Page 88 of Hearts of Briarwall

S. Hayes

Lydia pulled the letter to her chest, bowed her head, and wept.

On Monday, the drawing room at Kinthwaite Park was filled with large, frothy hats, day gowns of all colors and stripes, and the hum of female reformation. After discussing and planning the May Day march, the attendees had been divided into groups and given a task in preparation for the event which would take place in exactly one week.

Mrs. Whittemore, as mistress of Kinthwaite Park and hostess of the weekly suffrage meetings—held beneath her husband’s notice as he attended his London clubs on Mondays—had selected the Wendy League to help make dozens upon dozens of tissue paper flowers into nosegays to pin on ladies and gentlemen in the park.

It was Lydia’s and Ruby’s job to gather three blossoms made at another table by other fingers, wrap them together in brightly colored ribbon, and shove a pin into the “stems.” Then it was Florrie’s and Violet’s job to attach a small “Votes for Women” tag, fluff up the flowers, and toss them into a basket. To Lydia, a mindless job that includedstabbingwas just what she needed to finish out this day.

Andrew had attempted to “collect” her from Florrie’s house, which had resulted in a heated confrontation between her brother and all three of the girls, who’d gathered at Grantmore Hill as soon as it was possible for them.

Lydia hadn’t left her room during his call, but she’d heard the varied tones of voice volleyed around the drawing room, and then the scuffle on the stairs when Andrew had attempted to climb them. The three girlsandthe butler had created a human barrier that Andrew—being a gentleman—could not bring himself to breach as it would require too much touching. At least, that’s how Florrie had described it. Andrew had become flustered and red-faced. He had left without a word to his sister, though he had several for her friends.

Lydia stabbed another pin in its place. “Do we still call them ‘nosegays’ when they’re made of paper and have no scent to make our noses as such?” She picked up another bunch and stabbed.

“Have a care, Lydia, you’ll stab your finger, and we’ve enough red blossoms already.” Ruby focused on tying her ribbons.

“Well,thatwas quite morbid,” Florrie said.

“Says the girl who asked all the questions about mummification at the Egyptian exhibit last month,” Ruby replied.

Florrie pursed her lips, unrepentant.

“You may call them ‘posies’ if you wish,” Mrs. Whittemore said as she walked by, looking over their work. “We can’t use real flowers and make them up this far ahead of time, now can we? They’d be withered and dead, and that is quite the opposite of what we fight to portray in our movement, is it not? Alive, girls. Alive, vivacious, and—”

“Fragile as tissue paper?” Violet finished for her mother.

Mrs. Whittemore playfully narrowed her gaze at her daughter. “Bright, is what I was going to say, Violet Grace. Though a dash of vinegar never hurt anybody, either.”

Violet grinned and tossed another finished posy into the basket. “I’ve vinegar in spades.”

Mrs. Whittemore sighed. “Don’t I know it. Use it for good, dear girl. Now, Lydia, I understand you are staying at Grantmore Hill at the moment, but I was hoping you and the girls would join us for dinner this evening—I’ve already rung your mother, Florrie—as I wish to ask you questions about this motorcar supply shop business.”

Lydia put down her pin and swallowed. “Me? Shouldn’t you take your questions to ... Mr. Hayes?”

“I was under the impression he’d left Albury.”

Lydia looked to Ruby, who drew herself up. “Mr. Hayes is staying at Little Oakley, in our carriage house by invitation of my brother Oscar.”

Lydia had learned the news as soon as Ruby had arrived that morning. Apparently the two men had run into each other in town, and when Oscar learned what had happened—to what extent, she was not sure—he’d invited Spencer to stay until his business was complete. Ruby had conveyed to Lydia the fact that Spencer had been surprised to learn his business proposition was indeed still viable, though tenuous, and on the table. At least with the Burkes and a few of their friends. She had no idea what Sir Lawrence would do, or what Andrew would tell him.

“In that case, I’ll invite him to dinner as well,” Mrs. Whittemore said.

Lydia froze.

“Mama, don’t you think it’s a little late to invite Mr. Hayes to dinner tonight?” Violet asked.

“It’s what he’s here for, is it not? To procure investors? In any case, extending the invitation can’t hurt. If he’s busy, we can simply arrange a better time. You yourself are interested in his proposal, are you not?”

Violet sat back in her chair. “I am.” She gave a look of apology to Lydia.

“We women need to act on our brilliant impulses if we are to hitch our wagons to the stars—to borrow a phrase from that Emerson fellow. I rather like the Americans. Quite modern about things.” She bustled away. “Let’s fold those banners neatly over here, Mrs. Lindquist. We are making quite a nest! Miss Hayward, I know you are passionate in the cause, but kindly remember this is a peaceful demonstration during a beloved holiday. There will be no need to chain yourself to the May Pole. ... Yes, I realize that, but the children will be performing!”

Violet leaned over to Lydia. “I’m sorry, Lydia. Perhaps he cannot come.”

She pushed a pin into another posy. “You’ve considered it, then? What I told you about Spencer’s father? And mine?”

“We all have,” Florrie said quietly.

---