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He raised a winged eyebrow.
‘Try me,’ he said grimly. ‘How did you get up there?’
‘That pillar.’ Violet pointed at one of the Roman-style pillars on either side of the front door and the portico where she’d balanced on top. ‘Then I climbed the drainpipe.’
A rather dirty drainpipe, she realised, by the state of her frock. The blue-striped taffeta was streaked with rust and dirt. Somehow she’d have to hide it.
His eyes followed the route of her climb. His hold on her arm tightened. ‘Promise me. No more balconies. It’s dangerous—surely you can see that.’
Violet shivered in the night air. She’d removed her cloak in order to climb more easily. Truth be told, the climb had been more difficult than she’d anticipated, teetering on the ledge, and her legs still trembled from her fall. If he hadn’t caught her...
‘Promise me,’ he demanded again.
‘How do you know I’m the kind of person who keeps her promises?’
He stared into her eyes. ‘You keep your promises.’
She found herself unable to break his gaze. ‘All right!’
Abruptly he stepped back. Beneath his coat his broad shoulders relaxed. ‘Then I’ll let you go without calling the constable. At least you won’t go climbing any more balconies, even if I suspect it won’t stop you tying more banners.’
Freed from his grip, Violet turned and ran.
‘Don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder as she dashed away. ‘You can be sure of that.’
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared after the hourglass figure disappearing around the corner. Her fleeting footsteps clicked on the pavement as she vanished into the night.
He rubbed his eyes. What an extraordinary vision, witnessing the young woman stretched across the balcony, arms and legs spread like a spider. Her dress had hitched up as she inched across, clinging to the stone balustrade, using the columns as footholds, her banner clutched in one gloved hand. He had to commend her daring, even if it was sheer idiocy.
Then she had fallen into his arms. The feel of her as she landed right in them. Instinctively he’d leapt forward as she tumbled to where he guessed she’d land and caught her like a fish in a net.
He wouldn’t forget how she’d felt in his arms.
He scratched his head. Her brown hair was glossy, her eyes bright blue. When she’d realised that she had the wrong address a smile had curved her full cheeks, filling her eyes with laughter. Not beautiful, but pretty.
And soft. That’s what he’d felt, when he caught her. Frills and lace and, beneath it, soft, warm flesh. But her spirit—no softness there. She radiated strength and a cast-iron determination.
He had to admire that kind of female determination. His younger sister, Jane, had strength of character, too, although it was still developing. So did his elder sister, Arabella, but since their father had died the family relied on Adam for everything. Every decision, every penny.
Adam set his jaw. He didn’t resent the responsibility, but he had to make some hard decisions now. Damned difficult, sometimes, being head of the family.
‘There’s no need to swear!’ an irate voice echoed in his head. He frowned. She had an unusual accent. Northern, he guessed, beneath the carefully enunciated vowels. She wasn’t, as some of the more unpleasantly snobbish acquaintances of his mother would have put it, ‘one of us.’
His frown deepened as he stared at the shabby front door of their London home. Being ‘one of us’ took a lot of upkeep. The black paint was peeling on the wrought iron and the black front door needed a lick of paint, too. The marble steps leading up to the threshold were dull and dirty. The servants travelled back and forth with them, to and from Beauley Manor. He couldn’t afford to keep staff in both homes. The London mansion needed much more than a good clean, never mind what a country estate like Beauley Manor needed. Then he had to add what his mother and Arabella and Jane needed, too. They would be back in London to attend a ball tomorrow night. Neither of them had asked for new ball gowns that could cost a fortune.
A fortune he didn’t have.
From the corner of his eye he noticed something fluttering from the plane tree near the streetlight at the corner.
He strode over and pulled it down from the branch. It tore as it came free.
In his hand the banner unfurled. Purple, green and white. Under the streetlight he examined it more closely. It was made of silk, not cotton or sensible broadcloth. The tricolours were sewn together lengthways in somewhat imperfect stitches. In the corner of the white section was embroidered a tiny purple violet.
Scrunching up the silken banner in his fist, he shoved it inside his coat.
The sight of her, inching across the balcony, her suffragette banner aloft in her hand...
For the first time in months Adam laughed aloud.
* * *
Violet sighed over her embroidery as she unpicked a crooked seam. She’d been distracted ever since she fell off the balcony into the dark-haired stranger’s arms the night before. He had held her only for a moment or two, yet she had felt so comfortable, so secure in that strong grip, though a tremor of danger had run through her veins. It had been the most peculiar sensation. Still, it was unlikely she would ever see him again. Her heart gave a strange squeeze of regret.
She poked her needle, threaded with purple, into the white silk and put it aside into the sewing pouch on its polished rosewood stand. She needed to make another banner quickly. The only advantage of being able to sew was that she used her skill to make her suffrage banners, not that her mother knew that to be the reason, of course. She’d wondered recently, though, what had happened to all the purple silk.
‘I’ve been wondering if we should change your name.’
In astonishment Violet turned to her mother, who lay on the velvet chaise longue reading an illustrated fashion paper. ‘What on earth do you mean, Mama? Change my name? What’s wrong with Violet Regina?’
‘Just the spelling,’ her mother said hastily. ‘We could make it French-sounding. Violette.’ She added a trill to the final syllable. ‘French is quite the fashion.’
Firmly Violet shook her head. ‘No, Mama. No. We are who we are. I love my name.’
‘You’re named after a chocolate,’ her mother protested.
‘And a pretty little flower,’ said her father, coming into the drawing room and knocking over the porcelain shepherdess by the door, as he always did. The vast space was absolutely crammed with china ornaments. They, too, were the latest fashion, her mother insisted, whenever Violet suggested removing one or two.
‘What’s all this about, then?’ her father asked, replacing the shepherdess on the stand and giving it a cautious pat.
‘Oh, Papa.’ Violet leapt up, ran across the room and hugged him tight. It was becoming harder to wrap her arms around his waistcoat, she thought with a smile. He’d always been shaped like a barrel, but now he was like a barrel about to burst. ‘I thought you went up to Manchester, to the factory.’
Her father squeezed back. ‘I put off the trip north until next week. Your mama has persuaded me to stay in London and come to this dance tomorrow night.’
‘Ball,’ her mother put in from the chaise longue.
Her father winked at her mother. ‘Aye, we’ll have a ball, my beautiful Adeline.’
‘Reginald.’ Her mother pursed her lips, but her cheeks flushed pink.
‘So, do you have the most beautiful gowns money can buy?’ Her father beamed. ‘I want my girls to look fine.’
The final touches had been put on her own gown that morning at the dressmaker’s in Bond Street. Even such a gown didn’t alleviate the sinking in Violet’s stomach. If only her parents weren’t so eager. Still, she’d have to make the best of it.
‘My dress is beautiful,’ she replied. ‘White lace with a violet sash.’
‘The best Belgian lace,’ her mother added.
‘The best.’ Her father rubbed his hands together delightedly. ‘That’s right. Nothing else for the Coombes. The best.’
Violet picked up her needle and smiled at him. Not for all the lace in Belgium would she have told her father just how much she dreaded the ball.
Only the thought of what she planned to do there spurred her on.
Chapter Two (#u2ce09cc2-0bff-521c-906d-28e8de2db263)
‘To alien ears, I did not speak to these’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘What’s wrong with these fellows, not asking my daughter to dance? Can’t they see the prettiest girl in the room?’
Across the small table Violet squeezed her father’s hand. Through her white kid gloves his hand was damp and hot.
From his evening coat he pulled a spotted handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘Upon my soul, it’s stifling in here. Perhaps it’s a good thing not to be dancing, Violet, out in that crush.’
Violet stared into the ballroom. Across the polished floor couples swirled, the men in black and white, the women in a rainbow of silks, taffetas, satins and lace. On a raised platform at the other end of the room the orchestra played a waltz by Strauss, one Violet had practised during her dancing lessons. Music and chatter filled the air, along with the tinkle of laughter and champagne glasses.
The three of them sat alone on fragile gilt chairs in a small curtained alcove off the dance floor. The red-velvet curtains were open wide, unlike some of the other alcoves, inviting visitors to their table. So far, no one had approached. Her dance card, lying on the linen tablecloth, remained empty.
Her mother blinked rapidly. ‘I thought Violet would have plenty of partners. It was so fortunate for us to receive an invitation.’
‘It’s quite all right, Mama,’ Violet said stoutly. ‘I don’t care to dance. Not tonight, in any case.’
She stilled her foot beneath the skirt of her voluminous ball gown. In truth, she loved to dance and her slippers had been waltzing under her petticoats ever since she arrived.
Her cheeks were warm. She sipped some champagne. It was the heat of the ballroom, she told herself. She refused to be humiliated by their obvious lack of welcome at the ball.
Biting her lip, she glanced down at her gown with a frown. Perhaps it suited her ill. It had more frills and furbelows than she would have liked—her mama had insisted on them—but they’d been to the best dressmaker in London, so it was perfectly cut. The sleeves were short, leaving her forearms bare to her gloves, the bodice dipped down to reveal the skin of her décolletage, but not in a vulgar way, her train draped beautifully and the violet sash emphasised the tininess of her waist. Her brown hair had been dressed by her mother’s new French maid in a flattering style, swept up at the back into a high chignon.
In the glass above the mantel in the drawing room she’d seen her reflection before they left for the ball, her eyes cornflower bright and her cheeks rosy with unexpected excitement. Her chin, the same strong chin as her papa’s, a feature that meant that she would never be considered a classical beauty, was slightly pink, too.
‘You’re a belle, Violet, just like your mama,’ her father said proudly when she spun a pirouette, narrowly avoiding a porcelain trinket box crashing to the floor. Her first ball. Surely every girl longed to attend a ball. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as dreadful as she expected.
It was, possibly, worse. Her trepidation about the ball had been justified. No one spoke to them. They weren’t being cut, exactly, for they hadn’t been formally introduced into society. But they were certainly not welcomed with open arms, or even an extended hand. One of the young ladies who had chatted with her at their horse-riding lessons in Hyde Park behaved as though Violet was invisible when she gave her a small wave across the room.
She didn’t mind for herself, she told herself firmly. But she did mind for her father, with his high hopes, who’d beamed as they climbed into their new carriage drawn by four horses, and for her mother, too.
Upon their arrival, where she’d taken the opportunity to scan the entry hall, she’d stood near some disapproving Dowagers and overheard a snide, whispered conversation.
‘The Coombes have come to London for the Season to try for a match for the daughter,’ one of the Dowagers whispered. ‘They don’t seem to be having much luck.’
‘Even with all those chocolates,’ the other woman had tittered.
‘My dear, no wonder. Have you spied the mother? Covered in feathers and weighed down with so many diamonds she rivals the chandeliers.’
Violet had turned hot with indignation. Why shouldn’t her mama wear as many diamonds as she wanted to? They were newly cut gems, not the old, rose-cut kind that glinted in the dull unpolished settings slung around most of the other ladies’ necks, but her mama loved her diamonds and her papa had been so pleased to be able to give them to her. Her parents had faced some hard times in the early days, before the chocolate business became a success.
Now, her mother picked up her huge ostrich fan. It was too big, by the unkind Dowagers’ standards, but who were they to judge her beloved mama?
‘What should we do?’ her mama whispered from behind the feathers. ‘Should we go home?’
‘Certainly not!’ Violet and her father spoke at the same time.
‘Let’s sit it out,’ her father said.
Her mother’s lip quivered.
‘I’ll take you for a turn on the floor, Adeline, cheer you up.’ He glanced at Violet.
‘We can’t leave Violet sitting alone,’ her mother protested.
Violet picked up her own fan, white lace trimmed with ribbon to match her sash. She’d stopped her mama from having peacock feathers added to it and she wore a simple pearl necklace like the other young women in white who appeared to be about her age, even if the pearls were perfectly matched and clasped with a first-rate diamond. ‘I don’t mind a jot, Mama. I don’t care if I’m a wallflower.’
‘Violets may grow in the shade, but they’re never wallflowers.’ Her father patted her shoulder as he stood and made an elaborate bow to his wife.
They made their way to the dance floor. The orchestra struck up another waltz. Her father took her mother in his arms.
The sensation of being held in the arms of the man who had caught her when she fell from the balcony came back to her. She’d relived it more than once, that sense of safety and danger, too, with his lips so close to hers. He’d even appeared in her dreams the night before, shouting something at her from the garden below as she leaned out of the first-floor window of a big house she didn’t recognise.
She wondered what it would be like to dance with a man, held like that. She wasn’t likely to find out. Tonight, she wasn’t even going to dance.
Never mind. She jerked up her chin.
She’d made her secret decision long ago, when she first became a suffragette. Of course, she hadn’t confided in her parents, any more than she’d told them about her suffragette activities. They wouldn’t understand. But she would stick to her decision. She would put aside those hopes and dreams, her own desires, for the greater good. For the Cause.
Violet could so clearly recall the moment the Cause had seized her, body and soul. She had read about the suffragettes in The Times newspaper, which she much preferred to the fashion papers. A thrill of excitement had run through her as she learned about the women fighting to be allowed to vote, led by Emmeline Pankhurst. Like Violet, Mrs Pankhurst came from Manchester, in the north of England. ‘Deeds, not words,’ she urged her followers.
‘Deeds, not words’, Violet repeated to herself. In her own way, she’d vowed, she would make a difference, add her daring deeds to the Cause. She might not be able to join suffragette rallies, or go to meetings, or march in the streets, as she longed to. Her parents would never allow it. But she kept sewing her banners. No one would stop her.
‘You keep your promises.’ A deep voice came back to her. The man on the street had sensed she was someone who would keep true to her word and her deeds. She had sensed the same in him, too.
Her parents twirled past. Her father was surprisingly light on his feet and her mother was smiling now, to Violet’s relief. She did so want her parents’ happiness.
Sometimes she wished they had stayed in Manchester. They were happier there in their large house a few miles outside the town. But her mama wanted Violet to have everything and so did her papa, and that meant moving to London for the Season. They believed there were more opportunities.
Dancing lessons. Elocution lessons. French lessons. Riding lessons. Music lessons. To please her parents she took them all and it left precious little time to herself. So she sewed her banners and carried out her plans at night.
Deeds, not words.
On the way into the ballroom, she’d spotted another excellent target. Two targets, to be precise.
Violet rubbed her thighs together and heard the rustle of silk.
* * *
Adam Beaufort stared across the ballroom.
