‘Yes, but—’
‘Then please, Hetty, don’t pester me like this all the time! Is this … physicality all you want from me? Are you so desperate for it that you’re willing to steal it from me, against my knowledge while I sleep? Like the worst kind of wanton strumpet?’
‘How can you accuse me like that? How can you use the word wanton when I, your wife of over a year, am still a maid?’ she gasps at him, struggling to speak as sobs take a stranglehold on her.
Albert’s face is pale, and shining with sweat. He looks unwell. ‘I … I’m sorry,’ he says at last, quietly. His eyes are wide and unfocused. He swallows, and looks down at Hester as she weeps as though she is a wild and unknowable animal. At length, he turns and walks slowly away towards his dressing room, and Hester flings out her hand, clutches the fabric of his robe.
‘Albert, wait! Please, don’t go … stay and talk to me!’ she begs.
‘Now, now, Hetty,’ Albert murmurs vaguely. ‘I must get ready.’ He goes into his dressing room and shuts the door, his expression both fraught and distant.
Kneeling on the bed, Hester puts her hand over her mouth and catches the musky smell of him clinging to her skin. She is still sobbing, and though she tries to stop she can’t. She shivers in the warm room, and sits until these symptoms ease. In their place come confusion, and doubt, and desolation; and with them the new, unwelcome realisation that it had been when he’d opened his eyes and seen her that Albert’s state of arousal had waned. Hester moves to the edge of the bed, and sits with her feet dangling over it. She ought to get up, and get dressed for breakfast, but it all seems so pointless. Entirely as pointless as she feels herself to be.
Cat hears the jeering before she sees the unfortunate butt of the abuse. She has walked to Thatcham, and posted letters and a parcel for Hester, and now has to pick up fresh meat from the butcher. This she has to do more regularly than ever, since the weather continues to seethe and stew, and they can’t keep it from spoiling at The Rectory. After more than a day hanging in the well it comes up silvery green, and slick with a wet shine that greases the fingers, smells sharp and vinegary, and turns the stomach. As Cat walked past George’s boat, just now, her heart lurched and her throat went dry. But the cabin door was firmly shut, with no sound from within or signs of its occupant. She walked on past with a slight fluttering in her stomach – butterfly wings of panic, threatening to grow stronger. She wonders what they mean. At the far end of The Broadway, where a wide open area between the flanking rows of shops forms something of an unmade square, a plump woman is standing on a rickety wooden platform. Her bonnet is no match for the powerful sun, and her face is flushed and shining. It’s the colours that draw Cat’s eye, make her catch her breath: a banner of white, green and purple hanging in swags behind the woman; a sash to match, draped over her; ribbons in the colours hanging limp in the still air. Arise! Go Forth and Conquer! the banner reads, painted by hand in purple letters that stand bold from the white sheet. A smaller placard propped beside her reads Newbury WSPU – Bicycle Corps. Licking her dry lips, and with a strange longing inside – almost like when her mother died, though not as strong – Cat makes her way over to the crowd.
It’s mostly men making all the noise, though some women join in too; laughing, passing remarks to one another, firing scandalised looks through their eyelashes. Those folk at the front of the crowd who might have wanted to hear the speech have little chance to. The strain of making herself heard above the din is forcing the plump woman to fight for breath.
‘As Mrs Pankhurst herself explained … as Mrs Pankhurst herself explained, the vote is first of all a symbol! Firstly, a symbol; secondly a safeguard; and thirdly, it is an instrument! Sisters! Comrades! Your lives will never improve until the government of this country is made accountable to you all!’ she shouts, to a fresh round of whistles and abuse. The speaker, short in stature with curly brown hair and a wide, gentle face, casts a glance over the hostile crowd with a helpless look in her eyes. ‘The vote is the instrument by which we may redress the imbalances in education, and law, and employment, all three of which remain to this day weighted so very heavily in favour of the male sex!’ she says, the words all but lost in the din. ‘They say that men and women occupy two different spheres of existence – the home for women, and work and government for men – and that these spheres have been ordained by God, and should remain separate. They say that the political world is too dirty and raucous a one for women. Well, if the home may benefit from a woman’s gentle nurturing and purity, then surely public life could not help but be benefited by the same? If it is so dirty and raucous, then let us cleanse and civilise it!’ she cries gamely.