family.”
“And writes children’s fairy tales about hedgehogs and rabbits!” Mrs. Lancaster finished for her.
“How appropriate! If you ask me, the whole Socialist idea belongs with Peter Rabbit and Mrs. Tiggiwinkle,” Lady Warden said with a giggle.
“No, it doesn’t!” Rose contradicted, her deep feeling unconcealed. “The fact that a person’s appearance may be a trifle quaint should not blind us to the worth of that person’s ideas, or more importantly, to appreciate the danger those ideas may present to our real power. We should draw such people in to ally with us, not ignore them.”
“They aren’t going to ally with us, my dear,” Mrs. Lancaster pointed out reasonably. “Their ideas are impractically extreme. They want an actual Labor Party.”
The discussion moved to specific reforms and the speed at which they might be achieved, or even should be attempted. Emily joined in, but it was Rose Serracold who made the most outrageous suggestions and provoked the most laughter. No one, especially Emily, was entirely certain how much Rose meant beneath the wit and the keen observation of emotion and foible.
“You think I’m joking, don’t you?” Rose said when the group divided and she and Emily were able to speak alone.
“No, I don’t,” Emily replied, keeping her back to those nearest them. Suddenly she was quite certain of it. “But I think you’ll be very well advised to let other people think so. We are at precisely that stage in our understanding of the Fabians where we will think they are funny but have begun to have the first suspicion that in the end the joke may be more against us than with us.”
Rose leaned forward, her fair face intense, all lightness gone from it. “That is precisely why we must listen to them, Emily, and adopt at least the best of their ideas . . . in fact, most of them. Reform will come, and we must be in the forefront of it. The franchise must include all adults, poor as well as rich, and in time women as well.” Her eyebrows arched. “Don’t look so horrified! It must. As the Empire must go—but that is another issue. And no matter what Mr. Gladstone says, we must make it law that the working day is no more than eight hours across all manner of trades, and no employer can force a man to do more.”
“Or woman?” Emily asked curiously.
“Of course!” Rose’s answer was immediate, a reflex to an unnecessary question.
Emily affected innocence. “And if you call for your lady’s maid to fetch you a cup of tea at half past eight, will you accept the answer that she has worked eight hours and is off duty—and you should get it yourself?”
“Touché.” Rose bent her head in acknowledgment, a flush of mortification on her cheeks. “Perhaps we only mean factory work, at least to begin with.” Then she lifted her eyes quickly. “But it doesn’t alter the fact that we have to go forward if we are to survive, let alone if we are to obtain any kind of social justice.”
“We all want social justice,” Emily answered wryly. “It’s just that everyone has a different idea as to what it is . . . and how to achieve it . . . and when.”
“Tomorrow!” Rose shrugged her shoulders. “As far as the Tories are concerned, any time, as long as it isn’t today!”
They were joined again briefly by Lady Molloy, speaking largely to Rose, and obviously still turning over in her mind what had been said previously.
“I had better be careful, hadn’t I?” Rose said ruefully when Lady Molloy had gone. “The poor soul is quite flummoxed.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Emily warned. “She may have little imagination, but she is very astute when it comes to practical judgment.”
“How tedious.” Rose sighed elaborately. “That is one of the greatest disadvantages of running for public office, one has to please the public. Not that I don’t desire to, of course! But making oneself understood is the greatest challenge, don’t you
“And writes children’s fairy tales about hedgehogs and rabbits!” Mrs. Lancaster finished for her.
“How appropriate! If you ask me, the whole Socialist idea belongs with Peter Rabbit and Mrs. Tiggiwinkle,” Lady Warden said with a giggle.
“No, it doesn’t!” Rose contradicted, her deep feeling unconcealed. “The fact that a person’s appearance may be a trifle quaint should not blind us to the worth of that person’s ideas, or more importantly, to appreciate the danger those ideas may present to our real power. We should draw such people in to ally with us, not ignore them.”
“They aren’t going to ally with us, my dear,” Mrs. Lancaster pointed out reasonably. “Their ideas are impractically extreme. They want an actual Labor Party.”
The discussion moved to specific reforms and the speed at which they might be achieved, or even should be attempted. Emily joined in, but it was Rose Serracold who made the most outrageous suggestions and provoked the most laughter. No one, especially Emily, was entirely certain how much Rose meant beneath the wit and the keen observation of emotion and foible.
“You think I’m joking, don’t you?” Rose said when the group divided and she and Emily were able to speak alone.
“No, I don’t,” Emily replied, keeping her back to those nearest them. Suddenly she was quite certain of it. “But I think you’ll be very well advised to let other people think so. We are at precisely that stage in our understanding of the Fabians where we will think they are funny but have begun to have the first suspicion that in the end the joke may be more against us than with us.”
Rose leaned forward, her fair face intense, all lightness gone from it. “That is precisely why we must listen to them, Emily, and adopt at least the best of their ideas . . . in fact, most of them. Reform will come, and we must be in the forefront of it. The franchise must include all adults, poor as well as rich, and in time women as well.” Her eyebrows arched. “Don’t look so horrified! It must. As the Empire must go—but that is another issue. And no matter what Mr. Gladstone says, we must make it law that the working day is no more than eight hours across all manner of trades, and no employer can force a man to do more.”
“Or woman?” Emily asked curiously.
“Of course!” Rose’s answer was immediate, a reflex to an unnecessary question.
Emily affected innocence. “And if you call for your lady’s maid to fetch you a cup of tea at half past eight, will you accept the answer that she has worked eight hours and is off duty—and you should get it yourself?”
“Touché.” Rose bent her head in acknowledgment, a flush of mortification on her cheeks. “Perhaps we only mean factory work, at least to begin with.” Then she lifted her eyes quickly. “But it doesn’t alter the fact that we have to go forward if we are to survive, let alone if we are to obtain any kind of social justice.”
“We all want social justice,” Emily answered wryly. “It’s just that everyone has a different idea as to what it is . . . and how to achieve it . . . and when.”
“Tomorrow!” Rose shrugged her shoulders. “As far as the Tories are concerned, any time, as long as it isn’t today!”
They were joined again briefly by Lady Molloy, speaking largely to Rose, and obviously still turning over in her mind what had been said previously.
“I had better be careful, hadn’t I?” Rose said ruefully when Lady Molloy had gone. “The poor soul is quite flummoxed.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Emily warned. “She may have little imagination, but she is very astute when it comes to practical judgment.”
“How tedious.” Rose sighed elaborately. “That is one of the greatest disadvantages of running for public office, one has to please the public. Not that I don’t desire to, of course! But making oneself understood is the greatest challenge, don’t you
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