Guest Author
July 2000
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Excerpt from The Lion's Shadow :Marthe Arends lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, and three Rhodesian Ridgebacks. In addition to The Lion's Shadow, she is the author of Genealogy Software Guide, Genealogy on CD-ROM, and Create Your Family History Book with Family Tree Maker 8: The Official Guide.
An interest in genealogy spawned a fascination with the Georgian and Victorian eras; Marthe can be found most days elbow deep in a stack of nineteenth century references as she researches her next historical mystery book, or on the Internet, tracking down an elusive bit of Victorian gossip.
Titles:
- The Lion's Shadow, fiction, Avid Press, Oct 1999, ISBN 1-929613-05-9
- Genealogy on CD-ROM, nonfiction, Genealogical Publishing Company, Oct 1999, ISBN 0806316233
- Genealogy Software Guide, nonfiction, Genealogical Publishing Company, Nov 1998, ISBN 0806315814
- Create Your Family History Book with Family Tree Maker 8: The Official Guide, nonfiction, Prima Publishing, Sept 2000
The lioness padded by the entrance to the tent, silent except for the throaty rumble as she licked her mouth clean of blood. Across the camp, the peculiar umbrella thorn trees stood stark and black, as if etched into the brightening horizon. The air was still and cool, and possessed a remarkable clarity, allowing the eye to carry over miles of savanna in wondrous detail.
A large hand descended upon my shoulder. Strong and tanned, it was marked with scars and calluses, and as familiar to me as my own. In the distance, the lioness' lord expressed his satisfaction with her kill in a manner that resonated like thunder; overhead a vulture wheeled, his black wings bursting into color as they met the first rays of the orange sun.
Africa. I leaned my face against the hand on my shoulder and sighed happily.
As with most journeys of consequence, mine did not begin under auspicious circumstances. It started in the jewel of the British Empire, the capitol of learning and culture, the "centre of a thousand trades," as the poet Cowper says-in short, London.
"Votes for women!" Above the jeering of the crowd, one of the Suffragettes clung to the side of the fence and waved her banner. A short, dark-haired woman, her voice rose over the noise of the street. "Support the cause! Votes for women!"
Several rude remarks in masculine voices greeted her cry. I ignored the comments as my group moved to the assigned location. Arranged as we were along either side of a massive wrought iron gate, our backs pressed firmly against the cold metal railing, I feared that we presented tempting targets to the growing crowd. The numbers swelled quickly, and although they did not seem overly hostile, their increasing vocal expressions concerned me.
"Here you are, sister." One of the Women's Suffrage Union officers moved among us passing out heavy lengths of chain. Clutching both my bag and umbrella in a firm grip, I felt in my coat for the padlock that I had purchase earlier.
"Wrap the chain around yourself securely! If you need a padlock, please inform me. Ignore the crowds, and stand tall-remember, you are fighting for a glorious cause!"
A life spent in the dual role as chief scapegoat for my father's often violent moods, and dutiful daughter to a mother lost in contemplation of imagined ills, had left my adventurous spirit atrophied. I looked around in the gloom at the brave women nearby, and gave my chain an encouraging shake; an enterprise such as this was just what was needed to dislodge the ennui that had, of late, held me in a tight embrace. It was a glorious cause, to be true, but one which I wished was held in a drier environment. The drizzle deepened into a downpour but had little effect on the onlookers who stood huddled together under umbrellas, or held newspapers over their heads as they watched the protestors bind themselves to the railing. I clutched my chain and leaned back against the railing, shivering with cold and excitement, enjoying the satisfaction that arises from participation in a cause worthy of one's zeal. The emancipation of women, I felt, was just such a cause.
As I fumbled with the slippery chain, I considered the evening's planned event. Earlier in the week, the Women's Suffrage Union had chosen a demonstration for the popular annual charity Hospital Ball. The Union had high hopes that tonight, with the Prince and Princess of Wales and several other members of the Royal Family in attendance, we would be successful in drawing the attention of the public to our campaign for liberty.
"Simply appalling! Such displays are most unwomanly!"
A rotund, top-hatted gentleman scornfully surveyed my attempt to manage bag, chain, padlock, and umbrella. Stifling the desire to voice my opinion of him, I struggled to weave the chain through the railing. The rain made it difficult to see any distance, but I noticed that several of the bystanders appeared to be passing objects amongst themselves.
"Cabbages, or possibly lettuces," I nudged my neighbor who was already securely fastened to the fence. She looked startled at my comment, and I hastened to clarify. I pointed to the group across the street."They have spoiled vegetables and I strongly suspect they mean to throw them at us."
She nodded, and turned to the woman on her right, also successfully chained to the fence, to point out the threat.
A steady stream of carriages and automobiles were stopped outside of the gates to Kensington House with occupants for the Ball; due to the backup within the inner drive, a dozen or so people had exited their vehicles and were walking the short distance up the drive to the building's door. A river of shiny dark umbrellas bobbed by, their everyday appearance in sharp contrast to the finery displayed below them. Although the night was dark and damp, the parade of ladies in brilliant colors, flashing jewels, and exotic perfumes was almost overwhelming to the senses. I watched the latest fashions pass before me with an interested eye.
By contrast, our group was a somber gathering; I was clad in the sole exception to the dark dresses the suffrage workers wore. Each member had a swath of white across her bosom proclaiming Votes For Women. A surge of pride filled me as I read the sashes-to be part of such a noble cause was intoxicating!
The growing crowd, however, was not so appreciative of our dedication to the cause. A continuing stream of vulgar comments and epitaphs were hurled our way, and one or two of the more common folk minced around in parody of our members; upon viewing their antics, I decided the frigid contempt shown by the passing cavalcade of society was preferable to the fun our presence afforded the bystanders. I considered chastising the rowdier elements singly, or in groups, but concluded time was of the essence.
A quick look to the right showed me that everyone but I had succeeded in assuming her position, each woman chained firmly to the iron fence. I hastened my attempt to thread the slippery chain through the railing, and bemoaned my delayed appearance at tonight's gathering. Having come from a dinner party which I was obliged to attend, I was dressed in a totally inappropriate, emerald green, heavy silk gown, selected because its color nearly matched that of my eyes. So as not to appear out of place, I had brought along my oldest coat to cover the finery. Although not in time to acquire one of the coveted Votes For Women sashes, I was confident that what I lacked in apparel, I made up for in enthusiasm.
"If only I could get this blasted chain through the fence," I muttered as I struggled with it.
More comments from the passing partygoers made it perfectly clear just what the upper portion of our society thought of women's suffrage.
"You should be ashamed of yourself!"
I turned as a thin, spiteful woman grabbed my arm and thrust her face at mine. "Don't you have any humility? What would your parents think of you now, Cassandra Jane Whitney? Making a fool of yourself in public!"
I identified the face as belonging to Eloise McGregor, one of my mother's oldest friends.
"The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool," I quoted the Bard with dignity, and turned back to the railing.
Despite Eloise's claw-like grip, success rewarded my efforts at last; the chain threaded through the wrought iron railing but soon became entangled with a leafy obstacle. Hindered by the woman pulling at my arm, I gave the chain a sharp tug as I attempted to shake loose both it and Eloise's grip.
I was at the end of the line of Suffragettes; another hasty glance confirmed my fear that the demonstration was proceeding without me. The line of women, chained firmly to the fence chanting "Votes for Women" in loud, clear voices, was an impressive show of solidarity and determination.
"Your mother would be disgraced to see you here, as would all your family. I shall be sure to inform your sister of your unwomanly conduct when she returns," Eloise jerked at my arm as she spoke.
My hand slipped on the wet chain and raked my knuckles painfully across the rough inside of the railing.
"Damn!"
"Profanity! Blasphemer!" Eloise's voice carried extremely well over the noise of the crowd. A number of heads turned our way in hopeful interest.
Tempted to satisfy their curiosity with a collection of colorful oaths I learned as a child, I instead bit my lip, tried to shake off the fingernails that bit into my arm, and gripped the chain with renewed strength.
Eloise blocked the sidewalk as a small group of people approached; a tall man with a pale woman on his arm scowled and tried to get Eloise's attention, asking to pass. I could see dismay on the lady's face, and did not blame her for wishing to avoid the stream of muddy water that flowed down the side of the street. Although the shower had passed quickly, the gutters gurgled with the recent downfall.
Eloise ignored the man and continued to harangue me. "You always were an headstrong, obstinate girl. Obstinate and bad tempered! You'll end up no better than you should, if you don't take care. When I think of the pain your sainted mother went through. . . ."
I ignored Eloise's rants and looked to the right, where my sisters in suffrage attracted considerable attention, including that of the beat constable who was pleading with them to release themselves. The crowd shouted suggestions to the constable, many of them offering in unpleasant terms to help "take care of the troublemakers."
". . . let alone the fact that you never gave her a moment's comfort. . . ."
I frowned in a pointed manner at Eloise and jerked at the chain with both hands. The sound of branches snapping lifted my spirits, and I turned in triumph to face the adversarial shrub.
". . . what she went through with you, you ungrateful, selfish child. . . ."
Another policeman arrived, his whistle piercing the discord.
"Madam, please let us by," a voice roared over the growing clamor. I turned my head and saw the tall man behind Eloise try gently to move her aside. She tightened her grip on my arm in response, her fingers digging into my flesh painfully.
". . . sinful and degraded. . . ."
"Madam! We wish to pass!"
I turned in aggravation and pried her hand off my arm, then took a firm hold on the chain.
"One last pull," I murmured to myself.
". . . nothing but grief, always thinking of yourself and never of your poor mother. . . ."
The bystanders were frenzied now, keyed up by the arrival of several policemen on horseback. To the left, a small cluster of partygoers was backed up, still blocked by Eloise, loudly expressing their desire to pass. To the right, the demonstrators, all successfully chained to the fence, chanted and sang in unison.
In a panic to join them, I gave my chain a vicious yank. With a quick, lightening movement, the chain freed itself, spinning me around and into the man who had finally succeeded in convincing Eloise to move on.
The force of a chain whipping around his mid-section, combined with my not-insubstantial weight thrown off balance and directly onto him, resulted in our crashing to the pavement in an awkward display of petticoats, umbrellas, chain, and limbs. I lay stunned, staring down into the diamond studs in his shirt. Before I could move, hands lifted me to my feet.
"Good heavens," I gasped as soon as I could gather my breath, "I do apologize!"
The man swore into his chest as he bent down to assess the damage. He was muddied and wet down the left side, and, I feared, completely wet on the back. His top hat had been ruined, and his white gloves were black with mud. Although several of my coat buttons had burst, its heavy material, and the fact that I fell on top of the gentleman, left me relatively unaffected by the mishap.
With the obstruction previously posed by Eloise removed, people looked upon us with much amusement as they passed by. Two ladies and a short, bald gentleman had gathered around, and inquired anxiously as to the muddied man's state. The pale woman handed me a jeweled comb that had flown from my hair.
"Please forgive me," I stammered, ignoring the man's frown to dab at him ineffectually with my handkerchief. "I am mortified. Allow me to assist you-perhaps if you wiped it off--"
I tried patting at a spot of dirt, but pulled away my handkerchief only to find I had left a long diagonal smear of mud across the snowy white expanse of his shirt front.
"Oh, dear." I examined the result with dismay.
He looked at his chest in disbelief. The frown deepened.
"I assume, madam, that you are under the impression that a consistent application of mud is better than a sparse one. Please disabuse yourself of that notion."
The bald man in formal apparel leaned forward and muttered to my unfortunate victim, then turned to me and said in a loud, piercing voice, "Young woman, you have done quite enough damage for the night. Kindly stand away from my brother and allow us to pass."
A sudden swelling of enthusiastic noise washed over us. The short man's eyes widened at the vocal output of the protesters.
"Good Gad!" he barked. "Why aren't the police arresting those anarchists? What has this country come to, when such displays are tolerated?"
I stepped back in surprise at the verbal attack, tripped on my chain, and sat down abruptly on the pavement. Blinking in astonishment, I stared up as the object of my prior mishap leaned forward and offered me his hand.
I gazed up a long way (he was very tall), shying over the obviously muddied patches, to a pleasant, tanned, rather long face. Brown hair curled back from a broad brow, while clear amber eyes gazed at me with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. His mouth twitched slightly as if from effort to keep from speaking or laughing-I wasn't sure which.
"Allow me to assist you." Spoken in a deep, melodious voice, the emphasis on the pronoun was unmistakable. If I hadn't been in such an embarrassing position, I might have smiled at him.
I gave him my hand and allowed myself to be righted. I am a tall woman, but he stood at least six inches taller than I did.
"Are you all right?" He held my hand firmly in his.
As I nodded my head, a thin woman in a dress that was a bilious shade of green brushed his arm and said, "Come, Griffin, we're late. You can repair the damage inside."
She paused to toss a hateful stare at me, took the arm of the sputtering bald man, and moved forward. The tall man named Griffin muttered a few words in the other's ear, then turned back to me. He gazed at me for a moment then unexpectedly tipped his head back and laughed.
"Don't look so distressed, I'm not in the habit of attending balls-never liked them. In fact, I'm grateful to you for offering me an excuse, although," he looked at his front ruefully, "I wish you could have managed it in some other fashion."
I dabbed unhappily at the mud on his arm.
"I fear your companions are less understanding. I cannot blame their being angry at the unfortunate accident," I said, removing a snail that was making its way up his lapel.
He turned and waved at someone behind him. "My brother and his wife find these functions enjoyable-I do not."
"But the lady with you, surely--" I indicated the distant figures of his party and covertly picked a wet leaf from his shoulder.
"My sister. She will have no difficulty enjoying herself without me."
He handed me the bag and umbrella that had been knocked from my hands earlier. Looking at it rather curiously, he picked up the chain in his ungloved hand. As I reached out to take it, a fawn-colored motor car pulled up alongside him. The driver leaped out and opened the door.
"Will you be going inside," the tall man nodded toward the ball, "or can I offer you a ride somewhere else?"
I looked right to where street children, passing citizens, partygoers, and now a sizable number of constables surrounded the women protestors. The noise was almost deafening.
I nodded at the nearest Suffragette. "I am with them."
His eyebrows rose.
"I see. Then this must be yours," he indicated the chain, making no move to return it to me.
A frown creased his forehead as he considered me, his eyes narrowing into two amber slits as they raked me from head to foot.
"Why would a woman like yourself want to be a part of such a spectacle?"
A sudden jarring note interrupted the pleasant contemplation of his eyes. It was my turn to frown.
"Spectacle?"
"Spectacle," he said firmly. "A display of bad behavior."
"I know what the word means!"
"Surely a woman like you should be inside waltzing with a suitor rather than chaining yourself to a fence in a manner guaranteed to amuse the general population."
Those fascinating eyes flashed in the night, but they were no match for mine. My tendency to plumpness I inherited from my mother, my temper from my father. I felt my anger rise in response to his arrogant and condescending attitude.
"I do not consider the pursuit of emancipation a spectacle, sir. Indeed, I consider it my Christian duty to chain myself to this fence in order to strike a blow for the rights of women everywhere."
He eyed my low décolletage speculatively. "You are certainly dressed for the event."
"My dress is hardly a matter of your concern," I began huffily, clutching my buttonless coat tight.
"Except when I find it lying on top of me in the mud," he grinned.
I colored at both the grin and the unseemly reference.
"I have apologized for the unfortunate accident. If you are not gracious enough to accept that apology, perhaps you will allow me to get on with my business."
"By all means. Would you like me to round up a few stray men so that you might pursue your emancipation on them as well?"
"Blast you, man--it was an accident!"
Given the cacophony of sound generated by the demonstration to my right, I felt it necessary to raise my voice to a level at which I could be heard without undue strain. It was just a sheer fluke that at the moment the words left my lips, a strange hush fell over the crowd, creating the perfect setting for my words to echo off the buildings that lined the street. Once again, heads swiveled in unison in my direction.
The man leaned back against his motor and folded his arms across his chest. "Temper, Cassandra Whitney. First swearing and now bellowing like a stevedore-you wouldn't want people to think that your disposition is as fiery as your hair."
Briefly confused by his use of my name, I remembered Eloise's mean, and very public, comments earlier. I was thinking of a clever and biting retort when a great cheer from the crowd distracted me. Several large police vans had arrived with reinforcements. A large number of constables emerged and swarmed along the protest line, arguing with the bound women and trying to forcibly remove the chains. I felt a tinge of panic, as I wasn't yet chained to my appointed section of the fence.
"My first demonstration for the rights of women, and I am going to miss everything!" I snatched the chain from his hand and ran back to the fence, muttering under my breath that I would not allow myself to be distracted by this infuriating man.
"Do you need help with your chain?" his bemused voice followed me. "I would be happy to assist if you find you can't manage it yourself."
I gritted my teeth as I glared back at the insufferable man.
"No, thank you, I am quite capable. I think you will find that women can do most anything without the assistance of a man."
"Surely not everything," he drawled in a highly offensive manner.
Ignoring him, I struggled for a few minutes with the uncooperative chain, then flung it down in a pique. Biting back an oath, I glared again at the man. Still smiling, he tipped his muddied hat, and got into the motorcar.
"Of all the insolent, infuriating, rude--" I grumbled to myself, watching his motor drive off.
Screams, jeers, yells, and a variety of oaths washed out into the damp night as several newly arrived constables pushed past me and began yanking at the nearby protesters, forcibly dragging my sisters in suffrage from their positions.
"Stop that immediately," I yelled over the noise, hitting the nearest constable with my umbrella. "Leave her alone!"
Without looking, he shoved me back into the gathering crowd, which closed tightly around me. Crushed by the crowd, I was unable to move forward as the constable tried to squeeze the Suffragette out of the chains that bound her.
I apologized for my rudeness to the gentleman upon whose toes I had inadvertently trod, and found myself gently but persistently pushed to the back. Struggling, I tried to force my way to the front of the sizable crowd with every intention of rescuing my sisters in suffrage, but I was impeded from behind.
Turning to see what caught me, I faced a stocky, red-faced woman wrapped up in a large blue muffler. She had a hold of my coat, and pulled me back saying, "'Ere, you stay back, luv. A lady like you shouldn't be mixed up with that lot."
Her faded blue eyes were full of apprehension, her countenance earnest.
"Your concern is greatly appreciated, madam," I spoke loudly to be heard over the noise, "but the glorious and just cause of emancipation can't be held back. We must move ever forward--"
The crowd swelled backwards and I was shoved against a man behind me. I turned to apologize.
"No harm done, miss."
A gold tooth winked as he gave me an amiable smile, then he tipped his bowler and melted into the crowd.
Employing my elbows, I pushed my way back through partygoers and spectators. A dark figure crept up beside me. In his hand, he held a particularly loathsome looking cabbage; as he took aim I clipped him on the side of his filthy head.
"What a horrible little boy you are," I chastised him. "How dare you! Drop that and go home immediately."
He sneered and, before I could stop him, threw it toward a Suffragette, then ran into the crowd. I would have gone after him, but felt my resources were better employed in joining the demonstrators. Unable to reach the abused women, I resolved to complete my assigned task. A brief search of the area located the chain, but my padlock was missing.
A horrible noise rent the air, pausing my attempt to locate the errant padlock. I looked up from where I squatted on the damp pavement, and peered at the pandemonium with concern. The crowd's mood had changed abruptly from that content with simple jeers and verbal abuses, to an active participation in removing the women from their chains. As I straightened up, I saw the police were now using heavy wire-cutters to break the chains. Two constables were holding the struggling Suffragette nearest me as a third man cut the chains. As the woman was freed, the constables seized her and dragged her off to the right. Down the line of the fence, I could see the process repeated as constables swarmed another struggling woman.
Fear filled the pit of my stomach, urging me to turn and run. I gritted my teeth and ignored my baser instincts. Disgusted with my futile attempts to chain myself to the fence, I finally abandoned the chain and instead watched helplessly as the police freed the last of the protesters and bundled them into the Black Marias. I wanted to scream, to rant, to beat my fists on the constables--I couldn't believe I was being left behind!
I had failed my sisters in suffrage, failed my cause, and failed myself. A lesser person might have slunk away to indulge in self-pity and depression, but that was not the credo by which the Whitneys lived! Taking offense at many of the comments being hurled by the public, I leapt at the opportunity to make myself useful in pursuit of the glorious cause. Picking up my skirt, I ignored the mud and hurried toward the crowd.
"Let us have a go at 'em, constable! You hold them down and we'll line up and learn 'em that man is the master," one particularly nasty-smelling man in front of me taunted as the last of the women were pulled into the vans.
Rage at the man's callous words overwhelmed me. Making a fist in the manner that Caleb the gardener's son had taught me many summers ago, I tapped the man politely on the shoulder. He turned and I struck him squarely upon the left eye.
Let that be a lesson to you, you cad!" I said with satisfaction as he crumpled, clutching his face and howling.
I pushed my way rudely to the front of the crowd, alert to other possible instances where my services might be needed, and watched horrified as the police vans drove off. Uppermost in my mind was disbelief that all of the Suffragettes had been arrested; in the past, the protests were tolerated with leniency, and only those women who committed violent acts were held.
The police quickly disbanded the crowd of bystanders, waved the urchins off, and broke up the groups of onlookers. There were no protesters left aside from myself, and in a short amount of time I was left standing disheveled and damp on wet, empty sidewalk. A sudden gust of wind caused an object at my feet to flutter; I reached down to pick up a torn Votes For Women sash, and looked at it forlornly.
Perhaps Eloise was right-what was I doing here parading myself in public? No woman of any breeding would seek such exposure; my participation labeled me as different, unmindful of convention and flouting society. My actions this evening, while filled with the purest of good intentions, had left me open to contempt and ridicule-worse than that, the experience was all for nothing. I had failed to complete my one assigned task.
"It's no use standing here and crying about it," I said out loud, and gave myself a little lecture about self-pity.
Shivering, I looked about for a hansom cab, but none were in sight. Mentally shrugging my shoulders, I gathered up my accessories, chain included, and made my way home.
Catsmeat Potter rubbed his back as he straightened up painfully.
"Not getting any younger, am I, Puss?" he asked the tabby that wound around his ankles in gratitude for his nightly offering. "Get yourself a bit of that char before the others have it all, Puss. Here, watch out, you-you almost stepped on the cats!"
"What? Oh, sorry. You haven't seen a gent waiting hereabouts, have you, mate?"
Potter noted the flash of gold as the man spoke and wondered how folk could throw money away on their teeth like that when there were thousands of hungry cats to be fed.
"I haven't seen no one about for the last quarter hour except my friends here," he waved at the milling group of scrawny cats.
The man with the gold tooth looked briefly amused, then pushed back his bowler and studied the dark street for a moment. He swore softly. "Guess he's not interested in the lady's activities," he muttered to himself.
"What's that?" Potter asked, intent on separating two big toms.
"Nothing. 'Evening."
Potter watched the man stroll off into the darkness, then turned back to supervise the eating of several rotting fish heads. "Here, you, eat it, don't lay in it!"
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