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Authors: Jane Feather
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convincing when she'd talked to her daughters about women's suffrage, but the surge of jubilation, the sense of a group of women in harmony, prepared to fight for a just cause, had been a new experience for Constance.
“I can't say it surprises me,” Prudence said. “You've always been passionate about women's suffrage. Not that Chas and I aren't too, but I'm not a great one for soapboxes and joining associations.”
Constance shook her head. “I didn't think I was either, but something happened there. I felt . . . well . . . inhabited by something suddenly.” She shrugged, helpless to describe the overwhelming sensation any more clearly.
“Well, whatever you do, don't flaunt the badge,” Prudence said seriously. “If it becomes common knowledge that you've joined the Union, it won't be long before someone puts two and two together with the political views of
The Mayfair Lady.
And the cat really would be among the pigeons then.”
“You have a point,” Constance agreed. “I'll be as discreet as I can. I'm sure I can attend meetings and even speak at them in parts of London where no one we know would be seen dead.
“Anyway,” she continued in the same breath. “Since I was in Kensington, I stopped afterwards at your sister's shop, Jenkins, and picked up the mail. Four letters for
The Mayfair Lady
.” She took white envelopes from her bag and flourished them gleefully.
“You haven't opened them?”
“No, I thought we should open the first ones together. But that's not all,” she said with a significant little nod. “Before I went to Swan and Edgar's I visited all the shops on Bond Street and Oxford Street that had agreed to carry
The Mayfair Lady.
And guess what?” She paused expectantly, then when her sisters declined to guess, continued, “They had all sold out. Every last copy in every shop. And they all told me they would order three times the quantity next month.”
“Well, something's working, then,” Prudence said. “Is it Aunt Mabel, or the Go-Between, or your wicked gossip, Con?”
“It could be the politics,” Constance suggested, then shook her head ruefully. “No, of course it's not. Not yet. But I live in hope. Chas will have to don her heavy veil and widow's weeds and go and collect the proceeds of all those sales. Shall we open these letters? Just quickly to see if they're for the Go-Between or Aunt Mabel.”
“We don't have any time now,” Prudence, ever practical, said reluctantly. “You need to change, Con, the doorbell will ring any minute now. You may be dressed for a political meeting but it's a bit severe for an At Home.”
“Do you really think so?” She looked down doubtfully at the soft gray skirt and black, buttoned boots.
“Yes,” Prudence said definitely.
Constance yielded as always to her sister's infallible sense of what was appropriate dress for any occasion. “I'll be back before the first guest.”
“We were thinking that Max Ensor might be ringing the doorbell,” Chastity said with a mischievous glimmer.
“And it's for him that I should change my dress?” Constance asked, arched eyebrows lifting in ironic punctuation.
Her sisters made no response. Constance, aware of Jenkins's suddenly rather interested glance, brought the topic to a close. “I'll be no more than ten minutes.” She whisked from the room and hurried upstairs to find a suitable afternoon gown for the sisters' weekly At Home. Not, however, that she intended to make any special effort on the off chance that the Right Honorable Member for Southwold might decide he was in need of a cucumber sandwich and a slice of Mrs. Hudson's Victoria sponge.
She examined the contents of the wardrobe as she pulled free the narrow tie she wore with her gray and white striped shirt and gray serge skirt. A very businesslike outfit that had, serendipitously, been exactly suitable for her unexpected activities of the morning. She selected a crêpe de chine blouse in pale green and a green and
“I can't say it surprises me,” Prudence said. “You've always been passionate about women's suffrage. Not that Chas and I aren't too, but I'm not a great one for soapboxes and joining associations.”
Constance shook her head. “I didn't think I was either, but something happened there. I felt . . . well . . . inhabited by something suddenly.” She shrugged, helpless to describe the overwhelming sensation any more clearly.
“Well, whatever you do, don't flaunt the badge,” Prudence said seriously. “If it becomes common knowledge that you've joined the Union, it won't be long before someone puts two and two together with the political views of
The Mayfair Lady.
And the cat really would be among the pigeons then.”
“You have a point,” Constance agreed. “I'll be as discreet as I can. I'm sure I can attend meetings and even speak at them in parts of London where no one we know would be seen dead.
“Anyway,” she continued in the same breath. “Since I was in Kensington, I stopped afterwards at your sister's shop, Jenkins, and picked up the mail. Four letters for
The Mayfair Lady
.” She took white envelopes from her bag and flourished them gleefully.
“You haven't opened them?”
“No, I thought we should open the first ones together. But that's not all,” she said with a significant little nod. “Before I went to Swan and Edgar's I visited all the shops on Bond Street and Oxford Street that had agreed to carry
The Mayfair Lady.
And guess what?” She paused expectantly, then when her sisters declined to guess, continued, “They had all sold out. Every last copy in every shop. And they all told me they would order three times the quantity next month.”
“Well, something's working, then,” Prudence said. “Is it Aunt Mabel, or the Go-Between, or your wicked gossip, Con?”
“It could be the politics,” Constance suggested, then shook her head ruefully. “No, of course it's not. Not yet. But I live in hope. Chas will have to don her heavy veil and widow's weeds and go and collect the proceeds of all those sales. Shall we open these letters? Just quickly to see if they're for the Go-Between or Aunt Mabel.”
“We don't have any time now,” Prudence, ever practical, said reluctantly. “You need to change, Con, the doorbell will ring any minute now. You may be dressed for a political meeting but it's a bit severe for an At Home.”
“Do you really think so?” She looked down doubtfully at the soft gray skirt and black, buttoned boots.
“Yes,” Prudence said definitely.
Constance yielded as always to her sister's infallible sense of what was appropriate dress for any occasion. “I'll be back before the first guest.”
“We were thinking that Max Ensor might be ringing the doorbell,” Chastity said with a mischievous glimmer.
“And it's for him that I should change my dress?” Constance asked, arched eyebrows lifting in ironic punctuation.
Her sisters made no response. Constance, aware of Jenkins's suddenly rather interested glance, brought the topic to a close. “I'll be no more than ten minutes.” She whisked from the room and hurried upstairs to find a suitable afternoon gown for the sisters' weekly At Home. Not, however, that she intended to make any special effort on the off chance that the Right Honorable Member for Southwold might decide he was in need of a cucumber sandwich and a slice of Mrs. Hudson's Victoria sponge.
She examined the contents of the wardrobe as she pulled free the narrow tie she wore with her gray and white striped shirt and gray serge skirt. A very businesslike outfit that had, serendipitously, been exactly suitable for her unexpected activities of the morning. She selected a crêpe de chine blouse in pale green and a green and
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