“Forgive me, Mrs. Harris,” I said. “Ivy and I will be late to the Women’s Liberal Federation if we don’t beg our leave at once. It was as lovely to see you as it always is.” The sentiment was strictly true. If she chose to take from my statement that I found it empirically lovely to see her, that was her choice. Pulling Ivy by the arm, I dragged her back to the pavement before she could protest our hasty departure.

We walked along the southern side of the Serpentine, the park’s long, curving lake and then continued on towards the Round Pond, where countless children were playing with toy boats. The pavements were slightly less crowded here, and became even emptier as we passed Kensington Palace and moved out of the park and into Kensington Palace Gardens, one of my favorite streets in all of London. Tall plane trees lined both sides and elegant houses stretched the half-mile length of the edge of the park. We turned left to reach Palace Green, the southernmost part of the road, but stopped before we’d taken ten paces. There was Polly Sanders’s house. Its noble edifice was gracious and neat, but the front door and the steps, along with the fence in front of the property—all of which had been gleaming white—were covered with a swathe of dark red paint.

“What happened here?” I asked, inquiring of the servant on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bottom of a white square pillar that stood between sections of the fence.

“Madam?” She looked down, seemingly afraid to speak to me.

“I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of Polly’s,” I said. “Who did this?”

“It was a vandal of some sort, madam. We don’t know who. I’ve been at it for more hours than I can count, but it’s right near impossible to remove. They’ve sent someone off to get turpentine.”

“When did it happen?” I asked.

“It was like this when we woke up yesterday morning. Terrible thing, ’specially now. The missus doesn’t need any more trouble.”

“No, she certainly doesn’t,” I said. “Don’t let me distract you from your task.”

“Yes, madam.” She returned to her work, her face tense with effort.

We continued towards Lady Carlisle’s house in the bottom of the street. “This is dreadful,” Ivy said. “Poor Polly is all but ruined. And now this? It’s grotesquely unfair. Who would have done such a thing to her house?”

“I can’t imagine,” I said. “Isn’t it enough that the family have suffered such pain and humiliation? Why would someone want to draw further attention to their plight?”

We’d reached our destination. I looked up at Number One Palace Green. It was smaller than the other homes on the street and looked as if it had been built more recently, although its red bricks fronted a relatively plain façade. I pulled open the iron gate and felt a twinge of nerves as we walked up concrete steps to the narrow, arched entrance to the house. I felt as if I were on the precipice of something important, as if I were about to enter a world full of other people who shared values similar to my own, a place where I would not be ostracized for my intellectual interests and social radicalism. I took a deep breath and lifted my hand to knock on the door.

*   *   *

In retrospect, I admit precipice might not have been quite the right word. The ladies of Women’s Liberal Federation, while charming and welcoming, weren’t as different from the rest of society as one might have thought. I’d expected—or perhaps hoped for—firebrand politics. Instead, we entered a pleasant drawing room papered in a William Morris design and found ourselves in a crush of violently fashionable ladies. Their sleeves, in every bright color of fabric, were so wide one could hardly squeeze past them. We drank tea and enjoyed genteel conversation that focused as much on needlepoint and which balls everyone planned to attend that evening as it did the issue of we ladies gaining the vote. It was pleasant, but a little anticlimactic.

“I confess I’d worried they would be more radical,” Ivy asked, her voice hushed as she scooted her chair closer to mine. The meeting had started in earnest, though many of the ladies weren’t paying much attention.

“I thought they would be, too,” I said, not voicing my disappointment to find they were not.

“Can you hear me, Lady Emily? I need to know if we can count on you.” Lady Carlisle’s voice carried over the group, and I felt like a child caught talking out of turn at school. “Will you distribute pamphlets with us?”

I had heard everything she’d said about these pamphlets, which the group planned to hand out to specially selected ladies in the most unobtrusive way possible so as not to put off any possible recruits.

“I should like very much to be in charge of handing them out to the Conservative MPs, if that would be allowed,” I said. “I’m not afraid of direct opposition.”

“Well, now,” Lady Carlisle said. “I do admire your determination.” Our hostess was well known for the fervent support she lent to her favorite causes: temperance, Irish Home Rule, and free trade. It was she who had directed the movement for the Women’s Liberal Federation to pursue an aggressive agenda to get votes for women, a policy that had caused a schism in the group. Nearly ten thousand members had resigned and started their own organization, the priorities of which did not include supporting such controversial stances.

“As soon as I have the documents in hand, I’ll set off for Westminster. I’d like to confront them there,” I said. “I want to present myself as if I’m already a constituent and coming to them with a concern. I think they’ll respect me for taking a direct approach, even if they don’t agree with our position. My goal will be to identify those who show the slightest hints of sympathy and then I’ll begin cultivating relationships with their wives.”

“What an interesting idea,” Lady Carlisle said. Her smile suggested she was pleased, and I wondered if she was glad to have found someone else who shared a more radical vision. “I look forward to hearing about your results. You shall all have pamphlets and distribution lists by the end of the week. And unless anyone has something else to add, I believe that concludes our business for today.”

Ivy and I milled around the room for another quarter of an hour, drinking tea and listening to the usual sort of society gossip. No one mentioned Mr. Dillman’s brutal death out loud, though I knew it was on everyone’s mind. We’d all seen the sensational coverage given to his murder by the morning papers. Instead, most of the chatter focused on Polly Sanders. The words said about her were not kind, and she was not the only person to suffer under the rule of icy tongues.

“That hideous Lady Glover sent out another round of invitations,” one of the ladies said to another. “I do hope no one has the bad form to accept.”

“I don’t understand why she even bothers,” the other said. “No one is going to befriend her, no matter what airs she puts on.”

“Have you ever met Lady Glover?” I asked Ivy, keeping my voice low. “She drives her phaeton through Hyde Park with zebras pulling it.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them,” Ivy said. “She makes it rather hard to miss.”

“Zebras, Ivy. Zebras,” I said. “Why are we not better acquainted with this woman?”

“Because the matrons of Society have never forgiven her for having got her start as a pantomime girl at the Surrey Music Hall,” Ivy said. “Or so I’ve heard. Apparently there are some crimes even a good marriage can’t erase, no matter how much money is involved.”

“She lives just down the street from me,” I said. “Perhaps we should call on her.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s an excellent idea.”

“What is an excellent idea?” Lady Carlisle asked, coming to my friend’s side.

Ivy looked at me questioningly, and I knew she was afraid of what I might say. Undaunted, I took a deep breath and soldiered forward.

“Calling on Lady Glover,” I said. “I’ve been longing to question her on the care and maintenance of zebras in town.”


6 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London


I’m home again, thank goodness!

The Women’s Liberal Federation are frightfully boring. Worse even than Latin, which does at least have Emily’s enthusiasm to recommend it. I nearly fell asleep twice in the meeting. Are there any causes less soporific to be found? I do so want to be useful, but is it too much to want to be entertained as well? I don’t want to disappoint Emily, but I may have to focus my own efforts on a charity instead of politics. Robert suggested I support the Church of England Central Society for Providing Homes for Waifs and Strays. I’m certain I’d be better at serving children than convincing gentlemen I should have the right to vote, particularly as I’m not sure I even want it.

Is it so wrong to let our men take care of us? I’ve enough to do managing a household, dealing with my servants, seeing to the care of my daughter. I like the womanly arts, and want to focus on them. But is that selfish? Not all ladies are looked after so well as I. Would having the vote improve their lives?

Perhaps it would, but I haven’t the slightest clue how. It seems a hopeless business.

3

Colin was in his study when I arrived home from the meeting. He loved this room the way I did the library, and I teased him that this was because he no longer owned any of the books in my favorite room, after having given all of them to me (along with every bottle of port in his cellar) when he asked me to marry him. He’d decorated, as he should have, with an eye to satisfying no one but himself. Old Masters hung against the navy silk walls—Raphael, Botticelli, and a sketch by Da Vinci. He’d bought the marble fireplace mantel while traveling in Italy soon after he’d finished at Cambridge. Shipping it back to England had proved problematic, so he’d hired four local men to transport it for him. They still worked for him, now serving as footmen, and I often practiced my Italian on them.

In one corner, he had a cabinet where he stored his best whiskies. Four bookcases shared the wall with the fireplace, two on each side. He had a large desk placed underneath the windows so he could look across the street to the park when he was working at it, and two leather chairs with a small, low table between them, sat in front of the fire. And then there were the chess sets. On a table along the wall opposite the windows, he had four sets, each continuously in various stages of play. My favorite was the ivory John Company one, from India, with the kings and queens perched in elaborate seats on top of exquisitely carved elephants. He had a French Regence set with large pieces carved out of wood, and an elaborate German one whose figures were based on Charlemagne, but the one Colin preferred was English. Manufactured by Staunton, its simple bone pieces in red and white sat majestically on a matching papier-mâché board. He kept his mind nimble by working problems on an ongoing basis, and we played frequent games. There were two more sets downstairs in the library.

A hidden door at the end of the chess table led to Colin’s billiard room, a place he’d occasionally disappear to with his friends. I was bound and determined someday he would teach me how to play. He’d tried several times, but on each occasion when he’d stood behind me, his arms around me, helping me to hold the cue stick properly, I’d become hopelessly distracted. Some things are far more pleasant than billiards could ever hope to be.

Entering the room, I kissed him hello and flopped into a chair, waiting to speak until he’d placed the bishop in his hand on the rosewood board in front of him.

“It’s to be Mate in Four,” he said. “I have two ideas, both of which can wait until you’ve told me how your morning was.”

He shook with mirth as I recounted for him the details of the meeting. “I don’t know which I find more diverting: your planning to call on Conservative members of Parliament to bring them round to radical schools of thought or suggesting to Lady Carlisle you’re concerned about the welfare of zebras.”

“Are you anti-zebra, then?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Not at all, although I’ll never be convinced the beasts could be happy in London. Or anywhere outside of Africa, for that matter. Please tell me you’re not longing for a pair?”

“Fear not, dear husband. I’m a confirmed horsewoman, and have no desire to expand my expertise to other species.”