establish my career, and I do not have the time—”
“Mrs. Fawcett’s sister, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett, seems to find time for the cause. She was a participant in yesterday’s march,” Miss Lithgow said.
“That may be, Miss Lithgow, but she is considerably older than I and her career firmly established.”
“And she would never have condoned the violence thaterupted yesterday,” a sparrow of a woman named Mrs. Slowcroft put in. “Like me, she believes in nonmilitant tactics.”
“We didn’t start the violence; it was a peaceful march,” Molly Jenkins said, but her words were lost as Miss Lithgow, her fair skin emblazoned with passion and her eyes as accusing as those of the fox around her neck, cried out, “How, may I ask, can we be expected to peacefully bring about change when we don’t have the political rights to do so? You and your like have had more than twenty years to get us the vote, Mrs. Slowcroft, and where has your nonmilitancy got us? Nowhere! We need to act now: deeds, not words!” Then, turning to the other women in the room, she said, “I propose we launch some kind of counteroffensive. We need to let the authorities know we will not allow ourselves to be trampled in the street!”
“I’m with you,” Molly Jenkins called out, and the rest of the room, barring Dody and Mrs. Slowcroft, stamped their feet and rang teaspoons against cups in agreement.
Florence raised her hands to silence the din. “Whatever counterattack we decide upon, we must discuss it with Christabel Pankhurst first.”
“I don’t think Christabel would be averse to blowing up the Houses of Parliament itself,” Miss Olivia Barndon-Brown said with a chuckle. Olivia was a rotund, jolly woman who wore a Moorish kaftan of brilliant hues. When not involved in suffragette activities, she could be found working in the East End soup kitchen funded by her wealthy parents. She was second-in-command of the Bloomsbury Division and her earthy humour had proven a useful antidote to the petty tensions that tended to undermine other groups.
“Then, in the event of any such measure, Miss Barndon-Brown,I am leaving.” Mrs. Slowcroft climbed to her feet. She gave Dody her hand. “It was lovely to meet you, my dear. I’m glad to see you have more sense than your young hotblood of a sister.”
“Mrs. Slowcroft is a visitor to our Bloomsbury Division,” Florence explained to Dody almost apologetically. “She’s a member of Mrs. Fawcett’s group, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Society.” She shot Mrs. Slowcroft a frown. “I invited her here as a courtesy.”
“None of us asked for the trouble yesterday,” Molly Jenkins said to Mrs. Slowcroft, more moderately this time. “The Pankhursts told us to be’ave and be’ave we did. It was the police what caused the problems. And this ’ere”—she indicated the seated ladies with a reddened hand—“is exactly what they want—they want us to start bickering and fighting among ourselves so they can smash us up—divide and conquer, that’s their plan.”
“Quite right, Molly,” Florence said. “Mrs. Slowcroft, please sit down, do. Why don’t we all have another cup of tea and be friends?” Her sister reminded Dody of their mother breaking up a childish argument. “Although we work through different means,” Florence continued, “we are all fighting for the same cause.” She pulled the bell for Annie.
Mrs. Slowcroft let out a martyr’s sigh and sat back down again.
A slender young woman in a plain office suit, with muddy boots and a sodden hem, accompanied Annie into the room a few minutes later.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, I’ve had the most dreadful time,” she said. Her sudden burst of tears interrupted any kind of formal introduction to Dody, but as the other women fussedaround her, repeating her name, Miss Treylen, Dody was able to gather that she worked as a clerk at the docks. She had been using her afternoon off to sell copies of
Votes for
“Mrs. Fawcett’s sister, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett, seems to find time for the cause. She was a participant in yesterday’s march,” Miss Lithgow said.
“That may be, Miss Lithgow, but she is considerably older than I and her career firmly established.”
“And she would never have condoned the violence thaterupted yesterday,” a sparrow of a woman named Mrs. Slowcroft put in. “Like me, she believes in nonmilitant tactics.”
“We didn’t start the violence; it was a peaceful march,” Molly Jenkins said, but her words were lost as Miss Lithgow, her fair skin emblazoned with passion and her eyes as accusing as those of the fox around her neck, cried out, “How, may I ask, can we be expected to peacefully bring about change when we don’t have the political rights to do so? You and your like have had more than twenty years to get us the vote, Mrs. Slowcroft, and where has your nonmilitancy got us? Nowhere! We need to act now: deeds, not words!” Then, turning to the other women in the room, she said, “I propose we launch some kind of counteroffensive. We need to let the authorities know we will not allow ourselves to be trampled in the street!”
“I’m with you,” Molly Jenkins called out, and the rest of the room, barring Dody and Mrs. Slowcroft, stamped their feet and rang teaspoons against cups in agreement.
Florence raised her hands to silence the din. “Whatever counterattack we decide upon, we must discuss it with Christabel Pankhurst first.”
“I don’t think Christabel would be averse to blowing up the Houses of Parliament itself,” Miss Olivia Barndon-Brown said with a chuckle. Olivia was a rotund, jolly woman who wore a Moorish kaftan of brilliant hues. When not involved in suffragette activities, she could be found working in the East End soup kitchen funded by her wealthy parents. She was second-in-command of the Bloomsbury Division and her earthy humour had proven a useful antidote to the petty tensions that tended to undermine other groups.
“Then, in the event of any such measure, Miss Barndon-Brown,I am leaving.” Mrs. Slowcroft climbed to her feet. She gave Dody her hand. “It was lovely to meet you, my dear. I’m glad to see you have more sense than your young hotblood of a sister.”
“Mrs. Slowcroft is a visitor to our Bloomsbury Division,” Florence explained to Dody almost apologetically. “She’s a member of Mrs. Fawcett’s group, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Society.” She shot Mrs. Slowcroft a frown. “I invited her here as a courtesy.”
“None of us asked for the trouble yesterday,” Molly Jenkins said to Mrs. Slowcroft, more moderately this time. “The Pankhursts told us to be’ave and be’ave we did. It was the police what caused the problems. And this ’ere”—she indicated the seated ladies with a reddened hand—“is exactly what they want—they want us to start bickering and fighting among ourselves so they can smash us up—divide and conquer, that’s their plan.”
“Quite right, Molly,” Florence said. “Mrs. Slowcroft, please sit down, do. Why don’t we all have another cup of tea and be friends?” Her sister reminded Dody of their mother breaking up a childish argument. “Although we work through different means,” Florence continued, “we are all fighting for the same cause.” She pulled the bell for Annie.
Mrs. Slowcroft let out a martyr’s sigh and sat back down again.
A slender young woman in a plain office suit, with muddy boots and a sodden hem, accompanied Annie into the room a few minutes later.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, I’ve had the most dreadful time,” she said. Her sudden burst of tears interrupted any kind of formal introduction to Dody, but as the other women fussedaround her, repeating her name, Miss Treylen, Dody was able to gather that she worked as a clerk at the docks. She had been using her afternoon off to sell copies of
Votes for
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