barely half a dozen for women.”
“The reason for that is perfectly obvious,” her mother retorted. “Men have clubs in which to meet each other, talk a lot of nonsense about politics and sport and the like, and occasionally a little gossip, or business. It is where their social life is largely conducted.”
“Then why not for women?” Violet persisted.
“Don’t be absurd, child. Women have withdrawing rooms for such things.”
“Then why do they have clubs for women at all?”
“For those who don’t have their own withdrawing rooms, of course,” Mrs. Saxby said impatiently.
“I don’t know any ladies who don’t have their own withdrawing rooms.”
“Of course you don’t. Any lady who does not have her own withdrawing room is not fit to be in Society, and consequently, she is not,” Mrs. Saxby rejoined.
And with that Miss Saxby had to be content.
“Oh dear,” Dolly said when they were gone. “Poor George is finding being single something of a trial.” Further explanation was unnecessary.
“I think it is being so very eligible that is the trial,” Vespasia said with a smile.
“Of course you are perfectly right. Please do sit down.” Dolly waved vaguely at one of the pale blue chairs. “It seems like simply ages since I have seen you anywhere where it was possible to have a sensible conversation.”
“That is because I have been to far too few such places.” Vespasia accepted the invitation. “Although I did enjoy the Duchess of Marlborough’s reception this week. I saw you in the distance, but of course one can never reach people at these affairs, except by accident. I did meet Susannah Chancellor. What an interesting creature. She reminded me of Beatrice Darnay. She isn’t one of the Worcestershire Darnays, is she?”
“No! Not at all. I don’t know where her family comes from originally, but her father was William Dowling, of Coutts Bank.”
“Indeed. I don’t think I know him.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t, my dear. He’s been gone several years now. Left a very considerable fortune. Susannah and Maude inherited it all, equally, I believe. No sons. Now Maude is dead, poor child, and her husband inherited it, along with the principal interest in the family banking business. Francis Standish. Do you know him?”
“I believe I have met him,” Vespasia replied. “A distinguished-looking man, if I recall correctly. Very fine hair.”
“That’s right. Merchant banker. That sort of power always gives men an air of confidence, which has its own attractions.” She settled a little more comfortably in her seat. “Of course his mother was related to the Salisburys, but I don’t know how, precisely.”
“And a woman of the most unusual appearance, named Christabel Thorne …” Vespasia continued.
“Ah, my dear!” Dolly laughed. “I think she is what is known as a ‘new woman’! Quite outrageous, of course, but most entertaining. I don’t approve. How could I? How could anyone with the least sense? It is really rather frightening.”
“A new woman?” Vespasia said with interest. “Do you think so?”
Dolly’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t you? If women start wanting to leave their homes and families, and carve out a totally new role for themselves, whatever is going to happen to society in general? No one can simply please themselves all the time. It is completely irresponsible. Did you see that fearful play of Mr. Ibsen’s?
“I think she felt she had reason.” Vespasia was too old to care about being contentious. “He was excessively patronizing and treated her as a child, with no power or right to make her own decisions.”
Dolly laughed.
“For heaven’s sake, my dear, most men are like that. One simply finds one’s own way ’round it. A little flattery, a little charm, and a great deal of tact to his face, and disobedience once his attention is elsewhere and most things can be achieved.”
“She did not want to have to work for what she felt was every woman’s right.”
“You are sounding like a ‘new woman’ yourself!”
“Certainly not. I am a very old woman.” Vespasia changed the subject. “What does this Christabel Thorne do that is so radical? She has not left her home, I’m sure.”
“Far worse than that.” Now there was real disapproval in Dolly’s face; the laughter had gone entirely. “She has some sort of an establishment which prints and distributes the most detailed literature encouraging women to educate themselves and attempt to enter the professions. I ask you! Who on earth is going to employ a woman lawyer, or architect, or judge, or a woman physician? And it is all quite pointless. Men will never tolerate it anyway. But of course she will not listen.”
“Extraordinary,” Vespasia said with as little expression in her voice as she could manage. “Quite extraordinary.”
They got no further with the subject because another caller arrived, and although it was well past four o’clock, it was apparent that Vespasia should take her leave.
The last person she visited was Nobby Gunne. She found her in her garden staring at the flag irises, a distracted expression on her face. Curiously, she looked anxious and yet inwardly she had a kind of happiness which lent her skin a glow.
“How nice to see you,” she said, turning from the iris bed and coming forward. “I am sure it must be teatime. May I send for some for you? You will stay?”
“Of course,” Vespasia accepted.
They walked side by side across the wide sunny sweep of the lawn, the occasional longer spikes of the uncut edges catching their skirts. A bumblebee flew lazily from one early pink rose to another.
“There is something about an English summer garden,” Nobby said quietly. “And yet I find myself thinking more and more often of Africa.”
“Surely you don’t wish to go back there now, do you?” Vespasia was surprised. Nobby was past the age when such an enterprise would be either easy to arrange or comfortable in execution. What was an adventure at thirty could be an ordeal at fifty-five.
“Oh no! Not in the slightest.” Nobby smiled. “Except in the occasional daydream. Memory can be misleadingly sweet. No, I worry about it, most particularly after the conversation we had the other evening. There is so much money involved in it now, so much profit to be made from settlement and trade. The days of exploration to discover a place, simply because no white man had seen it before, are all past. Now it is a matter of treaties, mineral rights and soldiers. There’s been so much blood already.” She looked sad, gazing at the honeysuckle spilling over the low wall they were passing.
“Nobody talks about missionaries anymore. I haven’t heard anyone even mention Moffatt or Livingstone in a couple of years. It is all Stanley and Cecil Rhodes now, and money.” She stared up at the elm trees shining and whispering in the sun, and below them the climbing white roses beginning to open. It was all intensely English. Africa with its burning heat and sun and dust seemed like a fairy story not real enough to matter.
But looking at Nobby’s face, Vespasia could see the depth of her emotion, and how deeply she still cared.
“Times do change,” she said aloud. “I am afraid that after the idealists come the realists, the practical profiteers. It has always been so. Perhaps it is inevitable.” She walked quietly beside Nobby and stopped in front of a massive lupine whose dozen spikes were already showing pink. “Be grateful that you were privileged to see the best days and be part of them.”
“If that were all”-Nobby frowned-“if it were only a matter of personal regret, I would let it go. But it really does matter, Vespasia.” She looked around, her eyes dark. “If settlement of Africa is done badly, if we sow the wind, we will reap the whirlwind for centuries to come, I promise you.” Her face was so grim, so full of undisguised fear, that Vespasia felt a chill in the summer garden and the cascades of blossoms seemed bright and far away, and even the warmth on her skin lacked a sense of reality.
“What exactly is it you think will happen?” she asked.
Nobby stared into the distance. She was not marshaling her thoughts; that had obviously already happened. She was seeing some inner vision, and the sight appalled her.
