Richard made as if he didn’t see her, so I pretended not to as well, but then she rang a little bell and we had to raise our hats at her. She waved, then went on her way with a flash of the other ankle.
I thought she was looking remarkably well for having been six weeks in Holloway, but I did not say so to Richard. In fact it seemed best not to say anything at all.
But Richard did, which surprised me, as we’re not ones for confidences. “Tell me, Albert, how do you handle your wife?”
I stumbled over a paving stone. “How do I handle my wife?” With firm affection, I thought, as I regained my balance. I did not say so aloud-there are things men do not say aloud.
“Kitty has blackmailed me,” Richard continued.
“How so?”
“She says that if I try to forbid her to work for the suffragettes she will begin giving speeches at rallies. Can you imagine the Coleman name all over those infernal handbills they pass out? Or plastered on posters, or chalked on the pavement? Holloway almost killed my mother from the shame of it-this would finish her off. What would you do in my situation?”
I was trying to picture Trudy making such a threat, but it was impossible to imagine. If anything she is more concerned about the Waterhouse name than I am. And she would rather eat a plate of coal than speak in public. The kinds of threats she makes to me are to do with the color of the front-parlor curtains or which seaside town we are to go to for a holiday.
Richard was looking at me as if he expected a response. “Perhaps it’s just a phase your wife is going through,” I suggested. “Perhaps the suffragette movement will die out. They’re planning a demonstration in Hyde Park in June, aren’t they? Even Trudy knows of it, and she’s no suffragette. Perhaps that will satisfy them, and afterward your wife will settle down.”
“Perhaps,” Richard repeated, but I am afraid he did not sound convinced.
Kitty Coleman
Maude has been avoiding me for weeks now, ever since I came out of Holloway. At first I didn’t notice, as there was so much to do, what with the march to organize for June. It is to be the largest public gathering of people anywhere, ever in the world. We are run off our feet with tasks-booking trains from all over the country, getting permission for the march routes and use of Hyde Park, conferring with the police, finding speakers and marching bands, making banners. It is like planning a battle. No, not just a battle-an entire war.
On that theme, Caroline has had a wonderful idea of what she and I can dress as for the procession. It is to be very dramatic, and I plan to celebrate my liberation from both Holloway and my despair with a liberating costume. It will be a great day.
In the midst of all the activity, though, I did notice that Maude left rooms as soon as I entered them, and was eating more meals at the Waterhouses’ than at home. Richard simply shrugged when I mentioned this to him. “What did you expect?” he said. It is hard to talk to him now-since I got out of Holloway he has been avoiding me too. Just as well that I have grown a thick skin!
I was not really surprised to see what he had done to my morning room. Other suffragettes’ husbands have done worse. To put an end to such behavior I had to resort to blackmail, which I am not proud of but which was necessary. It worked too-he may hate what I am doing but he fears his mother more.
On Saturday morning I caught Maude moping in the drawing room and had an idea. “Come with me into town,” I suggested. “There’s a motor to take us. See?” I pointed out the window at the Jenkinses’ motorcar sitting in front of the house. Mrs. Jenkins, a wealthy WSPU member in Highgate, has kindly donated it for WSPU business around town. Her husband doesn’t know-we only use it when he’s at work or away-and we have had to bribe Fred, the driver, to keep him quiet. It has been worth every penny.
Maude gaped at the car, which was gleaming in the sun. I could see that she wanted to say yes but felt she shouldn’t.
“Do come,” I said. “It’s a lovely day-we can ride with the top down.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Clements Inn. But not for long,” I added quickly, knowing that she did not like the WSPU. “Then on to Bond Street. Afterward we could stop at the soda fountain at Fortnum and Mason‘s-we haven’t had an ice cream there in such a long time.”
I don’t know why I was trying so hard. I have never been an attentive mother, but now I feel as if I am fighting for something on Maude’s behalf, and want to include her, even if it means bribing her with an ice cream.
“All right,” she said at last.
I had her and Jenny help bring out the stacks of banners I’d been sewing-or rather, that I’d begun and found I hadn’t the time for, and so paid Jenny and Mrs. Baker extra to sew. I am still far behind the number I’ve promised to make. I am going to have to enlist Maude, though her sewing is worse than mine.
It was thrilling to be driven through London. I have done it many times now, but I still love it. Fred wears goggles when he drives, but I refuse to-I feel I never see anything if I have them on. We had tied our hats down with scarves-mine a purple, green, and white one that reads “Votes for Women” (I offered one to Maude but she refused) -but everything flapped like mad in the wind anyway, and the dust from the street flew into our clothes and hair. It was terribly exciting. The speed was so exhilarating-we zoomed past milk carts, horse-drawn omnibuses, men on bicycles, and raced alongside motorized cabs and other private cars. Pubs, washhouses, tea shops, all passed by in a blur.
Even Maude enjoyed herself, though she did not say much-not that one can talk over the noise of the engine. For the first time in months she seemed to relax, snug in the backseat between me and the banners. As we drove through an avenue of plane trees, their leaves forming a canopy overhead, she leaned her head back and looked up at the sky.
She helped me unload the banners at Clements Inn-Fred never lifts a finger to help, as he disapproves of suffragettes-but would not stay in the office, preferring to wait outside with Fred. I tried to be quick about it, but there were so many comrades to greet, questions to answer, and points to be raised, that by the time I got back to the car Maude and Fred were both sulking.
“Sorry!” I cried gaily. “Never mind, let’s go on. Collingwood’s on Bond Street, if you please, Fred.” This stop wasn’t strictly WSPU business, but it was certainly to do with woman’s suffrage.
Maude looked surprised. “Has Daddy bought you something new?” Collingwood’s was where Richard went for jewelry for me.
I laughed. “In a manner of speaking. You’ll see.”
But when she saw the necklace in the black velvet box which the jeweler proudly presented to me, she didn’t have quite the response I’d expected. She said nothing.
The necklace was made up of emeralds and amethysts and pearls, clustered together to form purple and white flowers with green leaves. The stones came entirely from necklaces I already owned: pearls I had received for my confirmation, amethysts inherited from my mother, and emeralds from a necklace Mrs. Coleman gave me when I got married.
“You’ve done a marvelous job,” I said to the jeweler. “It’s exquisite!” Maude was still staring at the necklace.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked. “It’s the colors, don’t you see? The WSPU colors. Lots of women are having pieces made up in them.”
“I thought-” Maude stopped.
“What is it?”
“Well-was I to inherit the necklaces that it is made from?”
“Gracious, is that what the matter is? So now you’ll inherit this one instead.”
“Daddy will be furious,” Maude said quietly. “And Grandmother. Those were her emeralds.”
“She gave me that necklace to do with what I liked. It’s mine now-it’s not for her to say.”