Kitabı oku: «The Scandalous Suffragette», sayfa 2

‘You’re a Beaufort,’ his mother said to Jane. ‘It doesn’t matter what you wear.’

‘I think it might, Mama,’ said Jane, with a sigh.

Indeed, being dressed in rags might matter, Adam thought grimly. He dreaded breaking the news of the extent of their diminished means to his mother and sisters. Telling them exactly what was left of the family fortune—precisely nothing—wasn’t something he looked forward to.

Adam studied Reginald Coombes. Short and stout, he possessed the same bright blue eyes as his daughter. The mother, a blonde whose prettiness was almost overwhelmed by her yellow satin and more diamonds than Adam had ever seen on one person, gazed at her husband with obvious affection. It touched him that they seemed happier than many of the other married couples on the dance floor. Indeed, few married couples were dancing together at all. They certainly looked happier than he’d ever seen his own parents. Not that his parents were often together in the years before his father’s demise.

He shunted the memories from his mind.

Adam moved his attention back to the lone figure in the alcove, watched how she straightened her back, stiffening her spine and jutting out her chin, as if daring anyone to pity her for being a wallflower. She appeared to be smiling.

But it must be hard, to sit there alone.

He slid on his gloves.

‘Adam,’ his mother hissed. ‘What are you doing?’

* * *

‘Miss Coombes?’

Violet jumped. In her mind she’d left the ballroom and begun to carry out her plan. She shifted on the gilt-legged chair and widened her knees so her thighs didn’t touch. She couldn’t risk anyone suspecting what she had wrapped like garters around her silk stockings. ‘Yes? Oh! It’s you!’

‘Indeed.’ A pair of midnight eyes found hers. ‘We meet again.’

Violet’s heart gave an unexpected thump. In her dream the night before, her rescuer appeared so impossibly handsome that she scolded herself in the morning. Surely her imagination had run wild. Now he stood in front of her in black-and-white evening attire he was even more attractive than in her dreams. In the dim streetlamp lighting she hadn’t fully taken in the firm set of his clean-shaven jaw, the line of his strong mouth.

On the street after her tumble she’d been surprised that he appeared younger than his commanding voice suggested. He must be about five years older than she, rather than the ten she’d originally thought, perhaps close to thirty years of age, she guessed. The two forked lines between his dark eyebrows made it difficult to gauge. His shoulders were broad in the well-cut tailed jacket, which showed some wear.

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’ Violet shifted on her chair again. There was the faintest rustle of silk.

If he heard he made no sign. ‘Nor I you.’

Violet cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m glad to see you. I wanted to thank you properly. I ought to have been more grateful to you for...ah...catching me.’

It struck her later what a risk she’d taken. It could have ended very ill indeed if he hadn’t been there.

A phantom of a smile glimmered in his eyes. ‘To catch you was my pleasure.’ He glanced around the ballroom. ‘I didn’t know suffragettes liked dancing.’

‘I haven’t been doing much dancing,’ Violet blurted out, then bit her tongue.

‘Perhaps we might remedy that.’ He bowed low and held out his gloved hand. ‘May I have the honour?’

‘But I don’t know your name.’

‘My apologies.’ He smiled. His teeth were even and white. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced. I know you are Miss Coombes.’

‘Violet Coombes.’

‘Indeed?’ Some comprehension, almost amusement, flared in his expression. ‘I’m Adam Beaufort.’

‘Beaufort. I know your name. Then that means you are... There’s a house...’ Violet tried to simulate the society page in her mind. She’d read something about his family home, she was certain of it.

‘The Beauforts of Beauley Manor. Yes.’ He inclined his head. ‘I recently inherited the estate.’

‘Oh. I see.’ It came back to her now. Their historic estate was in Kent, and the Beauforts were an exceptionally old English family. The kind of society family she’d never expected to welcome the Coombes.

‘If you’re at all concerned about my pedigree,’ he said drily, ‘that’s my mother and my two sisters over there.’

He indicated a group in the alcove opposite. A grey-haired woman, straight-backed, dressed in black, was studying Violet through her lorgnette. Behind her stood a tall, haughty young woman, wearing a mustard-coloured gown. She looked down her nose at Violet. Seated next to the grey-haired woman was a big-boned girl with hair escaping from her bun. Violet had seen her laughing across the dance floor. She flashed a quick smile.

‘My parents are here, too.’ Just in time Violet remembered not to point. She nodded towards her mother and father. Her mother was tripping over her train, trying not to stare at the tall, dark-haired man in their alcove.

‘Now we’re introduced,’ he said smoothly. ‘Shall we dance?’

Violet stood up. Her head came just above his shoulder. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

She took his proffered hand. Instantly the sensation of being in his arms returned. Even through their gloves she could feel it. Safety. Danger. Mixed into one.

Through the crowd he led her to the centre of the ballroom. The previous dance had ended and another was about to begin. A path cleared before him. Some of the men nodded in his direction, and more than a few pairs of female lashes fluttered. She sensed all eyes upon them, though he paid no attention to it.

They stood face to face. He released her hand. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms. They hung awkwardly, by her sides.

‘I presume you waltz?’ he asked politely, as they waited for the orchestra to start up.

‘I’ve had lessons,’ she replied. Another thing she probably shouldn’t have said. Then she recalled stamping her foot at him. She sighed. It was too late to pretend to be other than whom she truly was and she wouldn’t have wanted to in any case.

Again she noted a flicker of amusement. ‘Excellent.’

The music struck up. It was ʻThe Blue Danube’, one of Violet’s favourite pieces of music. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, ‘I trust you dance as well as you climb.’

He swirled her into his arms.

Violet’s breath surged up through her body. In an instant he swept her away, across the polished floor. Her lessons were nothing like this. She had never danced with such a partner—why, she never really danced before. In his powerful arms her feet glided over the floor as if she floated above it. The waltz started slowly, then became faster. The violins soared and shimmered, the horns played the beguiling tune as the woodwinds kept time. Her slippers chased his black-leather shoes, speeding with the melody as it rose and fell. His grip never wavered as he lifted her off the ground with every turn.

She’d wondered what it would be like to dance in his arms. Now she knew.

Violet threw back her head and closed her eyes. The music swelled. Now she wasn’t following the rhythm, or his skilful feet. She stopped thinking about her steps, just allowed herself to blindly follow his lead as he looped her in circle after circle. The tune rippled inside her, sending her dizzy, as if she were spinning with her arms outstretched, the way she used to do in the garden as a child. Her lips widened. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it.

When she opened her eyes his were upon her. Hardened to impenetrable sapphire, they moved from her open lips to her bared neck, her head still thrown back.

He pulled her closer, his body pressed against her petticoats. Gripped by his eyes, his hands, she twirled, spun, twirled again.

Past his staring family in the alcove. Past her amazed parents. Past the girl from riding lessons, goggle-eyed. To Violet they became a blur. She could have danced for ever as he swept her across the floor, sending the other couples scattering in their wake.

All too soon the music ended. The final crescendo shattered in a crash of cymbals. He broke their gaze, let her go.

Violet put her glove to her racing heartbeat. ‘Oh!’

Adam Beaufort, too, seemed to need to regain his breath. He bowed, but not before she’d glimpsed the dart of a smile. ‘Perhaps you’d like some air, Miss Coombes. The balcony? I know you enjoy them.’

She laughed. ‘Yes. The balcony. Please.’

As they passed a waiter Adam seized two glasses of champagne and led her through the French doors on to the empty balcony that overlooked the rear garden. She sensed eyes from the ballroom burning into her back. She raised her chin.

‘Thank you.’ Gratefully she grasped the stem of the glass he offered her and drank deeply. She was tempted to drain it. Instead she put the cool glass to her burning cheeks.

He, too, drank, surveying her over the rim. ‘Your dancing lessons have been effective.’

‘My lessons never taught me to dance like that,’ she said frankly. ‘It was wonderful. Thank you.’

He shrugged. ‘There are certain skills in life that must be mastered.’

‘Surely dancing is a pleasure, not a skill,’ she protested.

One corner of his mouth curved. ‘Most of life’s pleasures become more pleasurable with greater skill, Miss Coombes.’

Violet removed the glass from her cheeks and stared out into the garden. Music wafted from inside the ballroom. Tiers of stone steps flowed down into a rolling lawn. Pale moonlight shone. Her breath began to return to her lungs, but she still felt as if she were spinning. With her free hand she clutched the edge of the balcony. The balustrade was made of stone rather than cast iron, in thick pillars. Below was a sheer drop into a huge rhododendron bush.

Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow. ‘Assessing your descent?’

Violet laughed. ‘No. I promised you I wouldn’t climb any more balconies.’

Though she hadn’t promised anything else. Her thighs brushed together, reminding her of her plan.

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He lounged against a pillar, sending his face into shadow.

‘Tell me. What made you do it? Climb, I mean.’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

He shook his head. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘It was for the Cause. I intended to drape a women’s suffrage banner over the front of the gentleman’s club as a protest,’ she explained. ‘You must know how long women have been fighting to be granted the vote. The women’s colours are purple, green and white, you see. I sew the banners myself. Unfortunately I lost that one,’ she added regretfully.

He fell silent for a moment, took another draught of champagne. ‘Is it the first banner you’ve hung?’

‘No. I’ve hung others.’ And it wouldn’t be the last.

‘What’s your reasoning behind such an action?’

‘Wouldn’t any woman want to be treated as an equal?’ she asked passionately. ‘We’re treated as children who don’t know their own minds. Why shouldn’t we have the vote, take a role in choosing the government of our own country? Deeds, not words. That’s what we need now, for the Cause.’

‘You’re quite convincing, Miss Coombes,’ he drawled.

She clenched her fist around the champagne glass. ‘You’re mocking me.’

‘Not at all. Who can’t admire such conviction? How did you become involved in...the Cause?’

‘I’m only involved in a small way. I’m not a member of any organisation. I act alone. I’m just trying to do my part.’

‘Do your parents know what you’re doing?’

Violet sighed and shook her head.

He raised a brow. ‘I take it they wouldn’t approve.’

‘It’s a secret,’ she said rapidly. ‘I must ask you not to betray my confidence.’

‘You have my promise. I, too, keep my word.’

Violet let out a sigh of relief. Somehow she knew he told her the truth, even if in the shadow of the pillar his expression was unreadable.

‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ he asked.

Violet’s hand clenched on her glass. ‘I’m sorry?’

His teeth gleamed. ‘I suspect you have a more personal reason for your passion for the Cause.’

‘How did you know?’ she gasped.

He shrugged. ‘Human nature.’

She took a sip of champagne.

‘I do have a reason,’ she said at last. ‘You may know of my father’s business. Coombes Chocolates.’

At his nod she went on.

‘My father is a self-made man. He started the business and built it up from nothing. It’s gone from a small enterprise to a national name. Thousands of people work for him now in the chocolate factory and many more thousands enjoy our wares. Why, someone is probably biting into a Coombes Floral Cream right now.’

‘Indeed,’ Adam Beaufort drawled.

Violet took a deep breath.

‘I want to follow my father into the business,’ she said rapidly. It was the first time she ever said it aloud. ‘I have so many ideas, so many plans. Times are changing, a new century is here. There are new ways of doing things. Opportunities for social reform, for new methods. If women are given the vote...’

‘It might make it easier for you to become a woman of business.’

He’d grasped it immediately.

She nodded.

‘I’ve always admired my father and what he’s achieved. The people in there don’t see it,’ she added with a jerk of her head towards the French doors.

‘Surely you exaggerate.’

‘Not at all. We should have stayed in Manchester where we belong, not tried to be part of London society,’ she said fervently. ‘It means so much to my papa, but they look down on him, despise him. Who knows? Perhaps you do, too.’

Startling her, he stepped out of the shadow of the pillar.

‘My father was a drunkard, Miss Coombes, who lost our family fortune,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘If you think I despise your father for being determined, hardworking and ambitious, you’re very much mistaken.’

Violet’s mouth dropped open.

Silence fell between them.

‘Forgive me,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ve been under some pressure of late. Such conversation is not fit for a ballroom.’

‘It’s honest conversation. I prefer it,’ she replied quickly. ‘And I ought to ask your pardon. You asked me to dance. No one else did.’

As she spoke she impulsively moved forward, raised her face to his. He stared down at her, an expression she couldn’t decipher in his eyes. All she knew was that she took another step forward and lifted her chin higher, just as he moved closer to her and lowered his head, so close he surely felt on his lips the sigh that escaped hers.

From the ballroom came a crash of cymbals. Inside, the orchestra ended another piece of music with a rousing crescendo.

They leapt apart.

He retreated to the pillar. ‘It seems this moonlight and champagne is having an effect on us.’ His voice sounded deeper to Violet’s ears. ‘We’ve both revealed secrets tonight. Perhaps we ought to return to safer topics.’

Violet clutched the stem of her champagne glass so hard it threatened to snap. Her heart pounded.

He bowed. ‘Would you care for another dance, Miss Coombes?’

‘Oh, yes, please, I mean, thank you.’ Suddenly flustered, she lay down her glass. ‘Oh!’

Adam frowned. ‘What is it?’

She froze. Beneath her petticoat she felt an unravelling.

She took a step.

A slip between her thighs.

‘Miss Coombes...’

Another step.

A silken slide down her legs.

He stared at her face. ‘What the blazes has happened now?’

‘I can’t dance with you. I’m sorry!’

Violet raced through the French doors and out of the ballroom.

Adam gazed after Miss Violet Coombes in astonishment.

She had refused another waltz with him.

Momentarily he felt affronted.

Then through the French doors he watched her scuttle across the ballroom. She scurried, crab-like, her knees held together, in a curious dance step of her own.

Once more he started to laugh. She was up to something. He’d stake his life on it.

He never expected to have such an extraordinary conversation with her. They’d both revealed more than they intended. The pressures of trying to sort out his father’s estate wore him down, a constant worry, a permanent burden across his shoulders. He experienced a curious relief sharing it with Miss Violet Coombes. It lightened his burden, for a moment.

She preferred honest conversation, she’d told him. Her frankness disarmed him and she possessed a curious sweetness, too.

He grinned inwardly.

Like a Coombes Floral Cream.

He’d wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t the first time. When he caught her in his arms in the square the instinct roared through his body, too. Tonight, when she stared up at him in the moonlight, her bright blue eyes full of understanding and concern, her pink lips parted, he wanted to take her in his arms and taste that sweetness. Hold that warm, soft flesh in his arms again.

Why the blazes had she fled from him?

It wasn’t that near kiss. Such things weren’t done on ballroom balconies, but he sensed she wasn’t frightened by the honesty of that moment.

She’d wanted to kiss him back. Her soft, fast breath told him that.

Swiftly he followed her path across the ballroom and out into the entrance hall. There was no sign of her. The huge hall, with its marble floor, gilt-framed paintings and statues, appeared empty. Then a scuffling noise came from behind a column of marble.

A long, shapely leg clad in a white-silk stocking extended from behind the pillar, followed by a familiar tricolour silken banner.

It must have been under her skirt.

Stifling his chuckle, not wanting to alarm her, Adam backed behind another marble column. After a moment she appeared, glanced around furtively and raised herself up on tiptoe. One after the other she hurled the two billowing banners into the air.

Adam frowned. He couldn’t quite make out what she was doing, but he could make a fair guess. He was about to reveal himself and remonstrate with her when her parents appeared and bore her off in a carriage.

He leapt out from behind the pillar and swore.

Her aim was excellent.

‘Damnation,’ he muttered below his breath.

The ballroom doors flung open. Before Adam could grab the banners a group surged into the hall.

A woman squealed and pointed.

All hell broke loose.

Adam groaned. Violet Coombes had no idea what she’d done.

Chapter Three

‘Shall Error in the round of time

Still father Truth?’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)

‘Whoa.’ Violet pulled the reins of the grey mare. All morning the mare had been frisky, playing up. It took all Violet’s strength to stop her breaking into a gallop in the middle of Hyde Park. It was a day to gallop, the sun golden in the summer sky. Around her all the flowers in the garden beds were in bloom, their colours as bright as ball gowns and their perfumed scents heady. Instead, Violet slowed to a sedate trot.

A groom from the riding school rode up to her. ‘That’s it, miss. Give me the reins now. I’ll lead you back to the others. That’s probably enough for today.’

Violet passed them over with her thanks. Suddenly she felt exhausted. Dancing at night and riding in the morning was strenuous exercise. Her tight-fitting blue-velvet riding habit, trimmed with a lace jabot at the neck, suddenly seemed much too hot. She’d have something made in a cooler fabric for the summer and try to prevent her mama from adding too much trimming. The riding habits of the other young ladies, all in black, seemed to have marked signs of wear, as if to emphasise use.

While the groom led her to the group, her mind roved over the events of the night before. It had been so unfortunate that the banner had unravelled from around her thigh before she had a chance to dance once more with Adam Beaufort. She would probably never have another opportunity to dance with him, to be swept across the floor in those powerful arms, after running away from him so publicly. He must have been insulted.

She sighed. She owed Adam Beaufort another apology and yet another explanation, if she ever saw him again. He must have wondered what made her run off in such a peculiar fashion, but she had to move quickly before the banner fell to the floor from beneath her ball dress. She had made it just in time. She dashed behind a pillar and whipped out the banner from beneath her petticoats, yanked one free and then the other. Quickly she seized the moment, did what she’d set out to do. She’d intended to wait until the end of the ball, to linger until the crowds dispersed, but with the banners released she grasped her opportunity while everyone else was in the ballroom. She had just completed the deed when her parents appeared, full of concern after seeing her leave the ballroom. Steering them away from the evidence of her activity, she pleaded a sudden fever, with her hand to her forehead. They called for the carriage instantly and took her home. She didn’t see Adam Beaufort again.

She released another sigh. He was the only person she had ever told about how strongly she believed in the suffrage cause. Had he been mocking her? As she replayed the conversation in her mind she decided not. She could only hope he’d keep his word and not betray her secret.

He’d trusted her with a secret, too. The lines of care on his face she’d noticed when they first met; she hadn’t mistaken those. She wondered what he might look like without the burdens he carried.

Their honest conversation had seemed to bring them closer together than the waltz. When she’d finally fallen asleep that night she had dreamed about him again. In the garden of that unidentifiable house, he called up to her at the window. She leaned out, almost tumbling from the window as she tried to hear what he said, but she couldn’t make it out.

When she awoke she’d puzzled over it. She recalled how he whispered in her ear, ‘I hope you dance as well as you climb.’ His deep voice had sent quivers through her. When she got out of bed she’d washed her face with cold water from the pitcher, instead of hot.

Even now, the next morning, in the sunshine of the park, thinking about him made her pulse flicker at her wrist under her riding glove. The night before as she lay in bed, she’d found herself lifting her fingertip to her mouth, remembering the look he gave her as he lowered his mouth so close to hers. Had he meant to kiss her? Was that blackness in the midnight of his eyes...desire?

If she were going to daydream about such matters, which of course she was not, he was the kind of man she would daydream about. But she had other matters to think about rather than waltzing with Adam Beaufort, no matter how extraordinarily wonderful it had been. Yet if she were scrupulously truthful, as she always tried to be, she had to admit her attraction to him. He was, after all, one of the most eligible bachelors in London, or so her thrilled mama had enlightened her on the way home in the carriage.

‘He’s related to the royal family!’ her mama had gasped.

Whether Adam Beaufort was eligible or not, there was no point in daydreaming. She’d made her decision.

She took the reins from the groom.

He tipped his cap.

She halted next to the girl she had spotted the night before in the ballroom who sometimes chatted to her.

With a clip of her whip she moved her horse away from Violet’s.

Violet lifted her chin. It hadn’t been pleasant to be snubbed at the ball, nor was it pleasant to be snubbed now, and she wasn’t sure why. It seemed a more blatant cut than pretending not to see a waving hand from across the room. If Adam Beaufort hadn’t asked her the night before, she would have sat out every dance. It made her even sorrier that she had missed being whirled into another waltz. The way he danced with her would remain in her memory, but that was all.

The Cause was more important.

Deeds, not words. She must stay true to her purpose. Yet her heart gave another strange flinch as she turned her mare towards the park gates.

* * *

‘Mama?’ Violet pushed open the drawing-room door. ‘Where are you? There’s no one in the dining room. What’s happened to luncheon? I’m famished after riding. Will you allow me to come to the table before I change out of my riding habit?’

Her mother lay on the chaise longue. Her arm, clad in a ruffled sleeve, was flung over her face. She didn’t reply.

‘Mama?’ Violet stepped into the room. Her father was also in the drawing room, to her surprise. He faced the fireplace, his back to her. He wasn’t often home during the day. ‘Why, hello, Papa. Have you come home for luncheon? We’ll have to wake Mama. I think she’s asleep.’

‘I’m not asleep, Violet,’ her mother said in a strangled voice. ‘I’ve had a visit from some of the society ladies who invited us to the ball.’

‘Oh, how lovely, Mama.’ Violet cared little for such things, but she knew how much store her mother set by them and it mattered to her father, too, with his business ambitions. To have such ladies call on them was a step up the social ladder. Not that Violet had any inclination to climb it.

‘No.’ Her mother sat up. Her face was pale, except for two bright red patches on her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t lovely. It was dreadful!’

She burst into tears.

‘Mama!’ Violet rushed to her side. ‘Don’t cry so, please. What happened? What did they say to you?’

Her mother seized a lace-trimmed handkerchief. ‘They said... She said...’

‘You must have some idea, Violet.’ Her father spoke from his place by the fireplace. He didn’t turn around.

She shook her head. ‘No, Papa, I don’t. How dare they upset Mama so? What did they say?’

Her thoughts flew immediately to Adam Beaufort. Had there been gossip about them because she’d lingered on the balcony with him and then raced out of the ballroom? That near kiss...had someone seen them together?

Nerves fluttered in her stomach. ‘What is it?’

‘Someone draped a suffragette banner across a marble bust of Queen Victoria,’ her mother whispered, muffled by the handkerchief. ‘And the Prince Consort, too, God rest his soul.’

Violet tried to keep a straight face. It had been such a perfect opportunity.

Two legs. Two banners. Two marble busts. They’d been perched on plinths halfway up the wall, each set back in a gilt-scrolled niche. The banners had ballooned up and landed. Queen Victoria’s banner around her marble shoulders, like a shawl. Quite fitting for a monarch. Prince Albert’s on his head, falling over one eye, giving him a rakish look. She hadn’t been able to reach to fix it.

‘The ladies told me all about it.’ Her mother wrung her hands together. ‘At the end of the ball, when everyone came out into the hall, there they were, bold as brass. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

Laugh, Mama, Violet wanted to say. How she wished her mother shared her views about women’s suffrage, but her mother was content with her status as a wife and mother. She didn’t want to vote—she’d declared that on more than one occasion. Politics was the business of men and she had no interest in it. No, her mama would never understand.

Her father finally turned around from the fireplace. He appeared smaller than usual, almost deflated. It was because he wasn’t smiling. His jolly demeanour usually filled the room.

‘We know they were your banners, Violet.’

His tone shocked her. The usual warmth was quite gone.

‘I don’t intend to deny it, Papa,’ she said quietly. ‘They were my suffrage banners. I made them and I draped them across Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, too.’

‘Queen Victoria. Prince Albert,’ her mama echoed the names, reminding Violet of a parrot they kept for a while, when the birds had been fashionable. It had driven her papa quite cocky, he’d declared.

It wasn’t the moment to remind her parents of the parrot.

‘The parents of our King.’ Her father shook his head. ‘King Edward the Seventh.’

She nodded. She’d have draped a banner around a marble bust of King Edward, too, but there hadn’t been one, and in any case, she’d only had two banners.

‘Queen Victoria and Prince Albert are in their graves,’ her mama choked. ‘It’s unseemly. Disrespectful.’

‘Oh! I didn’t think of it that way,’ Violet said, horrified.

‘Why did you do it?’ her father asked, still in that empty voice.

Violet lifted her chin. ‘I’m a suffragette, Papa.’

‘A suffragette!’ came her mama’s echo.

‘Votes for women, eh?’ asked her papa.

With a gulp, she nodded.

Her father wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘So it’s all been for nothing.’

‘Papa,’ Violet whispered. Her throat constricted. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

He sank into the leather club chair by the fireplace. He appeared bewildered. ‘All we’ve done for you. All I’ve worked for. And you’re not grateful.’

Violet knelt beside him, seized his hand. ‘I am grateful, Papa. You’ve given me everything that anyone could ever dream of.’

‘They why did you do it?’

‘Surely you understand,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m like you. You’re a self-made man. Didn’t you long to be considered an equal, to make your way into the world? Look what you’ve achieved, the business you built. You started from nothing. Please listen to me. I just want the same opportunity as you, to contribute to the world.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s different for a man.’

‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ her mother said tremulously from the chaise longue.

‘I want more,’ Violet said simply.

Her father stared as if he hardly knew her.

‘I’ve never had cause to criticise you. I’ve always been proud of you, so proud.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But this. You’ve gone too far. You’ve become selfish, Violet.’

She fell back on her heels. Tears smarted in her eyes. ‘It’s not selfish to want to be part of the world. To vote. To become educated. To work. Why, there are even women working in factories now.’