Grace rolled her eyes and pushed down the newspaper to see Cecil’s grinning face.
‘The condition of things,’ he continued in a mock-upper-class voice, ‘that was brought about by Miss Emmerson was such that the defendant, who had uttered some very violent speeches, should be brought before a magistrate in order that she should be put under sureties to be of good behaviour for the future.’ Cecil cocked one eyebrow and stared at Grace. ‘Are you being good, Miss Emmerson?’
‘Only an angel could be more righteous,’ she answered.
‘I’m sure,’ Cecil said, folding up the newspaper and tucking it under his arm. ‘Now, how about that cup of tea you promised me?’
Grace furrowed her brow. ‘I’m not sure I recall promising you anything.’ She glanced up at the clock tower. The Lyons Tea Room was just a stone’s throw from the WSPU headquarters. One cup wouldn’t hurt. ‘Alright.’
They crossed the street together and stopped at the windows of the Lyons Tea Room, which were filled with a multitude of different cakes.
‘Tempted?’ Cecil asked, watching Grace lingering beside the windows. ‘That Victoria Sponge looks nice.’
‘I’d better not,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a busy day today.’
‘More inflammatory speeches, Miss Emmerson?’ Cecil asked, leading them inside.
‘Something like that, yes,’ she answered. Grace cast her eyes around the tearoom. The sounds of working-class chatter muddled in the cool air around her.
A waitress in a black uniform, white cap and apron approached them with a smile. ‘Table for two? she asked in a bawdy East London accent.
‘Yes, please,’ Grace replied.
They were led to a round table with two chairs close to the front window.
‘What can I get ya?’
‘Just a cup of tea for me, please,’ Grace ordered.
‘Same for me—thank you.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt ya to one of me delicious cakes?’ she asked, pointing at the window displays. ‘All freshly made on the premises.’
‘No, thank you,’ Grace said.
‘Right you are,’ the waitress conceded, as she trotted off.
‘So, what have you been up to lately?’ Cecil asked her, placing his elbows on the table and leaning closer.
Grace tapped his newspaper. ‘Haven’t you read this?’
‘Yes, but what else have you been doing—not work to do with the WSPU, I mean.’
‘What else is there?’ she asked defensively. ‘It’s the only thing that matters right now.’
‘And when it’s all over? When everyone has the vote—then what?’
‘Maybe I’ll become an MP, then Prime Minister.’ Grace shrugged and laughed.
Cecil mirrored her good humour, but his fixed smile belied the seriousness underneath his question.
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What has life got in store for Cecil Barwise?’
He inhaled and thought for an inordinately long time before answering. ‘I expect I’ll stay on at Linden Grove for the foreseeable future, then keep a lookout for a post somewhere with bigger stables.’
‘’ere we go,’ the waitress said brightly, setting a tray down on the immaculate white tablecloth. She carefully lifted off and set out the teapot, two tea cups and saucers, a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. ‘Not changed your mind about me cakes, have ya?’
‘No, thank you,’ Grace insisted politely.
‘Right you are. Enjoy.’
‘Grace—last time I mentioned Linden Grove you said that it deserved to be fire-bombed and then, just now when I said it again, you tensed up. Do you know of the place?’
Now, there was a question. She busied herself pouring the tea as she considered her answer. ‘I knew it once—a very long time ago—so long, in fact, that it’s almost like a dream. Tell me, is Mister Wild still the master of the house?’
Cecil nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And how do you find him?’ she asked, pouring the tea.
Cecil shifted in his chair, looked about the room, then lowered his voice. ‘Like most of his sort: a devil as a husband, indifferent as a father and a tyrant as an employer.’
‘A remarkably apt description,’ Grace murmured. ‘And his wife?’
‘She does what’s expected of a woman of her station. She usually treats me and the other servants alright, most of the time.’ Cecil eyed her suspiciously. ‘Did you once work there?’
‘I was there for a very short time,’ she answered with a heavy sigh. In the gap that opened up in their conversation, Grace realised that her palms had become moist and her fists clenched. She tried to relax.
‘Why do you not speak of your past at these meetings you do on the promenade? Tell those poor souls that you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth like they think.’
He was referring, of course, to her years as a child in the Brighton Union Workhouse. It was a past that tormented her and that she would now rather forget. When preparing the notes for her third speech, Olivia had visited her bedroom and suggested the very same thing as Cecil was now mooting. But she couldn’t do it. It was now, thankfully, a long time ago. She shook her head and drank some tea. ‘I don’t want the sympathy.’
‘But these women see you as something you’re not—or at least weren’t—they think you’re better than they are. If they knew you grew up in the workhouse…’
Grace shrugged. ‘I want to look forwards, Cecil, not backwards.’
More silence followed as Grace finished her tea. She caught the attention of the waitress and waved her over. ‘One piece of your Victoria Sponge, please.’
‘I knew you’d come ‘round!’ the waitress sang.
Grace placed 4d down on the table and stood up. ‘Well, it was lovely to catch up with you, Cecil. But now I must leave.’
Cecil looked surprised at the abruptness of her departure. ‘But I haven’t even finished my
