warm. She sipped some champagne. It was the heat of the ballroom, she told herself. She refused to be humiliated by their obvious lack of welcome at the ball.
Biting her lip, she glanced down at her gown with a frown. Perhaps it suited her ill. It had more frills and furbelows than she would have liked—her mama had insisted on them—but they’d been to the best dressmaker in London, so it was perfectly cut. The sleeves were short, leaving her forearms bare to her gloves, the bodice dipped down to reveal the skin of her décolletage, but not in a vulgar way, her train draped beautifully and the violet sash emphasised the tininess of her waist. Her brown hair had been dressed by her mother’s new French maid in a flattering style, swept up at the back into a high chignon.
In the glass above the mantel in the drawing room she’d seen her reflection before they left for the ball, her eyes cornflower bright and her cheeks rosy with unexpected excitement. Her chin, the same strong chin as her papa’s, a feature that meant that she would never be considered a classical beauty, was slightly pink, too.
‘You’re a belle, Violet, just like your mama,’ her father said proudly when she spun a pirouette, narrowly avoiding a porcelain trinket box crashing to the floor. Her first ball. Surely every girl longed to attend a ball. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as dreadful as she expected.
It was, possibly, worse. Her trepidation about the ball had been justified. No one spoke to them. They weren’t being cut, exactly, for they hadn’t been formally introduced into society. But they were certainly not welcomed with open arms, or even an extended hand. One of the young ladies who had chatted with her at their horse-riding lessons in Hyde Park behaved as though Violet was invisible when she gave her a small wave across the room.
She didn’t mind for herself, she told herself firmly. But she did mind for her father, with his high hopes, who’d beamed as they climbed into their new carriage drawn by four horses, and for her mother, too.
Upon their arrival, where she’d taken the opportunity to scan the entry hall, she’d stood near some disapproving Dowagers and overheard a snide, whispered conversation.
‘The Coombes have come to London for the Season to try for a match for the daughter,’ one of the Dowagers whispered. ‘They don’t seem to be having much luck.’
‘Even with all those chocolates,’ the other woman had tittered.
‘My dear, no wonder. Have you spied the mother? Covered in feathers and weighed down with so many diamonds she rivals the chandeliers.’
Violet had turned hot with indignation. Why shouldn’t her mama wear as many diamonds as she wanted to? They were newly cut gems, not the old, rose-cut kind that glinted in the dull unpolished settings slung around most of the other ladies’ necks, but her mama loved her diamonds and her papa had been so pleased to be able to give them to her. Her parents had faced some hard times in the early days, before the chocolate business became a success.
Now, her mother picked up her huge ostrich fan. It was too big, by the unkind Dowagers’ standards, but who were they to judge her beloved mama?
‘What should we do?’ her mama whispered from behind the feathers. ‘Should we go home?’
‘Certainly not!’ Violet and her father spoke at the same time.
‘Let’s sit it out,’ her father said.
Her mother’s lip quivered.
‘I’ll take you for a turn on the floor, Adeline, cheer you up.’ He glanced at Violet.
‘We can’t leave Violet sitting alone,’ her mother protested.
Violet picked up her own fan, white lace trimmed with ribbon to match her sash. She’d stopped her mama from having peacock feathers added to it and she wore a simple pearl necklace like the other young women in white who appeared to be about her age, even if the pearls were perfectly matched and clasped with a first-rate diamond. ‘I don’t mind a jot, Mama. I don’t care if I’m a wallflower.’
‘Violets may grow in the shade, but they’re never wallflowers.’ Her father patted her shoulder as he stood and made an elaborate bow to his wife.
They made their way to the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another waltz. Her father took her mother in his arms.
The sensation of being held in the arms of the man who had caught her when she fell from the balcony came back to her. She’d relived it more than once, that sense of safety and danger, too, with his lips so close to hers. He’d even appeared in her dreams the night before, shouting something at her from the garden below as she leaned out of the first-floor window of a big house she didn’t recognise.
She wondered what it would be like to dance with a man, held like that. She wasn’t likely to find out. Tonight, she wasn’t even going to dance.
Never mind. She jerked up her chin.
She’d made her secret decision long ago, when she first became a suffragette. Of course, she hadn’t confided in her parents, any more than she’d told them about her suffragette activities. They wouldn’t understand. But she would stick to her decision. She would put aside those hopes and dreams, her own desires, for the greater good. For the Cause.
Violet could so clearly recall the moment the Cause had seized her, body and soul. She had read about the suffragettes in The Times newspaper, which she much preferred to the fashion papers. A thrill of excitement had run through her as she learned about the women fighting to be allowed to vote, led by Emmeline Pankhurst. Like Violet, Mrs Pankhurst came from Manchester, in the north of England. ‘Deeds, not words,’ she urged her followers.
‘Deeds, not words’, Violet repeated to herself. In her own way, she’d vowed, she would make a difference, add her daring deeds to the Cause. She might not be able to join suffragette rallies, or go to meetings, or march in the streets, as she longed to. Her parents would never allow it. But she kept sewing her banners. No one would stop her.
‘You keep your promises.’ A deep voice came back to her. The man on the street had sensed she was someone who would keep true to her word and her deeds. She had sensed the same in him, too.
Her parents twirled past. Her father was surprisingly light on his feet and her mother was smiling now, to Violet’s relief. She did so want her parents’ happiness.
Sometimes she wished they had stayed in Manchester. They were happier there in their large house a few miles outside the town. But her mama wanted Violet to have everything and so did her papa, and that meant moving to London for the Season. They believed there were more opportunities.
Dancing lessons. Elocution lessons. French lessons. Riding lessons. Music lessons. To please her parents she took them all and it left precious little time to herself. So she sewed her banners and carried out her plans at night.
Deeds, not words.
On the way into the ballroom, she’d spotted another excellent target. Two targets, to be precise.
Violet rubbed her thighs together and heard the rustle of silk.
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared across the ballroom.
There could be no doubt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the young woman who sat in the alcove opposite. She was accompanied, until they took to the dance floor, by an older man and woman, the man attired in a well-cut evening suit that nevertheless appeared to be straining at the buttons and the woman in canary-yellow satin.
He moved slightly behind the half-closed velvet curtain. He could see the young woman, but she couldn’t see him. Yes. It was the climbing suffragette. Her hair had been loosened by her tumble when he’d last seen her and instead of a ball gown she’d been clad in smooth, slippery stuff that he could still seem to touch in his hands. Beneath it her flesh had been warm and soft.
He took the covert opportunity to examine her more closely. Her hair was a glossy chestnut colour that reminded him of a horse he’d ridden as a child, when the stables had been full at Beauley Manor. Most of the horses had been sold off now. Her white gown was understated, in contrast with her mother’s, for he presumed the pair to be her parents. Its simplicity showed off her fine complexion that was possibly her best feature.
Yes, she was pretty. Though he might not have remembered her if he hadn’t caught her in his arms.
He grinned to himself.
He’d been uninterested at the ball until he spotted her. The same faces, the same gossip. He couldn’t think why he’d consented to come. But it was preferable to sitting at his desk and going through the family papers and accounts yet again, hoping the numbers would add up differently.
‘Who is that in the alcove opposite?’ he asked.
His mother lifted her lorgnette. ‘I have no idea.’
‘No one we would know,’ said Arabella.
Adam winced. Arabella could sound snobbish and sharp, but he knew that his elder sister often sounded sharp when she was anxious and she was anxious now. She was intelligent, too. She’d guessed the extent of their financial straits, even though he’d shouldered the burden alone. There was no point in alarming them until it was absolutely necessary, though he guessed both Arabella and Jane had some notion. They’d seen him work on the estate accounts night after night, ever since their father died.
‘Wait.’ His mother peered through her eyeglass. ‘She comes from somewhere in the north. Her father is Reginald Coombes. He makes some kind of confectionery. She’s the sole heiress, I believe.’
‘Oh, gosh,’ said Jane. ‘That must be Coombes Chocolates. They’re delicious.’
A sweet heiress. Adam chuckled inwardly. Well, well.
‘She’s wearing a lovely dress,’ Jane said rather wistfully. ‘It’s so much nicer than mine. I’m surprised no one wants to dance with her.’
Jane was wearing a debutante hand-me-down of Arabella’s, bless her heart. A couple of extra inches of white trimming that almost matched had been added at the hem. Arabella wore a gown in a shade of mustard that did nothing for her complexion or thin figure, the unfortunate fabric a bargain buy at the haberdasher’s. She hadn’t attracted many partners, either.
‘You’re a Beaufort,’ his mother said to Jane. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear.’
‘I think it might, Mama,’ said Jane, with a sigh.
Indeed, being dressed in rags might matter, Adam thought grimly. He dreaded breaking the news of the extent of their diminished means to his mother and sisters. Telling them exactly what was left of the family fortune—precisely nothing—wasn’t something he looked forward to.
Adam studied Reginald Coombes. Short and stout, he possessed the same bright blue eyes as his daughter. The mother, a blonde whose prettiness was almost overwhelmed by her yellow satin and more diamonds than Adam had ever seen on one person, gazed at her husband with obvious affection. It touched him that they seemed happier than many of the other married couples on the dance floor. Indeed, few married couples were dancing together at all. They certainly looked happier than he’d ever seen his own parents. Not that his parents were often together in the years before his father’s demise.
He shunted the memories from his mind.
Adam moved his attention back to the lone figure in the alcove, watched how she straightened her back, stiffening her spine and jutting out her chin, as if daring anyone to pity her for being a wallflower. She appeared to be smiling.
But it must be hard, to sit there alone.
He slid on his gloves.
‘Adam,’ his mother hissed. ‘What are you doing?’
* * *
‘Miss Coombes?’
Violet jumped. In her mind she’d left the ballroom and begun to carry out her plan. She shifted on the gilt-legged chair and widened her knees so her thighs didn’t touch. She couldn’t risk anyone suspecting what she had wrapped like garters around her silk stockings. ‘Yes? Oh! It’s you!’
‘Indeed.’ A pair of midnight eyes found hers. ‘We meet again.’
Violet’s heart gave an unexpected thump. In her dream the night before, her rescuer appeared so impossibly handsome that she scolded herself in the morning. Surely her imagination had run wild. Now he stood in front of her in black-and-white evening attire he was even more attractive than in her dreams. In the dim streetlamp lighting she hadn’t fully taken in the firm set of his clean-shaven jaw, the line of his strong mouth.
On the street after her tumble she’d been surprised that he appeared younger than his commanding voice suggested. He must be about five years older than she, rather than the ten she’d originally thought, perhaps close to thirty years of age, she guessed. The two forked lines between his dark eyebrows made it difficult to gauge. His shoulders were broad in the well-cut tailed jacket, which showed some wear.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’ Violet shifted on her chair again. There was the faintest rustle of silk.
If he heard he made no sign. ‘Nor I you.’
Violet cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m glad to see you. I wanted to thank you properly. I ought to have been more grateful to you for...ah...catching me.’
It struck her later what a risk she’d taken. It could have ended very ill indeed if he hadn’t been there.
A phantom of a smile glimmered in his eyes. ‘To catch you was my pleasure.’ He glanced around the ballroom. ‘I didn’t know suffragettes liked dancing.’
‘I haven’t been doing much dancing,’ Violet blurted out, then bit her tongue.
‘Perhaps we might remedy that.’ He bowed low and held out his gloved hand. ‘May I have the honour?’
‘But I don’t know your name.’
‘My apologies.’ He smiled. His teeth were even and white. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced. I know you are Miss Coombes.’
‘Violet Coombes.’
‘Indeed?’ Some comprehension, almost amusement, flared in his expression. ‘I’m Adam Beaufort.’
‘Beaufort. I know your name. Then that means you are... There’s a house...’ Violet tried to simulate the society page in her mind. She’d read something about his family home, she was certain of it.
‘The Beauforts of Beauley Manor. Yes.’ He inclined his head. ‘I recently inherited the estate.’
‘Oh. I see.’ It came back to her now. Their historic estate was in Kent, and the Beauforts were an exceptionally old English family. The kind of society family she’d never expected to welcome the Coombes.
‘If you’re at all concerned about my pedigree,’ he said drily, ‘that’s my mother and my two sisters over there.’
He indicated a group in the alcove opposite. A grey-haired woman, straight-backed, dressed in black, was studying Violet through her lorgnette. Behind her stood a tall, haughty young woman, wearing a mustard-coloured gown. She looked down her nose at Violet. Seated next to the grey-haired woman was a big-boned girl with hair escaping from her bun. Violet had seen her laughing across the dance floor. She flashed a quick smile.
‘My parents are here, too.’ Just in time Violet remembered not to point. She nodded towards her mother and father. Her mother was tripping over her train, trying not to stare at the tall, dark-haired man in their alcove.
‘Now we’re introduced,’ he said smoothly. ‘Shall we dance?’
Violet stood up. Her head came just above his shoulder. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
She took his proffered hand. Instantly the sensation of being in his arms returned. Even through their gloves she could feel it. Safety. Danger. Mixed into one.
Through the crowd he led her to the centre of the ballroom. The previous dance had ended and another was about to begin. A path cleared before him. Some of the men nodded in his direction, and more than a few pairs of female lashes fluttered. She sensed all eyes upon them, though he paid no attention to it.
They stood face to face. He released her hand. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms. They hung awkwardly, by her sides.
‘I presume you waltz?’ he asked politely, as they waited for the orchestra to start up.
‘I’ve had lessons,’ she replied. Another thing she probably shouldn’t have said. Then she recalled stamping her foot at him. She sighed. It was too late to pretend to be other than whom she truly was and she wouldn’t have wanted to in any case.
Again she noted a flicker of amusement. ‘Excellent.’
The music struck up. It was ʻThe Blue Danube’, one of Violet’s favourite pieces of music. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, ‘I trust you dance as well as you climb.’
He swirled her into his arms.
Violet’s breath surged up through her body. In an instant he swept her away, across the polished floor. Her lessons were nothing like this. She had never danced with such a partner—why, she never really danced before. In his powerful arms her feet glided over the floor as if she floated above it. The waltz started slowly, then became faster. The violins soared and shimmered, the horns played the beguiling tune as the woodwinds kept time. Her slippers chased his black-leather shoes, speeding with the melody as it rose and fell. His grip never wavered as he lifted her off the ground with every turn.
She’d wondered what it would be like to dance in his arms. Now she knew.
Violet threw back her head and closed her eyes. The music swelled. Now she wasn’t following the rhythm, or his skilful feet. She stopped thinking about her steps, just allowed herself to blindly follow his lead as he looped her in circle after circle. The tune rippled inside her, sending her dizzy, as if she were spinning with her arms outstretched, the way she used to do in the garden as a child. Her lips widened. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it.
When she opened her eyes his were upon her. Hardened to impenetrable sapphire, they moved from her open lips to her bared neck, her head still thrown back.
He pulled her closer, his body pressed against her petticoats. Gripped by his eyes, his hands, she twirled, spun, twirled again.
Past his staring family in the alcove. Past her amazed parents. Past the girl from riding lessons, goggle-eyed. To Violet they became a blur. She could have danced for ever as he swept her across the floor, sending the other couples scattering in their wake.
All too soon the music ended. The final crescendo shattered in a crash of cymbals. He broke their gaze, let her go.
Violet put her glove to her racing heartbeat. ‘Oh!’
Adam Beaufort, too, seemed to need to regain his breath. He bowed, but not before she’d glimpsed the dart of a smile. ‘Perhaps you’d like some air, Miss Coombes. The balcony? I know you enjoy them.’
She laughed. ‘Yes. The balcony. Please.’
As they passed a waiter Adam seized two glasses of champagne and led her through the French doors on to the empty balcony that overlooked the rear garden. She sensed eyes from the ballroom burning into her back. She raised her chin.
‘Thank you.’ Gratefully she grasped the stem of the glass he offered her and drank deeply. She was tempted to drain it. Instead she put the cool glass to her burning cheeks.
He, too, drank, surveying her over the rim. ‘Your dancing lessons have been effective.’
‘My lessons never taught me to dance like that,’ she said frankly. ‘It was wonderful. Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘There are certain skills in life that must be mastered.’
‘Surely dancing is a pleasure, not a skill,’ she protested.
One corner of his mouth curved. ‘Most of life’s pleasures become more pleasurable with greater skill, Miss Coombes.’
Violet removed the glass from her cheeks and stared out into the garden. Music wafted from inside the ballroom. Tiers of stone steps flowed down into a rolling lawn. Pale moonlight shone. Her breath began to return to her lungs, but she still felt as if she were spinning. With her free hand she clutched the edge of the balcony. The balustrade was made of stone rather than cast iron, in thick pillars. Below was a sheer drop into a huge rhododendron bush.
Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow. ‘Assessing your descent?’
Violet laughed. ‘No. I promised you I wouldn’t climb any more balconies.’
Though she hadn’t promised anything else. Her thighs brushed together, reminding her of her plan.
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He lounged against a pillar, sending his face into shadow.
‘Tell me. What made you do it? Climb, I mean.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
He shook his head. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘It was for the Cause. I intended to drape a women’s suffrage banner over the front of the gentleman’s club as a protest,’ she explained. ‘You must know how long women have been fighting to be granted the vote. The women’s colours are purple, green and white, you see. I sew the banners myself. Unfortunately I lost that one,’ she added regretfully.
He fell silent for a moment, took another draught of champagne. ‘Is it the first banner you’ve hung?’
‘No. I’ve hung others.’ And it wouldn’t be the last.
‘What’s your reasoning behind such an action?’
‘Wouldn’t any woman want to be treated as an equal?’ she asked passionately. ‘We’re treated as children who don’t know their own minds. Why shouldn’t we have the vote, take a role in choosing the government of our own country? Deeds, not words. That’s what we need now, for the Cause.’
‘You’re quite convincing, Miss Coombes,’ he drawled.
She clenched her fist around the champagne glass. ‘You’re mocking me.’
‘Not at all. Who can’t admire such conviction? How did you become involved in...the Cause?’
‘I’m only involved in a small way. I’m not a member of any organisation. I act alone. I’m just trying to do my part.’
‘Do your parents know what you’re doing?’
Violet sighed and shook her head.
He raised a brow. ‘I take it they wouldn’t approve.’
‘It’s a secret,’ she said rapidly. ‘I must ask you not to betray my confidence.’
‘You have my promise. I, too, keep my word.’
Violet let out a sigh of relief. Somehow she knew he told her the truth, even if in the shadow of the pillar his expression was unreadable.
‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ he asked.
Violet’s hand clenched on her glass. ‘I’m sorry?’
His teeth gleamed. ‘I suspect you have a more personal reason for your passion for the Cause.’
‘How did you know?’ she gasped.
He shrugged. ‘Human nature.’
She took a sip of champagne.
‘I do have a reason,’ she said at last. ‘You may know of my father’s business. Coombes Chocolates.’
At his nod she went on.
‘My father is a self-made man. He started the business and built it up from nothing. It’s gone from a small enterprise to a national name. Thousands of people work for him now in the chocolate factory and many more thousands enjoy our wares. Why, someone is probably biting into a Coombes Floral Cream right now.’
‘Indeed,’ Adam Beaufort drawled.
Violet took a deep breath.
‘I want to follow my father into the business,’ she said rapidly. It was the first time she ever said it aloud. ‘I have so many ideas, so many plans. Times are changing, a new century is here. There are new ways of doing things. Opportunities for social reform, for new methods. If women are given the vote...’
‘It might make it easier for you to become a woman of business.’
He’d grasped it immediately.
She nodded.
‘I’ve always admired my father and what he’s achieved. The people in there don’t see it,’ she added with a jerk of her head towards the French doors.
‘Surely you exaggerate.’
‘Not at all. We should have stayed in Manchester where we belong, not tried to be part of London society,’ she said fervently. ‘It means so much to my papa, but they look down on him, despise him. Who knows? Perhaps you do, too.’
Startling her, he stepped out of the shadow of the pillar.
‘My father was a drunkard, Miss Coombes, who lost our family fortune,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If you think I despise your father for being determined, hardworking and ambitious, you’re very much mistaken.’
Violet’s mouth dropped open.
Silence fell between them.
‘Forgive me,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ve been under some pressure of late. Such conversation is not fit for a ballroom.’
‘It’s honest conversation. I prefer it,’ she replied quickly. ‘And I ought to ask your pardon. You asked me to dance. No one else did.’
As she spoke she impulsively moved forward, raised her face to his. He stared down at her, an expression she couldn’t decipher in his eyes. All she knew was that she took another step forward and lifted her chin higher, just as he moved closer to her and lowered his head, so close he surely felt on his lips the sigh that escaped hers.
From the ballroom came a crash of cymbals. Inside, the orchestra ended another piece of music with a rousing crescendo.
They leapt apart.
He retreated to the pillar. ‘It seems this moonlight and champagne is having an effect on us.’ His voice sounded deeper to Violet’s ears. ‘We’ve both revealed secrets tonight. Perhaps we ought to return to safer topics.’
Violet clutched the stem of her champagne glass so hard it threatened to snap. Her heart pounded.
He bowed. ‘Would you care for another dance, Miss Coombes?’
‘Oh, yes, please, I mean, thank you.’ Suddenly flustered, she lay down her glass. ‘Oh!’
Adam frowned. ‘What is it?’
She froze. Beneath her petticoat she felt an unravelling.
She took a step.
A slip between her thighs.
‘Miss Coombes...’
Another step.
A silken slide down her legs.
He stared at her face. ‘What the blazes has happened now?’
‘I can’t dance with you. I’m sorry!’
Violet raced through the French doors and out of the ballroom.
Adam gazed after Miss Violet Coombes in astonishment.
She had refused another waltz with him.
Momentarily he felt affronted.
Then through the French doors he watched her scuttle across the ballroom. She scurried, crab-like, her knees held together, in a curious dance step of her own.
Once more he started to laugh. She was up to something. He’d stake his life on it.
He never expected to have such an extraordinary conversation with her. They’d both revealed more than they intended. The pressures of trying to sort out his father’s estate wore him down, a constant worry, a permanent burden across his shoulders. He experienced a curious relief sharing it with Miss Violet Coombes. It lightened his burden, for a moment.
She preferred honest conversation, she’d told him. Her frankness disarmed him and she possessed a curious sweetness, too.
He grinned inwardly.
Like a Coombes Floral Cream.
He’d wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t the first time. When he caught her in his arms in the square the instinct roared through his body, too. Tonight, when she stared up at him in the moonlight, her bright blue eyes full of understanding and concern, her pink lips parted, he wanted to take her in his arms and taste that sweetness. Hold that warm, soft flesh in his arms again.
Why the blazes had she fled from him?
It wasn’t that near kiss. Such things weren’t done on ballroom balconies, but he sensed she wasn’t frightened by the honesty of that moment.
She’d wanted to kiss him back. Her soft, fast breath told him that.
Swiftly he followed her path across the ballroom and out into the entrance hall. There was no sign of her. The huge hall, with its marble floor, gilt-framed paintings and statues, appeared empty. Then a scuffling noise came from behind a column of marble.
A long, shapely leg clad in a white-silk stocking extended from behind the pillar, followed by a familiar tricolour silken banner.
It must have been under her skirt.
Stifling his chuckle, not wanting to alarm her, Adam backed behind another marble column. After a moment she appeared, glanced around furtively and raised herself up on tiptoe. One after the other she hurled the two billowing banners into the air.
Adam frowned. He couldn’t quite make out what she was doing, but he could make a fair guess. He was about to reveal himself and remonstrate with her when her parents appeared and bore her off in a carriage.
He leapt out from behind the pillar and swore.
Her aim was excellent.
‘Damnation,’ he muttered below his breath.
The ballroom doors flung open. Before Adam could grab the banners a group surged into the hall.
A woman squealed and pointed.
All hell broke loose.
Adam groaned. Violet Coombes had no idea what she’d done.
Chapter Three (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘Shall Error in the round of time
Still father Truth?’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’(1842)
‘Whoa.’ Violet pulled the reins of the grey mare. All morning the mare had been frisky, playing up. It took all Violet’s strength to stop her breaking into a gallop in the middle of Hyde Park. It was a day to gallop, the sun golden in the summer sky. Around her all the flowers in the garden beds were in bloom, their colours as bright as ball gowns and their perfumed scents heady. Instead, Violet slowed to a sedate trot.
A groom from the riding school rode up to her. ‘That’s it, miss. Give me the reins now. I’ll lead you back to the others. That’s probably enough for today.’
Violet passed them over with her thanks. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Dancing at night and riding in the morning was strenuous exercise. Her tight-fitting blue-velvet riding habit, trimmed with a lace jabot at the neck, suddenly seemed much too hot. She’d have something made in a cooler fabric for the summer and try to prevent her mama from adding too much trimming. The riding habits of the other young ladies, all in black, seemed to have marked signs of wear, as if to emphasise use.
While the groom led her to the group, her mind roved over the events of the night before. It had been so unfortunate that the banner had unravelled from around her thigh before she had a chance to dance once more with Adam Beaufort. She would probably never have another opportunity to dance with him, to be swept across the floor in those powerful arms, after running away from him so publicly. He must have been insulted.
She sighed. She owed Adam Beaufort another apology and yet another explanation, if she ever saw him again. He must have wondered what made her run off in such a peculiar fashion, but she had to move quickly before the banner fell to the floor from beneath her ball dress. She had made it just in time. She dashed behind a pillar and whipped out the banner from beneath her petticoats, yanked one free and then the other. Quickly she seized the moment, did what she’d set out to do. She’d intended to wait until the end of the ball, to linger until the crowds dispersed, but with the banners released she grasped her opportunity while everyone else was in the ballroom. She had just completed the deed when her parents appeared, full of concern after seeing her leave the ballroom. Steering them away from the evidence of her activity, she pleaded a sudden fever, with her hand to her forehead. They called for the carriage instantly and took her home. She didn’t see Adam Beaufort again.
She released another sigh. He was the only person she had ever told about how strongly she believed in the suffrage cause. Had he been mocking her? As she replayed the conversation in her mind she decided not. She could only hope he’d keep his word and not betray her secret.
He’d trusted her with a secret, too. The lines of care on his face she’d noticed when they first met; she hadn’t mistaken those. She wondered what he might look like without the burdens he carried.
Their honest conversation had seemed to bring them closer together than the waltz. When she’d finally fallen asleep that night she had dreamed about him again. In the garden of that unidentifiable house, he called up to her at the window. She leaned out, almost tumbling from the window as she tried to hear what he said, but she couldn’t make it out.
When she awoke she’d puzzled over it. She recalled how he whispered in her ear, ‘I hope you dance as well as you climb.’ His deep voice had sent quivers through her. When she got out of bed she’d washed her face with cold water from the pitcher, instead of hot.
Even now, the next morning, in the sunshine of the park, thinking about him made her pulse flicker at her wrist under her riding glove. The night before as she lay in bed, she’d found herself lifting her fingertip to her mouth, remembering the look he gave her as he lowered his mouth so close to hers. Had he meant to kiss her? Was that blackness in the midnight of his eyes...desire?
If she were going to daydream about such matters, which of course she was not, he was the kind of man she would daydream about. But she had other matters to think about rather than waltzing with Adam Beaufort, no matter how extraordinarily wonderful it had been. Yet if she were scrupulously truthful, as she always tried to be, she had to admit her attraction to him. He was, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in London, or so her thrilled mama had enlightened her on the way home in the carriage.
‘He’s related to the royal family!’ her mama had gasped.
Whether Adam Beaufort was eligible or not, there was no point in daydreaming. She’d made her decision.
She took the reins from the groom.
He tipped his cap.
She halted next to the girl she had spotted the night before in the ballroom who sometimes chatted to her.
With a clip of her whip she moved her horse away from Violet’s.
Violet lifted her chin. It hadn’t been pleasant to be snubbed at the ball, nor was it pleasant to be snubbed now, and she wasn’t sure why. It seemed a more blatant cut than pretending not to see a waving hand from across the room. If Adam Beaufort hadn’t asked her the night before, she would have sat out every dance. It made her even sorrier that she had missed being whirled into another waltz. The way he danced with her would remain in her memory, but that was all.
The Cause was more important.
Deeds, not words. She must stay true to her purpose. Yet her heart gave another strange flinch as she turned her mare towards the park gates.
* * *
‘Mama?’ Violet pushed open the drawing-room door. ‘Where are you? There’s no one in the dining room. What’s happened to luncheon? I’m famished after riding. Will you allow me to come to the table before I change out of my riding habit?’
Her mother lay on the chaise longue. Her arm, clad in a ruffled sleeve, was flung over her face. She didn’t reply.
‘Mama?’ Violet stepped into the room. Her father was also in the drawing room, to her surprise. He faced the fireplace, his back to her. He wasn’t often home during the day. ‘Why, hello, Papa. Have you come home for luncheon? We’ll have to wake Mama. I think she’s asleep.’
‘I’m not asleep, Violet,’ her mother said in a strangled voice. ‘I’ve had a visit from some of the society ladies who invited us to the ball.’
‘Oh, how lovely, Mama.’ Violet cared little for such things, but she knew how much store her mother set by them and it mattered to her father, too, with his business ambitions. To have such ladies call on them was a step up the social ladder. Not that Violet had any inclination to climb it.
‘No.’ Her mother sat up. Her face was pale, except for two bright red patches on her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t lovely. It was dreadful!’
She burst into tears.
‘Mama!’ Violet rushed to her side. ‘Don’t cry so, please. What happened? What did they say to you?’
Her mother seized a lace-trimmed handkerchief. ‘They said... She said...’
‘You must have some idea, Violet.’ Her father spoke from his place by the fireplace. He didn’t turn around.
She shook her head. ‘No, Papa, I don’t. How dare they upset Mama so? What did they say?’
Her thoughts flew immediately to Adam Beaufort. Had there been gossip about them because she’d lingered on the balcony with him and then raced out of the ballroom? That near kiss...had someone seen them together?
Nerves fluttered in her stomach. ‘What is it?’
‘Someone draped a suffragette banner across a marble bust of Queen Victoria,’ her mother whispered, muffled by the handkerchief. ‘And the Prince Consort, too, God rest his soul.’
Violet tried to keep a straight face. It had been such a perfect opportunity.
Two legs. Two banners. Two marble busts. They’d been perched on plinths halfway up the wall, each set back in a gilt-scrolled niche. The banners had ballooned up and landed. Queen Victoria’s banner around her marble shoulders, like a shawl. Quite fitting for a monarch. Prince Albert’s on his head, falling over one eye, giving him a rakish look. She hadn’t been able to reach to fix it.
‘The ladies told me all about it.’ Her mother wrung her hands together. ‘At the end of the ball, when everyone came out into the hall, there they were, bold as brass. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’
Laugh, Mama, Violet wanted to say. How she wished her mother shared her views about women’s suffrage, but her mother was content with her status as a wife and mother. She didn’t want to vote—she’d declared that on more than one occasion. Politics was the business of men and she had no interest in it. No, her mama would never understand.
Her father finally turned around from the fireplace. He appeared smaller than usual, almost deflated. It was because he wasn’t smiling. His jolly demeanour usually filled the room.
‘We know they were your banners, Violet.’
His tone shocked her. The usual warmth was quite gone.
‘I don’t intend to deny it, Papa,’ she said quietly. ‘They were my suffrage banners. I made them and I draped them across Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, too.’
‘Queen Victoria. Prince Albert,’ her mama echoed the names, reminding Violet of a parrot they kept for a while, when the birds had been fashionable. It had driven her papa quite cocky, he’d declared.
It wasn’t the moment to remind her parents of the parrot.
‘The parents of our King.’ Her father shook his head. ‘King Edward the Seventh.’
She nodded. She’d have draped a banner around a marble bust of King Edward, too, but there hadn’t been one, and in any case, she’d only had two banners.
‘Queen Victoria and Prince Albert are in their graves,’ her mama choked. ‘It’s unseemly. Disrespectful.’
‘Oh! I didn’t think of it that way,’ Violet said, horrified.
‘Why did you do it?’ her father asked, still in that empty voice.
Violet lifted her chin. ‘I’m a suffragette, Papa.’
‘A suffragette!’ came her mama’s echo.
‘Votes for women, eh?’ asked her papa.
With a gulp, she nodded.
Her father wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘So it’s all been for nothing.’
‘Papa,’ Violet whispered. Her throat constricted. It was suddenly hard to breathe.
He sank into the leather club chair by the fireplace. He appeared bewildered. ‘All we’ve done for you. All I’ve worked for. And you’re not grateful.’
Violet knelt beside him, seized his hand. ‘I am grateful, Papa. You’ve given me everything that anyone could ever dream of.’
‘They why did you do it?’
‘Surely you understand,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m like you. You’re a self-made man. Didn’t you long to be considered an equal, to make your way into the world? Look what you’ve achieved, the business you built. You started from nothing. Please listen to me. I just want the same opportunity as you, to contribute to the world.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s different for a man.’
‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ her mother said tremulously from the chaise longue.
‘I want more,’ Violet said simply.
Her father stared as if he hardly knew her.
‘I’ve never had cause to criticise you. I’ve always been proud of you, so proud.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But this. You’ve gone too far. You’ve become selfish, Violet.’
She fell back on her heels. Tears smarted in her eyes. ‘It’s not selfish to want to be part of the world. To vote. To become educated. To work. Why, there are even women working in factories now.’
‘No daughter of mine will ever set foot in a factory! That’s not why I worked day and night.’ He shook his head. ‘Your place is in the home. Your mama is right.’
‘The world is changing,’ Violet said. ‘There are new ideas. Not just votes for women, but opportunities for work, for education—’
Her father held up his hand. ‘Stop. I don’t want to hear such talk.’
‘A suffragette. How could you, Violet? We’ll be shunned in society.’ Her mother dabbed at her eyes. ‘The ladies made that quite clear this morning.’
‘Oh, Mama, we were shunned already,’ Violet replied wearily. It was made patent at the ball in their lack of welcome, except for Adam Beaufort, swirling her into his arms.
If they were no longer invited into London society, she’d definitely never see him again.
Her heart sank.
‘We’re ruined!’ exclaimed her mother.
‘Surely it’s not that dreadful.’ But it explained the outright snub from the girl at her riding lesson, Violet recalled uncomfortably.
Had she gone too far?
Her father breathed heavily. ‘I suppose we ought to leave London, before we’re run out.’
From the chaise longue came a muffled sob.
‘Leave London! Surely that isn’t necessary,’ Violet cried, aghast. What had she done?
‘Just when Violet had danced with a Beaufort,’ her mama mourned. ‘I never thought I’d see such a thing. Oh!’
If they left London...
‘We won’t be run out of London,’ Violet protested. ‘What does it matter what a few society people think?’
‘The Coombes are a respectable family,’ her father said. ‘We always took pride in that, more than anything else. You’ve taken our good name away.’
Full of remorse, Violet gripped her fingers together. ‘I’ll apologise to the ladies who invited us to the ball.’
‘Aye, you ought to do that. But the damage is done.’
‘Ruined,’ her mother repeated in a choked voice. ‘Ruined.’
Her father put his head in his hands.
Violet reached out to him. ‘Papa, please listen. Would it be so terrible to go back to Manchester? We were happier there, not trying to fit in with London society. I could learn to help you in the business, make your load lighter.’ Anything, she thought, her heart like a sinking stone, to make him smile again.
‘No, Violet. I told you. Your place isn’t in the factory.’
‘But, Papa...’
‘No!’
Violet jumped. Her father had never raised his voice at her before. Not once, in all her life.
He stood up, his elbows akimbo. ‘Men and women aren’t the same. If you’d been a son...’ His voice trailed off. ‘We pinned our hopes on you making a fine match. But now...’
‘Ruined,’ her mother chimed in from the chaise.
Violet’s throat choked. The lace jabot at her neck suddenly felt too tight. She tugged it loose. Never before had her father revealed such sentiments. But she’d suspected them all along, in her heart. It drove her to her daring acts, just as Adam Beaufort had guessed, at the ball.
‘I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll do anything to set it right.’
‘It’s too late,’ her mama sobbed. ‘Nothing can be done.’
A discreet knock came at the drawing room door. The butler entered.
‘What is it?’ her father asked. Having servants still made him nervous, Violet knew. At the chocolate factory her papa was the man in charge, but she often suspected both he and her mama’s preference would be to have only family at home, as it had been in the beginning.
‘Forgive the interruption, sir. But a gentleman has called and I thought you’d like to know.’
He held out a silver tray. On it was a small white card, edged with black.
Her father took the card. ‘Adam Beaufort, Esquire,’ he read aloud.
‘What?’ Her mama sat bolt upright.
Violet’s pulse skipped a beat.
‘What does he want?’ her father asked.
‘He didn’t say, sir,’ replied the butler. ‘But he’s in the hall. I took the liberty.’
On the chaise her mother frantically began to tidy her hair. She seized a small looking glass and dabbed at her tear-stained face with her handkerchief. ‘Tell him to come in.’
‘Do you know what he wants?’ her father asked Violet.
In bewilderment she shook her head. ‘No.’
She brushed back her own hair from her forehead. Wisps had escaped while on horseback and she was still in her blue-velvet riding habit.
The drawing room door opened.
* * *
Adam Beaufort took a step back as he entered the Coombes’s drawing room.
He’d never seen a room like it. Every inch of the vast room was decorated. Gilt-edged paintings of pink-cheeked children and pretty country maids jostled for space on the flock-papered walls. China ornaments, again with a bucolic theme, took up every table top, apart from those crammed with silver trinkets, lamps and ferns in jardinières. The furniture was red-brown mahogany, the soft furnishings skirted, trimmed and flounced so that the room had a peculiar cushioned effect.
On a velvet chaise longue sat Violet’s mother, whom he’d last seen attired in canary-yellow satin. She now wore a pink gown with many ruffles that didn’t manage to obscure the dazzling diamonds around her neck, wrists and fingers. He winced at the thought of what some society ladies would say at the sight of such diamonds worn before evening.
By the fire, Violet’s father stood robustly, belly thrust out in a loud, checked waistcoat. Yet the pair lacked the happiness that had been so apparent on their faces while dancing the night before.
Adam frowned.
‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed the man by the fireplace, with a slight inclination of his head. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I’m Adam Beaufort. How do you do?’
Reginald Coombes offered his hand. His handshake was firm. ‘I saw you dancing with my daughter last night. Most obliging of you.’
‘Indeed it was, Mr Beaufort,’ said Mrs Coombes faintly.
Adam bowed to her before turning to Violet, who stood silent, a still figure in sapphire-blue velvet by the fire. He couldn’t help notice how it sculpted her curvaceous figure. But her face was white and strained.
‘It was my pleasure,’ Adam said smoothly. ‘It’s unfortunate I didn’t have the opportunity for a second dance with Miss Coombes.’
He sent her a brief smile.
There was the faintest movement around her lips in return, but that was all.
Adam’s frown deepened. He felt oddly responsible for the whole fiasco. If he’d pulled the banners down in time...
‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed Violet’s father. ‘I’ve come about the incident at the ball last night.’
‘You know about that?’ Mrs Coombes squeaked.
‘Most of London knows about it,’ Adam said bluntly. ‘It didn’t help that you sewed your monogram on the banner,’ he added to Violet.
‘Your monogram?’ Reginald Coombes looked from one to the other.
Wordlessly Violet reached into a sewing basket and drew out a banner. It unfurled like a streamer in purple, green and white. She passed it to her father.
He stared at the tiny bloom embroidered in the corner, his fist clenched.
‘So that’s what happened to all the purple silk,’ Violet’s mother said in wonderment.
‘How many banners are there?’ Violet’s father demanded.
‘Half a dozen.’ Her throat was bare, white and swan-like as she swallowed. ‘Perhaps more.’
Her father hurled the banner into the fire.
‘Papa!’ Violet’s cry tore through Adam’s skin.
‘That’s the last one you’ll ever make,’ Reginald Coombes said fiercely. ‘Do you understand, Violet? This has got to stop.’
She made no answer. Her fingertips lifted to that pale throat, her gaze staying on the silk as it curled and burned. The scorched scent of it filled Adam’s nostrils.
‘Will you give up this cause, as you call it?’ her father demanded.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered.
‘Can’t?’ her father repeated, incredulous. His bright blue eyes were out on stalks.
‘I won’t hang any more banners.’ Violet lifted her chin. ‘But I can’t give up the Cause. It’s in me. It’s what I believe. I don’t know if I can change that.’
Adam studied her. Her head was high, her hands clenched. He had to admire her. There was no question of her convictions. He guessed her parents knew nothing of the extent of her activities. They’d have been appalled to have seen her climbing his balcony, teetering on the edge. At least he’d stopped her from such dangerous endeavours.
Reginald Coombes’s chin thrust out, just the same as his daughter’s. Adam wondered if he realised how alike they were. ‘I forbid this nonsense. Do you hear?’
His daughter’s eyes flashed vivid blue. ‘Being a suffragette isn’t nonsense.’
‘The shame of it. It’s a scandal,’ her mother cried.
‘It’s not a scandal,’ Violet scoffed, but her voice wavered.
‘Forgive me, Miss Coombes, I’m afraid it is.’ Adam intervened. He had no choice but to break it to her. ‘The scandal is all over London. I did my best to halt it, but I didn’t succeed. Doubtless it’s being discussed in every polite drawing room from Mayfair to Kensington. I understand it has reached the palace, though not yet the ears of the King.’
Violet’s mother released a muffled shriek. She appeared about to faint.
‘Where are your smelling salts, Adeline?’ her husband demanded.
‘The silver box,’ she puffed, using her handkerchief as a fan.
Violet’s father scrabbled among the multitude of silver boxes and china ornaments on the mahogany table and administered the salts. Once again Adam felt moved by the couple’s devotion to each other. It was rarer than they probably knew. And they loved their daughter, too. It was obvious, in spite of the current situation.
‘Everyone is overreacting. It’s ridiculous for there to be such an outcry,’ Violet said, low, but her voice was shaky. ‘It was a protest. A deed for the Cause. Not a crime.’
Adam shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is ridiculous. None the less, there are many people who are very upset by it.’
He glanced towards Violet’s mother. The woman quietened, but she remained pale, clutching her husband’s hand. Her distress was real, unmistakable. Violet, too, looked even paler than before, as if she were about to faint herself, though he suspected she was made of sterner stuff than her mother.
Adam shifted nearer to Violet by the fire.
‘You must know the King has a deep respect for his departed parents,’ he muttered in an undertone. ‘Your action may be considered more than disrespectful. It’s an insult, almost sacrilegious, in some court circles.’
She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t think of that. It wasn’t meant as an insult. Is it truly that bad?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Adam said quietly. His honour demanded he tell her the truth.
Her father stood up. He moved like a beaten man. ‘That’s it, then. We’ll have to go back to Manchester.’
Violet’s mother let out a sob. ‘Such a disgrace.’
Her daughter moved towards her as if to comfort her and then drew back. Her fingers were clenched together.
Reginald Coombes turned to Adam.
‘Thank you for coming to tell us,’ he said heavily. ‘I regret you’ve seen us like this, in such a sorry state. Perhaps you’ll come and visit us in the north should you ever be in our part of the country. We won’t be in London again I don’t expect.’
‘I trust that won’t be the case.’
‘We won’t be able to show our faces here,’ Mrs Coombes wept.
‘Not necessarily,’ Adam said slowly. His half-formed plan began to fully take shape in his head.
He glanced at Violet. She was breathing in gasps she tried to suppress, making her velvet bodice heave.
‘I came today with a plan,’ he said.
Beside him Violet stiffened.
‘A plan, eh?’ her father asked. ‘What’s that?’
Adam bowed. ‘With your permission, I’ve come to propose to your daughter.’
Chapter Four (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’(1842)
Violet’s mouth fell open as she stared at Adam Beaufort. ‘You’ve come to propose to me?’
He turned on his heel and this time bowed directly towards her. There was the merest upturning of the corners of his mouth. ‘Indeed.’
‘Marriage?’ she gasped. Was that really what he meant? Had her ears deceived her? They had only met once. Well, twice, if she counted tumbling off the balcony into his arms and that meeting couldn’t be considered a formal introduction. And now he was suggesting they wed? Surely it could not be so.
The upturning of Adam Beaufort’s mouth grew more pronounced. A dent appeared in his left cheek, then vanished as he spoke. ‘I can think of no other proposal I would make, Miss Coombes.’
‘Marriage!’ her mother and father repeated at the same time, her mother breathless, and her father’s voice a stunned bellow.
‘Upon my soul!’ added Mr Coombes.
‘I realise this is unusual,’ Adam said. ‘And quite sudden. I believe that is the phrase, in such circumstances. But the circumstances are unusual, to say the least.’
‘They certainly are.’ Violet found her voice was as breathless as her mama’s. She put her hand to her bodice. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.
‘Marriage to a Beaufort!’ Mrs Coombes reached for her fan. ‘Oh, my...’
Mr Coombes clutched his chest. He staggered and reached for the side table to right himself, sending a tin of Floral Creams flying.
‘Papa!’ Violet rushed to help him. ‘You must sit down.’
Mrs Coombes hurried to her husband’s side. ‘Reginald!’
‘I’m all right,’ he insisted, leaning heavily on the table, his breath coming in puffs.
Violet steered him to the wing chair by the fireplace. Her papa sank on to it, half-raised himself up, then sank back again. His normally florid cheeks turned a sickly colour, sweat beaded his forehead.
‘Are you quite well, sir?’ Adam Beaufort asked, concerned.
Mrs Coombes wrung her handkerchief in distress. ‘It’s his heart.’
Panting heavily, Mr Coombes waved away their alarm. ‘I get the odd turn. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Shall I call for a doctor?’ Adam asked.
‘No need, no need.’ Mr Coombes puffed. ‘I’ve seen all the best quacks. There’s nothing they can do.’
Violet moved swiftly to the drinks tray. ‘Stay still, Papa. I’ll pour you a glass of water.’
‘Give it a bit of colour, won’t you? For medicinal purposes.’
‘You know you ought not to drink spirits when you’ve had a turn.’
‘I’ll be all the better for a spot of whisky.’
She shook her head and added the merest drop of whisky to the water glass. There was no point in agitating him further. The doctors had been clear—the best medicine for him was peace and quiet.
Violet’s hand tightened on the whisky bottle. Clearly the morning’s events had upset him greatly.
It was all her fault.
Adam Beaufort frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t wish me to fetch medical help?’
‘I’ll be right as rain in a moment,’ Mr Coombes assured him, his voice already stronger. ‘I always am. Where’s that drink, Violet?’
‘Here you are, Papa.’ Violet gave her father the weak whisky and water and propped a cushion behind him.
Mr Coombes took a sip. ‘Ah, that’s it.’
Violet turned to her mother, who was still wringing her hands. She looked about to cry.
‘Sit down, Mama,’ Violet said gently.
Mrs Coombes picked up her fan. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Reginald.’
‘I’m quite well, Adeline,’ Mr Coombes said stoutly. ‘Do as Violet says.’
Violet tucked her mother beneath a silk shawl. Going back to her papa, she took his wrist, counted and waited. His pulse was faster than usual, but it wasn’t as bad as some of his turns had been in the past, as far as she could make out.
She straightened her back and glanced at Adam Beaufort. His expression was inscrutable. He was a man who controlled his emotions. He’d moved out of her way as she helped her mother and father. Now he stood by the fireplace, a tall but surprisingly comforting presence.
He stayed calm in a crisis. That was it. She’d witnessed it before, when he’d caught her under his balcony. She liked that about him.
‘Would you care for a whisky?’ she asked him.
In an unhurried movement, he took out a pocket watch. ‘It’s rather early in the day for spirits.’
‘But in the circumstances...’ Violet prompted.
His mouth cornered into a smile. ‘Indeed.’
She poured a large measure into the cut-crystal glass. ‘Water?’
He inclined his dark head.
‘Don’t drown it as you did mine, Violet,’ said Mr Coombes from the wing chair.
‘You ought not to be having whisky at all, Papa,’ she retorted, pleased that he appeared to be rallying. But her hand shook as she poured some water into Adam Beaufort’s glass, spilling it on to the drinks tray. Her papa had been so angry. He’d never said such things to her before.
She blotted the spilt water. Crossing the room, she gave Adam Beaufort his glass of whisky.
His fingers grazed hers as he took it. They were warm and dry. ‘Thank you.’
His touch seemed to stay on her skin, steadying her as she returned to the tray and poured herself a generous finger of whisky. She threw it back, straight, letting the fire scorch the back of her throat, only to find Adam Beaufort surveying her over the rim of his glass.
The heavy crystal clanked as she replaced it on the silver tray. Young ladies were not supposed to drink spirits, let alone before luncheon. Yet another rule for women that did not apply to men. How it irked her.
Heading over to her father’s chair, she took away his empty glass. The colour had returned to his cheeks, she noted with relief. He always recovered quickly from his turns, as he called them, but she was sure they were becoming more frequent.
‘How are you feeling now, Papa?’ she asked.
He patted her hand. His anger seemed to have abated. ‘No harm done.’
‘Would you like some more water?’
‘Not unless you are going to give it a bit more colour this time.’
‘Certainly not,’ she retorted.
Mr Coombes gave a slight guffaw and clambered to his feet. He puffed out his chest, but stayed upright.
‘Won’t you rest a little longer, Reginald?’ Mrs Coombes pleaded from the sofa.
‘I’m quite well now, Adeline. No need to fret.’ Mr Coombes took one step forward, one step back across the carpet, as if testing his strength.
Violet and her mama exchanged worried glances. Her papa loathed a fuss to be made about his health, but his turns terrified all of them.
A pang of pain clutched deep in her own chest. For her parents’ sake, she had to stop the scandal.
‘Now then.’ Her papa’s voice lacked its usual ring as he stopped on the carpet and studied Adam Beaufort. ‘Let’s get down to business. Are you serious in proposing marriage to my daughter?’
Adam drained his whisky glass. ‘Quite so, sir.’
Mr Coombes tucked his hands into the lapels of his checked waistcoat. His elbows jutted out. ‘You think a marriage announcement could halt this suffragette business. Is that it?’
‘I believe it would stop the scandalmongers if attention was diverted towards an engagement,’ Adam replied. ‘The Beaufort name will halt adverse gossip. We’re an old family. Well connected.’
‘At court!’ Mrs Coombes put in from the sofa, still fanning herself rapidly. ‘To royalty!’
Adam smiled at Violet’s mother, not appearing to mind her mentioning it. ‘There are a few overlapping branches in the family tree.’
He turned back to Mr Coombes. ‘If we act in time, I hope we can ensure your commercial dealings are not adversely affected.’
‘Do you believe the reputation of my company might be damaged by this stunt of Violet’s?’ Mr Coombes demanded.
‘Surely not!’ Violet put in.
‘I’m afraid so, Miss Coombes.’ Adam spoke quietly, but his tone was firm.
Mr Coombes looked suddenly deflated. ‘I agree. Customers can take such things very badly.’
‘My being a suffragette won’t stop people eating Coombes Chocolates,’ Violet said, incredulous.
‘You have insulted the Crown. Fortunes have been lost for less.’ Adam gave her a direct look that reminded her of their discussion the night before. He knew about such matters, she recalled with a sinking heart.
‘What of the Royal Warrant?’ From the sofa her mother’s voice was hushed.
Her father shook his head. ‘No chance of a Royal Warrant now. No chance at all.’
Violet clutched her corset. The painful pang in her chest moved to squeeze her stomach, as if she’d eaten too many sweets at the factory. She’d done so once, as a small girl.
The Royal Warrant. Chocolate Manufacturers to the King. It had been her father’s abiding goal in life for as long as she could remember. Now the scandal she’d created could dash his dream.
How had it come to this? She struggled for breath. She’d never meant to insult the royal family, never once imagined that her passion for the Cause could risk what her father had worked so hard to build. Yet she couldn’t regret her deed. It was the suffragette motto after all. Perhaps she’d gone too far with the banners at the ball, but she would never give up her beliefs.
‘What do you think needs to be done?’ Mr Coombes was asking Adam Beaufort.
‘Make a formal announcement as soon as possible,’ he replied. ‘Notify The Times.’
Mr Coombes tucked his hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his spotted handkerchief. ‘What you’re proposing might work. It just might work.’
‘But why would you do this for us, Mr Beaufort?’ Mrs Coombes asked, bewildered, from her seat on the sofa. Her fan still fluttered at a rapid rate, like wings of a startled bird.
Violet met Adam’s eye. He raised an eyebrow.
An unspoken communication passed between them.
She held his gaze. In return, his was steadfast. To her surprise, she felt reassured. She had experienced the same security when they’d danced at the ball, after he’d rescued her from being a wallflower. He’d caught her safely when she’d fallen from the balcony, too.
‘Mama. Papa.’ Violet took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Beaufort, alone.’
‘What?’ Elbows out, Mr Coombes gazed from one to the other. ‘Surely a marriage proposal is a matter for your father to consider.’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘I refuse to be discussed like cattle in the market place. No matter how unusual the circumstances.’
The dent appeared in Adam Beaufort’s cheek, as if he were trying not to chuckle.
Mr Coombes wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was still breathing heavily, Violet noticed with alarm, but his eyes were alert. Beneath his handkerchief he appeared to be summing Mr Beaufort up in his shrewd gaze, the way Violet had seen him assess potential buyers for the chocolate factory. She could almost hear his brain whirring, as fast as her own. Finally he tucked the handkerchief away.
‘Very well, Violet. We’ll leave you to consider this.’ Wheezing slightly, he reached for her hands. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you so harshly earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.’
‘We were all upset.’
‘You mustn’t feel any pressure,’ her father said now. ‘Whatever happens, it will be your decision. We would never force you into anything. I hope you know that.’
Violet’s throat choked. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
He gave her hands another squeeze before letting them go, but she could still see the worry in his eyes. Worse than that. There was a despondency she’d never witnessed in him before. In spite of his health concerns, he was always so cheerful.
Her stomach lurched. She’d hurt the people she loved most in the world.
‘Come along, Adeline.’ Mr Coombes held out his hand to his wife.
‘Ought Violet be left without a chaperon?’ Mrs Coombes asked doubtfully, as she got up from the sofa with a rustle of taffeta.
‘We’ve strayed beyond all kinds of proprieties this morning, Mama, in the space of a quarter of an hour,’ Violet replied.
This time she heard Adam Beaufort’s chuckle escape.
Her papa steered her mother towards the door. It closed behind them.
Silence fell, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. She picked up the tin of Floral Creams that still lay on the Turkish carpet. Her father had knocked them off the table when he had his turn.
She clasped the tin to her bodice.
They always kept Coombes Chocolates in the drawing room. There were tins of Floral Creams in every bedroom, too. It was a point of pride for her family.
She looked down at the lid, with its swirled font and bouquet of flowers. Now it might never be adorned with the royal warrant they all wanted so much. Her papa had even left room for it in the design, believing that aiming high was the best method for success.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them.’ Her papa often quoted that. She’d been raised on the philosophy of Samuel Smiles, the author of her father’s favourite book, Self-Help. There was a handsome leather-bound copy of the book in pride of place at the factory office. It had been given to her papa by his employees one Christmas, after their annual party. Over two thousand people, men and women, worked at the Coombes factory. Violet knew each and every one of them. They all relied on their wages, for the well-being of their homes and families.
Now it was all at risk. The factory. Her papa’s health. Her mama’s happiness. The cost of being a suffragette had proved far greater than she had ever imagined.
She stared at the tin of chocolates. Its outline blurred before her eyes.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,’ she reminded herself.
The scent of cocoa and flowers wafted up as she opened the lid and held it out towards Adam Beaufort. ‘Would you like a chocolate fondant?’
He appeared startled, then smiled. ‘Perhaps later. I’m afraid my nanny drummed into me that sweets before luncheon were the road to ruin.’
Violet smiled back, the threat of tears retreating. He had a knack of lightening the mood of a situation.
She popped a violet cream into her mouth. The familiar taste, with its dark, almost spicy chocolate, the sugar-coated violet petal on top and the contrasting smoothness of the sweet fondant inside, gave her a surge of vigour.
Replacing the tin on the table, she ran her finger over the embossed picture of roses, violets, lavender and pansies. Her mother had confided once that they had planned a whole nursery full of children, the girls to be named after the flowers that had made their fortune and the first boy, her mother had said, would be named Reginald, after her papa. Those other children had never come. Violet hadn’t felt lonely on her own, so she’d not missed sisters and brothers. She’d never known that her father felt the loss of a son so keenly. Not until today.
Her papa didn’t have the heir he wanted. Instead, he had a daughter who had brought disrepute to the family name.
A pain stabbed at her heart.
She glanced at Adam Beaufort. His back half-turned, he stared out the window, seeming to sense she needed time to collect her thoughts. The noon sunshine coming in from between the velvet curtains outlined his profile. His jaw was strong, but there was no cruelty in it. Perhaps she ought to feel intimidated being alone with him, one of the most eligible men in London society, but she didn’t. She never dreamed she’d find herself in the drawing room discussing marriage with him. She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to check she was awake.
The cherub clock chimed. Yes, she was awake. Adam Beaufort was standing by the window in real life, not in a dream, staring out into that peculiar soft London sunshine that made the streets and buildings shine like marigolds. In spite of their lack of welcome by society, in some ways Violet had enjoyed being in the capital. She’d walked to Parliament Square and listened to Big Ben while gazing at the Houses of Parliament, dreaming of laws that might be changed inside its hallowed walls.
Votes for Women! Now her papa had forbidden her to be a suffragette, all that must be stopped. She couldn’t defy him now. She had already caused enough distress.
Yet the thought of giving up the Cause...
Violet moved towards to Adam Beaufort. ‘Shall we have some plain speaking?’
He turned to face her. There was no doubting his smile this time. His teeth gleamed white. ‘Do you speak any other way, Miss Coombes?’
‘I prefer it,’ she admitted. ‘I would very much like to hear more of your plan.’
His grin widened. ‘It isn’t a plan I’ve refined yet, as you may have realised. I haven’t been following you in the dark of night, plotting to catch you from balconies. And it’s not the reason I asked you to dance at the ball.’
‘Oh.’ Violet felt more pleased than she expected at his saying so. The sense of being safe with him returned.
‘It was an idea that came to me when I heard of your trouble. A moment of inspiration. Or perhaps it is an ill-conceived notion, something we ought to forget I ever mentioned.’
‘Oh, no,’ Violet said quickly. ‘I’d very much like to explore your suggestion.’
Adam Beaufort inclined his head. ‘Certainly.’
Violet took some air from deep in her chest, as far as her corset would allow. The breathlessness she’d experienced when he first proposed had returned, but she forced her voice to firmness. ‘Would you propose marriage to me if I didn’t have a fortune?’
Chapter Five (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’(1842)
‘You wish to know if I want to marry you for your money.’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘Yes.’
The sun gleamed through the window as Adam Beaufort made a low whistle. ‘That certainly is plain speaking, Miss Coombes.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Violet said quickly. She had no wish to offend him.
‘Not at all. Since you prefer plain speaking, let me be completely frank with you.’ He gave Violet a wry smile. ‘If you didn’t have a fortune, it would rather defeat the purpose of my proposal.’
Violet bit her lip. ‘Of course.’
How odd, she thought to herself. Part of her minded his admitting it. She pushed the sensation away. Of course her fortune was her attraction to him.
His smile disappeared as he spoke again. The youthfulness she’d noted earlier vanished. ‘If you will allow me to explain, there’s more you need to know. At the ball, we each spoke of our fathers. I told you then that my father, in contrast to yours, was not a hard-working man.’
Violet nodded. The philosophy of self-help was not embraced by everyone with the same enthusiasm as Reginald Coombes.
‘That’s an understatement,’ Adam went on. ‘My family, as you know, have a manor house in Kent. It requires a great deal of upkeep. For the past few years, I have watched it begin to disintegrate before my eyes.’
He moved away from her, his fists clenched. ‘I knew my father was letting the manor run down. The house itself, and the surrounding properties, where we have tenants who rely on us. Since my father’s death, I’ve discovered that isn’t the worst of it. The manor, and our house in London, have been mortgaged many times over. It isn’t merely that my father was not a good householder, Miss Coombes. He has lost all our family’s money and, worse, accrued debts of amounts that I can barely perceive. We are beyond being financially embarrassed. The Beaufort family is ruined.’
Violet gasped in shock. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Gambling.’ Adam said curtly. ‘The night I saw you on the balcony, I had been at a private meeting at my father’s club. The scene of the crime, so to speak.’
‘I thought you considered me the criminal that night,’ Violet commented with a smile, trying to lighten the moment. He looked so desperately burdened. Her heart gave a squeeze of sympathy.
‘Your actions were beyond the law, certainly. You were on private property. My property, if I can still call it that, considering the size of the mortgage on it. But I don’t consider you a criminal. You’re standing up for your beliefs.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Or climbing up for them, I should say.’
Violet chuckled, then grew serious. ‘So that night at the club...’
‘The night I encountered you on the balcony, I’d found out the extent of the damage. It was all quite civilised, over dinner and port. But that didn’t disguise the gravity of the situation. The gambling notes came out, with my father’s signature scrawled on them. He lost vast sums night after night at the card table. I was angry that it had been allowed to continue. But a gentleman’s word is his bond and my father had given his word that he was good for the money. On one of the gambling notes, he’d written “Beauley Manor.”’ A muscle moved in his cheek as he gritted his teeth. ‘Offered up as a gambling marker. Our family home.’
‘How dreadful for you.’ She couldn’t imagine discovering that her father had kept such secrets. It must have seemed as if Adam Beaufort hadn’t known his father at all. But that was how she had felt earlier, she recalled with a sting. Her father had apologised for being so harsh, yet nothing could take away Violet’s awful realisation that, all along, he’d wished she were a boy.
Adam gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ll admit, it was a most unpleasant experience. But Beauley Manor is my responsibility now, as are my mother and sisters. I had to do the honourable thing and face the truth about our family finances. It’s my duty.’
‘That’s how I feel about the Cause,’ said Violet. It wasn’t a fancy, or a whim that she could take or leave. It was her duty, too.
‘Then you understand,’ he said. ‘After some long discussions at the club I managed to convince my father’s creditors not to press the matter immediately. But I have very little time.’
‘So that’s why...’
‘I proposed to you.’ He exhaled. ‘We are both facing scandal, it seems. Perhaps because we’re in the same predicament is why I jumped to a solution. That we make a marriage of convenience.’
A marriage of convenience. She’d heard the phrase, but had never expected it to apply to her.
‘I trust I do not sound like an opportunist,’ he added.
‘“Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,”’ she quoted.
‘Samuel Smiles,’ he said.
‘You’ve read Self-Help?’ she asked, astonished.
‘Of course.’ He chuckled, rather grimly. ‘The Beaufort family currently need all the help they can get.’
Violet took a breath. ‘You love your family.’
‘Indeed.’
She did, too.
‘I can see the opportunity in your proposal,’ she said slowly, as her mind ticked. ‘For the good of both our families. But there is a difficulty.’
Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow.
Violet hesitated. She’d never told anyone about her secret decision. Yet, oddly enough, she trusted him.
‘I have made a pledge not to marry,’ she said at last.
Adam drew back. ‘Never?’
Violet shook her head. ‘It’s not a pledge for life. I don’t intend to join a nunnery. I simply don’t wish to marry yet.’
‘Is there a particular reason you intend to wait?’
She bit her lip.
‘As I assured you at the ball, I can keep a secret,’ he said.
‘It’s for the Cause,’ she replied at last. ‘I wish to devote myself to it, entirely.’
Amazement was etched on his face. ‘The Cause means that much to you?’
‘It does.’
Adam whistled. ‘That’s quite a sacrifice.’
‘It is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.’ With resolve, she lifted her chin. ‘When I first heard about the Cause, I knew it was my calling to become a suffragette. Whatever needs to be done, I will do. I intend to dedicate myself to it until women have the vote.’
‘And when women have suffrage...’
She nodded crisply. ‘Only then will I consider marriage.’
He shook his head. ‘Women getting the vote could take years.’
‘Surely not years,’ Violet protested. ‘We will win our argument soon, I’m sure of it. Parliament will soon see the error of their ways in denying half the population of England the opportunity to contribute to our government. It cannot be more than a few years away.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not so sure.’
She shrugged. ‘In any case, it is my decision. However many years it takes, for as long as women cannot vote, I will be no man’s wife.’
‘When did you make this decision?’ he asked.
‘When I became a suffragette. Three years ago.’
‘Do your parents know?’
‘No. I don’t mean to deceive them. When the suffragettes win the day, I will marry—I mean, I hope I will—and my parents will be none the wiser.’
He stepped closer. ‘Keeping such a secret must have been difficult.’
She was amazed by his insight. It had been lonely to know that she could not seek a partner in life, or tell the reason why.
‘It has been difficult. And I’ve not spoken of this matter to anyone before.’
He inclined his head. ‘I’m honoured by your trust, Miss Coombes.’
‘I wish to concentrate my energies.’ She was eager now to explain her reasoning. Growing up, she’d watched her mama unquestioningly devote herself to her husband and home. She loved her mother, but she didn’t want the same life. ‘Once women have a home and a family, they are not free to follow their own causes. They are under the rule of their husband.’
He frowned. ‘Not all husbands wish to rule their wives.’
Violet pressed her lips together. ‘A man owns his wife. I am determined that no man shall own me. The law, as it stands, gives a man dominion over a woman.’
The forked lines between his eyebrows deepened. ‘Marriage for women does not have to mean servitude.’
‘It may not,’ Violet agreed. Her parents had a happy marriage, after all. ‘Please do not mistake me. In marriage, there are bonds of love that bind a woman. When she becomes a wife and mother, her family becomes her greatest concern. I have no objection to that, when it comes.’
‘Unless it comes too soon,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ she answered in relief. He’d grasped her meaning. ‘I’m not opposed to the institution of marriage. But I am certainly not looking for a husband. Not until women have the suffrage we deserve.’
‘Yet here you are in London, for the Season. There is a general view that during the Season a young woman is...’
Violet grimaced. ‘Husband hunting?’
He smiled, deepening the dent in his cheek. ‘Something like that.’
‘It’s my parents’ wish to move higher in society. There is the Royal Warrant my papa hopes for. It takes connections that we can only get in London. I’m here for my parents, not for myself. I am older than most debutantes, but this is the first year our family have had the right invitations.’
And now she had risked it all, she thought with remorse. A whiff of scandal and it would all disappear, and along with it her parents’ hopes and dreams.
‘You must have had suitors,’ he commented.
‘Only a few.’ Her lack of serious suitors was no cause for alarm to her, in the circumstances. In Manchester, the boys she’d grown up with were now too shy to approach her, thinking themselves no longer cut of her cloth. More moneyed London society hadn’t offered any alternatives.
Except for Adam Beaufort.
From the corner of her eye she studied him. She felt entirely at ease with him. He lacked the snobbery that she’d encountered so keenly at the ball. The way those Dowagers had laughed at her mama. It still made her fume.
‘Thus far I have managed to avert any serious interest,’ she said.
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Because of my fortune?’ she asked candidly. ‘My devotion to the Cause tends to be off-putting. Most gentlemen prefer women weak and helpless.’
He raised a brow. ‘Do they indeed?’
For a moment their eyes met.
Violet dropped her gaze first. ‘In any case, my situation has now changed. As you know, my father has forbidden me to continue as a suffragette and I can’t risk agitating him.’
‘Of course,’ Adam said swiftly. ‘I understand.’
‘You saw the problems with his health. My opportunity to support the Cause, limited as it was, has diminished considerably.’
Votes for women! So boldly her handmade banner had declared it. All that would be gone now, she thought, with another of those painful pangs. If she and her parents went back to Manchester, she would certainly be constrained from her deeds as a suffragette. She couldn’t risk her papa’s health worsening. What was it he had said? ‘No more of this suffragette nonsense!’ Those words hurt Violet as much as him wanting a son rather than a daughter. Being a suffragette wasn’t nonsense. It was about honour and justice.
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Eliza Redgold
Votes for women! Can she fight for freedom and for love? When chocolate heiress Violet Coombes is caught hanging her suffragette banner in a most shocking place, Adam Beaufort Esquire proposes a marriage of convenience! His good name will avert scandal for her family, and her money will save the estate Adam’s father gambled away. Violet accepts, but she’s determined nothing will distract her from the Cause – including her oh-so-tempting husband!
Votes for women!
Can she fight for freedom and for love?
When chocolate heiress Violet Coombes is caught hanging her suffragette banner in a most shocking place, Adam Beaufort, Esquire, proposes a marriage of convenience! His good name will avert scandal for her family, and her money will save the estate Adam’s father gambled away. Violet accepts, but she’s determined nothing will distract her from the Cause—including her oh-so-tempting husband!
ELIZA REDGOLD is an author, academic and unashamed romantic. She was born in Scotland, is married to an Englishman, and currently lives in Australia. She loves to share stories with readers! Get in touch with Eliza via Twitter @ElizaRedgold (http://www.@ElizaRedgold), on Facebook facebook.com/ElizaRedgoldAuthor (http://www.facebook.com/ElizaRedgoldAuthor) and Pinterest: pinterest.com/elizaredgold (http://www.pinterest.com/elizaredgold). Or visit her at Goodreads and elizaredgold.com (http://www.elizaredgold.com).
Also by Eliza Redgold (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
Enticing Benedict Cole
Playing the Duke’s Mistress
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Scandalous Suffragette
Eliza Redgold
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08890-9
THE SCANDALOUS SUFFRAGETTE
© 2019 Eliza Redgold
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my dear friend Anne in Devon,
with love and gratitude.
Thank you to the fabulous Nicola Caws, editor extraordinaire at Harlequin Historical in London, for her fantastic feedback and for agreeing that it was the right time to tell Violet’s story. Thanks to my agent Joelle Delbourgo in New York, for her continued support and much appreciated advice. Thanks to Dr Rose Williams, for her insightful reading of the manuscript. While to Pamela Weatherill, for so many conversations about these topics, must be awarded purple hearts. Many thanks to friends and family, including those who joined us in France, especially to Marina Gillam, who brought the violet creams. To Nikki and Stefan Gasqueres, for the inspiring house-swap in Provence, merci beaucoup. I didn’t expect to be writing fiction again, but I’m glad I did. And the biggest thanks to the suffragettes, for my vote.
Contents
Cover (#ub42eb4c7-9b2a-5bfc-906e-ca275a0b07bb)
Back Cover Text (#u3fdc6adf-9f7d-5b17-9081-9b010b0be844)
About the Author (#u4098a524-0bf3-52c1-9f4e-e1ddf5634961)
Booklist (#ub372a214-804b-5cb1-a838-8a8f248f0fd0)
Title Page (#uce3fd73e-9947-52af-b839-b76ff7651016)
Copyright (#u4f3a8d7a-d53f-5461-bb57-103f1fa630af)
Dedication (#ue72f6469-b0cd-557c-9a40-5fbcae6170f8)
Chapter One (#ucd757b17-3197-5b3a-bfb6-b57334c64ddf)
Chapter Two (#u5be76f65-0819-542b-a430-450cdcbf20bd)
Chapter Three (#u43bdea76-26e8-5bcd-ac47-6292ee33c236)
Chapter Four (#u9fcff901-95d9-52d0-814d-d17b0bad550e)
Chapter Five (#uc1eb281f-b3bd-564a-a190-36a89476f262)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Violet Creams (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘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 frock. The blue-striped taffeta was streaked with rust and dirt. Somehow she’d have to hide it.
His eyes followed the route of her climb. His hold on her arm tightened. ‘Promise me. No more balconies. It’s dangerous—surely you can see that.’
Violet shivered in the night air. She’d removed her cloak in order to climb more easily. Truth be told, the climb had been more difficult than she’d anticipated, teetering on the ledge, and her legs still trembled from her fall. If he hadn’t caught her...
‘Promise me,’ he demanded again.
‘How do you know I’m the kind of person who keeps her promises?’
He stared into her eyes. ‘You keep your promises.’
She found herself unable to break his gaze. ‘All right!’
Abruptly he stepped back. Beneath his coat his broad shoulders relaxed. ‘Then I’ll let you go without calling the constable. At least you won’t go climbing any more balconies, even if I suspect it won’t stop you tying more banners.’
Freed from his grip, Violet turned and ran.
‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder as she dashed away. ‘You can be sure of that.’
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared after the hourglass figure disappearing around the corner. Her fleeting footsteps clicked on the pavement as she vanished into the night.
He rubbed his eyes. What an extraordinary vision, witnessing the young woman stretched across the balcony, arms and legs spread like a spider. Her dress had hitched up as she inched across, clinging to the stone balustrade, using the columns as footholds, her banner clutched in one gloved hand. He had to commend her daring, even if it was sheer idiocy.
Then she had fallen into his arms. The feel of her as she landed right in them. Instinctively he’d leapt forward as she tumbled to where he guessed she’d land and caught her like a fish in a net.
He wouldn’t forget how she’d felt in his arms.
He scratched his head. Her brown hair was glossy, her eyes bright blue. When she’d realised that she had the wrong address a smile had curved her full cheeks, filling her eyes with laughter. Not beautiful, but pretty.
And soft. That’s what he’d felt, when he caught her. Frills and lace and, beneath it, soft, warm flesh. But her spirit—no softness there. She radiated strength and a cast-iron determination.
He had to admire that kind of female determination. His younger sister, Jane, had strength of character, too, although it was still developing. So did his elder sister, Arabella, but since their father had died the family relied on Adam for everything. Every decision, every penny.
Adam set his jaw. He didn’t resent the responsibility, but he had to make some hard decisions now. Damned difficult, sometimes, being head of the family.
‘There’s no need to swear!’ an irate voice echoed in his head. He frowned. She had an unusual accent. Northern, he guessed, beneath the carefully enunciated vowels. She wasn’t, as some of the more unpleasantly snobbish acquaintances of his mother would have put it, ‘one of us.’
His frown deepened as he stared at the shabby front door of their London home. Being ‘one of us’ took a lot of upkeep. The black paint was peeling on the wrought iron and the black front door needed a lick of paint, too. The marble steps leading up to the threshold were dull and dirty. The servants travelled back and forth with them, to and from Beauley Manor. He couldn’t afford to keep staff in both homes. The London mansion needed much more than a good clean, never mind what a country estate like Beauley Manor needed. Then he had to add what his mother and Arabella and Jane needed, too. They would be back in London to attend a ball tomorrow night. Neither of them had asked for new ball gowns that could cost a fortune.
A fortune he didn’t have.
From the corner of his eye he noticed something fluttering from the plane tree near the streetlight at the corner.
He strode over and pulled it down from the branch. It tore as it came free.
In his hand the banner unfurled. Purple, green and white. Under the streetlight he examined it more closely. It was made of silk, not cotton or sensible broadcloth. The tricolours were sewn together lengthways in somewhat imperfect stitches. In the corner of the white section was embroidered a tiny purple violet.
Scrunching up the silken banner in his fist, he shoved it inside his coat.
The sight of her, inching across the balcony, her suffragette banner aloft in her hand...
For the first time in months Adam laughed aloud.
* * *
Violet sighed over her embroidery as she unpicked a crooked seam. She’d been distracted ever since she fell off the balcony into the dark-haired stranger’s arms the night before. He had held her only for a moment or two, yet she had felt so comfortable, so secure in that strong grip, though a tremor of danger had run through her veins. It had been the most peculiar sensation. Still, it was unlikely she would ever see him again. Her heart gave a strange squeeze of regret.
She poked her needle, threaded with purple, into the white silk and put it aside into the sewing pouch on its polished rosewood stand. She needed to make another banner quickly. The only advantage of being able to sew was that she used her skill to make her suffrage banners, not that her mother knew that to be the reason, of course. She’d wondered recently, though, what had happened to all the purple silk.
‘I’ve been wondering if we should change your name.’
In astonishment Violet turned to her mother, who lay on the velvet chaise longue reading an illustrated fashion paper. ‘What on earth do you mean, Mama? Change my name? What’s wrong with Violet Regina?’
‘Just the spelling,’ her mother said hastily. ‘We could make it French-sounding. Violette.’ She added a trill to the final syllable. ‘French is quite the fashion.’
Firmly Violet shook her head. ‘No, Mama. No. We are who we are. I love my name.’
‘You’re named after a chocolate,’ her mother protested.
‘And a pretty little flower,’ said her father, coming into the drawing room and knocking over the porcelain shepherdess by the door, as he always did. The vast space was absolutely crammed with china ornaments. They, too, were the latest fashion, her mother insisted, whenever Violet suggested removing one or two.
‘What’s all this about, then?’ her father asked, replacing the shepherdess on the stand and giving it a cautious pat.
‘Oh, Papa.’ Violet leapt up, ran across the room and hugged him tight. It was becoming harder to wrap her arms around his waistcoat, she thought with a smile. He’d always been shaped like a barrel, but now he was like a barrel about to burst. ‘I thought you went up to Manchester, to the factory.’
Her father squeezed back. ‘I put off the trip north until next week. Your mama has persuaded me to stay in London and come to this dance tomorrow night.’
‘Ball,’ her mother put in from the chaise longue.
Her father winked at her mother. ‘Aye, we’ll have a ball, my beautiful Adeline.’
‘Reginald.’ Her mother pursed her lips, but her cheeks flushed pink.
‘So, do you have the most beautiful gowns money can buy?’ Her father beamed. ‘I want my girls to look fine.’
The final touches had been put on her own gown that morning at the dressmaker’s in Bond Street. Even such a gown didn’t alleviate the sinking in Violet’s stomach. If only her parents weren’t so eager. Still, she’d have to make the best of it.
‘My dress is beautiful,’ she replied. ‘White lace with a violet sash.’
‘The best Belgian lace,’ her mother added.
‘The best.’ Her father rubbed his hands together delightedly. ‘That’s right. Nothing else for the Coombes. The best.’
Violet picked up her needle and smiled at him. Not for all the lace in Belgium would she have told her father just how much she dreaded the ball.
Only the thought of what she planned to do there spurred her on.
Chapter Two (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘To alien ears, I did not speak to these’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘What’s wrong with these fellows, not asking my daughter to dance? Can’t they see the prettiest girl in the room?’
Across the small table Violet squeezed her father’s hand. Through her white kid gloves his hand was damp and hot.
From his evening coat he pulled a spotted handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘Upon my soul, it’s stifling in here. Perhaps it’s a good thing not to be dancing, Violet, out in that crush.’
Violet stared into the ballroom. Across the polished floor couples swirled, the men in black and white, the women in a rainbow of silks, taffetas, satins and lace. On a raised platform at the other end of the room the orchestra played a waltz by Strauss, one Violet had practised during her dancing lessons. Music and chatter filled the air, along with the tinkle of laughter and champagne glasses.
The three of them sat alone on fragile gilt chairs in a small curtained alcove off the dance floor. The red-velvet curtains were open wide, unlike some of the other alcoves, inviting visitors to their table. So far, no one had approached. Her dance card, lying on the linen tablecloth, remained empty.
Her mother blinked rapidly. ‘I thought Violet would have plenty of partners. It was so fortunate for us to receive an invitation.’
‘It’s quite all right, Mama,’ Violet said stoutly. ‘I don’t care to dance. Not tonight, in any case.’
She stilled her foot beneath the skirt of her voluminous ball gown. In truth, she loved to dance and her slippers had been waltzing under her petticoats ever since she arrived.
Her cheeks were warm. She sipped some champagne. It was the heat of the ballroom, she told herself. She refused to be humiliated by their obvious lack of welcome at the ball.
Biting her lip, she glanced down at her gown with a frown. Perhaps it suited her ill. It had more frills and furbelows than she would have liked—her mama had insisted on them—but they’d been to the best dressmaker in London, so it was perfectly cut. The sleeves were short, leaving her forearms bare to her gloves, the bodice dipped down to reveal the skin of her décolletage, but not in a vulgar way, her train draped beautifully and the violet sash emphasised the tininess of her waist. Her brown hair had been dressed by her mother’s new French maid in a flattering style, swept up at the back into a high chignon.
In the glass above the mantel in the drawing room she’d seen her reflection before they left for the ball, her eyes cornflower bright and her cheeks rosy with unexpected excitement. Her chin, the same strong chin as her papa’s, a feature that meant that she would never be considered a classical beauty, was slightly pink, too.
‘You’re a belle, Violet, just like your mama,’ her father said proudly when she spun a pirouette, narrowly avoiding a porcelain trinket box crashing to the floor. Her first ball. Surely every girl longed to attend a ball. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as dreadful as she expected.
It was, possibly, worse. Her trepidation about the ball had been justified. No one spoke to them. They weren’t being cut, exactly, for they hadn’t been formally introduced into society. But they were certainly not welcomed with open arms, or even an extended hand. One of the young ladies who had chatted with her at their horse-riding lessons in Hyde Park behaved as though Violet was invisible when she gave her a small wave across the room.
She didn’t mind for herself, she told herself firmly. But she did mind for her father, with his high hopes, who’d beamed as they climbed into their new carriage drawn by four horses, and for her mother, too.
Upon their arrival, where she’d taken the opportunity to scan the entry hall, she’d stood near some disapproving Dowagers and overheard a snide, whispered conversation.
‘The Coombes have come to London for the Season to try for a match for the daughter,’ one of the Dowagers whispered. ‘They don’t seem to be having much luck.’
‘Even with all those chocolates,’ the other woman had tittered.
‘My dear, no wonder. Have you spied the mother? Covered in feathers and weighed down with so many diamonds she rivals the chandeliers.’
Violet had turned hot with indignation. Why shouldn’t her mama wear as many diamonds as she wanted to? They were newly cut gems, not the old, rose-cut kind that glinted in the dull unpolished settings slung around most of the other ladies’ necks, but her mama loved her diamonds and her papa had been so pleased to be able to give them to her. Her parents had faced some hard times in the early days, before the chocolate business became a success.
Now, her mother picked up her huge ostrich fan. It was too big, by the unkind Dowagers’ standards, but who were they to judge her beloved mama?
‘What should we do?’ her mama whispered from behind the feathers. ‘Should we go home?’
‘Certainly not!’ Violet and her father spoke at the same time.
‘Let’s sit it out,’ her father said.
Her mother’s lip quivered.
‘I’ll take you for a turn on the floor, Adeline, cheer you up.’ He glanced at Violet.
‘We can’t leave Violet sitting alone,’ her mother protested.
Violet picked up her own fan, white lace trimmed with ribbon to match her sash. She’d stopped her mama from having peacock feathers added to it and she wore a simple pearl necklace like the other young women in white who appeared to be about her age, even if the pearls were perfectly matched and clasped with a first-rate diamond. ‘I don’t mind a jot, Mama. I don’t care if I’m a wallflower.’
‘Violets may grow in the shade, but they’re never wallflowers.’ Her father patted her shoulder as he stood and made an elaborate bow to his wife.
They made their way to the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another waltz. Her father took her mother in his arms.
The sensation of being held in the arms of the man who had caught her when she fell from the balcony came back to her. She’d relived it more than once, that sense of safety and danger, too, with his lips so close to hers. He’d even appeared in her dreams the night before, shouting something at her from the garden below as she leaned out of the first-floor window of a big house she didn’t recognise.
She wondered what it would be like to dance with a man, held like that. She wasn’t likely to find out. Tonight, she wasn’t even going to dance.
Never mind. She jerked up her chin.
She’d made her secret decision long ago, when she first became a suffragette. Of course, she hadn’t confided in her parents, any more than she’d told them about her suffragette activities. They wouldn’t understand. But she would stick to her decision. She would put aside those hopes and dreams, her own desires, for the greater good. For the Cause.
Violet could so clearly recall the moment the Cause had seized her, body and soul. She had read about the suffragettes in The Times newspaper, which she much preferred to the fashion papers. A thrill of excitement had run through her as she learned about the women fighting to be allowed to vote, led by Emmeline Pankhurst. Like Violet, Mrs Pankhurst came from Manchester, in the north of England. ‘Deeds, not words,’ she urged her followers.
‘Deeds, not words’, Violet repeated to herself. In her own way, she’d vowed, she would make a difference, add her daring deeds to the Cause. She might not be able to join suffragette rallies, or go to meetings, or march in the streets, as she longed to. Her parents would never allow it. But she kept sewing her banners. No one would stop her.
‘You keep your promises.’ A deep voice came back to her. The man on the street had sensed she was someone who would keep true to her word and her deeds. She had sensed the same in him, too.
Her parents twirled past. Her father was surprisingly light on his feet and her mother was smiling now, to Violet’s relief. She did so want her parents’ happiness.
Sometimes she wished they had stayed in Manchester. They were happier there in their large house a few miles outside the town. But her mama wanted Violet to have everything and so did her papa, and that meant moving to London for the Season. They believed there were more opportunities.
Dancing lessons. Elocution lessons. French lessons. Riding lessons. Music lessons. To please her parents she took them all and it left precious little time to herself. So she sewed her banners and carried out her plans at night.
Deeds, not words.
On the way into the ballroom, she’d spotted another excellent target. Two targets, to be precise.
Violet rubbed her thighs together and heard the rustle of silk.
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared across the ballroom.
There could be no doubt. He narrowed his eyes as he studied the young woman who sat in the alcove opposite. She was accompanied, until they took to the dance floor, by an older man and woman, the man attired in a well-cut evening suit that nevertheless appeared to be straining at the buttons and the woman in canary-yellow satin.
He moved slightly behind the half-closed velvet curtain. He could see the young woman, but she couldn’t see him. Yes. It was the climbing suffragette. Her hair had been loosened by her tumble when he’d last seen her and instead of a ball gown she’d been clad in smooth, slippery stuff that he could still seem to touch in his hands. Beneath it her flesh had been warm and soft.
He took the covert opportunity to examine her more closely. Her hair was a glossy chestnut colour that reminded him of a horse he’d ridden as a child, when the stables had been full at Beauley Manor. Most of the horses had been sold off now. Her white gown was understated, in contrast with her mother’s, for he presumed the pair to be her parents. Its simplicity showed off her fine complexion that was possibly her best feature.
Yes, she was pretty. Though he might not have remembered her if he hadn’t caught her in his arms.
He grinned to himself.
He’d been uninterested at the ball until he spotted her. The same faces, the same gossip. He couldn’t think why he’d consented to come. But it was preferable to sitting at his desk and going through the family papers and accounts yet again, hoping the numbers would add up differently.
‘Who is that in the alcove opposite?’ he asked.
His mother lifted her lorgnette. ‘I have no idea.’
‘No one we would know,’ said Arabella.
Adam winced. Arabella could sound snobbish and sharp, but he knew that his elder sister often sounded sharp when she was anxious and she was anxious now. She was intelligent, too. She’d guessed the extent of their financial straits, even though he’d shouldered the burden alone. There was no point in alarming them until it was absolutely necessary, though he guessed both Arabella and Jane had some notion. They’d seen him work on the estate accounts night after night, ever since their father died.
‘Wait.’ His mother peered through her eyeglass. ‘She comes from somewhere in the north. Her father is Reginald Coombes. He makes some kind of confectionery. She’s the sole heiress, I believe.’
‘Oh, gosh,’ said Jane. ‘That must be Coombes Chocolates. They’re delicious.’
A sweet heiress. Adam chuckled inwardly. Well, well.
‘She’s wearing a lovely dress,’ Jane said rather wistfully. ‘It’s so much nicer than mine. I’m surprised no one wants to dance with her.’
Jane was wearing a debutante hand-me-down of Arabella’s, bless her heart. A couple of extra inches of white trimming that almost matched had been added at the hem. Arabella wore a gown in a shade of mustard that did nothing for her complexion or thin figure, the unfortunate fabric a bargain buy at the haberdasher’s. She hadn’t attracted many partners, either.
‘You’re a Beaufort,’ his mother said to Jane. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear.’
‘I think it might, Mama,’ said Jane, with a sigh.
Indeed, being dressed in rags might matter, Adam thought grimly. He dreaded breaking the news of the extent of their diminished means to his mother and sisters. Telling them exactly what was left of the family fortune—precisely nothing—wasn’t something he looked forward to.
Adam studied Reginald Coombes. Short and stout, he possessed the same bright blue eyes as his daughter. The mother, a blonde whose prettiness was almost overwhelmed by her yellow satin and more diamonds than Adam had ever seen on one person, gazed at her husband with obvious affection. It touched him that they seemed happier than many of the other married couples on the dance floor. Indeed, few married couples were dancing together at all. They certainly looked happier than he’d ever seen his own parents. Not that his parents were often together in the years before his father’s demise.
He shunted the memories from his mind.
Adam moved his attention back to the lone figure in the alcove, watched how she straightened her back, stiffening her spine and jutting out her chin, as if daring anyone to pity her for being a wallflower. She appeared to be smiling.
But it must be hard, to sit there alone.
He slid on his gloves.
‘Adam,’ his mother hissed. ‘What are you doing?’
* * *
‘Miss Coombes?’
Violet jumped. In her mind she’d left the ballroom and begun to carry out her plan. She shifted on the gilt-legged chair and widened her knees so her thighs didn’t touch. She couldn’t risk anyone suspecting what she had wrapped like garters around her silk stockings. ‘Yes? Oh! It’s you!’
‘Indeed.’ A pair of midnight eyes found hers. ‘We meet again.’
Violet’s heart gave an unexpected thump. In her dream the night before, her rescuer appeared so impossibly handsome that she scolded herself in the morning. Surely her imagination had run wild. Now he stood in front of her in black-and-white evening attire he was even more attractive than in her dreams. In the dim streetlamp lighting she hadn’t fully taken in the firm set of his clean-shaven jaw, the line of his strong mouth.
On the street after her tumble she’d been surprised that he appeared younger than his commanding voice suggested. He must be about five years older than she, rather than the ten she’d originally thought, perhaps close to thirty years of age, she guessed. The two forked lines between his dark eyebrows made it difficult to gauge. His shoulders were broad in the well-cut tailed jacket, which showed some wear.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’ Violet shifted on her chair again. There was the faintest rustle of silk.
If he heard he made no sign. ‘Nor I you.’
Violet cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m glad to see you. I wanted to thank you properly. I ought to have been more grateful to you for...ah...catching me.’
It struck her later what a risk she’d taken. It could have ended very ill indeed if he hadn’t been there.
A phantom of a smile glimmered in his eyes. ‘To catch you was my pleasure.’ He glanced around the ballroom. ‘I didn’t know suffragettes liked dancing.’
‘I haven’t been doing much dancing,’ Violet blurted out, then bit her tongue.
‘Perhaps we might remedy that.’ He bowed low and held out his gloved hand. ‘May I have the honour?’
‘But I don’t know your name.’
‘My apologies.’ He smiled. His teeth were even and white. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced. I know you are Miss Coombes.’
‘Violet Coombes.’
‘Indeed?’ Some comprehension, almost amusement, flared in his expression. ‘I’m Adam Beaufort.’
‘Beaufort. I know your name. Then that means you are... There’s a house...’ Violet tried to simulate the society page in her mind. She’d read something about his family home, she was certain of it.
‘The Beauforts of Beauley Manor. Yes.’ He inclined his head. ‘I recently inherited the estate.’
‘Oh. I see.’ It came back to her now. Their historic estate was in Kent, and the Beauforts were an exceptionally old English family. The kind of society family she’d never expected to welcome the Coombes.
‘If you’re at all concerned about my pedigree,’ he said drily, ‘that’s my mother and my two sisters over there.’
He indicated a group in the alcove opposite. A grey-haired woman, straight-backed, dressed in black, was studying Violet through her lorgnette. Behind her stood a tall, haughty young woman, wearing a mustard-coloured gown. She looked down her nose at Violet. Seated next to the grey-haired woman was a big-boned girl with hair escaping from her bun. Violet had seen her laughing across the dance floor. She flashed a quick smile.
‘My parents are here, too.’ Just in time Violet remembered not to point. She nodded towards her mother and father. Her mother was tripping over her train, trying not to stare at the tall, dark-haired man in their alcove.
‘Now we’re introduced,’ he said smoothly. ‘Shall we dance?’
Violet stood up. Her head came just above his shoulder. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
She took his proffered hand. Instantly the sensation of being in his arms returned. Even through their gloves she could feel it. Safety. Danger. Mixed into one.
Through the crowd he led her to the centre of the ballroom. The previous dance had ended and another was about to begin. A path cleared before him. Some of the men nodded in his direction, and more than a few pairs of female lashes fluttered. She sensed all eyes upon them, though he paid no attention to it.
They stood face to face. He released her hand. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms. They hung awkwardly, by her sides.
‘I presume you waltz?’ he asked politely, as they waited for the orchestra to start up.
‘I’ve had lessons,’ she replied. Another thing she probably shouldn’t have said. Then she recalled stamping her foot at him. She sighed. It was too late to pretend to be other than whom she truly was and she wouldn’t have wanted to in any case.
Again she noted a flicker of amusement. ‘Excellent.’
The music struck up. It was ʻThe Blue Danube’, one of Violet’s favourite pieces of music. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, ‘I trust you dance as well as you climb.’
He swirled her into his arms.
Violet’s breath surged up through her body. In an instant he swept her away, across the polished floor. Her lessons were nothing like this. She had never danced with such a partner—why, she never really danced before. In his powerful arms her feet glided over the floor as if she floated above it. The waltz started slowly, then became faster. The violins soared and shimmered, the horns played the beguiling tune as the woodwinds kept time. Her slippers chased his black-leather shoes, speeding with the melody as it rose and fell. His grip never wavered as he lifted her off the ground with every turn.
She’d wondered what it would be like to dance in his arms. Now she knew.
Violet threw back her head and closed her eyes. The music swelled. Now she wasn’t following the rhythm, or his skilful feet. She stopped thinking about her steps, just allowed herself to blindly follow his lead as he looped her in circle after circle. The tune rippled inside her, sending her dizzy, as if she were spinning with her arms outstretched, the way she used to do in the garden as a child. Her lips widened. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it.
When she opened her eyes his were upon her. Hardened to impenetrable sapphire, they moved from her open lips to her bared neck, her head still thrown back.
He pulled her closer, his body pressed against her petticoats. Gripped by his eyes, his hands, she twirled, spun, twirled again.
Past his staring family in the alcove. Past her amazed parents. Past the girl from riding lessons, goggle-eyed. To Violet they became a blur. She could have danced for ever as he swept her across the floor, sending the other couples scattering in their wake.
All too soon the music ended. The final crescendo shattered in a crash of cymbals. He broke their gaze, let her go.
Violet put her glove to her racing heartbeat. ‘Oh!’
Adam Beaufort, too, seemed to need to regain his breath. He bowed, but not before she’d glimpsed the dart of a smile. ‘Perhaps you’d like some air, Miss Coombes. The balcony? I know you enjoy them.’
She laughed. ‘Yes. The balcony. Please.’
As they passed a waiter Adam seized two glasses of champagne and led her through the French doors on to the empty balcony that overlooked the rear garden. She sensed eyes from the ballroom burning into her back. She raised her chin.
‘Thank you.’ Gratefully she grasped the stem of the glass he offered her and drank deeply. She was tempted to drain it. Instead she put the cool glass to her burning cheeks.
He, too, drank, surveying her over the rim. ‘Your dancing lessons have been effective.’
‘My lessons never taught me to dance like that,’ she said frankly. ‘It was wonderful. Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘There are certain skills in life that must be mastered.’
‘Surely dancing is a pleasure, not a skill,’ she protested.
One corner of his mouth curved. ‘Most of life’s pleasures become more pleasurable with greater skill, Miss Coombes.’
Violet removed the glass from her cheeks and stared out into the garden. Music wafted from inside the ballroom. Tiers of stone steps flowed down into a rolling lawn. Pale moonlight shone. Her breath began to return to her lungs, but she still felt as if she were spinning. With her free hand she clutched the edge of the balcony. The balustrade was made of stone rather than cast iron, in thick pillars. Below was a sheer drop into a huge rhododendron bush.
Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow. ‘Assessing your descent?’
Violet laughed. ‘No. I promised you I wouldn’t climb any more balconies.’
Though she hadn’t promised anything else. Her thighs brushed together, reminding her of her plan.
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He lounged against a pillar, sending his face into shadow.
‘Tell me. What made you do it? Climb, I mean.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
He shook his head. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘It was for the Cause. I intended to drape a women’s suffrage banner over the front of the gentleman’s club as a protest,’ she explained. ‘You must know how long women have been fighting to be granted the vote. The women’s colours are purple, green and white, you see. I sew the banners myself. Unfortunately I lost that one,’ she added regretfully.
He fell silent for a moment, took another draught of champagne. ‘Is it the first banner you’ve hung?’
‘No. I’ve hung others.’ And it wouldn’t be the last.
‘What’s your reasoning behind such an action?’
‘Wouldn’t any woman want to be treated as an equal?’ she asked passionately. ‘We’re treated as children who don’t know their own minds. Why shouldn’t we have the vote, take a role in choosing the government of our own country? Deeds, not words. That’s what we need now, for the Cause.’
‘You’re quite convincing, Miss Coombes,’ he drawled.
She clenched her fist around the champagne glass. ‘You’re mocking me.’
‘Not at all. Who can’t admire such conviction? How did you become involved in...the Cause?’
‘I’m only involved in a small way. I’m not a member of any organisation. I act alone. I’m just trying to do my part.’
‘Do your parents know what you’re doing?’
Violet sighed and shook her head.
He raised a brow. ‘I take it they wouldn’t approve.’
‘It’s a secret,’ she said rapidly. ‘I must ask you not to betray my confidence.’
‘You have my promise. I, too, keep my word.’
Violet let out a sigh of relief. Somehow she knew he told her the truth, even if in the shadow of the pillar his expression was unreadable.
‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ he asked.
Violet’s hand clenched on her glass. ‘I’m sorry?’
His teeth gleamed. ‘I suspect you have a more personal reason for your passion for the Cause.’
‘How did you know?’ she gasped.
He shrugged. ‘Human nature.’
She took a sip of champagne.
‘I do have a reason,’ she said at last. ‘You may know of my father’s business. Coombes Chocolates.’
At his nod she went on.
‘My father is a self-made man. He started the business and built it up from nothing. It’s gone from a small enterprise to a national name. Thousands of people work for him now in the chocolate factory and many more thousands enjoy our wares. Why, someone is probably biting into a Coombes Floral Cream right now.’
‘Indeed,’ Adam Beaufort drawled.
Violet took a deep breath.
‘I want to follow my father into the business,’ she said rapidly. It was the first time she ever said it aloud. ‘I have so many ideas, so many plans. Times are changing, a new century is here. There are new ways of doing things. Opportunities for social reform, for new methods. If women are given the vote...’
‘It might make it easier for you to become a woman of business.’
He’d grasped it immediately.
She nodded.
‘I’ve always admired my father and what he’s achieved. The people in there don’t see it,’ she added with a jerk of her head towards the French doors.
‘Surely you exaggerate.’
‘Not at all. We should have stayed in Manchester where we belong, not tried to be part of London society,’ she said fervently. ‘It means so much to my papa, but they look down on him, despise him. Who knows? Perhaps you do, too.’
Startling her, he stepped out of the shadow of the pillar.
‘My father was a drunkard, Miss Coombes, who lost our family fortune,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If you think I despise your father for being determined, hardworking and ambitious, you’re very much mistaken.’
Violet’s mouth dropped open.
Silence fell between them.
‘Forgive me,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ve been under some pressure of late. Such conversation is not fit for a ballroom.’
‘It’s honest conversation. I prefer it,’ she replied quickly. ‘And I ought to ask your pardon. You asked me to dance. No one else did.’
As she spoke she impulsively moved forward, raised her face to his. He stared down at her, an expression she couldn’t decipher in his eyes. All she knew was that she took another step forward and lifted her chin higher, just as he moved closer to her and lowered his head, so close he surely felt on his lips the sigh that escaped hers.
From the ballroom came a crash of cymbals. Inside, the orchestra ended another piece of music with a rousing crescendo.
They leapt apart.
He retreated to the pillar. ‘It seems this moonlight and champagne is having an effect on us.’ His voice sounded deeper to Violet’s ears. ‘We’ve both revealed secrets tonight. Perhaps we ought to return to safer topics.’
Violet clutched the stem of her champagne glass so hard it threatened to snap. Her heart pounded.
He bowed. ‘Would you care for another dance, Miss Coombes?’
‘Oh, yes, please, I mean, thank you.’ Suddenly flustered, she lay down her glass. ‘Oh!’
Adam frowned. ‘What is it?’
She froze. Beneath her petticoat she felt an unravelling.
She took a step.
A slip between her thighs.
‘Miss Coombes...’
Another step.
A silken slide down her legs.
He stared at her face. ‘What the blazes has happened now?’
‘I can’t dance with you. I’m sorry!’
Violet raced through the French doors and out of the ballroom.
Adam gazed after Miss Violet Coombes in astonishment.
She had refused another waltz with him.
Momentarily he felt affronted.
Then through the French doors he watched her scuttle across the ballroom. She scurried, crab-like, her knees held together, in a curious dance step of her own.
Once more he started to laugh. She was up to something. He’d stake his life on it.
He never expected to have such an extraordinary conversation with her. They’d both revealed more than they intended. The pressures of trying to sort out his father’s estate wore him down, a constant worry, a permanent burden across his shoulders. He experienced a curious relief sharing it with Miss Violet Coombes. It lightened his burden, for a moment.
She preferred honest conversation, she’d told him. Her frankness disarmed him and she possessed a curious sweetness, too.
He grinned inwardly.
Like a Coombes Floral Cream.
He’d wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t the first time. When he caught her in his arms in the square the instinct roared through his body, too. Tonight, when she stared up at him in the moonlight, her bright blue eyes full of understanding and concern, her pink lips parted, he wanted to take her in his arms and taste that sweetness. Hold that warm, soft flesh in his arms again.
Why the blazes had she fled from him?
It wasn’t that near kiss. Such things weren’t done on ballroom balconies, but he sensed she wasn’t frightened by the honesty of that moment.
She’d wanted to kiss him back. Her soft, fast breath told him that.
Swiftly he followed her path across the ballroom and out into the entrance hall. There was no sign of her. The huge hall, with its marble floor, gilt-framed paintings and statues, appeared empty. Then a scuffling noise came from behind a column of marble.
A long, shapely leg clad in a white-silk stocking extended from behind the pillar, followed by a familiar tricolour silken banner.
It must have been under her skirt.
Stifling his chuckle, not wanting to alarm her, Adam backed behind another marble column. After a moment she appeared, glanced around furtively and raised herself up on tiptoe. One after the other she hurled the two billowing banners into the air.
Adam frowned. He couldn’t quite make out what she was doing, but he could make a fair guess. He was about to reveal himself and remonstrate with her when her parents appeared and bore her off in a carriage.
He leapt out from behind the pillar and swore.
Her aim was excellent.
‘Damnation,’ he muttered below his breath.
The ballroom doors flung open. Before Adam could grab the banners a group surged into the hall.
A woman squealed and pointed.
All hell broke loose.
Adam groaned. Violet Coombes had no idea what she’d done.
Chapter Three (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘Shall Error in the round of time
Still father Truth?’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’(1842)
‘Whoa.’ Violet pulled the reins of the grey mare. All morning the mare had been frisky, playing up. It took all Violet’s strength to stop her breaking into a gallop in the middle of Hyde Park. It was a day to gallop, the sun golden in the summer sky. Around her all the flowers in the garden beds were in bloom, their colours as bright as ball gowns and their perfumed scents heady. Instead, Violet slowed to a sedate trot.
A groom from the riding school rode up to her. ‘That’s it, miss. Give me the reins now. I’ll lead you back to the others. That’s probably enough for today.’
Violet passed them over with her thanks. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Dancing at night and riding in the morning was strenuous exercise. Her tight-fitting blue-velvet riding habit, trimmed with a lace jabot at the neck, suddenly seemed much too hot. She’d have something made in a cooler fabric for the summer and try to prevent her mama from adding too much trimming. The riding habits of the other young ladies, all in black, seemed to have marked signs of wear, as if to emphasise use.
While the groom led her to the group, her mind roved over the events of the night before. It had been so unfortunate that the banner had unravelled from around her thigh before she had a chance to dance once more with Adam Beaufort. She would probably never have another opportunity to dance with him, to be swept across the floor in those powerful arms, after running away from him so publicly. He must have been insulted.
She sighed. She owed Adam Beaufort another apology and yet another explanation, if she ever saw him again. He must have wondered what made her run off in such a peculiar fashion, but she had to move quickly before the banner fell to the floor from beneath her ball dress. She had made it just in time. She dashed behind a pillar and whipped out the banner from beneath her petticoats, yanked one free and then the other. Quickly she seized the moment, did what she’d set out to do. She’d intended to wait until the end of the ball, to linger until the crowds dispersed, but with the banners released she grasped her opportunity while everyone else was in the ballroom. She had just completed the deed when her parents appeared, full of concern after seeing her leave the ballroom. Steering them away from the evidence of her activity, she pleaded a sudden fever, with her hand to her forehead. They called for the carriage instantly and took her home. She didn’t see Adam Beaufort again.
She released another sigh. He was the only person she had ever told about how strongly she believed in the suffrage cause. Had he been mocking her? As she replayed the conversation in her mind she decided not. She could only hope he’d keep his word and not betray her secret.
He’d trusted her with a secret, too. The lines of care on his face she’d noticed when they first met; she hadn’t mistaken those. She wondered what he might look like without the burdens he carried.
Their honest conversation had seemed to bring them closer together than the waltz. When she’d finally fallen asleep that night she had dreamed about him again. In the garden of that unidentifiable house, he called up to her at the window. She leaned out, almost tumbling from the window as she tried to hear what he said, but she couldn’t make it out.
When she awoke she’d puzzled over it. She recalled how he whispered in her ear, ‘I hope you dance as well as you climb.’ His deep voice had sent quivers through her. When she got out of bed she’d washed her face with cold water from the pitcher, instead of hot.
Even now, the next morning, in the sunshine of the park, thinking about him made her pulse flicker at her wrist under her riding glove. The night before as she lay in bed, she’d found herself lifting her fingertip to her mouth, remembering the look he gave her as he lowered his mouth so close to hers. Had he meant to kiss her? Was that blackness in the midnight of his eyes...desire?
If she were going to daydream about such matters, which of course she was not, he was the kind of man she would daydream about. But she had other matters to think about rather than waltzing with Adam Beaufort, no matter how extraordinarily wonderful it had been. Yet if she were scrupulously truthful, as she always tried to be, she had to admit her attraction to him. He was, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in London, or so her thrilled mama had enlightened her on the way home in the carriage.
‘He’s related to the royal family!’ her mama had gasped.
Whether Adam Beaufort was eligible or not, there was no point in daydreaming. She’d made her decision.
She took the reins from the groom.
He tipped his cap.
She halted next to the girl she had spotted the night before in the ballroom who sometimes chatted to her.
With a clip of her whip she moved her horse away from Violet’s.
Violet lifted her chin. It hadn’t been pleasant to be snubbed at the ball, nor was it pleasant to be snubbed now, and she wasn’t sure why. It seemed a more blatant cut than pretending not to see a waving hand from across the room. If Adam Beaufort hadn’t asked her the night before, she would have sat out every dance. It made her even sorrier that she had missed being whirled into another waltz. The way he danced with her would remain in her memory, but that was all.
The Cause was more important.
Deeds, not words. She must stay true to her purpose. Yet her heart gave another strange flinch as she turned her mare towards the park gates.
* * *
‘Mama?’ Violet pushed open the drawing-room door. ‘Where are you? There’s no one in the dining room. What’s happened to luncheon? I’m famished after riding. Will you allow me to come to the table before I change out of my riding habit?’
Her mother lay on the chaise longue. Her arm, clad in a ruffled sleeve, was flung over her face. She didn’t reply.
‘Mama?’ Violet stepped into the room. Her father was also in the drawing room, to her surprise. He faced the fireplace, his back to her. He wasn’t often home during the day. ‘Why, hello, Papa. Have you come home for luncheon? We’ll have to wake Mama. I think she’s asleep.’
‘I’m not asleep, Violet,’ her mother said in a strangled voice. ‘I’ve had a visit from some of the society ladies who invited us to the ball.’
‘Oh, how lovely, Mama.’ Violet cared little for such things, but she knew how much store her mother set by them and it mattered to her father, too, with his business ambitions. To have such ladies call on them was a step up the social ladder. Not that Violet had any inclination to climb it.
‘No.’ Her mother sat up. Her face was pale, except for two bright red patches on her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t lovely. It was dreadful!’
She burst into tears.
‘Mama!’ Violet rushed to her side. ‘Don’t cry so, please. What happened? What did they say to you?’
Her mother seized a lace-trimmed handkerchief. ‘They said... She said...’
‘You must have some idea, Violet.’ Her father spoke from his place by the fireplace. He didn’t turn around.
She shook her head. ‘No, Papa, I don’t. How dare they upset Mama so? What did they say?’
Her thoughts flew immediately to Adam Beaufort. Had there been gossip about them because she’d lingered on the balcony with him and then raced out of the ballroom? That near kiss...had someone seen them together?
Nerves fluttered in her stomach. ‘What is it?’
‘Someone draped a suffragette banner across a marble bust of Queen Victoria,’ her mother whispered, muffled by the handkerchief. ‘And the Prince Consort, too, God rest his soul.’
Violet tried to keep a straight face. It had been such a perfect opportunity.
Two legs. Two banners. Two marble busts. They’d been perched on plinths halfway up the wall, each set back in a gilt-scrolled niche. The banners had ballooned up and landed. Queen Victoria’s banner around her marble shoulders, like a shawl. Quite fitting for a monarch. Prince Albert’s on his head, falling over one eye, giving him a rakish look. She hadn’t been able to reach to fix it.
‘The ladies told me all about it.’ Her mother wrung her hands together. ‘At the end of the ball, when everyone came out into the hall, there they were, bold as brass. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’
Laugh, Mama, Violet wanted to say. How she wished her mother shared her views about women’s suffrage, but her mother was content with her status as a wife and mother. She didn’t want to vote—she’d declared that on more than one occasion. Politics was the business of men and she had no interest in it. No, her mama would never understand.
Her father finally turned around from the fireplace. He appeared smaller than usual, almost deflated. It was because he wasn’t smiling. His jolly demeanour usually filled the room.
‘We know they were your banners, Violet.’
His tone shocked her. The usual warmth was quite gone.
‘I don’t intend to deny it, Papa,’ she said quietly. ‘They were my suffrage banners. I made them and I draped them across Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, too.’
‘Queen Victoria. Prince Albert,’ her mama echoed the names, reminding Violet of a parrot they kept for a while, when the birds had been fashionable. It had driven her papa quite cocky, he’d declared.
It wasn’t the moment to remind her parents of the parrot.
‘The parents of our King.’ Her father shook his head. ‘King Edward the Seventh.’
She nodded. She’d have draped a banner around a marble bust of King Edward, too, but there hadn’t been one, and in any case, she’d only had two banners.
‘Queen Victoria and Prince Albert are in their graves,’ her mama choked. ‘It’s unseemly. Disrespectful.’
‘Oh! I didn’t think of it that way,’ Violet said, horrified.
‘Why did you do it?’ her father asked, still in that empty voice.
Violet lifted her chin. ‘I’m a suffragette, Papa.’
‘A suffragette!’ came her mama’s echo.
‘Votes for women, eh?’ asked her papa.
With a gulp, she nodded.
Her father wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘So it’s all been for nothing.’
‘Papa,’ Violet whispered. Her throat constricted. It was suddenly hard to breathe.
He sank into the leather club chair by the fireplace. He appeared bewildered. ‘All we’ve done for you. All I’ve worked for. And you’re not grateful.’
Violet knelt beside him, seized his hand. ‘I am grateful, Papa. You’ve given me everything that anyone could ever dream of.’
‘They why did you do it?’
‘Surely you understand,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m like you. You’re a self-made man. Didn’t you long to be considered an equal, to make your way into the world? Look what you’ve achieved, the business you built. You started from nothing. Please listen to me. I just want the same opportunity as you, to contribute to the world.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s different for a man.’
‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ her mother said tremulously from the chaise longue.
‘I want more,’ Violet said simply.
Her father stared as if he hardly knew her.
‘I’ve never had cause to criticise you. I’ve always been proud of you, so proud.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But this. You’ve gone too far. You’ve become selfish, Violet.’
She fell back on her heels. Tears smarted in her eyes. ‘It’s not selfish to want to be part of the world. To vote. To become educated. To work. Why, there are even women working in factories now.’
‘No daughter of mine will ever set foot in a factory! That’s not why I worked day and night.’ He shook his head. ‘Your place is in the home. Your mama is right.’
‘The world is changing,’ Violet said. ‘There are new ideas. Not just votes for women, but opportunities for work, for education—’
Her father held up his hand. ‘Stop. I don’t want to hear such talk.’
‘A suffragette. How could you, Violet? We’ll be shunned in society.’ Her mother dabbed at her eyes. ‘The ladies made that quite clear this morning.’
‘Oh, Mama, we were shunned already,’ Violet replied wearily. It was made patent at the ball in their lack of welcome, except for Adam Beaufort, swirling her into his arms.
If they were no longer invited into London society, she’d definitely never see him again.
Her heart sank.
‘We’re ruined!’ exclaimed her mother.
‘Surely it’s not that dreadful.’ But it explained the outright snub from the girl at her riding lesson, Violet recalled uncomfortably.
Had she gone too far?
Her father breathed heavily. ‘I suppose we ought to leave London, before we’re run out.’
From the chaise longue came a muffled sob.
‘Leave London! Surely that isn’t necessary,’ Violet cried, aghast. What had she done?
‘Just when Violet had danced with a Beaufort,’ her mama mourned. ‘I never thought I’d see such a thing. Oh!’
If they left London...
‘We won’t be run out of London,’ Violet protested. ‘What does it matter what a few society people think?’
‘The Coombes are a respectable family,’ her father said. ‘We always took pride in that, more than anything else. You’ve taken our good name away.’
Full of remorse, Violet gripped her fingers together. ‘I’ll apologise to the ladies who invited us to the ball.’
‘Aye, you ought to do that. But the damage is done.’
‘Ruined,’ her mother repeated in a choked voice. ‘Ruined.’
Her father put his head in his hands.
Violet reached out to him. ‘Papa, please listen. Would it be so terrible to go back to Manchester? We were happier there, not trying to fit in with London society. I could learn to help you in the business, make your load lighter.’ Anything, she thought, her heart like a sinking stone, to make him smile again.
‘No, Violet. I told you. Your place isn’t in the factory.’
‘But, Papa...’
‘No!’
Violet jumped. Her father had never raised his voice at her before. Not once, in all her life.
He stood up, his elbows akimbo. ‘Men and women aren’t the same. If you’d been a son...’ His voice trailed off. ‘We pinned our hopes on you making a fine match. But now...’
‘Ruined,’ her mother chimed in from the chaise.
Violet’s throat choked. The lace jabot at her neck suddenly felt too tight. She tugged it loose. Never before had her father revealed such sentiments. But she’d suspected them all along, in her heart. It drove her to her daring acts, just as Adam Beaufort had guessed, at the ball.
‘I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll do anything to set it right.’
‘It’s too late,’ her mama sobbed. ‘Nothing can be done.’
A discreet knock came at the drawing room door. The butler entered.
‘What is it?’ her father asked. Having servants still made him nervous, Violet knew. At the chocolate factory her papa was the man in charge, but she often suspected both he and her mama’s preference would be to have only family at home, as it had been in the beginning.
‘Forgive the interruption, sir. But a gentleman has called and I thought you’d like to know.’
He held out a silver tray. On it was a small white card, edged with black.
Her father took the card. ‘Adam Beaufort, Esquire,’ he read aloud.
‘What?’ Her mama sat bolt upright.
Violet’s pulse skipped a beat.
‘What does he want?’ her father asked.
‘He didn’t say, sir,’ replied the butler. ‘But he’s in the hall. I took the liberty.’
On the chaise her mother frantically began to tidy her hair. She seized a small looking glass and dabbed at her tear-stained face with her handkerchief. ‘Tell him to come in.’
‘Do you know what he wants?’ her father asked Violet.
In bewilderment she shook her head. ‘No.’
She brushed back her own hair from her forehead. Wisps had escaped while on horseback and she was still in her blue-velvet riding habit.
The drawing room door opened.
* * *
Adam Beaufort took a step back as he entered the Coombes’s drawing room.
He’d never seen a room like it. Every inch of the vast room was decorated. Gilt-edged paintings of pink-cheeked children and pretty country maids jostled for space on the flock-papered walls. China ornaments, again with a bucolic theme, took up every table top, apart from those crammed with silver trinkets, lamps and ferns in jardinières. The furniture was red-brown mahogany, the soft furnishings skirted, trimmed and flounced so that the room had a peculiar cushioned effect.
On a velvet chaise longue sat Violet’s mother, whom he’d last seen attired in canary-yellow satin. She now wore a pink gown with many ruffles that didn’t manage to obscure the dazzling diamonds around her neck, wrists and fingers. He winced at the thought of what some society ladies would say at the sight of such diamonds worn before evening.
By the fire, Violet’s father stood robustly, belly thrust out in a loud, checked waistcoat. Yet the pair lacked the happiness that had been so apparent on their faces while dancing the night before.
Adam frowned.
‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed the man by the fireplace, with a slight inclination of his head. ‘Forgive my intrusion. I’m Adam Beaufort. How do you do?’
Reginald Coombes offered his hand. His handshake was firm. ‘I saw you dancing with my daughter last night. Most obliging of you.’
‘Indeed it was, Mr Beaufort,’ said Mrs Coombes faintly.
Adam bowed to her before turning to Violet, who stood silent, a still figure in sapphire-blue velvet by the fire. He couldn’t help notice how it sculpted her curvaceous figure. But her face was white and strained.
‘It was my pleasure,’ Adam said smoothly. ‘It’s unfortunate I didn’t have the opportunity for a second dance with Miss Coombes.’
He sent her a brief smile.
There was the faintest movement around her lips in return, but that was all.
Adam’s frown deepened. He felt oddly responsible for the whole fiasco. If he’d pulled the banners down in time...
‘Mr Coombes.’ He addressed Violet’s father. ‘I’ve come about the incident at the ball last night.’
‘You know about that?’ Mrs Coombes squeaked.
‘Most of London knows about it,’ Adam said bluntly. ‘It didn’t help that you sewed your monogram on the banner,’ he added to Violet.
‘Your monogram?’ Reginald Coombes looked from one to the other.
Wordlessly Violet reached into a sewing basket and drew out a banner. It unfurled like a streamer in purple, green and white. She passed it to her father.
He stared at the tiny bloom embroidered in the corner, his fist clenched.
‘So that’s what happened to all the purple silk,’ Violet’s mother said in wonderment.
‘How many banners are there?’ Violet’s father demanded.
‘Half a dozen.’ Her throat was bare, white and swan-like as she swallowed. ‘Perhaps more.’
Her father hurled the banner into the fire.
‘Papa!’ Violet’s cry tore through Adam’s skin.
‘That’s the last one you’ll ever make,’ Reginald Coombes said fiercely. ‘Do you understand, Violet? This has got to stop.’
She made no answer. Her fingertips lifted to that pale throat, her gaze staying on the silk as it curled and burned. The scorched scent of it filled Adam’s nostrils.
‘Will you give up this cause, as you call it?’ her father demanded.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered.
‘Can’t?’ her father repeated, incredulous. His bright blue eyes were out on stalks.
‘I won’t hang any more banners.’ Violet lifted her chin. ‘But I can’t give up the Cause. It’s in me. It’s what I believe. I don’t know if I can change that.’
Adam studied her. Her head was high, her hands clenched. He had to admire her. There was no question of her convictions. He guessed her parents knew nothing of the extent of her activities. They’d have been appalled to have seen her climbing his balcony, teetering on the edge. At least he’d stopped her from such dangerous endeavours.
Reginald Coombes’s chin thrust out, just the same as his daughter’s. Adam wondered if he realised how alike they were. ‘I forbid this nonsense. Do you hear?’
His daughter’s eyes flashed vivid blue. ‘Being a suffragette isn’t nonsense.’
‘The shame of it. It’s a scandal,’ her mother cried.
‘It’s not a scandal,’ Violet scoffed, but her voice wavered.
‘Forgive me, Miss Coombes, I’m afraid it is.’ Adam intervened. He had no choice but to break it to her. ‘The scandal is all over London. I did my best to halt it, but I didn’t succeed. Doubtless it’s being discussed in every polite drawing room from Mayfair to Kensington. I understand it has reached the palace, though not yet the ears of the King.’
Violet’s mother released a muffled shriek. She appeared about to faint.
‘Where are your smelling salts, Adeline?’ her husband demanded.
‘The silver box,’ she puffed, using her handkerchief as a fan.
Violet’s father scrabbled among the multitude of silver boxes and china ornaments on the mahogany table and administered the salts. Once again Adam felt moved by the couple’s devotion to each other. It was rarer than they probably knew. And they loved their daughter, too. It was obvious, in spite of the current situation.
‘Everyone is overreacting. It’s ridiculous for there to be such an outcry,’ Violet said, low, but her voice was shaky. ‘It was a protest. A deed for the Cause. Not a crime.’
Adam shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is ridiculous. None the less, there are many people who are very upset by it.’
He glanced towards Violet’s mother. The woman quietened, but she remained pale, clutching her husband’s hand. Her distress was real, unmistakable. Violet, too, looked even paler than before, as if she were about to faint herself, though he suspected she was made of sterner stuff than her mother.
Adam shifted nearer to Violet by the fire.
‘You must know the King has a deep respect for his departed parents,’ he muttered in an undertone. ‘Your action may be considered more than disrespectful. It’s an insult, almost sacrilegious, in some court circles.’
She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t think of that. It wasn’t meant as an insult. Is it truly that bad?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Adam said quietly. His honour demanded he tell her the truth.
Her father stood up. He moved like a beaten man. ‘That’s it, then. We’ll have to go back to Manchester.’
Violet’s mother let out a sob. ‘Such a disgrace.’
Her daughter moved towards her as if to comfort her and then drew back. Her fingers were clenched together.
Reginald Coombes turned to Adam.
‘Thank you for coming to tell us,’ he said heavily. ‘I regret you’ve seen us like this, in such a sorry state. Perhaps you’ll come and visit us in the north should you ever be in our part of the country. We won’t be in London again I don’t expect.’
‘I trust that won’t be the case.’
‘We won’t be able to show our faces here,’ Mrs Coombes wept.
‘Not necessarily,’ Adam said slowly. His half-formed plan began to fully take shape in his head.
He glanced at Violet. She was breathing in gasps she tried to suppress, making her velvet bodice heave.
‘I came today with a plan,’ he said.
Beside him Violet stiffened.
‘A plan, eh?’ her father asked. ‘What’s that?’
Adam bowed. ‘With your permission, I’ve come to propose to your daughter.’
Chapter Four (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’(1842)
Violet’s mouth fell open as she stared at Adam Beaufort. ‘You’ve come to propose to me?’
He turned on his heel and this time bowed directly towards her. There was the merest upturning of the corners of his mouth. ‘Indeed.’
‘Marriage?’ she gasped. Was that really what he meant? Had her ears deceived her? They had only met once. Well, twice, if she counted tumbling off the balcony into his arms and that meeting couldn’t be considered a formal introduction. And now he was suggesting they wed? Surely it could not be so.
The upturning of Adam Beaufort’s mouth grew more pronounced. A dent appeared in his left cheek, then vanished as he spoke. ‘I can think of no other proposal I would make, Miss Coombes.’
‘Marriage!’ her mother and father repeated at the same time, her mother breathless, and her father’s voice a stunned bellow.
‘Upon my soul!’ added Mr Coombes.
‘I realise this is unusual,’ Adam said. ‘And quite sudden. I believe that is the phrase, in such circumstances. But the circumstances are unusual, to say the least.’
‘They certainly are.’ Violet found her voice was as breathless as her mama’s. She put her hand to her bodice. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.
‘Marriage to a Beaufort!’ Mrs Coombes reached for her fan. ‘Oh, my...’
Mr Coombes clutched his chest. He staggered and reached for the side table to right himself, sending a tin of Floral Creams flying.
‘Papa!’ Violet rushed to help him. ‘You must sit down.’
Mrs Coombes hurried to her husband’s side. ‘Reginald!’
‘I’m all right,’ he insisted, leaning heavily on the table, his breath coming in puffs.
Violet steered him to the wing chair by the fireplace. Her papa sank on to it, half-raised himself up, then sank back again. His normally florid cheeks turned a sickly colour, sweat beaded his forehead.
‘Are you quite well, sir?’ Adam Beaufort asked, concerned.
Mrs Coombes wrung her handkerchief in distress. ‘It’s his heart.’
Panting heavily, Mr Coombes waved away their alarm. ‘I get the odd turn. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Shall I call for a doctor?’ Adam asked.
‘No need, no need.’ Mr Coombes puffed. ‘I’ve seen all the best quacks. There’s nothing they can do.’
Violet moved swiftly to the drinks tray. ‘Stay still, Papa. I’ll pour you a glass of water.’
‘Give it a bit of colour, won’t you? For medicinal purposes.’
‘You know you ought not to drink spirits when you’ve had a turn.’
‘I’ll be all the better for a spot of whisky.’
She shook her head and added the merest drop of whisky to the water glass. There was no point in agitating him further. The doctors had been clear—the best medicine for him was peace and quiet.
Violet’s hand tightened on the whisky bottle. Clearly the morning’s events had upset him greatly.
It was all her fault.
Adam Beaufort frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t wish me to fetch medical help?’
‘I’ll be right as rain in a moment,’ Mr Coombes assured him, his voice already stronger. ‘I always am. Where’s that drink, Violet?’
‘Here you are, Papa.’ Violet gave her father the weak whisky and water and propped a cushion behind him.
Mr Coombes took a sip. ‘Ah, that’s it.’
Violet turned to her mother, who was still wringing her hands. She looked about to cry.
‘Sit down, Mama,’ Violet said gently.
Mrs Coombes picked up her fan. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Reginald.’
‘I’m quite well, Adeline,’ Mr Coombes said stoutly. ‘Do as Violet says.’
Violet tucked her mother beneath a silk shawl. Going back to her papa, she took his wrist, counted and waited. His pulse was faster than usual, but it wasn’t as bad as some of his turns had been in the past, as far as she could make out.
She straightened her back and glanced at Adam Beaufort. His expression was inscrutable. He was a man who controlled his emotions. He’d moved out of her way as she helped her mother and father. Now he stood by the fireplace, a tall but surprisingly comforting presence.
He stayed calm in a crisis. That was it. She’d witnessed it before, when he’d caught her under his balcony. She liked that about him.
‘Would you care for a whisky?’ she asked him.
In an unhurried movement, he took out a pocket watch. ‘It’s rather early in the day for spirits.’
‘But in the circumstances...’ Violet prompted.
His mouth cornered into a smile. ‘Indeed.’
She poured a large measure into the cut-crystal glass. ‘Water?’
He inclined his dark head.
‘Don’t drown it as you did mine, Violet,’ said Mr Coombes from the wing chair.
‘You ought not to be having whisky at all, Papa,’ she retorted, pleased that he appeared to be rallying. But her hand shook as she poured some water into Adam Beaufort’s glass, spilling it on to the drinks tray. Her papa had been so angry. He’d never said such things to her before.
She blotted the spilt water. Crossing the room, she gave Adam Beaufort his glass of whisky.
His fingers grazed hers as he took it. They were warm and dry. ‘Thank you.’
His touch seemed to stay on her skin, steadying her as she returned to the tray and poured herself a generous finger of whisky. She threw it back, straight, letting the fire scorch the back of her throat, only to find Adam Beaufort surveying her over the rim of his glass.
The heavy crystal clanked as she replaced it on the silver tray. Young ladies were not supposed to drink spirits, let alone before luncheon. Yet another rule for women that did not apply to men. How it irked her.
Heading over to her father’s chair, she took away his empty glass. The colour had returned to his cheeks, she noted with relief. He always recovered quickly from his turns, as he called them, but she was sure they were becoming more frequent.
‘How are you feeling now, Papa?’ she asked.
He patted her hand. His anger seemed to have abated. ‘No harm done.’
‘Would you like some more water?’
‘Not unless you are going to give it a bit more colour this time.’
‘Certainly not,’ she retorted.
Mr Coombes gave a slight guffaw and clambered to his feet. He puffed out his chest, but stayed upright.
‘Won’t you rest a little longer, Reginald?’ Mrs Coombes pleaded from the sofa.
‘I’m quite well now, Adeline. No need to fret.’ Mr Coombes took one step forward, one step back across the carpet, as if testing his strength.
Violet and her mama exchanged worried glances. Her papa loathed a fuss to be made about his health, but his turns terrified all of them.
A pang of pain clutched deep in her own chest. For her parents’ sake, she had to stop the scandal.
‘Now then.’ Her papa’s voice lacked its usual ring as he stopped on the carpet and studied Adam Beaufort. ‘Let’s get down to business. Are you serious in proposing marriage to my daughter?’
Adam drained his whisky glass. ‘Quite so, sir.’
Mr Coombes tucked his hands into the lapels of his checked waistcoat. His elbows jutted out. ‘You think a marriage announcement could halt this suffragette business. Is that it?’
‘I believe it would stop the scandalmongers if attention was diverted towards an engagement,’ Adam replied. ‘The Beaufort name will halt adverse gossip. We’re an old family. Well connected.’
‘At court!’ Mrs Coombes put in from the sofa, still fanning herself rapidly. ‘To royalty!’
Adam smiled at Violet’s mother, not appearing to mind her mentioning it. ‘There are a few overlapping branches in the family tree.’
He turned back to Mr Coombes. ‘If we act in time, I hope we can ensure your commercial dealings are not adversely affected.’
‘Do you believe the reputation of my company might be damaged by this stunt of Violet’s?’ Mr Coombes demanded.
‘Surely not!’ Violet put in.
‘I’m afraid so, Miss Coombes.’ Adam spoke quietly, but his tone was firm.
Mr Coombes looked suddenly deflated. ‘I agree. Customers can take such things very badly.’
‘My being a suffragette won’t stop people eating Coombes Chocolates,’ Violet said, incredulous.
‘You have insulted the Crown. Fortunes have been lost for less.’ Adam gave her a direct look that reminded her of their discussion the night before. He knew about such matters, she recalled with a sinking heart.
‘What of the Royal Warrant?’ From the sofa her mother’s voice was hushed.
Her father shook his head. ‘No chance of a Royal Warrant now. No chance at all.’
Violet clutched her corset. The painful pang in her chest moved to squeeze her stomach, as if she’d eaten too many sweets at the factory. She’d done so once, as a small girl.
The Royal Warrant. Chocolate Manufacturers to the King. It had been her father’s abiding goal in life for as long as she could remember. Now the scandal she’d created could dash his dream.
How had it come to this? She struggled for breath. She’d never meant to insult the royal family, never once imagined that her passion for the Cause could risk what her father had worked so hard to build. Yet she couldn’t regret her deed. It was the suffragette motto after all. Perhaps she’d gone too far with the banners at the ball, but she would never give up her beliefs.
‘What do you think needs to be done?’ Mr Coombes was asking Adam Beaufort.
‘Make a formal announcement as soon as possible,’ he replied. ‘Notify The Times.’
Mr Coombes tucked his hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his spotted handkerchief. ‘What you’re proposing might work. It just might work.’
‘But why would you do this for us, Mr Beaufort?’ Mrs Coombes asked, bewildered, from her seat on the sofa. Her fan still fluttered at a rapid rate, like wings of a startled bird.
Violet met Adam’s eye. He raised an eyebrow.
An unspoken communication passed between them.
She held his gaze. In return, his was steadfast. To her surprise, she felt reassured. She had experienced the same security when they’d danced at the ball, after he’d rescued her from being a wallflower. He’d caught her safely when she’d fallen from the balcony, too.
‘Mama. Papa.’ Violet took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Beaufort, alone.’
‘What?’ Elbows out, Mr Coombes gazed from one to the other. ‘Surely a marriage proposal is a matter for your father to consider.’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘I refuse to be discussed like cattle in the market place. No matter how unusual the circumstances.’
The dent appeared in Adam Beaufort’s cheek, as if he were trying not to chuckle.
Mr Coombes wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was still breathing heavily, Violet noticed with alarm, but his eyes were alert. Beneath his handkerchief he appeared to be summing Mr Beaufort up in his shrewd gaze, the way Violet had seen him assess potential buyers for the chocolate factory. She could almost hear his brain whirring, as fast as her own. Finally he tucked the handkerchief away.
‘Very well, Violet. We’ll leave you to consider this.’ Wheezing slightly, he reached for her hands. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you so harshly earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.’
‘We were all upset.’
‘You mustn’t feel any pressure,’ her father said now. ‘Whatever happens, it will be your decision. We would never force you into anything. I hope you know that.’
Violet’s throat choked. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
He gave her hands another squeeze before letting them go, but she could still see the worry in his eyes. Worse than that. There was a despondency she’d never witnessed in him before. In spite of his health concerns, he was always so cheerful.
Her stomach lurched. She’d hurt the people she loved most in the world.
‘Come along, Adeline.’ Mr Coombes held out his hand to his wife.
‘Ought Violet be left without a chaperon?’ Mrs Coombes asked doubtfully, as she got up from the sofa with a rustle of taffeta.
‘We’ve strayed beyond all kinds of proprieties this morning, Mama, in the space of a quarter of an hour,’ Violet replied.
This time she heard Adam Beaufort’s chuckle escape.
Her papa steered her mother towards the door. It closed behind them.
Silence fell, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. She picked up the tin of Floral Creams that still lay on the Turkish carpet. Her father had knocked them off the table when he had his turn.
She clasped the tin to her bodice.
They always kept Coombes Chocolates in the drawing room. There were tins of Floral Creams in every bedroom, too. It was a point of pride for her family.
She looked down at the lid, with its swirled font and bouquet of flowers. Now it might never be adorned with the royal warrant they all wanted so much. Her papa had even left room for it in the design, believing that aiming high was the best method for success.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them.’ Her papa often quoted that. She’d been raised on the philosophy of Samuel Smiles, the author of her father’s favourite book, Self-Help. There was a handsome leather-bound copy of the book in pride of place at the factory office. It had been given to her papa by his employees one Christmas, after their annual party. Over two thousand people, men and women, worked at the Coombes factory. Violet knew each and every one of them. They all relied on their wages, for the well-being of their homes and families.
Now it was all at risk. The factory. Her papa’s health. Her mama’s happiness. The cost of being a suffragette had proved far greater than she had ever imagined.
She stared at the tin of chocolates. Its outline blurred before her eyes.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,’ she reminded herself.
The scent of cocoa and flowers wafted up as she opened the lid and held it out towards Adam Beaufort. ‘Would you like a chocolate fondant?’
He appeared startled, then smiled. ‘Perhaps later. I’m afraid my nanny drummed into me that sweets before luncheon were the road to ruin.’
Violet smiled back, the threat of tears retreating. He had a knack of lightening the mood of a situation.
She popped a violet cream into her mouth. The familiar taste, with its dark, almost spicy chocolate, the sugar-coated violet petal on top and the contrasting smoothness of the sweet fondant inside, gave her a surge of vigour.
Replacing the tin on the table, she ran her finger over the embossed picture of roses, violets, lavender and pansies. Her mother had confided once that they had planned a whole nursery full of children, the girls to be named after the flowers that had made their fortune and the first boy, her mother had said, would be named Reginald, after her papa. Those other children had never come. Violet hadn’t felt lonely on her own, so she’d not missed sisters and brothers. She’d never known that her father felt the loss of a son so keenly. Not until today.
Her papa didn’t have the heir he wanted. Instead, he had a daughter who had brought disrepute to the family name.
A pain stabbed at her heart.
She glanced at Adam Beaufort. His back half-turned, he stared out the window, seeming to sense she needed time to collect her thoughts. The noon sunshine coming in from between the velvet curtains outlined his profile. His jaw was strong, but there was no cruelty in it. Perhaps she ought to feel intimidated being alone with him, one of the most eligible men in London society, but she didn’t. She never dreamed she’d find herself in the drawing room discussing marriage with him. She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to check she was awake.
The cherub clock chimed. Yes, she was awake. Adam Beaufort was standing by the window in real life, not in a dream, staring out into that peculiar soft London sunshine that made the streets and buildings shine like marigolds. In spite of their lack of welcome by society, in some ways Violet had enjoyed being in the capital. She’d walked to Parliament Square and listened to Big Ben while gazing at the Houses of Parliament, dreaming of laws that might be changed inside its hallowed walls.
Votes for Women! Now her papa had forbidden her to be a suffragette, all that must be stopped. She couldn’t defy him now. She had already caused enough distress.
Yet the thought of giving up the Cause...
Violet moved towards to Adam Beaufort. ‘Shall we have some plain speaking?’
He turned to face her. There was no doubting his smile this time. His teeth gleamed white. ‘Do you speak any other way, Miss Coombes?’
‘I prefer it,’ she admitted. ‘I would very much like to hear more of your plan.’
His grin widened. ‘It isn’t a plan I’ve refined yet, as you may have realised. I haven’t been following you in the dark of night, plotting to catch you from balconies. And it’s not the reason I asked you to dance at the ball.’
‘Oh.’ Violet felt more pleased than she expected at his saying so. The sense of being safe with him returned.
‘It was an idea that came to me when I heard of your trouble. A moment of inspiration. Or perhaps it is an ill-conceived notion, something we ought to forget I ever mentioned.’
‘Oh, no,’ Violet said quickly. ‘I’d very much like to explore your suggestion.’
Adam Beaufort inclined his head. ‘Certainly.’
Violet took some air from deep in her chest, as far as her corset would allow. The breathlessness she’d experienced when he first proposed had returned, but she forced her voice to firmness. ‘Would you propose marriage to me if I didn’t have a fortune?’
Chapter Five (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’(1842)
‘You wish to know if I want to marry you for your money.’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘Yes.’
The sun gleamed through the window as Adam Beaufort made a low whistle. ‘That certainly is plain speaking, Miss Coombes.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Violet said quickly. She had no wish to offend him.
‘Not at all. Since you prefer plain speaking, let me be completely frank with you.’ He gave Violet a wry smile. ‘If you didn’t have a fortune, it would rather defeat the purpose of my proposal.’
Violet bit her lip. ‘Of course.’
How odd, she thought to herself. Part of her minded his admitting it. She pushed the sensation away. Of course her fortune was her attraction to him.
His smile disappeared as he spoke again. The youthfulness she’d noted earlier vanished. ‘If you will allow me to explain, there’s more you need to know. At the ball, we each spoke of our fathers. I told you then that my father, in contrast to yours, was not a hard-working man.’
Violet nodded. The philosophy of self-help was not embraced by everyone with the same enthusiasm as Reginald Coombes.
‘That’s an understatement,’ Adam went on. ‘My family, as you know, have a manor house in Kent. It requires a great deal of upkeep. For the past few years, I have watched it begin to disintegrate before my eyes.’
He moved away from her, his fists clenched. ‘I knew my father was letting the manor run down. The house itself, and the surrounding properties, where we have tenants who rely on us. Since my father’s death, I’ve discovered that isn’t the worst of it. The manor, and our house in London, have been mortgaged many times over. It isn’t merely that my father was not a good householder, Miss Coombes. He has lost all our family’s money and, worse, accrued debts of amounts that I can barely perceive. We are beyond being financially embarrassed. The Beaufort family is ruined.’
Violet gasped in shock. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Gambling.’ Adam said curtly. ‘The night I saw you on the balcony, I had been at a private meeting at my father’s club. The scene of the crime, so to speak.’
‘I thought you considered me the criminal that night,’ Violet commented with a smile, trying to lighten the moment. He looked so desperately burdened. Her heart gave a squeeze of sympathy.
‘Your actions were beyond the law, certainly. You were on private property. My property, if I can still call it that, considering the size of the mortgage on it. But I don’t consider you a criminal. You’re standing up for your beliefs.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Or climbing up for them, I should say.’
Violet chuckled, then grew serious. ‘So that night at the club...’
‘The night I encountered you on the balcony, I’d found out the extent of the damage. It was all quite civilised, over dinner and port. But that didn’t disguise the gravity of the situation. The gambling notes came out, with my father’s signature scrawled on them. He lost vast sums night after night at the card table. I was angry that it had been allowed to continue. But a gentleman’s word is his bond and my father had given his word that he was good for the money. On one of the gambling notes, he’d written “Beauley Manor.”’ A muscle moved in his cheek as he gritted his teeth. ‘Offered up as a gambling marker. Our family home.’
‘How dreadful for you.’ She couldn’t imagine discovering that her father had kept such secrets. It must have seemed as if Adam Beaufort hadn’t known his father at all. But that was how she had felt earlier, she recalled with a sting. Her father had apologised for being so harsh, yet nothing could take away Violet’s awful realisation that, all along, he’d wished she were a boy.
Adam gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ll admit, it was a most unpleasant experience. But Beauley Manor is my responsibility now, as are my mother and sisters. I had to do the honourable thing and face the truth about our family finances. It’s my duty.’
‘That’s how I feel about the Cause,’ said Violet. It wasn’t a fancy, or a whim that she could take or leave. It was her duty, too.
‘Then you understand,’ he said. ‘After some long discussions at the club I managed to convince my father’s creditors not to press the matter immediately. But I have very little time.’
‘So that’s why...’
‘I proposed to you.’ He exhaled. ‘We are both facing scandal, it seems. Perhaps because we’re in the same predicament is why I jumped to a solution. That we make a marriage of convenience.’
A marriage of convenience. She’d heard the phrase, but had never expected it to apply to her.
‘I trust I do not sound like an opportunist,’ he added.
‘“Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,”’ she quoted.
‘Samuel Smiles,’ he said.
‘You’ve read Self-Help?’ she asked, astonished.
‘Of course.’ He chuckled, rather grimly. ‘The Beaufort family currently need all the help they can get.’
Violet took a breath. ‘You love your family.’
‘Indeed.’
She did, too.
‘I can see the opportunity in your proposal,’ she said slowly, as her mind ticked. ‘For the good of both our families. But there is a difficulty.’
Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow.
Violet hesitated. She’d never told anyone about her secret decision. Yet, oddly enough, she trusted him.
‘I have made a pledge not to marry,’ she said at last.
Adam drew back. ‘Never?’
Violet shook her head. ‘It’s not a pledge for life. I don’t intend to join a nunnery. I simply don’t wish to marry yet.’
‘Is there a particular reason you intend to wait?’
She bit her lip.
‘As I assured you at the ball, I can keep a secret,’ he said.
‘It’s for the Cause,’ she replied at last. ‘I wish to devote myself to it, entirely.’
Amazement was etched on his face. ‘The Cause means that much to you?’
‘It does.’
Adam whistled. ‘That’s quite a sacrifice.’
‘It is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.’ With resolve, she lifted her chin. ‘When I first heard about the Cause, I knew it was my calling to become a suffragette. Whatever needs to be done, I will do. I intend to dedicate myself to it until women have the vote.’
‘And when women have suffrage...’
She nodded crisply. ‘Only then will I consider marriage.’
He shook his head. ‘Women getting the vote could take years.’
‘Surely not years,’ Violet protested. ‘We will win our argument soon, I’m sure of it. Parliament will soon see the error of their ways in denying half the population of England the opportunity to contribute to our government. It cannot be more than a few years away.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not so sure.’
She shrugged. ‘In any case, it is my decision. However many years it takes, for as long as women cannot vote, I will be no man’s wife.’
‘When did you make this decision?’ he asked.
‘When I became a suffragette. Three years ago.’
‘Do your parents know?’
‘No. I don’t mean to deceive them. When the suffragettes win the day, I will marry—I mean, I hope I will—and my parents will be none the wiser.’
He stepped closer. ‘Keeping such a secret must have been difficult.’
She was amazed by his insight. It had been lonely to know that she could not seek a partner in life, or tell the reason why.
‘It has been difficult. And I’ve not spoken of this matter to anyone before.’
He inclined his head. ‘I’m honoured by your trust, Miss Coombes.’
‘I wish to concentrate my energies.’ She was eager now to explain her reasoning. Growing up, she’d watched her mama unquestioningly devote herself to her husband and home. She loved her mother, but she didn’t want the same life. ‘Once women have a home and a family, they are not free to follow their own causes. They are under the rule of their husband.’
He frowned. ‘Not all husbands wish to rule their wives.’
Violet pressed her lips together. ‘A man owns his wife. I am determined that no man shall own me. The law, as it stands, gives a man dominion over a woman.’
The forked lines between his eyebrows deepened. ‘Marriage for women does not have to mean servitude.’
‘It may not,’ Violet agreed. Her parents had a happy marriage, after all. ‘Please do not mistake me. In marriage, there are bonds of love that bind a woman. When she becomes a wife and mother, her family becomes her greatest concern. I have no objection to that, when it comes.’
‘Unless it comes too soon,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ she answered in relief. He’d grasped her meaning. ‘I’m not opposed to the institution of marriage. But I am certainly not looking for a husband. Not until women have the suffrage we deserve.’
‘Yet here you are in London, for the Season. There is a general view that during the Season a young woman is...’
Violet grimaced. ‘Husband hunting?’
He smiled, deepening the dent in his cheek. ‘Something like that.’
‘It’s my parents’ wish to move higher in society. There is the Royal Warrant my papa hopes for. It takes connections that we can only get in London. I’m here for my parents, not for myself. I am older than most debutantes, but this is the first year our family have had the right invitations.’
And now she had risked it all, she thought with remorse. A whiff of scandal and it would all disappear, and along with it her parents’ hopes and dreams.
‘You must have had suitors,’ he commented.
‘Only a few.’ Her lack of serious suitors was no cause for alarm to her, in the circumstances. In Manchester, the boys she’d grown up with were now too shy to approach her, thinking themselves no longer cut of her cloth. More moneyed London society hadn’t offered any alternatives.
Except for Adam Beaufort.
From the corner of her eye she studied him. She felt entirely at ease with him. He lacked the snobbery that she’d encountered so keenly at the ball. The way those Dowagers had laughed at her mama. It still made her fume.
‘Thus far I have managed to avert any serious interest,’ she said.
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Because of my fortune?’ she asked candidly. ‘My devotion to the Cause tends to be off-putting. Most gentlemen prefer women weak and helpless.’
He raised a brow. ‘Do they indeed?’
For a moment their eyes met.
Violet dropped her gaze first. ‘In any case, my situation has now changed. As you know, my father has forbidden me to continue as a suffragette and I can’t risk agitating him.’
‘Of course,’ Adam said swiftly. ‘I understand.’
‘You saw the problems with his health. My opportunity to support the Cause, limited as it was, has diminished considerably.’
Votes for women! So boldly her handmade banner had declared it. All that would be gone now, she thought, with another of those painful pangs. If she and her parents went back to Manchester, she would certainly be constrained from her deeds as a suffragette. She couldn’t risk her papa’s health worsening. What was it he had said? ‘No more of this suffragette nonsense!’ Those words hurt Violet as much as him wanting a son rather than a daughter. Being a suffragette wasn’t nonsense. It was about honour and justice.
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Eliza Redgold
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Votes for women! Can she fight for freedom and for love? When chocolate heiress Violet Coombes is caught hanging her suffragette banner in a most shocking place, Adam Beaufort Esquire proposes a marriage of convenience! His good name will avert scandal for her family, and her money will save the estate Adam’s father gambled away. Violet accepts, but she’s determined nothing will distract her from the Cause – including her oh-so-tempting husband!