My fingers flexed. ‘Do you want me to clobber you with my fan?’
‘No need to get violent. I’m just shocked.’ She shook her head, dazed. ‘A man. Fancy that. Lilly Linton going over to the enemy.’
Reflexively, my chin shot out. ‘I’m not “going over to the enemy”!’
‘Really? Hasn’t your sweetheart asked you to shed your extremist political views about voting, working women yet? It'll happen, just you wait. And next you’ll get all silly and soppy and start knitting and sewing and saying that a lady’s proper place is inside the home.’
She shook her head in mock disgust, smirking.
‘And I had such a promising future in the movement planned for you. You could have gone far, my young friend. Too bad you throw it all away for a simple life of marital bliss.’
I knew that she was joking, of course - but in a way, she wasn’t. She really thought I was straying from the path and sacrificing my ideals.
Well, I’d show her!
With no work tomorrow, I would have plenty of time. Leaning towards her so that nobody else could hear me, I whispered: ‘Meet me with the other girls at ten o'clock tomorrow morning in Green Park, and I’ll tell you what I think a lady should be doing.’
She looked at me, a smile slowly spreading over her broad face, mingled suspicion and interest twinkling in her eyes.
‘What have you got planned?’
‘My secret for now.’ I winked. ‘Suffice it to say that I have overheard something which might be of interest to our little group of suffragists. We have work to do!’
*~*~**~*~*
The rest of the ball went by quickly, mostly because now I had something with which to occupy my mind. What the loose-lipped gentleman had told me about the meeting against the women’s suffrage in Hyde Park kept reverberating inside my head. Ideas were fermenting inside my busy bean. Soon they would develop into plans.
I spent the rest of the ball plotting the downfall of mankind and the rise of womankind. Most of my plotting happened together with Ella and Patsy in Lord Dalgliesh’s vicinity. This had multiple advantages:
The group around the lord was one of the thickest in the ballroom. Thus, whenever Sir Philip came in sight, we could shove Ella behind a fat duchess or broad-shouldered admiral, and she would be saved from another dance.
Whenever my aunt looked my way and saw me, right there, next to Lord Dalgliesh, she beamed as if it were Christmas and Easter put together. At least she wouldn’t be able to say I wasn’t trying.
For some reason, Mr Ambrose stayed far away from the group. This I found strange, because earlier he had made such a particular point of greeting Lord Dalgliesh as if they were old friends. But who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth?
By use of this clever method of unpleasant-people-avoidance we were able to keep the nasties out of our hair for quite some time. Everyone else pretty much left us alone, too. I was rather startled when somebody coughed beside me, thinking that it was Wilkins who had seen through our ruse at last - but it was only a servant, who bowed to me politely.
‘Forgive me, Miss? Could you step aside? I have to deliver a message to His Lordship.’
Promptly, I did as he asked, and so did everyone else in the vicinity. I noticed, though, that they didn’t step back too far to hear what this mysterious message might be. It consisted of a letter the servant bore on a silver tray.
Arriving at His Lordship’s side, the servant gave another discreet cough.
‘I beg Your Lordship’s pardon? I have a message for you, My Lord.’
Lord Dalgliesh turned from the group of friends with whom he was laughing and joking and, seeing the tray, picked up the letter and eyed it over his aquiline nose.
‘Who gave this to you?’
‘Another servant, who would not divulge the identity of his master or mistress, My Lord. But he said you would know the identity of the sender once you opened it.’
Lord Dalgliesh’s gaze quickly flicked from right to left. Feeling all eyes upon him, intent with curiosity, he snatched up the silver letter-opener on the tray and cut open the envelope. He grabbed whatever was inside and pulled.
Out came not a sheet of paper, nor a card, nor anything else with writing on it. No, out came a lock of hair - blond hair to be precise. For a moment, everything was still around the little group, then discreet chuckles broke out among the gentlemen, and the ladies fanned themselves.
‘By Jove!’ a colonel in the Royal Dragoons[39] exclaimed. ‘I think it’s rather more likely this letter came from a lady than from a gentleman, don't you think so, my friends?’ This was greeted by affirmations and laughter from all sides. ‘Come on, Dalgliesh, tell us who the lucky lady is!’