Never Come to Rest, page 7
Connie scurries after her. “Pay no notice,” she whispers to Vera Mae on the way. “Kitty’s a jealous one, that’s all.”
“Jealous?” Vera Mae feels a prick of that herself and draws Eulalie closer. “Have you bedded her?”
“The dalliance has passed.”
“She wishes it had not.”
“But it has nonetheless.” Eulalie takes Vera Mae by the chin, tilts her head up, and kisses her again, this time keeping their lips pinched together for several seconds. “I’m glad you’re here.”
The short walk to Bloomsbury, where the funeral procession organized by the NUWSS is scheduled to pass, is peppered with talk of Emily Wilding Davison’s ultimate sacrifice for the cause and the high price of liberty. While Kitty strides on ahead in a sulk, Connie recounts that Emily always believed some desperate protest—one great tragedy—might well be a catalyst for reform, bringing women one step closer to equal rights and spelling the end of the harsh imprisonments so many suffragettes are subjected to. She thought the crusade needed a martyr, and she became one.
“The glorious and inscrutable spirit of liberty has but one further penalty within its power: the surrender of life itself.” Connie recites from a passage Emily wrote in a suffrage publication last year. “To lay down life for friends—that is glorious, selfless, inspiring! And she will not shrink from this nirvana. She will be faithful to the last.”
With a sniffle, Connie pulls a hanky from her pocket and blows her nose. “I visited her in the hospital. She had such horrid letters of hate sent to her as she lay there dying. You wouldn’t believe some of the things. One said: Miss Davison, I am glad to hear you are in hospital. I hope you suffer torture until you die. I consider you are a person unworthy of existence in this world, and should like the opportunity of starving and beating you to a pulp.” She shakes her head in despair. “People’s so dreadful, ain’t they?”
The closer they get to Bloomsbury, the more densely packed the streets become. People are pooling in from all directions, swarming together. Tens of thousands of people—men, women, and children—are clamoring for a glimpse of the procession, many wearing the colors of the various suffrage unions to which they belong. It’s a turbulent sea of bobbing hats.
One woman, dressed as Joan of Arc, stands on a chair and preaches Emmeline Pankhurst’s most recent exaltation: “Be militant each in your own way. Those of you who can break windows, break them. Those of you who can further attack the sacred idol of property, do so. Carry on the holy war for the emancipation of our sex!”
On the periphery of the rapidly swelling masses, Vera Mae’s anxiety erupts. People are cramming together like sardines, jostling for position, shoulders bumping, bodies grinding, pressing, and shoving. The biggest and the strongest barge through. Suffragettes carrying placards demand their place up front.
The noise is tremendous. Individual sounds become indistinguishable in the cacophony of crying babies, incessant chatter, and chanting suffragettes. Vera Mae struggles to breathe. The ground feels uneven beneath her feet, as if she’s standing on the deck of a listing ship, and she stumbles, grabbing onto Eulalie for support.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t …” She pulls back toward the fringes of the mob.
“Yes, you can.” Eulalie draws her into an embrace. “Close your eyes.” She holds Vera Mae to her chest. “Breathe slow. I’ve got you in my arms.”
Vera Mae presses herself to Eulalie, feeling the steady, rhythmic beating of her heart. “Don’t let me go.”
“I won’t.” Eulalie rubs her back. “I won’t ever let you go, I promise. I shall be right here with you. Nothing will hurt you.” She waits until Vera Mae’s breathing normalizes, then coaxes her to take a few steps. “I’ll protect you.”
Vera Mae clutches Eulalie’s arm so hard her nails dig into flesh, and they move deeper into the throngs. While Kitty and Connie push their way to the very front of the masses, Eulalie finds a vantage point atop the steps of a goods warehouse set back from the street, where fewer people are congregated.
“How’s this?” She stands behind Vera Mae, shielding her from anyone who might accidentally knock into her. “Do you feel all right?” She wraps both arms around Vera Mae’s middle, holding her securely, enveloping her in warmth. “Do you feel safe?”
Vera Mae is surprised to say that she does. Her erratic breathing is under control, her heart doesn’t feel as though it’s about to rupture, and Eulalie is being the perfect gentleman. By the time the procession snakes by, her nerves are completely in check. Not gone, but manageable.
Though the atmosphere is one of sorrow, there’s a prevailing sense of unity. Thousands of suffragettes follow the coffin and many more are leading the way. All are wearing white dresses and hats, sashes in suffrage colors, and black armbands of mourning, many of them wielding decorated wreaths and banners.
She hath done what she could.
Give me liberty, or give me death!
Fight on, and God will give the victory.
The coffin itself is on a low bier pulled by four black horses. It’s covered with a purple, silver-edged silk pall topped with three laurel wreaths and a poignant inscription reading: She died for women.
“Was it worth it?” Vera Mae wonders as the somber procession passes by. “Such an extreme act of defiance.”
“We will never come to rest. Not until women are equal to men in all regards.” Eulalie keeps her eyes on the coffin till it disappears out of sight, moving on toward Euston Station. “Millicent Fawcett, president of the NUWSS, says our movement is like a glacier: slow moving but unstoppable.”
When all’s said and done, Kitty and Connie flock together with a group of their WSPU comrades and head to the Criterion Restaurant to celebrate Emily’s life, but Eulalie declines the invite, waits for the throngs to disperse, and walks Vera Mae back to her studio. Inside, the sofa has been pushed to the edge of the room, the center of the floor spread with soft furnishings, creating a padded bed of cushions, throw pillows, and blankets. It looks like a scene from a brothel.
“What went on here?” Vera Mae finds a series of pornographic photographs on the table, each one depicting the same two nude women sprawled on the heap, positioned in a creative array of erotic poses. “Is this work or play?”
Chuckling, Eulalie strips off her jacket, waistcoat, and tie, and flops onto the pile. “Private collectors pay handsomely for bespoke pornography. It is rather good fun—I shan’t lie about that—but I do it all for work, I promise.” She invites Vera Mae to join her. “You’ve nothing to worry about. You’re the only woman I want.”
Vera Mae lowers herself onto the cushions, envious of how easily Eulalie can move without the restriction of a corset. “Once I get down, I may never get back up.”
She settles into Eulalie’s waiting arms, tucks herself against Eulalie’s body, and soon welcomes a kiss. But this kiss is different. All chaste tenderness is gone, and Vera Mae feels Eulalie’s tongue entreating for entry into her mouth. On the next assault, their tongues meet, caressing briefly before retreating. And again. Again. Again …
Breaking for air, Vera Mae rolls onto her back and whimpers at the ceiling. “I never knew a kiss could be so lewd.” She catches her breath and snuggles back into Eulalie’s arms. “Wherever did you learn such a wicked thing?”
“That’s how they do it in France.”
Vera Mae giggles. “Why is everything French always so unspeakably naughty?”
“Because the French know how to enjoy themselves.”
Eulalie initiates another round of erotic kisses, and Vera Mae moans into each one, neither one of them paying any attention to the passing of time. When they get hungry, Eulalie sends the landlady’s son out to fetch sandwiches and wine. And more wine. Halfway through the second bottle, she brings out her sketchbook and attempts to draw Vera Mae, but her fine motor skills are impaired and Vera Mae is getting bawdy.
Elevated on the booze, she unbuttons her blouse to her bust. “Here, draw me like one of your whores.” She peels her blouse and camisole away from her chest, showing a splash of her corset, and reclines on the cushions, adopting a suggestive pose.
Eulalie takes one look at her and tosses the sketchbook over her shoulder. “Forget it. Now I cannot concentrate.” With a growl, she dives across the cushions and lowers herself over Vera Mae, dropping kisses on every inch of unclothed skin, paying particular attention to the upper swells of her heaving breasts.
“Do you want more?” She fingers the top clasp of Vera Mae’s corset. “Tell me you do.”
“You know I do,” Vera Mae whispers, a tremor in her voice. “But not tonight.” She stays Eulalie’s hand, preventing her from undoing the clasp.
Eulalie groans. “Why not? What is it you fear so much that you would deny yourself the pleasure I’m so ready to give you?” She fails to understand and leaps to the worst conclusion. “Is it Reginald? Does he hurt you? If he’s ever raised a hand to you, I swear—”
“Hush.” Vera Mae silences her. “Stand down, Tigress. It’s nothing whatsoever like that.” She cups her hands around Eulalie’s cheeks. “My fierce, beautiful tigress. Will you be patient? I wish to be courted a little longer, that is all. I want everything to be as perfect as it can possibly be.”
Eulalie purrs and nuzzles her palms. “I’m half mad with want of you.” She trails the tip of her index finger over Vera Mae’s bared bosom. “But I will endeavor to contain myself.” She holds Vera Mae’s blouse closed, removing temptation from her sight. “For now.”
Vera Mae breaks into a smile. “I shan’t make you wait long. We’re having a small gathering at the house next weekend. Will you come?”
“I will be welcome?”
“You will be my guest—my honored guest—and Reginald won’t dare cause a fuss in front of his friends.”
“You’re sure?” Eulalie frets. “And I will not embarrass you? I’m afraid I don’t own a dress. I haven’t worn one in nearly three years. Not even for special occasions.”
“Don’t be silly.” Vera Mae plants a kiss on her. “I want you just as you are, and I shall be bored to tears if you aren’t there.”
“All right, I am sufficiently convinced.” Eulalie releases her blouse. “Now give me one more peep to tide me over in the meantime.” She feasts her eyes. “Maybe just one more kiss …”
Before they part company, Eulalie gives her a bit more than that. Taking care to do so in a place that won’t be seen, even in the most daring evening gown, she bites down on Vera Mae’s right breast, scraping her teeth along the delicate virgin flesh, leaving behind a deep purple bruise: a mark of passion.
The mere thought of it—simply knowing that it’s there, hiding beneath her clothing—keeps Vera Mae in a heightened state of arousal all the way home. Sadly, her euphoria doesn’t last. Reginald obliterates it the moment she walks in.
“That was some walk.” He glowers at her. “Where were you?”
“Nowhere that need concern you.” She tries to walk past him, but he bars the way.
“If you’re up to no good with that—”
“Don’t say it.” She cuts him off and steps around him, heading for the stairs.
“You’ll lose everything,” he calls after her. “And you’ll no longer be welcome here.”
She doesn’t even break stride. “Goodnight, Reginald.”
CHAPTER 10
Saturday June 21, 1913
Vera Mae smiles politely, feigning interest in the mundane lives of her guests as they sip pre-dinner drinks in the drawing room. They’ve been arriving steadily for the last half an hour, but there’s only one invitee she has any interest in, and when the butler finally announces Eulalie’s arrival, she practically leaps off her chair.
“What is that infernal woman doing here?” Reginald snarls under his breath.
“She is my guest.” Vera Mae crosses the library to greet her. “Miss Sauvage, I’m glad you could make it.” She presents her gloved hand for shaking.
“My lady.” Eulalie kisses the back of her hand, then flips her hand over and kisses her inner wrist.
“Careful,” Vera Mae cautions her, standing between her and the rest of the room. “We aren’t alone.” She leans in close to peck Eulalie’s cheek. “More’s the pity.”
“Miss Sauvage.” Reginald startles Vera Mae by sidling up to her, slapping his thick arm around her waist, and making somewhat pleasant conversation. “How is that ludicrous portrait coming along? It must be such a bore for you. I’m sure Her Ladyship’s been frightfully dull company. Not much fun at all.”
“On the contrary.” Eulalie smirks. “I’ve been enjoying her company immensely.”
Vera Mae flashes Eulalie a coy smile, erasing it from her lips before Reginald catches it. “Why don’t you fetch Miss Sauvage a drink?” she suggests, seeking to be rid of him. “I’m sure she’d like one.”
“Isn’t that what we have footmen for?” He looks around for one.
“Not as many as we used to.” Vera Mae sidesteps out of his grasp. “That’s the price of modernization, remember?”
Muttering something incoherent, Reginald wanders off in search of someone to do his bidding.
“How can you stand him pawing on you like that?” Eulalie watches him walk away, one of her fists slightly clenched. “As if he has any claim on you.”
“Ignore him.” Vera Mae slinks up to her and tickles a finger in her palm, coaxing her to relax. “He’s showing off. Like a gorilla beating its chest in the jungle.”
She wishes she could devote her full attention to Eulalie, but she must play the perfect hostess. From the moment Reginald returns with a drink, there’s no opportunity for anything more than a furtive glance or a subtle touch of hands until the dinner gong sounds and they’re seated beside one another at the dining room table. Then, between courses, Vera Mae feels Eulalie’s hand creep onto her lap, obscured by the tablecloth.
“You’re being ever so naughty with me,” she whispers.
“No-one can tell.” Eulalie squeezes her knee.
“These sorts of people can always tell.” Vera Mae tries to behave naturally, though she knows she’s blushing furiously. “They have a sixth sense for impropriety. Have even so much as a dirty thought and someone somewhere will surely condemn you for it.”
Eulalie withdraws before the desert course.
Shortly after dinner, the women separate from their male counterparts. While the men remain in the dining room, smoking cigars and drinking port, everyone in possession of a uterus retires to the drawing room. And that’s when the questions begin.
Freed from the judging eyes of their husbands, Vera Mae’s friends want to know all about the curious suffragette artist who dares to wear such odd clothes. They cram onto the sofa with her, fussing around her and pawing on her as if she were an exotic exhibit at the zoo.
“Heavens, give her some air.” Vera Mae finds herself relegated to a chair opposite. “You’ll suffocate the poor woman.”
Her words have no effect. The excited ladies want to know anything and everything.
“How much willful damage have you caused?” one asks in relation to Eulalie’s suffragette activities, having absolutely no grasp of the difference between the militant WSPU and other women’s suffrage organizations. “Do you keep a tally amongst yourselves? Have you ever been arrested? Do tell us!”
“I’m afraid I only break hearts, not windows, these days.” Eulalie answers with a charming smile. “Although, if you’d have asked me not so terribly long ago, the answer would’ve been quite different.”
“How so?” The woman drapes her arm on Eulalie’s shoulder, getting much too close for Vera Mae’s comfort.
“I used to be a very active member of the WSPU, as was my mother,” Eulalie explains. “She’d been involved with the organization since 1906, when the Pankhursts set up their new headquarters here in London, and she brought me into it with her. I was only eighteen then, and proud to call myself a suffragette soldier.”
“What changed?” Vera Mae adjusts her pink silk dress, inching it up a little to expose her delicate stockinged ankles, hoping to snare Eulalie’s interest. “Why have you drawn away from the WSPU? You’ve never said.”
“As the years went by and the atmosphere within the WSPU became ever more febrile, my mother was arrested several times for committing militant acts.” Eulalie’s gaze drifts down Vera Mae’s body. “She stood strong with her fellow comrades during her imprisonment, went on hunger strike, and was force fed on every occasion. It was barbaric. Twice a day, four wardresses held her down on a chair, put a clamp in her mouth to keep it open, and inserted the feeding tube. If she struggled too much, the tube was put up her nose instead.”
“Did she recover?” Vera Mae is the only one to show genuine concern. “I’ve read of women who’ve developed many serious health troubles as a result of the hideous treatment they’ve been subjected to at the hands of the police.”
“She battles on, but I’m sorry to say she recently suffered a stroke.” Eulalie’s gaze drops to the floor. “I believe her heart was weakened by all that she endured.”
“Oh, my God …” Vera Mae rises from her chair, displaces one of the other women, and budges her way onto the sofa. “No wonder you have become a pacifist.” She de-gloves herself and takes Eulalie’s hand, not caring how the gesture appears to those around them.
“Tell me something, my lady.” Eulalie bucks herself up. “Have I any hope of convincing you to attend a peaceful demonstration with me one day? A suffragist pilgrimage began in Land’s End two days ago, and is on its way to London as we speak. When it gets here, it’ll converge with seventeen other pilgrimages coming from all over England, and there’s to be a rally in Hyde Park. You’d be in good company. Lady Constance Lytton is a proud and outspoken supporter of the women’s suffrage movement, and she’s your people.”
“True enough, but I’m afraid Lady Constance is a much braver woman than I.” Vera Mae refrains from committing herself to the cause. “You know, my husband once caught me reading one of her women’s rights pamphlets and threw the damn thing straight on the fire. He thought it best that I didn’t excite myself. He preferred me passive.”
