Tasha Alexander - A Crimson Warning

Until we saw Winifred Harris.

I would have liked to pretend not to have noticed her, but the figure she cut was too imposing to miss, not only due to her larger-than-average height and girth, but also because of her booming voice. I walked faster, but to no avail.

“Ivy, dear!” she called, then stood, unmoving, as if waiting for us to come pay homage to her.

Ivy smiled and crossed to her friend. “My dear Winifred,” she said. “What a delightful surprise to see you.”

“It can’t be much of a surprise, Ivy,” Mrs. Harris said, squinting at us through a fashionable lorgnette that was attached to her too-snugly tailored jacket. “It’s the Season. Where else would you expect to find a woman of my standing at this time of day? Hyde Park is the only place to be seen.”

“I only meant it was a pleasant surprise for me,” Ivy said. “I never meant to suggest you would—”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Harris said. “How is your husband, Lady Emily? I understand he’s embroiled in this unpleasant business that occurred in Southwark last night.”

“He’s involved in the investigation, yes,” I said.

“A very dodgy business,” she said. “I do hope his insistence on working doesn’t harm your reputation. It’s unseemly for a man of his fortune to seek gainful employment.”

“He’s never shirked from his duties to the Crown,” I said. “The queen quite depends upon him.”

“He’s charming enough—and handsome enough—for us to tolerate nearly anything he does. But you don’t quite share his status, my dear. It would behoove you to be very careful when choosing how you occupy yourself. People are prone to talk. You should keep well clear of the investigation. I know you’ve insisted on doing otherwise in the past.”

“Mr. Hargreaves is taking care of everything,” Ivy said. “You’ve no need to worry on Emily’s behalf.”

“Only intervenes when he gives her permission, does she?” Mrs. Harris asked, as if I weren’t standing directly in front of her. “I’m glad to hear someone in the family has a drop of sense.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Harris,” I said. “Ivy and I will be late to the Women’s Liberal Federation if we don’t beg our leave at once. It was as lovely to see you as it always is.” The sentiment was strictly true. If she chose to take from my statement that I found it empirically lovely to see her, that was her choice. Pulling Ivy by the arm, I dragged her back to the pavement before she could protest our hasty departure.

We walked along the southern side of the Serpentine, the park’s long, curving lake and then continued on towards the Round Pond, where countless children were playing with toy boats. The pavements were slightly less crowded here, and became even emptier as we passed Kensington Palace and moved out of the park and into Kensington Palace Gardens, one of my favorite streets in all of London. Tall plane trees lined both sides and elegant houses stretched the half-mile length of the edge of the park. We turned left to reach Palace Green, the southernmost part of the road, but stopped before we’d taken ten paces. There was Polly Sanders’s house. Its noble edifice was gracious and neat, but the front door and the steps, along with the fence in front of the property—all of which had been gleaming white—were covered with a swathe of dark red paint.

“What happened here?” I asked, inquiring of the servant on her hands and knees, scrubbing the bottom of a white square pillar that stood between sections of the fence.

“Madam?” She looked down, seemingly afraid to speak to me.

“I’m Lady Emily Hargreaves, a friend of Polly’s,” I said. “Who did this?”

“It was a vandal of some sort, madam. We don’t know who. I’ve been at it for more hours than I can count, but it’s right near impossible to remove. They’ve sent someone off to get turpentine.”

“When did it happen?” I asked.

“It was like this when we woke up yesterday morning. Terrible thing, ’specially now. The missus doesn’t need any more trouble.”

“No, she certainly doesn’t,” I said. “Don’t let me distract you from your task.”

“Yes, madam.” She returned to her work, her face tense with effort.

We continued towards Lady Carlisle’s house in the bottom of the street. “This is dreadful,” Ivy said. “Poor Polly is all but ruined. And now this? It’s grotesquely unfair. Who would have done such a thing to her house?”

“I can’t imagine,” I said. “Isn’t it enough that the family have suffered such pain and humiliation? Why would someone want to draw further attention to their plight?”

We’d reached our destination. I looked up at Number One Palace Green. It was smaller than the other homes on the street and looked as if it had been built more recently, although its red bricks fronted a relatively plain façade. I pulled open the iron gate and felt a twinge of nerves as we walked up concrete steps to the narrow, arched entrance to the house. I felt as if I were on the precipice of something important, as if I were about to enter a world full of other people who shared values similar to my own, a place where I would not be ostracized for my intellectual interests and social radicalism. I took a deep breath and lifted my hand to knock on the door.

In retrospect, I admit precipice might not have been quite the right word. The ladies of Women’s Liberal Federation, while charming and welcoming, weren’t as different from the rest of society as one might have thought. I’d expected—or perhaps hoped for—firebrand politics. Instead, we entered a pleasant drawing room papered in a William Morris design and found ourselves in a crush of violently fashionable ladies. Their sleeves, in every bright color of fabric, were so wide one could hardly squeeze past them. We drank tea and enjoyed genteel conversation that focused as much on needlepoint and which balls everyone planned to attend that evening as it did the issue of we ladies gaining the vote. It was pleasant, but a little anticlimactic.

“I confess I’d worried they would be more radical,” Ivy asked, her voice hushed as she scooted her chair closer to mine. The meeting had started in earnest, though many of the ladies weren’t paying much attention.

“I thought they would be, too,” I said, not voicing my disappointment to find they were not.

“Can you hear me, Lady Emily? I need to know if we can count on you.” Lady Carlisle’s voice carried over the group, and I felt like a child caught talking out of turn at school. “Will you distribute pamphlets with us?”

I had heard everything she’d said about these pamphlets, which the group planned to hand out to specially selected ladies in the most unobtrusive way possible so as not to put off any possible recruits.

“I should like very much to be in charge of handing them out to the Conservative MPs, if that would be allowed,” I said. “I’m not afraid of direct opposition.”

“Well, now,” Lady Carlisle said. “I do admire your determination.” Our hostess was well known for the fervent support she lent to her favorite causes: temperance, Irish Home Rule, and free trade. It was she who had directed the movement for the Women’s Liberal Federation to pursue an aggressive agenda to get votes for women, a policy that had caused a schism in the group. Nearly ten thousand members had resigned and started their own organization, the priorities of which did not include supporting such controversial stances.

“As soon as I have the documents in hand, I’ll set off for Westminster. I’d like to confront them there,” I said. “I want to present myself as if I’m already a constituent and coming to them with a concern. I think they’ll respect me for taking a direct approach, even if they don’t agree with our position. My goal will be to identify those who show the slightest hints of sympathy and then I’ll begin cultivating relationships with their wives.”