Thursday, November 29, 1888
Simon had only been in jail for a few days, but his high cheekbones seemed slightly more prominent, his face somewhat more sunken in, as I ushered him into the hansom cab. As he looked to the left and right of him before getting in, I noticed yet another yellowed bruise. His hair seemed flatter and limper than usual, but at least most of his injuries were healing by then.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “I would not worry about being spotted by someone we know if that is what you are concerned about.”
He gave me a look and climbed up to sit beside me. I clutched his hand, bringing it to my lips. He put his head back on the seat and released a long breath as we rumbled away from the prison.
“You can have a hot bath when we get home,” I said, using my best everything-is-fine voice. I forced myself not to shudder as I realized my own mother has the same voice. “Cook is preparing a goose for supper and we shall have a few drinks to celebrate your release.”
Simon smiled, his eyelids appearing heavy. “Thank you. That sounds lovely.”
I put my arm around his shoulder and he soon fell asleep with his head against my meager bosom, the various shades of London gray passing by our windows.
Once back at home, Matilda opened the door for us, giving a little gasp at the sight of Simon’s injuries.
“You have a visitor waiting for you in the parlor,” she said quietly while taking our coats, a tone of warning in her voice. “I told him it would be better if he came back later but he insisted on staying.”
Simon and I exchanged glances and I poked my head around the corner first. I swallowed and pasted a pleasant smile to my lips. Sitting in one of the easy chairs, his legs crossed, the newest issue of the Women’s Suffrage Journal open in front of him, was Jospeh Baxter, my father-in-law, an empty teacup on the table beside him. I wondered how long he had been sitting there. I also wondered what other reading material he may have discovered in our collection.
“Joseph,” I said. “We did not realize you were back in London.” I folded my hands in front of me, swiftly moving into prim-and-proper mode. “Would you like some more tea?”
“No, thank you, Amelia.” He folded up the periodical and set it aside. “Is my son with you?”
For a second, I considered telling Simon to make a run for it, rather than force him to face his father when he was looking less than his best. However, I would never hear the end of it from my parents so I did not dare.
“Yes,” I croaked. “Simon, your father is here.”
Simon moved into the doorway of the parlor and gave a quick nod. “Good afternoon.”
Joseph rose to his feet. Although Simon was tall, his father was still about an inch taller and certainly broader about the chest, particularly for a man in his fifties. Except for their similar heights, there were no two men more dissimilar in all of the United Kingdom. Simon was friendly to everyone while Joseph was cold and seething. Simon was stylish while Joseph paid no attention to what he wore or how he looked.
Simon took time to show affection to those he cared for while Joseph left his pregnant wife alone in England with complete strangers. At least he had come back for the birth.
Joseph slowly advanced towards us, inspecting the remnants of his son’s wounds. “You look abhorrent.”
“You should see the other fellow,” Simon quipped.
Joseph did not respond, not in the slightest. He looked at the various scuffs on Simon’s garments, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“You smell like a gutter,” he finally added.
He knows.
I did not know how he knew about the arrests, and I did not know how I knew he knew, but he knew.
“Do I?” Simon glanced at me. “I think it might be my new coat. I got it from a fishmonger. Nice chap but a terrible gambler—”
The back of Joseph’s hand hit Simon’s face with a loud crack. I let out a shriek and slapped my hand over my open mouth as Simon whirled on impact, stumbling backwards until his back hit the wall behind him with a thump and he slid to the floor.
Simon glared up at his father, his cheek bright red, his eyes watering from the sting.
“Nice to see you too, Papa,” Simon mused from the floor. “How I do miss our talks while you are away.”
I helped him to his feet, throwing Joseph a scowl over my shoulder. “You should leave, sir.”
Joseph ignored me. Instead, he just stood there glowering.
This was not the first time Joseph had struck Simon. The first time was when we were eight years old and Simon had taken one of my dolls home with him. Joseph had seen Simon playing with it and he figured roughing Simon up would make him want to play with toy soldiers and the like instead of dolls. When Simon knew his father was getting suspicious about his son’s attraction to men and my mother was getting suspicious about my lack of attraction to, well, anyone, Simon and I decided we could get married to throw our parents off the scent.
As they say, the rest is history.
“Amelia is right,” Simon added, rubbing the edge of his jaw. “Perhaps you should leave.”
“Who do you think paid for this house? It certainly was not you,” Joseph said, his face relaxing. “You have never worked a day in your life. You were always too busy being a dandy.” He paused, his lip curling into a snarl. “And a god damn deviant.”
Simon dabbed at the edge of his nose as a thin trail of blood had appeared. “Blast. Not again.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Oh, I heard you,” Simon snapped. “You do not know what you are talking about—”
Joseph cut him off. “I know about the molly house arrests, you damn fool. Who do you think paid to keep your name out of the papers?”
Simon tipped his head back and put a handkerchief to his nose. “That was appreciated but not necessary. It is all a misunderstanding. I was simply having drinks with a few of my friends.” His voice was calmer than expected.
Shaking his head, Joseph finally looked at me. “Your father would like you to petition for divorce, given the circumstances. We have discussed the matter. It should not affect the partnership between our two families if you part ways.” His face was completely calm as he spoke. “Perhaps you could marry Simon’s brother instead.”
“I am not divorcing my husband,” I said, loudly and slowly so Joseph could fully comprehend my words.
Also, I would never in a million years marry Simon’s brother. The man has the personality of lukewarm porridge.
“You may want to reconsider,” Joseph said. “Simon will not be receiving financial support from now on. Your father will cut you off as well if you do not petition for divorce.”
I blinked at Joseph. “He told you that?”
“Indeed. He would like to see you settled with a man who will actually give him grandchildren. He heard about your little opinion piece about the arrests in the newspaper and he is very disappointed.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I am so glad my father has my best interests at heart.”
Joseph checked his pocket watch. “I am late for a meeting.” He did not even say goodbye, he just left, the door crashing shut behind him.
Simon, his nosebleed having stopped, looked down at me. “What opinion piece about the arrests?”
I shook my head. “Not important.”
I chose a really unfortunate time to get fired from my job.
That evening, Esther and I took our usual seats as we waited for the rest of the L.A.E.W. members to arrive and the meeting to start. I leaned over to her, shielding my words with the back of my hand.
“I suppose Mr. Granville is not terribly pleased with either of us at the moment.”
“He will get over it.” She smiled weakly, her eyes lowering slightly. “Eventually."
Since I was not flush with funds the last time I saw her, Esther had kindly agreed to cover the cost of publishing my periodical with the promise that I would pay her back in full at a later date. Of course, that was before the Baxters and the Spencers had both decided to disown Simon and I, cutting off their support. Without any income at all, I was not even sure how we would afford to live, let alone pay for a pamphlet that had already been distributed within thousands of copies of The Gazette Weekly.
It was a conversation I was certainly not looking forward to. Although it weighed heavily on my mind, the whispers that grew louder around us were a considerable distraction.
Mrs. Carrigan smiled sweetly when she saw Esther and I. “Good afternoon, ladies. Would you be so kind as to assist me with some of the refreshments?”
“Of course,” Esther said, quickly sending me a subtle look as we rose from our chairs.
We followed Mrs. Carrigan down the hall and into a study. No refreshments in sight. Not even a single wretched cucumber sandwich.
“Several club members have spoken to me, raising their concerns that recent actions from the two of you in relation to a pamphlet you wrote and you published.” She nodded to me and Esther. “I agree with their concerns. Your unseemly, radical opinions could give the League a disreputable appearance.”
“Unseemly and radical?” I repeated. “What exactly is unseemly and radical about what I wrote?”
“Mrs. Baxter, please do not make this more uncomfortable than—”
I took a step towards Mrs. Carrigan. “No, no, I want to know—”
Esther raised a hand to interject. “What are you proposing we do about these concerns?”
Mrs. Carrigan seemed reluctant to just come out with it. “I must ask the both of you to resign.”
“I see.” Esther’s lips tightened and the edges of her nostrils flared ever so slightly. “How many women came to you with these concerns?”
Mrs. Carrigan frowned and leaned closer to Esther. “You must know I would not ask you to resign if it were only a few of our more conservative members.”
I wanted to march back into that room and scream at them for their cowardice, backwards ways, and hateful spirits. These women wanted to be understood and taken seriously, but when it came to another group of disadvantaged people, well, that was going too far.
Hypocrites and cowards. All of them.
“Perhaps we will just leave now and you can tell the group we have resigned. That will be fine.” There was a slight crack to Esther’s voice as she spoke.
“Of course,” Mrs. Carrigan said. “Thank you for understanding.”
Oh, we understand perfectly.
Shortly after our League evictions, Esther and I reconvened at a nearby tea house.
“Mrs. Carrigan does not give a fig about women’s rights,” Esther said, spearing her fruit tartlet with her fork. “She has always been one of these women who wants to seem like she is forward-thinking but really is not at all.”
“I would say many of the League members were similar in their mindset.”
“Exactly.” She popped some pastry in her mouth and chewed quickly. “That silly club was a waste of our time. I am sure our efforts would be appreciated much more at another suffrage society.”
I barely touched my lemon cake. It had looked delicious on the tea room display counter but as soon as the plate was placed before me, eating seemed beyond my abilities.
Esther sighed. “My offer is still open, just so you know.”
I looked up from the pastry. “Hmm?”
“I am willing to tell Mr. Granville that he needs to rehire you,” she said, “if that is what you want.”
My lips parted and an enthusiastic plea for help nearly escaped, but I closed my mouth just in time. Biting my lower lip and staring at the table, I shook my head.
“Are you sure?”
I slowly nodded and finally looked up at her. “I lost my job, was forced to resign from the League and I have been disowned by my parents.” I paused, a blanket of calm settling over me suddenly. “I think, perhaps, I need a change.”