From a Paris Balcony(21)

 

A real idea had begun to form in her head that morning while she walked, as ideas often did. What if she were to use her role here at Ashworth to promote women’s rights? She agreed with Mrs. Pankhurst that the vote for women was the first step toward eventual equality. Wouldn’t Emmeline Pankhurst be glad of a woman who would eventually have the rank and standing of a duchess to help with the cause? Louisa would have far more power as Viscountess Louisa Duval than she would as the unmarried Louisa West. Not to mention access to funds from her father once she married.

 

Possibilities had begun to open in her mind. Louisa was convinced that she had more chance of making progress here in Britain than she did at home in America. Were she to go home, her mother would put a stop to any activities that she tried to undertake. Were she to join the newly formed National American Woman Suffrage Association in America, she had no doubt that her mother would cut her off entirely from funds. But Louisa could see that this new group had been formed by bringing together women from largely middle-class backgrounds—the very participants in the charity organizations that Louisa would be expected to lead were she to marry Henry. And as his wife, not only would she have influence and power to galvanize women in these groups, but, dare she say it, she would have access to the money they needed.

 

They had come to a clearing in the forest. Scattered about, in the sudden sunshine, was a veritable collection of follies—tumbling-down replicas of Roman buildings, many of them draped in deep green ivy. Marble columns, some of them lying on their sides, some of them standing tall, caught the sun on their old, narrow bricks.

 

Louisa let the little dog loose, but watched her as she trotted about.

 

A picnic table had been set up near an old upturned statue, complete with a white tablecloth strewn with wildflowers, as if some nymph had scattered them there. A plate of cucumber sandwiches was covered with a glass dome. There were silver pitchers of pink lemonade and two chairs were covered in pink brocade.

 

Louisa couldn’t imagine a more romantic setting in her life. Had she entertained any doubts about Henry’s intentions, they were dissipating fast now. Henry surveyed the scene, as if taking it in with his approval.

 

“Hungry?” he asked.

 

Louisa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the charming surroundings. She wandered to one of the fallen statues and ran her hand over the warm old stone.

 

Henry stood near the table, leaning on the back of a chair. Next to it, a bottle of champagne chilled in a silver vessel on an elaborate stand. Louisa felt her breath quicken again, averted her eyes from it, and instead regarded Henry.

 

He poured her a glass of pink lemonade, holding it out for her.

 

“We had better not let the food turn bad in the heat.” Louisa smiled, taking the glass that was decorated with the Ashworth coat of arms—several stag heads lined up in a row.

 

“I had it delivered five minutes ago,” Henry said. He smiled then, a secretive, powerful sort of smile, as if he enjoyed his ability to command others, the power it gave him. “Shall we sit down?”

 

Louisa hesitated a moment. She couldn’t help but wonder if his invitation to sit at the table was indeed an invitation to join this power, or was he trying to use it over her?

 

Louisa moved to the table quickly, determined not to let him sense any confusion on her part. Her shoes sank into the soft green grass and she leaned forward, her hands wanting to play with something on the table. She settled for her fork.

 

Henry handed her the plate of sandwiches, and she thought how odd it was not to have servants around. It must be the only meal she had ever had at Ashworth where she was alone with a family member and no help.

 

“I think you would be very capable of running a place like this,” Henry said suddenly.

 

A breeze picked up, sending the tablecloth into a small flurry. Louisa smoothed it out and focused on her plate of food. Cucumber sandwiches, egg sandwiches. Scones, cakes, and jellies. Did she want to become English, or not?

 

Apart from all the questions about what she wanted to do, how she was going to do it, and her feelings toward Henry, she had also experienced a strange sense of dislocation in England. For some reason, she seemed to have lost her sense of being American, and yet she felt foreign in Britain at the same time.

 

“I don’t know that I would be terribly capable,” she said, finally. “I rather think it would be a task that would take a special sort of person.”

 

“A capable, strong sort of person, like you,” Henry said. He leaned back in his seat. “Would you like some champagne?”