An Hour Unspent, page 12
His grin flashed at her. “Well, we haven’t a suffragette among us.”
She loosed a sound close enough to a snort that Mother would have been horrified. “At the moment, we’re not accomplishing much anyway. I’m afraid the cause has fizzled.”
“Well, the world has changed. But it’s no reason for you to be disheartened, is it? I rather thought the whole point of the movement was to claim that women could make sound decisions—that they are not weak or inferior.”
She leaned into the side of the chair and lifted her brows. “Of course it is.”
“Now you’ve been given the chance to prove it, not just to say it. ‘Deeds Not Words’—isn’t that one of your mottos? And here’s the chance for deeds.” He turned from the window, faced her. “How many jobs are women filling these days that were once held by men? Who will be making all the decisions while their husbands and fathers are in the trenches?”
“That’s what I’ve told the women in the factories.” A cause the suffragettes had never really taken up—they cared only for their own fight, no one else’s. But they were the same, ultimately. “This is their chance to prove themselves.”
“Exactly right. Do a good enough job of it, and the voting public will have no choice but to recognize it when they get home from the war.”
She certainly hoped he was as trustworthy as Papa seemed to think, because she really couldn’t help but like him.
“Evelina. Come here, please.”
Could Mother read her mind now? With only the smallest of frustrated huffs, she stood, exchanged a glance with Barclay, and strode into the hall, where Mother stood, scowling.
Actually scowling, like Aunt Beatrice. “Mother, you’ll get wrinkles!”
Her scowl only deepened. “You’ve met his family, haven’t you? When you insisted upon going to his home to tutor his brother? How many of them are there? I must decide if it would be prudent to simply invite them all.”
“Oh.” Blast. Mother wouldn’t mean to invite the children, just those old enough to have entered society—not that any of them had. And she’d never permit Lucy to enter her house—not through the front, anyway. “You could perhaps invite Retta and Elinor as well. The others are a bit young.” Or not fair enough of skin.
It made her arms tingle, there where her pulse thudded in her pale-as-cream wrist. She’d never really paused to consider the injustice of such ideals. But then, she’d never known anyone before with such a colorful family who stood to be left out.
Mother nodded and made as if to leave. Then halted so she could skewer Evelina with a narrow-eyed glare. “And don’t think this alters anything, young lady. The fact that he has better connections than one might expect does not change the fact that he is a man of no prospects. You’re to have nothing to do with him socially—you will wait for Basil. Understood?”
Fingers curling into her palms, Evelina spun away rather than answer. Stomped back into the drawing room, where Barclay still stood by the window.
He flicked a gaze over her head before settling it on her. Mother must still be there, watching and fuming. Waiting to see some too-warm glance or hushed exchange that she could use as a bludgeon in her next lecture. Waiting, just waiting for Evelina to do something she’d deem wrong.
Well, one was supposed to honor one’s parents’ wishes, right?
She went up on her toes, slid a hand to the back of Barclay’s head, and, before his eyes had time to go wide, pressed her lips to his.
Eleven
Barclay had always prided himself on not being easily taken off guard. On anticipating what moves his companions might make next and responding before they could even finish the action. On understanding people in a glance and knowing how to counter them. It was what had helped him survive—to thrive—on the streets.
But when Evelina Manning tossed herself against his chest and pulled his mouth down to her own, he became quickly acquainted with acute, complete surprise.
It took him only a second to realize why she’d done it—to irritate her mother. But even so. That second was all it took for him to register that she smelled of flowers and rain, to note that her lips were as soft as silk. To anchor her against him with his hands on her hips.
He’d spent the majority of his life surrounded by girls—hugging them, kissing their scrapes, mopping their tears—but they were his sisters.
She was not.
“Is she gone?” she murmured against his lips.
Her fingers moved at the base of his neck, toying with his hair. Tying him in knots. Blast it all. He glanced up, past the sapphires of her eyes, to the empty hallway. “No. Still there.” God would forgive him the falsehood. Probably. If he remembered to ask for forgiveness later. And convinced himself to mean it.
He angled in for another kiss.
Her fingers knotted in his hair—it needed a trim, and suddenly he was glad of it. Her other arm slid around him. And her lips—they moved under his with a kind of sweet hesitation that tasted like the honey he’d stolen when he was fifteen, when he’d wondered why people put liquid gold in their tea.
Her hand pressed against his back. Eased back to a barely there touch. “I don’t see her.”
They’d moved half a step, apparently, in a circle. But she hadn’t pulled away except for that inch between their mouths.
He smiled. “I do. She’s right there.”
“Oh, is she?” Her lips turned up, too, in a smile he’d never had cause to see on a woman directed at him.
“Mmm.” He moved one of his hands up to rest where her jaw met her neck, where her pulse hammered. Caught her bottom lip between his. Then her top.
Her eyes had slid shut. “I should apologize.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Very rude of you.” She’d retreat, if he let her. He could feel it in that quiver in the arms that rested against him. Insecurity. Regret.
“And thank you. For playing along.”
He traced her cheekbone with his thumb. Who knew rain and flowers could smell so good? “You’ll owe me one.”
“I assure you, I don’t usually . . . And I know you didn’t want to . . .”
Her cheek was hot under his hand. It was distracting enough that it took him a moment to realize what she was saying. Another to take in the way she averted her gaze, the way her posture shifted just slightly.
She thought he’d found her kiss distasteful.
There was only one possible explanation for that—Basil Philibert was a blighted idiot.
“Lina.” He waited until her gaze crept back upward, met his. Kept his hand there, anchoring her head. His other on her hip, holding her in place. “I usually sit on favors, wait until I really need to call them in. But I think I’ll collect the one you owe me now.”
Not giving her time to ask what he meant, he leaned in again, kissed her deep and long. Until her arms had gone tight around him, and then loose, and then tight again. Until he was pretty sure he’d never get that scent out of his nose.
Then he pulled away enough to meet her gaze. It was hazy. Heady. He sucked in a long breath. “Are we clear on that point?”
She nodded.
“Because I’d be happy to repeat the lesson.”
A smile started in the corners of her mouth. “I may need a reminder later. But just now, I think your point has been made.”
“Good.” He put a few more inches between them, before he went absolutely mad. Let his hands slide back to his own sides, as she reclaimed hers. “I understand that you wanted to lash out at her. And maybe at him. You don’t need to be embarrassed or regretful about that, as I’ve always been in favor of decisive action. And you get to decide what happens from here.” Because he wasn’t like Peter or Lukas. He was just Barclay Pearce, semireformed thief. She deserved better. “Whether it’s a game you want to keep playing or not.”
She pressed her lips together. Fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. But she didn’t look away.
He backed up another step so he could draw in a clear breath. “But you need to know up front—I play for keeps.” He had too much at stake to do otherwise. Too many hearts for which he was responsible.
She nodded and eased to the side, clearing the way between him and the door.
Her answer? Probably. And he couldn’t blame her. She was reeling from a broken engagement, under fire from her mother and aunt, and there was an unknown somebody out there who’d already attacked her once. Hardly a time to get involved with someone new. Especially when “involved” would be far from simple, given their very different circumstances. Toss in the fact that they’d known each other all of a week, and she was no doubt far too reasonable to want anything more from him than proof that she was desirable.
But then, he’d built a family from people in worse circumstances, on a shorter acquaintance. They’d pledged to stay together forever, and they’d done it. Sometimes sheer grit was enough.
And sometimes it wasn’t.
He dug up half a smile for her and nodded, even made it a few strides toward the door. Then couldn’t help but turn back again. Slip back over to her, cup her face between his hands, and press one more soft, lingering kiss to her lips.
“That one was free.” With a wink, he left the room.
And he left her smiling.
Mrs. Manning was thankfully not anywhere in sight, leaving him a clear path to the basement stairs. And once he was down in the workshop, the scents of oil and metal and Mr. Manning’s steaming tea pushed aside those of flowers and rain.
So long as the man couldn’t tell at a glance that he’d just been kissing his daughter, he might stand a chance of putting it from his mind. For a while.
Manning looked up from the sheet of paper before him with a steely glint in his eyes.
Uh-oh. Perhaps the man was a mind reader. Or had come back up and Barclay hadn’t heard the creaking stairs. Not usually one of his failings, but he’d been rather distracted.
“Your connections at the Admiralty—exactly how far do they extend? For my project?” He nodded toward the stairs. Toward the synchronization gear.
Daring to breathe again, Barclay lifted his brows. “My superior just assured me today that he’d get you anything you need.”
“Fortuitous—given that my own acquaintances have just metaphorically patted my head and told me to stick to my toys.” Manning balled up the paper and tossed it toward the brazier. “They have access to the Royal Naval Air Service?”
V and Hall would be cheering if they were here. Barclay nodded. “What do you need?”
Manning rounded the bench, strode toward the unfinished mechanism hidden in the shadows, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, Mr. Pearce—I’m afraid I need an airplane. Can you get me one of those?”
What an odd day this was turning out to be. Odd . . . but good. Barclay slung his hands into his pockets and let a grin take form on his mouth. He never was one to admit a challenge was beyond his reach. “Consider it got.”
“You didn’t.”
Evelina ignored Gloria’s horrified—or perhaps intrigued—whisper and hurried to keep up with Mrs. Knight. She had the Women’s Social and Political Union’s purple, white, and green pin on her lapel and a bounce in her step. She tugged her friend along. The streets of Westminster were crowded, largely with women, but more men in crisp suits or uniforms appeared as they neared Number 10. “Well, I can’t just sit at home and wait for Barclay Pearce to show up when Mrs. Knight needs me. I had no choice but to slip out.”
Gloria hissed out a breath and nearly tripped when a guard blocked their path as they turned in at the stately black building. “Well, why did you drag me along? If your mother discovers you’re out when you oughtn’t to be, we’ll both end up in trouble.”
Mrs. Knight produced a folded piece of paper, and the guard waved them on.
“Really, Gloria, you need to relax. We are grown women, not children. What could our mothers really do to us?” She craned her head back as they passed through the doorway. She’d visited Westminster Abbey once with Papa, and of course had gone up to see Big Ben and the Great Clock within him, but she’d never had cause to come to Number 10 before.
Gloria looked around as if the very carpets might nip at her heels. “She could send me to Worcestershire with Nellie and Arnold, for starters, and you know how I detest staying at Uncle Mangom’s.”
Evelina rolled her eyes and followed her mentor through the entrance hall and corridor. As if being sent to the countryside was the most horrible of possibilities. As if it could hold a candle to the icy rage she had suffered through the past two days.
They were going to have to revise the entire English language to reflect the force of nature that was Judith Manning. The phrase should no longer be “cold as ice”—they needed to change it to “cold as Judith.”
She’d thought her first real respite would be when Mr. Dramwell came to call tomorrow, but when Mrs. Knight’s note arrived that morning, it had been like a day of summer in the midst of a snowstorm.
The older woman hesitated for a moment at the end of the hallway and then turned to the left, into what was clearly a waiting room. She gestured for them to hurry. “I could only secure a promise for a ten-minute audience, ladies. We must be succinct and eloquent.”
Gloria looked as though she might be sick. “I think I had better wait out here.”
Mrs. Knight agreed with a curt nod. “Do try to stay out of anyone’s way, Miss Fenley. Politics may be officially suspended, but Number 10 is no less busy for it.”
Gloria sank to a seat, pale-faced, upon a stiff-looking chair.
Evelina brushed her hands over her skirt and pretended that their shaking was adrenaline and not fear. The prime minister may be more intimidating than a floor manager, but he couldn’t possibly be worse than Mother.
Why in the world had Mrs. Knight wanted her along?
Her companion crossed the width of the room and knocked upon a door while Gloria did her best to fade into the upholstery. At the command to enter, Mrs. Knight swept in with a smile that bespoke confidence.
Evelina’s stomach wobbled as she followed in her friend’s wake.
A man sat at a desk and looked up with a vague smile as they entered, rising just enough to avoid impropriety. A man who was most assuredly not H. H. Asquith. Though of course he wouldn’t be. The prime minister surely had scads of men past whom visitors would have to get before they stumbled into his domain.
“Mrs. Knight, how do you do? Lovely to see you again. Please, have a seat.” He was already sitting again, leaving them the option to either do so at their leisure and prove him ungentlemanly for not waiting or hurry to sit and preserve the appearance of propriety.
They hurried.
Mrs. Knight clutched her bag and leaned forward, toward the massive desk. “Thank you so much for meeting with us, Mr. Sellers. I cannot tell you how much we value your time.”
Evelina worked to keep her face free of confusion. She’d thought Mrs. Knight’s note had said she’d secured a meeting with the prime minister. Perhaps she’d just said with his office?
Mr. Sellers offered another smile that was vague at best and sneaked a glance down at whatever paperwork was on his desk. “Well, I do owe Mr. Philibert a favor, so I’m happy to meet with his betrothed.” His eyes, and his smile, came back up—and focused squarely on Evelina. “You must be very proud of him for serving his country, young lady.”
He didn’t know that Basil had called off the engagement—apparently the gossip that had been plaguing Hammersmith hadn’t made its way to Westminster. But Mrs. Knight had heard—Evelina herself had told her. Why, then, had she put her in this position without so much as a warning?
Evelina fastened on a smile that she knew wouldn’t look all that bright. But then, he wouldn’t expect it to be. “Of course I am. He has always been a fine leader, I imagine he will inspire his men to greatness.”
Mrs. Knight all but beamed. “And he was always so supportive of the cause, as I’m sure you know. He is one of our most strident backers.”
With a hum as vague as his smile, Mr. Sellers glanced at his paper again. “He is, I believe, actually in favor of universal suffrage, is he not?”
“Which is an admiral final goal, of course—but we of the WSPU have always understood that changes as large as what we’re requesting must be made incrementally. It’s a logical first step to grant the vote to women who have some minor amount of property to their names. Universal suffrage could build upon that foundation.”
Evelina fought the urge to shift in her seat. From what she’d gleaned from Mrs. Knight, the WSPU didn’t intend it to be a stepping-stone at all. They wanted exactly what they said they wanted: the vote for women with property only.
It had never bothered her quite as it did now. But she was suddenly rather glad that she’d never been what they would term a true activist for them. Their activists had a tendency to end up in prison. After bombing government buildings or setting houses ablaze.
She should have simply remained a member of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Society, who advocated equal rights for all English citizens, not just women who owned property. But Mrs. Knight had taken her under her wing, and so . . .
Apparently now she knew why.
The purple, white, and green burned through her clothing, branding her. How proudly she had claimed to be a suffragette—perhaps all along she’d been only a suffragist.
An epiphany that would have better come when she wasn’t sitting in one of the offices of Number 10 Downing Street, speaking with a man who thought her still engaged to a friend of his, at the behest of a woman who had apparently only ever seen her as a means to the eloquent Basil Philibert.
She said nothing through the meeting, just let Mrs. Knight chatter and Mr. Sellers pretend that he cared when clearly all he really wanted to do was get back to his correspondence. She smiled politely when he glanced at his pocket watch, effectively declaring the meeting over, and stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sellers,” she said quietly.
“My pleasure, young lady. When you write to Philibert, do tell him I send my greetings.”
