Printing the article, Morton clicked back to the set of results. The headline of the next offered an enticing read: Brighton Suffragettes on the Warpath but it would have to wait. Juliette was shouting his name up the stairs. He supposed this was how it was going to be for the foreseeable future.
In the lounge he found a haggard, exhausted version of his wife sitting on the sofa, elbows on her knees, hands supporting her head. ‘She’s just been fed and changed,’ Juliette muttered, barely able to look up. The baby was lying in her Moses basket, enthralled by the colourful toys that dangled down above her face.
‘Do you want anything—food, drink?’ Morton asked, stroking her wild hair.
‘Just sleep,’ she answered. ‘Who was on the phone earlier?’
‘Oh, yes—it was your mum. Wanted to know if we needed her to bring anything. I said we didn’t.’
Juliette nodded and made for the door.
‘Do you think when she arrives I could do a little work—I’m getting a bit behind?’
She paused in the doorway and turned, an eyebrow cocked in the way that implied suspicion. ‘Is that just because my mum’s coming and you want to escape?’
‘I like your mum,’ Morton defended.
‘I didn’t say you didn’t,’ she said pointedly.
‘I just think it’ll be good for you—three girls together, plus I get to catch up on a bit of work.’
Juliette waved her hand dismissively and left the room. ‘Sleep…’
Morton crouched down to the basket and kissed the baby on the forehead. He marvelled at how it was possible to love so deeply, profoundly and instantaneously. How far he had come. Just five years ago he was single, resolutely childless and hauling around the chronic bitter burden of his adoption. He realised now that from the ignorance of his biological parents’ identity had grown a rancorous mental cancer that, were it not for having met Juliette, would have swollen inside of him, eventually taking him over.
‘I love you,’ he whispered, taking her tiny hand in his.
She stopped playing and squeezed his finger, her sparkling brown eyes meeting his.
She was true perfection.
She held his gaze for some time, then switched her focus back to the stripy lion above her.
On the coffee table beside Morton was the baby name book, 60,001 Best Baby Names. With a sigh, he opened the book at the girl’s section and began to scan down the long lists. Aaliyah, Aamori, Aarika, Aarionne, Aaronita…Addison? According to the book it meant awesome. No. He continued. Alessia? Italian for nice. Nice Farrier. Maybe not. Auburne? American for tough-minded. One tough-minded woman was enough in his life. Next. Audrey? English for strong and regal. He leant over the baby’s face. ‘Audrey?’ Then he shook his head. Definitely not Audrey. Bahama? Barcelona? Did they want to be one of those couples that copied the obscure names which celebrities saddled their kids with for the rest of their entire lives? Barcelona Farrier. Nobody would ever forget that name. Next. Beatrice? Latin for blessed woman. Yes, he liked that name and made a note of it, the first to make the list. Beatrice Farrier. Morton smiled then carried on reading. Blake? English for dark—not a good sign. Plus, she would sound like a (male) private detective. Blake Farrier at your service. Nope. Burgundy? French for red wine. He added it to the list, just to see Juliette’s reaction. Catherine? Greek for pure. Traditional, historical; he liked it.
The baby began to cry in her zero-to-a-thousand-decibels-in-under-two-seconds way.
Morton scooped her up and cradled her to his chest, lightly bouncing around the lounge.
It took ten minutes and she was asleep in his arms. He gently laid her back down in the Moses basket, pulled the curtains and crept from the room.
In the kitchen, he made himself a strong coffee and opened up his laptop to read the next newspaper report into Grace Emmerson’s activities. ‘29th December 1910. Brighton Suffragettes on the Warpath. Two Bottles of Dye Emptied into Pillar Box. Brighton suffragettes were out on the warpath last night. Some of the sisterhood placed two uncorked bottles containing a dark fluid in a pillar letter-box, spoiling and besmearing several letters that the postal authorities have been unable to decipher. The letter-box attacked is that situated on Queen’s Road in the town centre. A collection of letters took place shortly after six o’clock, and at that time the contents were all correct. When a postman went to clear the box at seven o’clock, he was astonished to find that a large number of the letters and postcards were covered in a brownish fluid. A well-known local suffragette, Miss Grace Emmerson was apprehended at the scene, shouting a tirade of suffragist propaganda at the arresting police officers. She was detained in police custody overnight and will go before magistrate’s tomorrow.’
The next article was brief, summarising Grace’s court case. She was sentenced to two months’ hard labour for her actions. Poor woman, Morton thought, but very admirable and courageous. According to the newspaper indexes, her next arrest came just two months after her release from prison.
‘22nd February 1911. Suffragette Raid on Downing Street. Ministers Assaulted—Windows Smashed. Mr Asquith’s statement in the House of Commons on Tuesday, regarding the facilities
