Two days had passed when Lawrence wandered towards the Abbey, swiping at his lapels and straightening his hat, agitated and grumpy. After being trapped in meeting after meeting at his hotel, the sun’s bright warmth was welcome against his face.
The newspaper beneath his arm was full of stories covering the life of the soon-to-be crowned King George V. From his service in the Royal Navy, to his seemingly close, united relationship with his wife, to his parenting of their six children, and all manner of other patriotic pomp and ceremony. Across Bath, people were decorating the outside of their homes with paraphernalia, lamps and bunting being added to Victoria Park’s trees and railings.
Lawrence’s shoulders relaxed as a trio of children dressed in clothes held together by sewn patches and twine about their waists raced past him, their grubby fingers clasping Union Jack flags and coloured ribbons. Lord only knew where they’d found them, but it warmed his heart to see that even the children and parents with next to nothing were joining in with the building excitement for the event.
People jostled and nudged him as he strode past the Pump Rooms and came into the courtyard at the side of the Abbey. The noises, shouts and jeers of the crowd rose as he walked across the cobbled stones and deeper into the fray.
He strained his neck to see over the heads and shoulders of the men and women in front of him. An array of black and white placards glinted in the sun, the women holding them wearing expressions of dogged determination.
Votes for Women! Support Women’s Suffrage! United We Stand!
The non-aggressive, unified undertone of the demonstration confirmed this group to be suffragists and Lawrence pushed forwards, elbowing his way through the throng towards the front in the hope that he might, by chance, happen upon Esther. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the women standing on boxes and those around them handing out pamphlets and papers.
Today was Wednesday and Esther’s day off. Even though they were scheduled to meet that afternoon at The Phoenix, Lawrence would enjoy seeing her campaigning without her knowing. She intrigued and fascinated him beyond measure. To see her working would be wonderful.
‘Votes for women!’ they cried, the assembled crowd either cheering or scoffing the women’s appeals.
He could not see Esther amongst them and, although disappointed, he wouldn’t waste the chance to learn more about her work and passion.
The women pointedly jutted their chins, ignoring the negative slews tossed like discarded crumbs at their feet, standing tall and proud, their dress both respectable and flattering. These weren’t females looking for favours or pity, only for the chance to be heard and recruit support, and he could not wait to discuss his idea of a fundraising luncheon and auction with Esther later. He’d run the idea past William Moorebrook yesterday and his manager had visibly paled, instantly citing at least five reasons why supporting the suffragists or the suffragettes could have an adverse effect on the hotel. Each reason had been about prosperity, snobbery and elitism. None of which had swayed Lawrence in his decision to help Esther and her associates in any way he could. He was decided and being here now only reconfirmed his conviction. These women were fighting for what was right, not only for themselves, but for girls like Rose, too...
A man – clearly the worse for drink – lurched towards the women and Lawrence braced to step in. But, far from being deterred, one of the women came forward and gripped his collar. None too gently, she frogmarched the drunkard to the side of the open space, much to the amusement and cheers of the onlookers.
Lawrence smiled. The suffragists might be non-militant but, clearly, they were far from placid in their endeavours.
Strong. Determined. Passionate.
All things he associated with Esther and what he wished to witness in Rose as she grew older.
Despite the heckling, the women stood united, not caring nor wasting their energy on the pressure and ignorance around them. Forging forward with what they wanted, regardless of the supposed rules and regulations of a good proportion of the nation. They were an example to everyone, including him.
Lawrence turned and slowly shouldered his way back through the crowd. He’d lacked fortitude and determination in his formative years. Maybe even, at times, during his enforced marriage to Abigail. He hadn’t resisted, but fallen into the marriage pre-ordained by his parents and Abigail’s – Abigail, herself, pleading with him to keep the betrothal that was arranged before either of them had reached adolescence. Not that their union was any fault of Abigail’s. The blame lay heavy on his shoulders, caused by his inability to stand up to his parents.
These women campaigners, some younger than Lawrence, showed no such weakness.
He’d been vacillating, whereas he should’ve been strong.
He’d been afraid, whereas he should’ve been courageous.
Esther had shifted his mindset. Shifted his heart. Her beauty was astounding, but it was her spirit he was falling in love with.
He stopped.
Could love really grip a person that quickly, that suddenly, and be so wholly affecting? Surely, such an instinctive comprehension of a person was impossible? Just because he was physically attracted to her, just because her kiss still lingered in his memory, that did not equate to lasting love.
Lawrence swiped his hand over his face, gripped his folded newspaper and marched through the crowds with more fervour.
A familiar figure ahead snagged his attention.
Charles, Lawrence’s butler and friend, stood in front of a pie seller’s wagon.
Tipping his hat to the vendor, Charles carried his purchase to a nearby bench. Opening his wrapped package, he quickly sank his teeth into the pie, its steam billowing from the crust.
Lawrence’s mouth watered as he walked closer, the smell of grease mixing with a delicate perfume as people of every age and class hurried through the centre on market day. He passed a couple of stalls, one selling handkerchiefs and colourful scarves, the other sporting an array of nails, screws, hammers and saws.
Charles seemed happy to sit amid the chaos and Lawrence was happy to join him. He approached the pie seller. ‘One of your finest pies, please, sir.’
The vendor pushed up his half-rim glasses, his salt-and-pepper hair pointing in a hundred different directions like a haphazard haystack. ‘Coming right up, sir.’ He took a pie and wrapped it in paper, twirling the ends with a flourish. ‘That will be one fine penny, young man.’
Lawrence handed over the money, adding an extra penny for the man’s compliment. ‘Thank you gladly, sir.’
‘Much obliged to you.’
Lawrence touched the brim of his hat and walked to the bench. ‘Enjoying the day’s sunshine, Charles?’
His butler started before his face broke into a sheepish smile. ‘I thought I’d stretch my legs through lunch rather than taking food in the kitchen. Mrs Jackson is on the warpath because yesterday’s delivery was short, and neither myself nor Helen checked it. Even though I don’t necessarily deem the kitchen our responsibility.’
Lawrence bit into his pie, savouring its rich meat and flavoursome juices. ‘Well, these are such fine pies, I’m sure we’ll cope with lessened rations tonight.’
They ate in silence for a few moments, each watching the people as they passed by. Lawrence’s eye was drawn to every black and white Pennington’s box or bag that came into view as he wondered what Esther was doing for lunch on such a sunny afternoon. When futile imaginings of a picnic in Victoria Park, the sun glinting on her golden hair and her eyes soft on his came into his mind, he forced his thoughts to the demonstration he’d seen by the Abbey.
It was right and just that he publicly declared his support for the Cause if he wanted Rose to grow up knowing she could achieve anything she desired. It no longer felt enough to host the occasional fundraiser or be a member of the Men’s League. He wanted to be seen by the people, rally support and appeal to members of Parliament alongside the women campaigners. As much as these women toiled for a breakthrough, there remained an inherent possibility it would only be a man’s voice that would be heard by the government. Until that changed, Lawrence refused to stand by and not do anything.
‘Did you see the demonstration by the Abbey, Charles?’ Lawrence lowered his pie. ‘I really feel the Men’s League should be doing something similar. Show our support more publicly than we are now.’
‘I agree. I spent several minutes watching the women earlier and the disapproving looks on some on the spectators’ faces – male and female – was downright ridiculous. What is so threatening about women casting a ballot?’
‘Exactly.’
Lawrence watched a flower girl standing at a stall a small distance away, her hair somewhat matted to her small head and her cheeks streaked with grime as she held out a bunch of lavender to a woman dressed almost as grandly as Britain’s new Queen Mary. Unfortunately, this grand lady lifted her nose to the air as though smelling something distasteful and walked on by, proving herself nothing like the Queen at all.
He smiled when the flower seller poked out her tongue behind the woman’s back.
‘Just because a person is born one sex over another, does that mean they shouldn’t have a voice? I think not.’ He took another bite of his pie, his mood sombre.
‘Have you discussed your support with Miss Stanbury? She struck me as the type of woman who’d be involved.’
Surprised that Charles should mention Esther, Lawrence nodded at the realisation his staff had undoubtedly been discussing Esther. After all, she was the first woman since Abigail to play so openly with his children. He suspected the speculation amongst his staff was rife… which he could hardly be annoyed about as his own speculation about Esther was so very frequent and distracting.
He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Stanbury is deeply involved with the Cause. So involved, in fact, I worry she’ll come to feel she has no alternative than to join the suffragettes and volunteer herself to more militant action.’
Charles lifted his eyebrows. ‘Surely not.’
‘Her passion is palpable, Charles, even if it is under control at the moment. She has a want for free speech that I’m convinced is born from being unable to speak in other areas of her life. She has a fire in her eyes that’s as intriguing as it is sometimes concerning.’ Lawrence’s mind wandered to the evening he’d seen Esther speaking with her stepmother. He would do anything not to see such anger in Esther’s eyes again.
His butler shook his head. ‘Something has to change. This is nineteen-eleven, not seventeen-eleven.’
Lawrence put the final crust edge of his pie into his mouth, his mind wandering to more personal concerns. ‘Do you think the children are saddened that they no longer have a mother? I suspect they think about Abigail more than I’ve realised.’
‘What’s brought this on, if I might ask?’
Lawrence blew a heavy breath. ‘My concern for them deepens each year they grow older. We managed when Abigail passed. Helen effortlessly coped with Nathanial as a baby and Rose was always so good and happy in your company as well as mine.’
‘But?’
‘They’re growing up, Charles. Rose doesn’t seem as happy any more. I took her to Pennington’s to listen to a lady speak about her bakery business. Rose was in awe of her success, but she was also saddened that the woman was a widow. It made me wonder what she thinks of me being alone, of her and Nathanial not having a mother figure. My mother doesn’t take any interest in them and, as much as Helen and Cornelia love them, the children are not their responsibility.’
Charles’ eyes widened. ‘So, you’re saying you want to marry again?’
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘Well, well.’
Lawrence stilled. Was he being foolish sharing so much with Charles? ‘You think it a bad idea?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then what?’
Charles lifted his shoulders. ‘Just ensure you love this woman with all your heart and be certain she loves you and the children with all of hers. Anything less and Rose and Nathanial might never recover.’
The vehemence in Charles’ words showed his deep love of Lawrence’s children and a humbleness whispered through him. He never would have managed the happiness Rose and Nathanial enjoy without Charles’, Helen’s and even the stalwart Mrs Jackson’s care for them, too.
Charles cleared his throat. ‘Miss Stanbury seemed awfully taken with them when she dropped by the other night. It is her you’re thinking of, isn’t it?’
Ignoring the question, Lawrence inhaled. ‘She’s not the type to stay at home mothering children. I imagine she’d be even less keen to mother another woman’s children.’
‘Do you know that for certain?’
‘No, but—’
‘Then you shouldn’t make such a huge presumption. Why not ask her?’
Lawrence stared. ‘To marry me?’
Charles laughed. ‘No. How she feels about motherhood.’
‘Oh. I see. Of course.’ Looking across the market, Lawrence exhaled. ‘She’s a special lady, Charles, but unlikely to ever be my special lady.’
‘And you’re giving up on her just like that?’
‘What choice do I have? I must respect her wishes. If I was to continue to pursue her romantically, I fear she’d wrap me up in a sack and toss me in the River Avon. She’s not the type to suffer fools. Believe me.’
‘But you will be seeing her again?’
‘Yes, later today. I plan to help her suffrage society by hosting something at the hotel in aid of the Cause and she appears interested. We’ll be discussing it anon.’
‘Good, because from where I’m sitting, that young lady is going places. If you wish to court her, it might help to show her how much her work means to you. If you succeed in convincing her of your sincerity, she just might be yours, come the end.’
Lawrence screwed the paper pie bag into a ball as he considered Charles’ words. He was right. He needed to prove to Esther he respected her. Liked her. The falling in love part could be ignored. For now.