decided she would go to Paris to see to the Gordston business and her father would take a holiday as soon as she returned. Emily tried to tell herself that it was only a short visit to Paris and Chris was sure to be gone from there. She wasn’t quite sure if the idea was reassuring, or disappointing. Whenever she thought of Paris, she thought of Chris and the kiss they had shared there the last time they were together in the city. The kiss that made her feel so very much it was frightening.
She took her father’s carriage through the city streets, crowded with people making their way to theatres and supper parties, but then sent the coachman away once they arrived at the hall, much to his dutiful chagrin. She promised she would find a ride home from one of the other ladies’ carriages, but she didn’t mention that they would probably go to a coffee house first to talk about suffrage issues. She waited on the pavement until the carriage had rolled out of sight. Then she hoisted the ledgers she kept as the League’s treasurer into her arms and made her way inside.
The League’s headquarters didn’t look like anything remarkable or radical at all from the outside. A plain brick building, narrow and tall, identical to its neighbours, shutters drawn over the windows. There was no sign by the black-painted door, but a small brass bell. Ever since the League’s president, Mrs Hurst, had published a pamphlet titled Is Marriage A Failure?, they had been forced to move a couple of times.
Emily gave the bell three short rings and, after a moment, there was the patter of footsteps, the click of locks and the door swung open. To Emily’s surprise, it was Mrs Hurst herself who stood there.
Short, plump, greying brown hair in a knot atop her head, dressed in a plain shirtwaist and sensible dark blue skirt, no one would take Mrs Hurst for a radical, either. She smiled and reached out to take some of the ledgers. ‘Oh, my dear Miss Fortescue! You are the first to arrive. Do come in. You can help me set up.’
Emily followed her up a narrow flight of stairs and into a small room with a low platform set at one end, faced by rows of chairs. Mrs Hurst handed her a stack of papers to place on each chair, with an article of issues to cover at the meeting: going over the financials, groups sent to seek volunteers in other cities, a roster of speakers at other meetings.
‘I’m sure you have all the figures to present during the budget talks,’ Mrs Hurst said, bustling around setting up more chairs.
‘Oh, yes, of course. We’ve come out rather ahead last month, I’m glad to say.’
‘All because of your hard work, Miss Fortescue! You are quite the most efficient treasurer we have ever had. If you were Minister of the Exchequer, I am sure every problem of the Empire would be quite solved!’
‘I’m afraid I’m not such a whiz as all that,’ Emily said with a sigh. The accounts had never been the most interesting part of business to her, but they were none the less essential. She made her way down the rows, leaving the agendas at each place. ‘I’m not sure we have such a rosy picture for the rest of the quarter, though, unless we can hit on an idea for another fundraiser.’
‘It never is especially rosy,’ Mrs Hurst said, laughing. ‘But I might have a plan to change that, if you’re willing to help.’
‘Of course I am,’ Emily answered, intrigued.
‘I was at the Pankhursts’ At Home in Russell Square last week. Have you been there?’
‘No, but I should dearly like to meet them,’ Emily said. She had heard of Richard Pankhurst, a Liberal M.P., and his wife, who were interested in many causes such as suffrage, and the fascinating people they attracted to their drawing room for evenings of music, refreshments and radical conversation.
‘Oh, you simply must! Richard and Emmeline are the most astonishing people, so open-minded and full of ideas, and simply everyone goes there. I saw Grant Allen last week and that Italian anarchist, Malatesta. Mrs Stanton-Blatch is visiting from America next month. Well, I also met a woman called Madame Renard, who runs an organisation much like our own in Paris. They have faced problems similar to ours, I fear—having the funds to do our work, attracting women of every social station. But she has a few intriguing ideas for raising funds.’
‘What sort of ideas?’
‘It’s a gentleman from Germany she knows, an Herr Friedland. Much associated with the court of Emperor Frederick and his wife, our own Princess Royal still affectionately known as Crown Princess Vicky, of course. The royal couple were very interested in new ideas, in following the English liberalism of the Empress Dowager’s father, much unlike the rest of the German royals, and the Empress Dowager still is interested. Herr Friedland says he can act as liaison with her to set up a sort of roundabout fund for organisations like ours. The Empress Dowager wants to show her support to do so publicly.’
‘Really?’ Emily was intrigued, but rather dubious. The support of people like the Princess Royal would be very valuable indeed, even if it had to be discreet, but how could this man be trusted? So many men would do anything at all to make sure women never had the vote, never had any power. And she knew Germany was a very different place from England. ‘How can we verify his credentials, if it all must be so quiet?’
‘Well, that is where you can come in, my dear Miss Fortescue,’ Mrs Hurst said, practically clapping her hands with enthusiasm. ‘Madame Renard is to meet with Herr Friedland in Paris and has invited us to send someone to take part, to learn how we can all benefit. I cannot go, but I know the matter can be in no more capable hands than yours.’
‘Paris?’ Emily said, astonished. A visit to the city coming up twice in one day—it must be a sign she was meant to be there. ‘I am meant to go there soon anyway, on business for my father, but I don’t know...’
‘Excellent! Then it is meant to be, I’m sure,’ Mrs Hurst cried happily. ‘With enough financing, we can spread our operations to every corner of England at last and ensure freedom to every woman. I will have Madame Renard send you the particulars.’
Before she could ask any more questions, though, the bell rang again and Mrs Hurst dashed down the stairs to let in the others. Emily heard the burst of laughter as the women clattered up the steps and she knew she couldn’t focus now on anything but the important business at hand.
The streets were quieter than Emily expected when she left her friends at the meeting, and she couldn’t glimpse any hansoms. She glanced at the watch pinned to her tweed lapel and realised it was later than she usually was. But the city was not completely deserted. She still saw a few carriages leaving late, post-theatre suppers, some lingering diners in cafés. So she decided to walk for a time until a hansom came by, a few minutes to clear her head.
After a League meeting, she always felt filled with energy, fizzing away so she could hardly rest. The rightness of what they were working for filled her with such a sense of purpose, of being right where she should be, that it felt as if she was floating in another world entirely from the real one of parties and appointments.
It was just like that when she was absorbed in her work. Or like those moments hidden in the thick green maze with Chris, his lips on hers, all else vanished...
‘No!’ she muttered aloud, stabbing at the pavement with the tip of her umbrella. She wouldn’t think about Christopher Blakely now, not tonight. It was only the idea of being in Paris again that brought him back to her so vividly. Paris had been a magical place and time, so beautiful
