The Unseen(26)

In the weeks that followed, they went to the Women’s Press Shop on Charing Cross Road to buy the colours – all manner of accessories in white, purple and green were on sale, from hat pins to bicycles – and volunteered their time filling envelopes, handing out leaflets, and advertising meetings and fundraising events. And they went, from then on, each Sunday afternoon, even though their feet were throbbing and their backs aching, and they could have spent the time lying down or drinking in the pub, or meeting with a sweetheart. They wore their WSPU badges pinned to their underwear all week, where they would not be seen and confiscated; and from then on they were not merely servants, they were suffragettes.

It was a game at first, Cat thinks. A game in which she dictated the rules and Tess played along. Cat shuts her eyes in anguish, the letter lying unfinished in front of her. How can she write something as insufficient as a letter about it all? How can she hope to make amends? Sweet, trusting Tess; little more than a child and besotted with Cat, willing to do whatever Cat asked of her. And what Cat asked of her would come to ruin her. It would end with her blood staining the ground around her, and her spirit beaten down. It would end in her violent devastation. Cat signs off with two bleak little words. Forgive me. She presses the letter to her chest, as if it will absorb some of the remorse from her heart, and carry it to Tess.





3



The Rev. Albert Canning – from his journal


FRIDAY, JUNE 2ND, 1911


I heard the most remarkable speaker in Newbury last night, one Robin Durrant. A young man, and yet clearly advanced beyond his years in intellect and understanding. He spoke most eloquently upon the basic tenets of the wisdom religion, aka theosophy; keeping all in the auditorium quite captivated. Particular emphasis was laid on nature spirits, the evidence for their existence, methods of detecting them, and the reasons how and why they may choose to reveal – or indeed not to reveal – themselves, at will, to their human neighbours. He spoke to me most compellingly after the lecture was given, regarding the reconciliation of theosophy with the Anglican faith.

I returned from the lecture during a terrific electric storm. What controls such things, such startling things, if not God, if not the higher order? Exceedingly well timed to coincide with my sermon on this very point. Hester much troubled by the storm, it seeming to leave her emotionally weakened and needy. I found some scripture regarding the presence of God in such things to comfort her, but at times she is inconsolable by words. Women are like children, sometimes, in their simple fears and misunderstandings.

We spoke again on the subject of a family, and at her insistence we fell into an embrace to this end, which eventually culminated in my withdrawal. Her tears, which I am certain are not designed to persuade me, nevertheless compel me into these situations. But she is right, and it is the duty of a husband to lie with his wife in a discreet manner, for the begetting of children. I cannot explain my reluctance to her. I cannot sufficiently explain it to myself. But something stops me; something forces me to retreat from the act. I can only think that God has some other plan for me – for us – that He has not yet chosen to reveal. I dare not say such a thing to Hester, who has her heart quite set upon children of her own, and who also seems to need these physical expressions of emotion in a way I do not. But we are made and designed by God, and He guides our hand, if we let Him; so I must heed to my instincts. I pray that Hetty may come to accept this. I hate to think that she may be unhappy.





1911


On Monday evening Hester comes downstairs from an afternoon nap, drifting through the house on steady feet in search of her husband. She follows the soft sounds of his fingers upon ivory keys to the library, where the upright piano that was a wedding present from her uncle stands amidst piles of papers and hymn books and musical scores. She leans against the door jamb and watches him for a moment, listening to the light notes he plays – odd little phrases, over and over with tiny variations here and there. His head is studiously bowed, exposing the back of his neck, the little hairs there lit golden in the afternoon light. She is suddenly nervous about interrupting him, displeasing him. Since the night of the thunderstorm there has been some unspoken awkwardness between them which makes her hesitate. A moment later, he seems to sense her presence and straightens up, glancing over his shoulder. Hester smiles.

‘I’m sorry, my darling. I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he says, as she crosses to sit beside him.

‘You didn’t,’ Hester assures him, relieved that he seems quite relaxed. ‘I was awake anyway, and ready to rise. Are you writing another hymn?’