The Scandalous Suffragette

‘A plan, eh?’ her father asked. ‘What’s that?’

Adam bowed. ‘With your permission, I’ve come to propose to your daughter.’

Chapter Four

‘Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)

Violet’s mouth fell open as she stared at Adam Beaufort. ‘You’ve come to propose to me?’

He turned on his heel and this time bowed directly towards her. There was the merest upturning of the corners of his mouth. ‘Indeed.’

‘Marriage?’ she gasped. Was that really what he meant? Had her ears deceived her? They had only met once. Well, twice, if she counted tumbling off the balcony into his arms and that meeting couldn’t be considered a formal introduction. And now he was suggesting they wed? Surely it could not be so.

The upturning of Adam Beaufort’s mouth grew more pronounced. A dent appeared in his left cheek, then vanished as he spoke. ‘I can think of no other proposal I would make, Miss Coombes.’

‘Marriage!’ her mother and father repeated at the same time, her mother breathless, and her father’s voice a stunned bellow.

‘Upon my soul!’ added Mr Coombes.

‘I realise this is unusual,’ Adam said. ‘And quite sudden. I believe that is the phrase, in such circumstances. But the circumstances are unusual, to say the least.’

‘They certainly are.’ Violet found her voice was as breathless as her mama’s. She put her hand to her bodice. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.

‘Marriage to a Beaufort!’ Mrs Coombes reached for her fan. ‘Oh, my...’

Mr Coombes clutched his chest. He staggered and reached for the side table to right himself, sending a tin of Floral Creams flying.

‘Papa!’ Violet rushed to help him. ‘You must sit down.’

Mrs Coombes hurried to her husband’s side. ‘Reginald!’

‘I’m all right,’ he insisted, leaning heavily on the table, his breath coming in puffs.

Violet steered him to the wing chair by the fireplace. Her papa sank on to it, half-raised himself up, then sank back again. His normally florid cheeks turned a sickly colour, sweat beaded his forehead.

‘Are you quite well, sir?’ Adam Beaufort asked, concerned.

Mrs Coombes wrung her handkerchief in distress. ‘It’s his heart.’

Panting heavily, Mr Coombes waved away their alarm. ‘I get the odd turn. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Shall I call for a doctor?’ Adam asked.

‘No need, no need.’ Mr Coombes puffed. ‘I’ve seen all the best quacks. There’s nothing they can do.’

Violet moved swiftly to the drinks tray. ‘Stay still, Papa. I’ll pour you a glass of water.’

‘Give it a bit of colour, won’t you? For medicinal purposes.’

‘You know you ought not to drink spirits when you’ve had a turn.’

‘I’ll be all the better for a spot of whisky.’

She shook her head and added the merest drop of whisky to the water glass. There was no point in agitating him further. The doctors had been clear—the best medicine for him was peace and quiet.

Violet’s hand tightened on the whisky bottle. Clearly the morning’s events had upset him greatly.

It was all her fault.

Adam Beaufort frowned. ‘Are you sure you don’t wish me to fetch medical help?’

‘I’ll be right as rain in a moment,’ Mr Coombes assured him, his voice already stronger. ‘I always am. Where’s that drink, Violet?’

‘Here you are, Papa.’ Violet gave her father the weak whisky and water and propped a cushion behind him.

Mr Coombes took a sip. ‘Ah, that’s it.’

Violet turned to her mother, who was still wringing her hands. She looked about to cry.

‘Sit down, Mama,’ Violet said gently.

Mrs Coombes picked up her fan. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Reginald.’

‘I’m quite well, Adeline,’ Mr Coombes said stoutly. ‘Do as Violet says.’

Violet tucked her mother beneath a silk shawl. Going back to her papa, she took his wrist, counted and waited. His pulse was faster than usual, but it wasn’t as bad as some of his turns had been in the past, as far as she could make out.

She straightened her back and glanced at Adam Beaufort. His expression was inscrutable. He was a man who controlled his emotions. He’d moved out of her way as she helped her mother and father. Now he stood by the fireplace, a tall but surprisingly comforting presence.

He stayed calm in a crisis. That was it. She’d witnessed it before, when he’d caught her under his balcony. She liked that about him.

‘Would you care for a whisky?’ she asked him.

In an unhurried movement, he took out a pocket watch. ‘It’s rather early in the day for spirits.’

‘But in the circumstances...’ Violet prompted.

His mouth cornered into a smile. ‘Indeed.’

She poured a large measure into the cut-crystal glass. ‘Water?’

He inclined his dark head.

‘Don’t drown it as you did mine, Violet,’ said Mr Coombes from the wing chair.

‘You ought not to be having whisky at all, Papa,’ she retorted, pleased that he appeared to be rallying. But her hand shook as she poured some water into Adam Beaufort’s glass, spilling it on to the drinks tray. Her papa had been so angry. He’d never said such things to her before.

She blotted the spilt water. Crossing the room, she gave Adam Beaufort his glass of whisky.

His fingers grazed hers as he took it. They were warm and dry. ‘Thank you.’

His touch seemed to stay on her skin, steadying her as she returned to the tray and poured herself a generous finger of whisky. She threw it back, straight, letting the fire scorch the back of her throat, only to find Adam Beaufort surveying her over the rim of his glass.

The heavy crystal clanked as she replaced it on the silver tray. Young ladies were not supposed to drink spirits, let alone before luncheon. Yet another rule for women that did not apply to men. How it irked her.

Heading over to her father’s chair, she took away his empty glass. The colour had returned to his cheeks, she noted with relief. He always recovered quickly from his turns, as he called them, but she was sure they were becoming more frequent.

‘How are you feeling now, Papa?’ she asked.

He patted her hand. His anger seemed to have abated. ‘No harm done.’

‘Would you like some more water?’

‘Not unless you are going to give it a bit more colour this time.’

‘Certainly not,’ she retorted.

Mr Coombes gave a slight guffaw and clambered to his feet. He puffed out his chest, but stayed upright.

‘Won’t you rest a little longer, Reginald?’ Mrs Coombes pleaded from the sofa.

‘I’m quite well now, Adeline. No need to fret.’ Mr Coombes took one step forward, one step back across the carpet, as if testing his strength.

Violet and her mama exchanged worried glances. Her papa loathed a fuss to be made about his health, but his turns terrified all of them.

A pang of pain clutched deep in her own chest. For her parents’ sake, she had to stop the scandal.

‘Now then.’ Her papa’s voice lacked its usual ring as he stopped on the carpet and studied Adam Beaufort. ‘Let’s get down to business. Are you serious in proposing marriage to my daughter?’

Adam drained his whisky glass. ‘Quite so, sir.’

Mr Coombes tucked his hands into the lapels of his checked waistcoat. His elbows jutted out. ‘You think a marriage announcement could halt this suffragette business. Is that it?’

‘I believe it would stop the scandalmongers if attention was diverted towards an engagement,’ Adam replied. ‘The Beaufort name will halt adverse gossip. We’re an old family. Well connected.’

‘At court!’ Mrs Coombes put in from the sofa, still fanning herself rapidly. ‘To royalty!’

Adam smiled at Violet’s mother, not appearing to mind her mentioning it. ‘There are a few overlapping branches in the family tree.’

He turned back to Mr Coombes. ‘If we act in time, I hope we can ensure your commercial dealings are not adversely affected.’

‘Do you believe the reputation of my company might be damaged by this stunt of Violet’s?’ Mr Coombes demanded.

‘Surely not!’ Violet put in.

‘I’m afraid so, Miss Coombes.’ Adam spoke quietly, but his tone was firm.

Mr Coombes looked suddenly deflated. ‘I agree. Customers can take such things very badly.’

‘My being a suffragette won’t stop people eating Coombes Chocolates,’ Violet said, incredulous.

‘You have insulted the Crown. Fortunes have been lost for less.’ Adam gave her a direct look that reminded her of their discussion the night before. He knew about such matters, she recalled with a sinking heart.

‘What of the Royal Warrant?’ From the sofa her mother’s voice was hushed.

Her father shook his head. ‘No chance of a Royal Warrant now. No chance at all.’

Violet clutched her corset. The painful pang in her chest moved to squeeze her stomach, as if she’d eaten too many sweets at the factory. She’d done so once, as a small girl.

The Royal Warrant. Chocolate Manufacturers to the King. It had been her father’s abiding goal in life for as long as she could remember. Now the scandal she’d created could dash his dream.

How had it come to this? She struggled for breath. She’d never meant to insult the royal family, never once imagined that her passion for the Cause could risk what her father had worked so hard to build. Yet she couldn’t regret her deed. It was the suffragette motto after all. Perhaps she’d gone too far with the banners at the ball, but she would never give up her beliefs.

‘What do you think needs to be done?’ Mr Coombes was asking Adam Beaufort.

‘Make a formal announcement as soon as possible,’ he replied. ‘Notify The Times.’

Mr Coombes tucked his hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his spotted handkerchief. ‘What you’re proposing might work. It just might work.’

‘But why would you do this for us, Mr Beaufort?’ Mrs Coombes asked, bewildered, from her seat on the sofa. Her fan still fluttered at a rapid rate, like wings of a startled bird.

Violet met Adam’s eye. He raised an eyebrow.

An unspoken communication passed between them.

She held his gaze. In return, his was steadfast. To her surprise, she felt reassured. She had experienced the same security when they’d danced at the ball, after he’d rescued her from being a wallflower. He’d caught her safely when she’d fallen from the balcony, too.

‘Mama. Papa.’ Violet took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Beaufort, alone.’

‘What?’ Elbows out, Mr Coombes gazed from one to the other. ‘Surely a marriage proposal is a matter for your father to consider.’

Violet lifted her chin. ‘I refuse to be discussed like cattle in the market place. No matter how unusual the circumstances.’

The dent appeared in Adam Beaufort’s cheek, as if he were trying not to chuckle.

Mr Coombes wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was still breathing heavily, Violet noticed with alarm, but his eyes were alert. Beneath his handkerchief he appeared to be summing Mr Beaufort up in his shrewd gaze, the way Violet had seen him assess potential buyers for the chocolate factory. She could almost hear his brain whirring, as fast as her own. Finally he tucked the handkerchief away.

‘Very well, Violet. We’ll leave you to consider this.’ Wheezing slightly, he reached for her hands. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you so harshly earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.’

‘We were all upset.’

‘You mustn’t feel any pressure,’ her father said now. ‘Whatever happens, it will be your decision. We would never force you into anything. I hope you know that.’

Violet’s throat choked. ‘Thank you, Papa.’

He gave her hands another squeeze before letting them go, but she could still see the worry in his eyes. Worse than that. There was a despondency she’d never witnessed in him before. In spite of his health concerns, he was always so cheerful.

Her stomach lurched. She’d hurt the people she loved most in the world.

‘Come along, Adeline.’ Mr Coombes held out his hand to his wife.

‘Ought Violet be left without a chaperon?’ Mrs Coombes asked doubtfully, as she got up from the sofa with a rustle of taffeta.

‘We’ve strayed beyond all kinds of proprieties this morning, Mama, in the space of a quarter of an hour,’ Violet replied.

This time she heard Adam Beaufort’s chuckle escape.

Her papa steered her mother towards the door. It closed behind them.

Silence fell, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. She picked up the tin of Floral Creams that still lay on the Turkish carpet. Her father had knocked them off the table when he had his turn.

She clasped the tin to her bodice.

They always kept Coombes Chocolates in the drawing room. There were tins of Floral Creams in every bedroom, too. It was a point of pride for her family.

She looked down at the lid, with its swirled font and bouquet of flowers. Now it might never be adorned with the royal warrant they all wanted so much. Her papa had even left room for it in the design, believing that aiming high was the best method for success.

‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them.’ Her papa often quoted that. She’d been raised on the philosophy of Samuel Smiles, the author of her father’s favourite book, Self-Help. There was a handsome leather-bound copy of the book in pride of place at the factory office. It had been given to her papa by his employees one Christmas, after their annual party. Over two thousand people, men and women, worked at the Coombes factory. Violet knew each and every one of them. They all relied on their wages, for the well-being of their homes and families.

Now it was all at risk. The factory. Her papa’s health. Her mama’s happiness. The cost of being a suffragette had proved far greater than she had ever imagined.

She stared at the tin of chocolates. Its outline blurred before her eyes.

‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,’ she reminded herself.

The scent of cocoa and flowers wafted up as she opened the lid and held it out towards Adam Beaufort. ‘Would you like a chocolate fondant?’

He appeared startled, then smiled. ‘Perhaps later. I’m afraid my nanny drummed into me that sweets before luncheon were the road to ruin.’

Violet smiled back, the threat of tears retreating. He had a knack of lightening the mood of a situation.

She popped a violet cream into her mouth. The familiar taste, with its dark, almost spicy chocolate, the sugar-coated violet petal on top and the contrasting smoothness of the sweet fondant inside, gave her a surge of vigour.

Replacing the tin on the table, she ran her finger over the embossed picture of roses, violets, lavender and pansies. Her mother had confided once that they had planned a whole nursery full of children, the girls to be named after the flowers that had made their fortune and the first boy, her mother had said, would be named Reginald, after her papa. Those other children had never come. Violet hadn’t felt lonely on her own, so she’d not missed sisters and brothers. She’d never known that her father felt the loss of a son so keenly. Not until today.

Her papa didn’t have the heir he wanted. Instead, he had a daughter who had brought disrepute to the family name.

A pain stabbed at her heart.

She glanced at Adam Beaufort. His back half-turned, he stared out the window, seeming to sense she needed time to collect her thoughts. The noon sunshine coming in from between the velvet curtains outlined his profile. His jaw was strong, but there was no cruelty in it. Perhaps she ought to feel intimidated being alone with him, one of the most eligible men in London society, but she didn’t. She never dreamed she’d find herself in the drawing room discussing marriage with him. She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to check she was awake.

The cherub clock chimed. Yes, she was awake. Adam Beaufort was standing by the window in real life, not in a dream, staring out into that peculiar soft London sunshine that made the streets and buildings shine like marigolds. In spite of their lack of welcome by society, in some ways Violet had enjoyed being in the capital. She’d walked to Parliament Square and listened to Big Ben while gazing at the Houses of Parliament, dreaming of laws that might be changed inside its hallowed walls.

Votes for Women! Now her papa had forbidden her to be a suffragette, all that must be stopped. She couldn’t defy him now. She had already caused enough distress.

Yet the thought of giving up the Cause...

Violet moved towards to Adam Beaufort. ‘Shall we have some plain speaking?’

He turned to face her. There was no doubting his smile this time. His teeth gleamed white. ‘Do you speak any other way, Miss Coombes?’

‘I prefer it,’ she admitted. ‘I would very much like to hear more of your plan.’

His grin widened. ‘It isn’t a plan I’ve refined yet, as you may have realised. I haven’t been following you in the dark of night, plotting to catch you from balconies. And it’s not the reason I asked you to dance at the ball.’

‘Oh.’ Violet felt more pleased than she expected at his saying so. The sense of being safe with him returned.

‘It was an idea that came to me when I heard of your trouble. A moment of inspiration. Or perhaps it is an ill-conceived notion, something we ought to forget I ever mentioned.’

‘Oh, no,’ Violet said quickly. ‘I’d very much like to explore your suggestion.’

Adam Beaufort inclined his head. ‘Certainly.’

Violet took some air from deep in her chest, as far as her corset would allow. The breathlessness she’d experienced when he first proposed had returned, but she forced her voice to firmness. ‘Would you propose marriage to me if I didn’t have a fortune?’

Chapter Five

‘If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all...’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)

‘You wish to know if I want to marry you for your money.’

Violet lifted her chin. ‘Yes.’

The sun gleamed through the window as Adam Beaufort made a low whistle. ‘That certainly is plain speaking, Miss Coombes.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Violet said quickly. She had no wish to offend him.

‘Not at all. Since you prefer plain speaking, let me be completely frank with you.’ He gave Violet a wry smile. ‘If you didn’t have a fortune, it would rather defeat the purpose of my proposal.’

Violet bit her lip. ‘Of course.’

How odd, she thought to herself. Part of her minded his admitting it. She pushed the sensation away. Of course her fortune was her attraction to him.

His smile disappeared as he spoke again. The youthfulness she’d noted earlier vanished. ‘If you will allow me to explain, there’s more you need to know. At the ball, we each spoke of our fathers. I told you then that my father, in contrast to yours, was not a hard-working man.’

Violet nodded. The philosophy of self-help was not embraced by everyone with the same enthusiasm as Reginald Coombes.

‘That’s an understatement,’ Adam went on. ‘My family, as you know, have a manor house in Kent. It requires a great deal of upkeep. For the past few years, I have watched it begin to disintegrate before my eyes.’

He moved away from her, his fists clenched. ‘I knew my father was letting the manor run down. The house itself, and the surrounding properties, where we have tenants who rely on us. Since my father’s death, I’ve discovered that isn’t the worst of it. The manor, and our house in London, have been mortgaged many times over. It isn’t merely that my father was not a good householder, Miss Coombes. He has lost all our family’s money and, worse, accrued debts of amounts that I can barely perceive. We are beyond being financially embarrassed. The Beaufort family is ruined.’

Violet gasped in shock. ‘How is that possible?’

‘Gambling.’ Adam said curtly. ‘The night I saw you on the balcony, I had been at a private meeting at my father’s club. The scene of the crime, so to speak.’

‘I thought you considered me the criminal that night,’ Violet commented with a smile, trying to lighten the moment. He looked so desperately burdened. Her heart gave a squeeze of sympathy.

‘Your actions were beyond the law, certainly. You were on private property. My property, if I can still call it that, considering the size of the mortgage on it. But I don’t consider you a criminal. You’re standing up for your beliefs.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Or climbing up for them, I should say.’

Violet chuckled, then grew serious. ‘So that night at the club...’

‘The night I encountered you on the balcony, I’d found out the extent of the damage. It was all quite civilised, over dinner and port. But that didn’t disguise the gravity of the situation. The gambling notes came out, with my father’s signature scrawled on them. He lost vast sums night after night at the card table. I was angry that it had been allowed to continue. But a gentleman’s word is his bond and my father had given his word that he was good for the money. On one of the gambling notes, he’d written “Beauley Manor.”’ A muscle moved in his cheek as he gritted his teeth. ‘Offered up as a gambling marker. Our family home.’

‘How dreadful for you.’ She couldn’t imagine discovering that her father had kept such secrets. It must have seemed as if Adam Beaufort hadn’t known his father at all. But that was how she had felt earlier, she recalled with a sting. Her father had apologised for being so harsh, yet nothing could take away Violet’s awful realisation that, all along, he’d wished she were a boy.

Adam gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ll admit, it was a most unpleasant experience. But Beauley Manor is my responsibility now, as are my mother and sisters. I had to do the honourable thing and face the truth about our family finances. It’s my duty.’

‘That’s how I feel about the Cause,’ said Violet. It wasn’t a fancy, or a whim that she could take or leave. It was her duty, too.

‘Then you understand,’ he said. ‘After some long discussions at the club I managed to convince my father’s creditors not to press the matter immediately. But I have very little time.’

‘So that’s why...’

‘I proposed to you.’ He exhaled. ‘We are both facing scandal, it seems. Perhaps because we’re in the same predicament is why I jumped to a solution. That we make a marriage of convenience.’

A marriage of convenience. She’d heard the phrase, but had never expected it to apply to her.

‘I trust I do not sound like an opportunist,’ he added.

‘“Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them,”’ she quoted.

‘Samuel Smiles,’ he said.

‘You’ve read Self-Help?’ she asked, astonished.

‘Of course.’ He chuckled, rather grimly. ‘The Beaufort family currently need all the help they can get.’

Violet took a breath. ‘You love your family.’

‘Indeed.’

She did, too.

‘I can see the opportunity in your proposal,’ she said slowly, as her mind ticked. ‘For the good of both our families. But there is a difficulty.’

Adam Beaufort raised an eyebrow.

Violet hesitated. She’d never told anyone about her secret decision. Yet, oddly enough, she trusted him.

‘I have made a pledge not to marry,’ she said at last.

Adam drew back. ‘Never?’

Violet shook her head. ‘It’s not a pledge for life. I don’t intend to join a nunnery. I simply don’t wish to marry yet.’

‘Is there a particular reason you intend to wait?’

She bit her lip.

‘As I assured you at the ball, I can keep a secret,’ he said.

‘It’s for the Cause,’ she replied at last. ‘I wish to devote myself to it, entirely.’

Amazement was etched on his face. ‘The Cause means that much to you?’