to head to Westminster to deliver them to the unsuspecting Conservative MPs.
Tall plane trees brought welcome shade from the heat of the day as I made my way through Green Park, then crossed the wide Mall and stepped into St. James’s Park, where bright blossoms lined the paths and ducks and swans zoomed through the lake. The two parks, with Buckingham Palace between them, made for one of the prettiest parts of London, but today everywhere I walked the mood was tense. No scandal had yet been revealed to explain the red paint left on the Musgrave and Riddington houses, but this had not provided relief for the families. If anything, it had ratcheted up tension even further. Society was rife with speculation as to what secrets would come out, but even as gossip spread, people began to worry they, too, would be subject to similar unwelcome attentions.
The Beau Monde were watching each other in ways they hadn’t previously. They were more on guard, more skittish. A couple walking a few paces in front of me broke apart with an almost violent force. “Why would you tell me such a thing?” the young woman cried as she pulled away from her companion. There could be no question of the gentleman’s motivation. He thought it preferable to tell her himself before he found himself exposed in an indecorous manner. I wondered how many people were making unwelcome, and possibly unnecessary, confessions and destroying lives.
Or were these confessions unnecessary? If someone had told a lie or deceived their partner, in life or business, did that partner not deserve to make an informed decision about continuing the relationship? Would ignorance be preferable? I frowned, crossed Horse Guards Road, and continued on to Westminster, where I asked for Mr. Reginald Foster. Mr. Foster, a schoolmate of Colin’s, was touted as having the brightest political future of any man in the history of the British Empire. He’d been universally adored at Eton—elected to Pop and Library in his first year, the darling of every hostess in Windsor, best oarsman in memory—and had finished Cambridge with double firsts in history and classics.
There seemed to be no limit to what this man could accomplish. He spoke seven languages fluently (although he himself counted only six, as he insisted Latin could not really be spoken in modern Europe), dedicated a great deal of his not insignificant fortune to charitable causes, and had proved himself a more than adequate painter during the two years he spent traveling on the continent after finishing at university. Most significant to me, at the moment, however, was the fact he had promised he could gain me admission to the offices of the Conservative MPs.
“Lady Emily,” he said, stretching his arms to me as he approached. “What a delight! You’re even lovelier than I remembered. Marriage agrees with you.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” I said. “But you, sir, are nothing like Aristophanes led me to expect. A popular politician, according to him, has a horrible voice, bad breeding, and a vulgar manner.”
“I’m glad, then, to disappoint you,” he said. “I was so pleased when Hargreaves got in touch. Excellent man. I remember him from school, though he was, of course, considerably younger than I. Wouldn’t have it in me to refuse his request I help you, even if I didn’t agree with what you’re doing.”
“You support suffrage?” I asked.
“I do. Seems foolish to reject the input of so many bright minds,” he said, meeting my eyes with an even stare. Mr. Foster spoke with such conviction I could almost believe he’d never engaged in so fascinating a conversation. Truly the man was a consummate politician. “Particularly that of my own wife. But I must warn you, my colleagues in the opposition will be terribly hard to convince. They view the entire movement as an attack on their ability to properly look after their ladies. Why should women need the vote if their men are dedicated to protecting them?”
“A terrifying thought.”
“Quite,” he said. “Right or not, many gentlemen believe letting ladies into the realm of politics would take away from their beauty and charm.”
“Ladies are more than beauty and charm,” I said. “And to suggest they’re not already firmly embroiled in politics is absurd. I can’t count the number of wives I know who are renowned as political hostesses—Liberal and Conservative.”
“Entirely true. But a social role, however influential, is not the same as an official one,” he said. “Come, now. We’ve much to do.”
As he led me through the wide corridors of the Houses of Parliament, my stomach rolled itself in knots and I began to question the wisdom of my strategy. Would it have been wiser to interact with these men at social functions instead of the workplace? I drew a deep breath, pressed my lips hard together, and stood as erect as I could. This last action made me realize the one ground upon which Mr. Foster might be disappointing. He was not so tall as he undoubtedly hoped.
For nearly two hours he guided me from office to office, providing introductions to countless Honorable Members, whose reactions to Lady Carlisle’s pamphlets ranged from outright horror (“Get the bloody woman out of here!”) to willful misunderstanding (“What a fascinating story. Are you still reading Greek?”). I hadn’t expected to win converts on my first day—only to identify candidates for further indoctrination. Which was why, after handing over the slim document and gauging the recipient’s reaction, I smoothly transitioned to other subjects.
Subjects like literature. A gentleman interested in the works of the American transcendentalists couldn’t possibly be too closed-minded. Two promising leads there. The Right Honorable Member who cited “The Wife of Bath’s Tale” as his favorite not only amongst Chaucer’s
As for the rest, I would continue to work on all who admitted a fondness for romantic poetry, detective stories, and those who preferred Hector to Achilles in
“I do hope you’re not too disappointed,” Mr. Foster said, as he escorted me out of the building. “They are a pack of beasts.”
“You should be careful of saying such things,” I said, opening my parasol to protect me from the glaring sunlight. “You’re our best hope for future prime minister.”
“You flatter me,” he said, bouncing a bit as he stood. He was on tiptoes, giving himself an extra inch or so of height. “Gladstone’s in good form. But I do appreciate your confidence.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to do anything but support your leader. You’re too well bred.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help,” I said.
“I couldn’t be happier to provide you with assistance,” he said. “It’s a difficult path you’ve chosen, Lady Emily, but a worthy one. I wish you much luck with it.”
“I know you agree with our principles, but can we count on your public support?” I asked.
“You can be certain I shall never speak against the goals of the Women’s Liberal Federation.”
It wasn’t the same as real support, but I reminded myself that he was a gentleman with the highest aspirations. Alienating a large part of the voting public would not serve him well. Should he ever become prime minister, then he might be in a position to take a firmer stand.
At least I hoped so.
“What do you think of all this red-paint business?” I asked.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he said. “Petty gossip taken to a new level.”
“But lives are being destroyed,” I said.
“Lives have always been destroyed by such things,” he said. “This time, it’s being done for a larger audience, that’s all.”
“Who do you think is responsible?”
“Impossible to say, really. Who hasn’t felt tormented by the
“True,” I said. “But wouldn’t most people seek revenge against the individuals whom they felt harmed them rather than striking out at all of society?”
“Most would, I suppose. But some people have a higher purpose than personal retribution.”
“And you think that is a good thing?” I asked.
