The Suffragette (closed)

Two hours past midday on the 16th of July found Lady Josephine Dormer in a foul temper. She had been riding in this bloody carriage since before dawn with barely a scone and a cup of tea in her. The bumpy road jostled her to the point of nausea while the wheels kicked up so much dust she felt she must have blacklung. She was grimy and hot and furious at her parents.

The excuse, of course, was that the young lady's breathing had taken a turn for the worse. It was the only conceivable reason the future Countess of Salisbury should leave London mid-season for a seaside retreat. And certainly her delicate lungs had been the subject of society gossip since she'd been a child, questions of whether her constitution could withstand the rigors of producing an heir. But she had flourished since adolescence arrived, and her star had been on the rise.

As she fanned herself in a sharp, angry staccato, Josie knew the real reason and fumed. She hated being forced into this position because she dared to have an opinion. A frightfully strong one at that. Every night for the past seven months she had been sneaking away with a few other ladies, attending meetings and, as was her specialty, writing speeches for the public faces of the movement. Once her father got wind of her "rabble rousing", he put his foot down on her shirking her social duties. "If you will not behave as a proper lady, I have no choice but to force you into it."

Which was how she found herself in this cursed carriage, shipped off before she brought disgrace to her family. She had been too busy screaming at her parents to find out exactly where they were sending her, although she presumed it a discreet family friend. She would not be allowed back home until she gave up this suffrage nonsense and dedicated herself to becoming more "proper".

Seething, she ripped the stupid hat off her head and pulled out the pins holding up her sun-kissed brunette hair. The pressed curls tumbled down her back and bounced into her fair face. She reached up under her dress and unhooked her bustle, quite a feat in the unsteady carriage, and tossed it out the window. If she could've gotten he corset off, it would have followed the bustle. Now the gray-slashed blue silk dress fit poorly, but at least she didn't still feel like she was sitting on a barrel.

Eventually her rage fizzled and she dozed, and it wasn't until the carriage began to slow that she roused. She had no interest in putting herself back to right. There was no need. Whoever owned this dour-looking manor house undoubtedly knew of her manners, or lack thereof. Let them. Her cheeks were still flushed from the afternoon's heat when the ride rolled to a complete stop. Rather than wait for the driver or porter,she let herself out of the carriage on unsteady legs, dark brown eyes surveying the place before her.

“Oh, it’ll be so nice to have a young lady about the place once again,” said Mrs Kerslake, her arms full of bedsheets.

“My company starting to wear thin on you, Kerslake?” Lord Hawthorn asked, his tone harsh but giving himself away with a sly wink.

“Not at all, Sir, not at all. But it will do you good to have someone your own age at the Hall. Not counting the maids, of course.”

“Not quite my age, Kerslake. In his letter Salisbury says that she is just turned twenty, so fully fifteen years my junior. Though, of course, our fathers fought together in the Mutiny. Also, I’m not entirely certain that her presence here will bring pure rays of sunshine into our lives.”

“Really, Sir?”

“No indeed. Look, I have Salisbury’s letter here. Would you mind if I read it to you? I’d rather like to have another person at the Hall who understands the position here, and, after all, you are part of the family, Kerslake.”

“So kind, Sir. I’d be most happy to oblige.”

“I have it here.” Lord Hawthorn took a sheet from his pocket, unfolded it, and began to read.

“My dear Hawthorn,” he writes. “My heart congratulations in taking up your seat at Parliament, and bugger the whiners about rotten boroughs and women and who knows what! The seat has been in your family since the Restoration, and I most enjoyed reports of your speech repudiating the moderators and the reformers. On the subject of which, I write to plead a favour of you.
My daughter, Josephine, has just turned twenty, and, doubtless through my own lack of oversight, has fallen in with this dreadful group of harpies one reads of in The Times, banging the drum for female suffrage and all manner of nonsense. Better off giving the vote to my horse, what! In any case, her conduct in recent months has become quite insufferable, and I know not what to do with her. The thrashing of her life is what she needs, but I’m not the one to deliver it. She needs to see sense from someone her own age, which brings me, Hawthorn, to you.
I’d be enormously grateful if you would take her in at Hawthorn Hall until the other side of Christmas. The sea air, and absence from the political foment of London, will drive these lunatic ideas out of her. If not, I’m sure you have your own methods of making a rebellious young lady see sense. With your agreement I will put her in a dog cart forthwith.
I will of course reimburse you for any expenses incurred, and you may be assured of my support and influence in Parliament should you seek advancement in that area.”

“My goodness,” said Kerslake.

“I’m sure you’ll have some ideas on the matter,” said Hawthorn. “But surely this is her cart now, for I hear wheels on gravel.”

They both strode to the window, and saw, to their amazement, a young lady clamber out, hat off, clothes askew, not even waiting for the porter’s assistance.

“What a beauty,” said Kerslake. “But goodness me, we have our work cut out here.”

Though she hated to admit it, Josie found the manor quite impressive. The grand house stood larger than her family's own down at Salisbury, and after three months in their London home, the overall estate felt gargantuan to her. "Is it far to the shore?" she asked the porter, who assisted the carriage driver with unloading her trunks of clothes. She tried to hide her disappointment in knowing that her melange of books had not accompanied her here to the countryside, but a trunk full of half-hearted needlepoint and other sewing projects did. Her hope was to escape to the sea as often as she could get away, lest she be forced into such dull undertakings.

"'Tis not far, m'Lady," the man replied, his voice as formal as his dress. "I'm sure Lord Hawthorn could arrange an outing if you wished it." His tone didn't give her any glimpses into what she could expect. They might mean this Hawthorn a reasonable man who would allow for her to be more than just a home decoration. Or it might mean that he was enough like her father that he would do so if she agreed to a variety of ridiculous and old fashioned stipulations, the likes of which she would find foolish, pointless, and sexist.

Hawthorn...she was fairly certain she had met the man when she was a child. His father and hers had been close in those days, compatriots from their days in India. The current Lord Hawthorn had been old enough then to be uninteresting to a girl of seven, and no doubt he'd felt the same. How he might be now as a man, she couldn't fathom. She didn't even recall what he looked like, or know anything about his life. Was he married? Have children of his own? Please God, she silently prayed, don't make me his stupid nanny!

Josephine had been a surprise child, born late to her father and his second wife, the first having died of consumption without having died of consumption without producing an heir. Between her father's age and her delicate youth, she had gotten away with a great deal that her peers couldn't dream of. She had taken for granted that it might always be so with him, but he was bound and determined that she get married in the next year or two.

"My lord," she heard the porter say, and Josephine turned to meet the man she considered her jailer, chin tilted at a challenging angle as she did not smile nor curtsey.

Stepping out into the morning sunshine, Lord Hawthorn regarded the new arrival with interest. He retained no recollection of the infant she had been when they last met, and so held few preconceptions as to her likely appearance. In this, at least, he was not disappointed. Short and slender with a forest of brunette curls, she would certainly add most considerably to the aesthetic of the estate. No doubt, however, the steel and twinkle in those eyes spoke to the warnings given by her father.

“Welcome, Josephine,” he said, and was rather taken aback to find her holding out her hand to him, as if she were a gentleman arrived for the hunt!

“Oh, that won’t do at all,” said Kerslake, behind him, tutting in her matronly way.

“It is more appropriate to offer the back of your hand and curtsy, my dear,” said Hawthorn, carefully. “Perhaps the modish ways of London are changing, but you will forgive us our little rural manners whilst you are here. Perkins will take your baggage up to your rooms - ah, I see you have packed needlework! An excellent choice, Kerslake will gladly assist you in knocking up the most wonderful creations. Now, allow me to show you the house.”

Her manner, he felt, was rather sullen as he showed her into the house, but then again, thinking back to her father’s letter, she could hardly be delighted to be here. Nonetheless, though she tried to hide it, he saw that she was impressed by the scale and grandeur of Hawthorn Hall. Whilst their fathers had been comrades in arms, his own had been the better man of business, and Hawthorn-owned ships still sailed from Calcutta, packed with spices wrested from fading Rajas at rock-bottom prices.

The Grand Staircase swept above them, with deep scarlet carpets covering the perfectly-polished floors. Hawthorn frowned as Josephine failed to remove her boots - and what manly boots they were - and made to trample across a tiger skin rug from Udaipur.

“Shoes, girl, shoes!” Mrs Kerslake screeched, proffering a pair of fluffy house-slippers. Hawthorn watched as the girl frowned, appeared to decide to defer her battle to another time, and replace her boots with the slippers with considerable ill-grace.

“That’s not the only slipper she needs,” hissed Kerslake, as Josephine left her boots lying in a small pool of mud on the floor.

Josephine remained stoically unimpressed as Hawthorn guided her through the morning room, smoking lounge and dining room. She perked up a little as they arrived at the library, and dashed to examine the shelves.

“Please be very careful,” said Hawthorn. “Many of the volumes are first editions, and quite extraordinarily rare, not to mention valuable. Besides which, my understanding is that your father wishes to, er, refashion your reading habits somewhat. I have taken the liberty of selecting some appropriate material which I have no doubt you’ll enjoy.”

Josephine’s face fell as she saw the small pile of books set aside for her; light novels of matrimony and romance, nature poetry, and various volumes concerning household management and the roles expected of society ladies.

Next came the billiard room, in which Hawthorn gasped in amazement when Josephine declared that she could pot a ball better than her father.

“Not at all appropriate in this house, I’m afraid,” he said. “After dinner, ladies remain in the lounge for light conversation, reading, or perhaps a little music. I should be delighted if you would learn the piano, it would liven up the place no end.”

As she scowled again, Hawthorn began to see the year stretching ahead of him with this mutinous presence in his house, and wondered just how he might begin to make it bearable.

This was an unmitigated nightmare. Hawthorn had all of her father's propriety without an ounce of his warmth. She wondered if he could actually bend at the waist or if that rod rammed up his arse prevented it. His notion of how she should entertain herself suggested he lack personality of his own.

And Mrs. Kerslake! That woman would be the death of her, she just knew it. The howl that came out of her about the bloody carpet likely raised any dead nearby. Every correcting word and disdainful glance added to the pounding ache in her head. The housekeeper would be no ally for her.

When Hawthorn suggested she learn piano, her eyes rolled. Josephine learned the instrument beginning at an early age, an activity that even a weak child like she had been could master. Through the years, she had become quite adept at it, though of course she preferred to tackle more challenging concert pieces than the light accompaniments to popular songs most ladies learned.

She gave Hawthorn a tight smile. "It has been quite a long and hot day. If possible, I should like to see my quarters so I might freshen up before dinner." Her eyes cut towards the Kerslake harpy. "I wouldn't want to drip dust from the road across your linen tablecloths."

The lord of the manor and his housekeeper shared a look but Josephine kept her expression mild. "Very well." He led them back to the stairway and then up. He paused at the top and pointed toward the right. "My private quarters are down there." There was a note in his voice that said she had no need to visit him there, and she quite agreed. Then he turned the other way and led her back towards the guest quarters.

Mrs. Kerslake rushed ahead, leaving the pair of them to walk in awkward silence. Josie saw no reason to make the moment comfortable. Still, she couldn't fully conceal her pleasure at seeing her rooms. The sitting room was not frilly, with a naval feel to the decor. Deep navy walls had accents of white and red, and a sturdy writing desk where she might spend hours. Even if she couldn't get away with writing speeches or essays, a place to journal would be welcome.

The sleeping quarters were a bit more exotic, with a khaki base and a riot of goldenrod and crimson silks. The Indian influence was clear even to Josie, who paid little attention to such things. With an eastern exposure, it would be lovely to wake up to.

With her trunks already delivered, Mrs. Kerslake helped one of the younger maids in unpacking her belongings into a more-than-adequate closet. With a polite nod, Hawthorn said, "I shall leave you to retire. Supper shall be served at seven sharp." Then he left her there with the maids. Given the patronizing smile Mrs. Kerslake gave her, Josie contemplated throwing herself from one of those windows. Instead, she returned the smile and waited for the woman to lay out their dress expectations for the evening meal.

Well, Hawthorn thought wearily, at least she seems happy enough with her quarters. The way she had looked hungrily at that writing desk though, and thinking he was too dense to see her do it! She was practically miming writing those God-awful pamphlets and treatise that she had been churning out back in London. Well, there would be none of that here. If she couldn’t restrict herself to ladylike musings about, say, cushions or observations of the natural world, then he would give her some writing tasks that she would find decidedly less pleasant.

On the subject of which, he decided that he should use the hiatus before dinner to update her father on her arrival. He took up his pen, sat at his own, rather grander, writing desk and began to compose a letter.

“My dear Salisbury,” he wrote, “I hope this finds you well. You will be pleased, no doubt, to learn that Lady Josephine has arrived safely, if not entirely good humour. I am afraid that my early impressions entirely confirm your assessment of her current state of mind. It appears to me that the company she has kept in London has entirely divorced her from the appropriate habits of a lady of good standing and family. I shall of course continue to monitor her conduct, but her initial repose of sullenness and ill-manners do her no credit whatsoever. I should, therefore, wish to reconfirm with you that I am to use any and all means of discipline necessary to ensure that she -“

Hawthorn was interrupted by a shriek like a banshee from further along the corridor. He knew at once that it could only have come from his new visitor. He threw down his pen, and hurried from his room to investigate. As he came upon Josephine’s room, he saw Kerslake emerge, face puce with anger, and the young maid Sarah looking a little terrified.

“What on earth is happening here?”

“I meant no offence, Sir,” whimpered Sarah. “I merely laid out her dress for dinner.”

“No, no, of course not, of course not,” comforted Hawthorn. “Josephine, what is the awful trouble?”

He found her, hands on hips, foot stamping in an almost perfect parody of an enraged young lady.

“I am not,” she said, pointing to the dress on her bed, “wearing that.”

That being a formal gown of pale champagne, with a waistline that required a special corset and bustle to fit into. The skirts were coiled with a lace spiral that fishtailed into a long train. It was a dress reserved for a gala with all of the highest order, not evening dinner with some country nobleman.

"I'm not doing it." She modulated her tone to something more reasonable sounding.

Hawthorn exchanged a glance with his housekeeper, who threw her hands up as she shook her head. With a calm, measured voice, he asked, "If this is not of your liking, then tell me what is."

That it was a command and not a question wasn't lost on Josie. Her natural defiant streak made her want to refuse, or to shout it at him, but she saw no good reason to expend that much energy on someone so loathsome. That we was handsome only served to annoy her more. No doubt he thought he could cow her into submission with that disapproving gaze and stern manner. How little he knew of her if he believed that worked on her.

With a smile that touched nothing but her lips, she replied, "Today is what - Wednesday?" She walked back into the closet as she spoke, shuffling through her frocks. She emerged with a sage green tea dress, much more comfortable than the formalwear picked out, with a loose empire waist and a long, loose ivory drape. "This is much more preferable and practical for a midweek dinner."

The fish course had been excellent, and Hawthorn’s spirits had risen by the prospect of pheasant to follow. He had intended for the dinner to serve as a welcome for his new guest, and, so far, things were progressing nicely.

He had, it was true, relented on the matter of the dress, taking the view that her wardrobe was not the key issue, and a little flexibility might install some warmth and trust in his visitor. Josie was a vision in her tea dress, and he would dearly have liked to see her delicate figure properly encased in champagne formalwear, but that was a treat he was prepared to postpone.

Kerslake had been upset about the dress, and he’d had to mollify his senior maid at some length before dinner was served.

“We must defrost the atmosphere somewhat,” he explained. “The young lady is, after all, in a strange house after a very long journey.”

“But her outburst, Sir, her screeching at us! Sarah was terrified!”

“I entirely sympathise, Kersalake, and the incident has not been forgotten. She has earned herself a punishment for the way she spoke to you, and a worse one still for upsetting Sarah. For one so liberal in her ideas, she seems perfectly happy to talk down to the servants, and I shall not have my staff treated in such a way. She will be dealt with, but not tonight. Let us pass at least one peaceful night together.”

Kerslake had reluctantly agreed, after numerous further guarantees as to Josie’s future chastisement.

So it was that dinner passed in a state of, if not harmony, then at least of ceasefire. Josie behaved as though her previous conduct had been forgotten, and even, rather smugly, in the manner of one who has overcome a weaker opponent. Hawthorn decided not to disabuse her of the notion. There would be time enough for that later. Instead, he steered her clear of politics, trying to re-establish the connection between their families that had brought them together in the first place.

“At some point I must make the journey to India myself,” he said, after they had discussed their fathers’ adventures in the colonies. “My superintendents are, of course, excellent, but I should examine the source of the family fortune at least once. Perhaps you should accompany me, and we can see if those gilded palaces and golden temples of our childhood bedtime tales are just as glorious to behold in person.”

“Don’t look so alarmed!” Hawthorn chuckled as Josie’s eyes failed to disguise her horror at travelling halfway around the world with him. “My trip will have to be on hold for now. I have Parliamentary responsibilities to attend to.”

“Oh, really?” He saw immediately that any return to the subject of politics was certain to spark her interest.

“Yes, in fact I must spend a day up in London next week: I have been asked to speak for my party in opposition to a Private Member’s Bill.”

“And what Bill might that be?”

“Ah, just some preposterous nonsense from one of the Members in a reformist constituency. He proposes that a gentleman should not be permitted to apply corporal punishment to his female servants should they earn it! Entirely preposterous, though I’m sure young Sarah and Jess downstairs would be delighted if it were to pass. No, the Master of the House must be allowed to dispense whatever discipline he sees fit to maintain order in his household. Wouldn’t you agree, Josie?”

It was trap. Josie knew full well that it was. Hawthorne didn't even attempt to disguise it. No doubt her father informed him of her political leanings when he fobbed her off on the man. Perhaps he thought he'd lulled her enough with the tea dress and the chatter of India, and it had been working. Her guard slipped slightly, but not so far that she couldn't catch herself.

As his staff cleared away the plates for the fish, Josie dabbed her lips with her napkin as she considered her words. Josie kept her tone cordial as she replied, "Well, sir, I only know the workings of my father's estate. He manages well without birching any of the help." She did not mention that all of those maids were of an age with most dowagers and had been in his service since his first marriage.

New plates and a new dish paused the conversation for a moment. Pheasant with mushrooms and potatoes paired with a black current sauce smelled delectable. Josie focused all her energy on manners for a moment to keep from shoveling the food into her mouth. Soup and fish did little to curb her hunger after travelling all day.

Once each had taken a few bites of the course, Hawthorne returned to the previous subject. "That is excellent that your father's estate runs so smoothly. But that doesn't answer the question at hand. Do you believe that the Master of the House should be allowed to dispense disciplne in whatever manner he sees fit?"

Josie sighed and set her silverware down. Not having it in hand would prevent her from flinging utensils at him. "Does he have the right to?" She lowered her eyes to the table as she attempted to school her face. "Apparently, but that does not mean I believe it just. Corporeal punishment is demeaning and inappropriate for use on adults. If we treat the staff as children, they will behave as children."

She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. The trap had been sprung, she knew. The question now was, what came next? She lifted her head, putting on a defiant, brave face to meet his gaze.