The young man’s reflection glared back at me out of the shop window, suspicion etched into his roundish face. He probably thought I was doubting whether he looked manly enough, and, to be honest, I was.
‘Come on,’ I muttered, morosely. ‘Manliness, manliness… give me some manliness!’
I turned sideways, and he turned with me, thrusting his chest out at the exact same moment I did. It looked flat as a board, betraying not a hint of femininity, so that, at least, was going to be no problem.
Farther down though… My eyes wandered to the young man’s behind, where my Uncle Bufford’s old trousers bulged in a distinctly un-manly way. Yes. The young man’s behind was definitely a bit too fa-
No.
Not the f-word. Generous. That was the word. It was just a bit too generous.
‘Hell’s whiskers!’
I made an impolite gesture at the young man in the window, which he duly reciprocated. Who was he trying to fool? He was no man. He was a girl. Which meant that, as much as I would have liked to pretend otherwise, so was I.
‘I don't like you,’ I informed my reflection in no uncertain terms. It scowled at me, not at all pleased about being spoken to so disrespectfully.
‘It’s your own fault.’ I scowled right back. ‘If you were skinnier, and didn’t have so much of this-’ I pointed to my derrière, ‘then you’d look a bit more convincing in this getup.’
Distastefully, I tugged at the tailcoat and trousers, which felt odd over the tight corset.
‘If we get caught, it’s your fault for looking so… so chubby! We’re trying to look manly here. Couldn’t you at least get hold of a false beard or a prominent, masculine jaw?’
A pedestrian walking by gave me an odd look.
I decided that if I wanted to appear more masculine, it was probably time to stop talking to my reflection in a shop window and be about my business.
Throwing a last, discontented look at the well upholstered, tanned young man in the shop window, I hurriedly stuffed my hair under the huge, heavy top hat that was part of my disguise from my uncle’s wardrobe. My hair wasn’t too long to be a man's, really, it only reached down to my shoulders. But not many young men had shoulder-length brown locks. Silently thanking my uncle for unknowingly providing such a monster of a hat, I turned to face my destination.
It was still some way away and concealed by the thick layer of mist that obscured most of London’s streets at this time of day, but I knew exactly where I was going. I had spied out the place days ago, in preparation for my secret mission.
Secret, solitary, and illegal.
I started down the street again and felt my throat go dry. The stop in front of the shop window had been a temporary one, a last chance to confirm that I looked the part I was trying to play. It had granted me a short reprieve, but now the time had come.
Blast! What if they recognize me? If they realize I’m a girl? Panicked thoughts shot through my head like bees in a beehive rattled by a hungry bear. What if they grab me and… God only knows what they might do!
Calm down, Lilly, I told myself. You are on a mission for all womankind. If you should fall, hundreds will follow in your footsteps.
Which didn’t exactly make me feel better, since that meant they would trample over my remains.
Suddenly, the mist before me parted, and there it was: the place I had come to infiltrate. The place I was forbidden, by law, to enter. White columns supported a wide, classical portico that overshadowed the steps leading up to the entrance. The door had two massive wings of oak, and a guard beside it. Over the door hung a dark red banner, proclaiming, in black letters the words ‘POLLING STATION’.
And I suppose that says it all. That explains why I was here, why I was wearing ridiculously baggy men’s clothes which I had pinched from my uncle and why I was so mad at my own reflection. That explains why I was afraid. That explains what was illegal about my plans. That explains everything.
No? It doesn't? Not to you, anyway?
Count yourself fortunate, then. You apparently live in a country which actually allows its female inhabitants the right to vote.
Not so the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, I thought, gritting my teeth in anger. Its politicians had thoroughly deliberated on the subject of women’s suffrage and come to the conclusion that women should never be allowed to vote, for the following reasons:
1. Women’s tiny brains had no capacity for logical thought. Their emotional nature made them incapable of understanding politics.
2. If women were to get involved in politics, they would be too busy to marry and have children, and the entire human race would die out, which would be very bad indeed.
3. If women got involved in politics, they would be on an equal footing with men, thus creating the appalling condition of equality of the sexes and putting an end to all need for male chivalry and gentlemanly behaviour, which would be even worse.
4. All government ultimately rested on brute force. Since the gentle nature of women made them incapable of that, they were simply not suited for politics.
Would it surprise you to hear that all the politicians who put forward the reasons on that little list were men? I had taken the time to think very long and sincerely about their arguments, finally coming to the conclusion that said arguments were complete and utter poop. I really wished I could have a private meeting with the fellow who suggested that women were incapable of brute force. Just five minutes alone with him in a sound-proof room would do.
Not looking right or left, I marched down the street towards the polling station, trying to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest. Every minute, I expected someone to raise an accusing finger and start shouting, ‘A female! A female in men’s clothes! Grab the vile abomination!’
Nothing happened. Nobody even gave me a second glance.
That might, however, have had something to do with the thick fog that let one see clearly for only a few yards. Everything beyond that was just a hazy outline. As I walked on, the fog thickened even more, and for a moment, even the polling station at the other end of the street was consumed by it.
Yet even without the fog, there didn’t seem to be a great chance of my being recognized by passers-by. Only a few people were out on the streets, and they rushed past quickly. I hoped it would be the same inside the station. The only exception to the rule here, outside, was a large group standing half-way down the street. Although they were visible to me only as hazy silhouettes, I could tell that two of the men were in intense conversation.
‘… tell you, it is in perfect condition,’ the older of the two said. His double chin wobbled as he spoke and he made energetic gestures with his pudgy hands to underline his speech. ‘The best of all the houses I have.’
‘Indeed?’ The other man sounded curt and cool. I didn’t see his face since he stood with his back to me. All I could see was his lean black figure, erect as a rod of iron. ‘Interesting that you are willing to part with such a treasure.’
‘It is out of the goodness of my heart, Sir, out of the goodness of my heart!’ the fat man assured him. ‘Wilding Park is a treasure, and I hate to part with it, but I know that with you it will be in good hands.’
I hadn’t really paid attention to their conversation before, but the name caught my ear. Wilding Park? Surely not the Wilding Park?
‘Bah.’ The young man waved his hand depreciatively. ‘I have no time for this. Karim, pay the man and let’s be done with it.’ He raised a hand, pointing at the fat man. ‘However, you should remember: If you haven’t told the truth, I shall be very… displeased.’
Even through the fog I could see the double-chin of the fat fellow tremble.
‘Karim? The money.’ The young man snapped his fingers.
A gigantic fellow, one of the people surrounding the two, started forward but stopped and turned his head abruptly when I took a few steps in the direction of the group and cleared my throat.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! What was I doing? What was it to me if some rich chauvinist fellow got swindled and lost a few thousand quid? Nothing. But then, this might be a brilliant opportunity to test my disguise.
It was also a brilliant opportunity to procrastinate and put off my attack on the fortress of male political power for just a few moments more.
‘Excuse me, Sir?’ I wanted to tap the lean man on the shoulder, but the giant called Karim grabbed my arm before it even got near him and pulled me back, towering over me.
‘On your way, you lout!’ he growled in some thick, uneven accent I couldn’t identify. I looked up at him, eyes wide. Now that he was so close, with no mist obscuring his form, I could see he was a mountain of a man, with a face as dark as his long black beard, and a turban, yes, an actual turban on his head. What freak show had I wandered into? A turban? In the middle of London?
‘On your way, I said!’ he growled, twisting my arm painfully. ‘The Sahib has no time for beggars!’
Beggars? I was more than a little peeved, I had to say. I was dressed in my uncle’s Sunday best, after all. And all right, the clothes were three sizes too big for me and hadn’t been used or washed in years, but still.
At least he hadn’t said ‘The Sahib has no time for girls who dress up as men.’
‘I don't want any money from him,’ I retorted. ‘In fact, I want to help him save some!’
‘Save Money? Karim - let him go, now!’ the young man commanded, turning to look at me.
The big fellow did what he said so quickly that it was obvious he was a very obedient servant. His master was staring at me intently, but because of the fog I still couldn’t see much of him - except his eyes.
‘You,’ the man said, fixing me with his dark gaze, dark as the sea, somewhere between blue, green and grey. ‘What do you speak of? How exactly can you help me save money?’
I swallowed, wishing I hadn’t said or done anything at all. I could be safe in the polling station by now. Instead I was stuck here, because once again I couldn’t keep my nose out of things that didn’t concern me.
When I tried to step towards the man, thinking I should bow or shake his hand, the big dark-skinned servant blocked my way and put his hand to his belt. For the first time, I noticed the giant sabre that hung there. Obviously he didn’t think much of handshakes, bows and formal introductions. So I simply spoke from where I stood.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation with…’ my gaze strayed to the fat man.
‘Mr Elseworth,’ the man with the sea-coloured eyes supplied, curtly.
‘…with Mr Elseworth. Am I right in thinking that you intend to purchase Wilding Park, Sir?’
‘You are.’
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, I would advise against it.’
‘Why?’
‘My… my grandmother lives in the vicinity of Wilding Park, Sir. I visit her now and again and have caught glimpses of the house. It is not pretty.’
‘I am not concerned with whether it is pretty or not. Is it sound?’
‘That it is, Sir, that it is,’ the fat man cut in, throwing me an evil glare. ‘Don’t listen to this foolish youth!’
‘It is not sound,’ I snapped.
‘And you know that how?’ the man with the dark eyes asked.
‘Half the roof tiles are missing, and I have seen unhealthy-looking stains on the walls. Once, in passing, I heard the steward complain about the wilderness in the grounds and an infestation of rats. The road up to the house, from what I could see from my coach as I drove by, also looked in bad disrepair.’
‘And you remember all that just from passing?’
‘Yes?’ I responded nervously.
He gave a curt nod. ‘I see. Exactly what I have been looking for.’
That statement slightly confused me. ‘But I just told you the house is dilapidated and…’
The shadowy stranger cut me short with an impatient gesture. ‘Not the house, young man. You.’
I blinked, totally taken off guard. ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’ Carelessly, the lean figure in the fog waved a hand towards the fat man. ‘Karim, get rid of that individual. Our business relationship is terminated. I have no further use for him.’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
Seizing the stunned Mr Elseworth by the scruff of the neck, this fellow Karim hauled him off into the mist without so much as a second to consider. The protesting shrieks of the man could be heard for about two or three seconds, then abruptly ceased.
‘Now to you,’ said the dark-eyed man as if nothing particularly strange had happened. ‘I know a good man when I see one, and I need a bright young man with a good memory and quick mind as my secretary. The last one I had has just left my employment for some unfathomable reason. I think you would be exactly the man for the job.’
I managed to turn my involuntary laugh into a cough. ‘Err… the man for the job? Sorry, but I don't quite think that I’m the one you want, Sir.’
‘Can you read and write?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Do you have employment?’
Again, I had to work hard to stifle a giggle.
‘No, Sir, but…’
‘Well then it’s settled. Be at my office, nine sharp Monday morning.’
He walked forward and held something out to me.
‘Here.’
As he approached, the tendrils of fog uncurled around him, and for the first time I could see him clearly. My mouth experienced a sudden, inexplicable lack of saliva.
For a man he looked… quite acceptable.
Hard. That was what he looked like. That was what you first noticed about him: a hard, chiselled face, like that of some ancient Greek statue. Except of course that all the stone statues I had met at the museum looked a lot more likely to suddenly smile than he did. They, after all, were made of marble, which was really a quite soft kind of stone, maybe capable of a changeable facial expression. He, on the other hand, wasn’t soft. He looked as though he were hewn from granite. Like most of his fellow statues in the museum, he wore no beard. Against the current fashion, his face was meticulously clean-shaven, making it appear even more angular and stark. And then, finally, there were his eyes… His dark blue-green eyes that I had already seen through the mist. They were dark pools of immeasurable depth, pools you could drown yourself in and never again come up for air.
All right, all things considered he probably looked slightly better than just ‘acceptable’.
I instantly and absolutely mistrusted him. I disliked all men as a matter of principle, but handsome men, especially ones with a strong chin and overbearing manner, were at the top of my ‘things to exterminate to make this world a better place’-list. This particular specimen of manhood in front of me looked like just the kind of fellow who might have come up with the brute force argument.
‘Hello, young man? Are you listening to me?’
I shook my head, trying to chase away my wandering thoughts and concentrate. I was in disguise! This was a test, and I had to act accordingly.
‘Err… yes. Yes, I am,’ I stuttered. ‘You just surprised me, Sir. I must admit,’ I added truthfully, ‘that it’s not every day I get an offer like that.’
‘See that you’re not “surprised” too often when you are in my employ,’ he said without moving a muscle of his angular, stony face. ‘I have no use for baffled fools standing around gawking for no good reason.’
Fools, was it? His capacity for politeness seemed about equal to his ability to force a smile on that statue’s face of his. I had a sudden, mad urge to ask him what he thought about point number four. Maybe it really had been him…
Again, he stepped closer and jerked his hand forward.
‘My card,’ he said, his voice curt and commanding. Only then did I notice what he was holding out to me: a small rectangular piece of cardboard. I took it and examined it. In clear, precise lettering without any embellishments were printed the words:
Rikkard Ambrose
Empire House
322 Leadenhall Street
Nothing else. No titles, no embellishments, no profession.
I looked up at him again. Ambrose, hm? Like the stuff the Greek gods used to eat for breakfast? Well, he certainly looked good enough to eat, I thought as my eyes swept up and down his lean form appreciatively.
No! What was I thinking? I didn’t want or need men. I didn’t need anyone who thought my brain was too small to understand politics, thank you very much! I was a proud suffragette and should be thinking about promoting women’s rights, not the contents of men’s tights! Did men even wear tights under their trousers? I would have to ask my twin sisters about that. They would probably know from personal experience.
‘Don’t be late,’ he added, his dark eyes flaring. ‘I don't tolerate tardiness.’ Then, without a further word, he turned and vanished into the fog, his long black cloak flapping behind him. The others who surrounded him silently followed, as if he were the centre of their little solar system and they all revolved around him. I stared after him, flabbergasted.
The nerve of the man! He didn’t even wait to hear me say yes or no? He just left, expecting I would do his bidding. Who was he? Some industrialist with too much money for his own good? No, that didn’t fit the cut and colouring of his clothes, which was very simple: sleek black from head to toe. So was he just a simple tradesman? But then again… He had all those attendants with him. That suggested someone important.
Maybe he was a government official. I snorted, staring intently at the card. Yes, that would fit! One of those fellows who were to blame for me being out here in this strange getup in the first place. I should just chuck his card away and be done with it. It wasn’t as if I intended to go there on Monday.
I hesitated for a moment.
Then I pocketed the card and turned to the polling station again.
Why was I feeling so annoyed? I should be happy. This had been an excellent test. I had been in the company of one of the most masculine men I had ever met, and he hadn’t noticed I was in fact a girl. Great job!
Yet, deep down, I knew exactly why I was peeved. It was because I had been in the company of the most masculine man I had ever met and he had completely, I mean absolutely and completely, not noticed that I was in fact a girl!
Be sensible, I chided myself. A moment ago you were worried about looking too feminine. Now you’ve been proven wrong. Problem solved.
Yes.
There was definitely no reason for me to feel annoyed. No reason at all.
Banishing all thoughts of the strange Mr Rikkard Ambrose from my mind, I again started towards the building at the end of the street. The fog lifted slightly and revealed the menacing figure of a police officer posted outside the door. Sweat broke out on my forehead despite the cold, and for a moment I was convinced he was stationed there for the express purpose of catching young ladies daring to try and vote against the supreme will of the British Government.
Then I remembered he was probably not there for the women, but for the millions of men who still weren’t allowed to vote either, because they didn’t have a penny in their pocket. Women were probably not even important enough to be taken into consideration. Well, I would show them!
As I walked up the steps to the front door, the bobby took off his hat respectfully. ‘Good day, Sir.’
Oh God! He’d lifted his hat in greeting. Why hadn’t I thought of this? What should I do? Take off my hat in return? I couldn’t do that, considering the mass of hair that was piled up underneath it like a haystack crammed into a shopping bag. So I just nodded silently. Better to be thought rude than to be polite and subsequently arrested.
Quickly I pushed past the bobby and threw open the door to the polling station. A thick stench of cigars and sweat wafted towards me out of the darkness.
My hands clenched into tight fists, and I stood there, immobile. Could I do this? Was I brave enough? Would I get caught? Would I get lynched by an outraged male mob?
Before I could think better of it, I plunged forward, into the darkness, towards my goal.
*~*~**~*~*
For a moment, I stood still while my eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. Slowly, shapes appeared out of the dark, and I could distinguish a sort of counter at the other end of the room, where an official sat with several lists and thick books. Men formed a line in front of the counter. They scribbled something in the books with a fountain pen, then bowed to the official and departed.
Was I supposed to write in there, too? I had no idea how this ‘voting’-thing actually worked. Oh heavens, I should never have tried this…
Come on, I chastised myself. Do it! Do it for your friends, Patsy, Flora and all the rest! Do it for the oppressed masses of women who are too lazy to protest themselves! Do it against all those arrogant male chauvinists who think the brains of a woman wouldn’t fill a tea spoon!
Unfortunately, this last thought brought a certain image to my mind: the image of Mr Rikkard Ambrose as he disdainfully handed his card to his new ‘secretary’.
Was I really so ugly that a man like him would not even recognize me as a girl? I refused to believe so! Admittedly, my skin was rather tanned, and my face was rather round with a perky chin, not at all demure and ladylike. But still, not even to recognize me as a girl…?
Forget about him. He’s not important. You have a job to do! I repeated over and over in my mind. Still, the image of Rikkard Ambrose persisted in front of my inner eye as I approached the line of men at the counter.
Just before I could get into line, a thin little man in a bright yellow waistcoat stopped me. Or maybe he was a woman in disguise, too? How should I know, after all?
‘Excuse me, Sir,’ he said in a voice high enough to make the theory at least possible. ‘You will have to show me your passport.’
Ah! I breathed a sigh of relief. At least this was one eventuality I had provided for. At a dinner party, I had heard the gentlemen once talking about the government introducing this measure: you had to show your passport when you voted, to prove who you were.
So how could I try and vote, you may ask yourself?
Well, I had pinched my uncle’s passport.
Why not? I had already taken his trousers, jacket, waistcoat and top hat. And it wasn’t like he was going to vote. He never left his room except to work or complain about things.
‘Um… of course. Here.
With fluttering fingers I removed the rectangular piece of paper from my pocket and unfolded it. The little man took it and looked at it without really paying attention.
‘In his Majesty’s name… Passport for the person of the name Bufford Jefferson Brank… signed by… and so on and so on… yes, all appears to be in order.’ He handed the document back to me, and I quickly tugged it back into my pocket. ‘Please continue, Mr Brank,’ he said, gesturing towards the line of waiting men and already looking somewhere else, having lost all interest in yours truly.
That was fine by me.
Hurriedly, I placed myself behind the last man in the line, thanking the Lord that the British government hadn’t yet adopted the practice of putting pictures of people in passports. I might be able to pass for a man by putting on a pair of trousers and a top hat, but I doubted I would be able to pass for a grumpy sixty-year-old by availing myself of a false white beard and pretending to limp.
‘Next, please,’ the man at the counter called in a bored voice. The line moved forward, and I moved along with it, step by step, voter by voter. In that way, I slowly approached the counter, getting more nervous with every passing minute. How exactly did you 'cast a vote'? Did you actually have to throw something? I presumed it was only a figure of speech, but I wasn’t entirely sure.
The men before me didn’t seem to be throwing things around, though. They just bent as if to write something down, and then went away. That didn’t look so bad.
Suddenly, the last man in front of me stepped aside and I was facing the official behind the counter. He held out a piece of paper, on which the names of two candidates were printed with little circles beside them.
‘Cast your vote, please,’ he said, his voice still dripping boredom.
‘What?’ I stared at the man, surprised. ‘Do you mean anyone will be able to see who I voted for?’
He looked at me as if I had just asked whether the sea was really made out of water. ‘Of course. If you’re ashamed of your political affiliations, you shouldn’t be here. Haven’t you voted before?’
Trying desperately not to let my nerves show, I shook my head. ‘No. First time.’
‘Oh, well, that explains it.’ His expression changed from bored to superior, and he pointed to a place on the paper. ‘We vote publicly here, young man. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. You’ll get none of those absurd new political ideas the Chartists are proposing in my polling station. Did you know those fools don't just want to have secret ballots, they actually demand universal suffrage?’
‘Incredible.’
‘Just what I said! This is a decent, British polling station, young man. Everybody who comes here to vote is a gentleman with a residence in town and a good income, and everybody sees who everybody else votes for.’
He paused, and I, as was obviously expected, nodded my agreement to his political wisdom. The official seemed pleased. He tapped on the paper in front of me.
‘Just make your mark there, or there, young Sir, depending on which candidate you wish to vote for.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ I grabbed the fountain pen and immediately made my mark for the Whig candidate.
‘The Whigs, hmm?’
The official’s face soured, and he glanced at me disapprovingly. ‘Didn’t you hear what I was just saying? The Whigs actually support those Chartist extremists and rebels who want votes for the common people. Do you really know what you are doing, young man? Those infernal reformers will be the death of our great country, some day!’
‘Well, we'll just have to see, won’t we, Sir,’ I said with a smile and curtsied.
The entire room went suddenly deadly quiet as everybody turned to stare at me. The voters, the officials, even a fellow in the corner who looked like he had just come in to warm himself up a bit - they all stared at me with open mouths.
What was the matter with them?
Then I realized. Oh, blast! I curtsied! I didn’t bow, I curtsied!
*~*~**~*~*
They needed to call a second police officer to ‘restrain the madwoman in the polling station’ as the government official put it to the messenger boy who was sent to the police. The boy was obviously impressed with my performance, because he returned not with one, but with three additional Bobbies, truncheons in hand.
Now don't get me wrong, I didn’t try to strangle anybody. Far from it. I simply had decided that since I was discovered anyway, I might as well use the opportunity and set up an impromptu demonstration for women’s rights in the polling station. The government officials in charge of the place didn’t seem to take kindly to the idea.
Thus it was that at 9:30 am on 22 August 1839 I was dragged out of an inconsequential polling station in the middle of London, with the firm assistance of four protectors of the people. Two of the officers held my arms, while another two marched ahead to warn any passers-by of the dangerous madwoman.
‘Chauvinists!’ I yelled. ‘Oppressors of womanhood!’
One of the Bobbies winced, covering his ears.
‘Can we gag her?’ he asked his sergeant.
‘No, lad, that’s against regulations,’ the older man grunted.
‘What about a straitjacket?’
‘We ain’t got one of those, more’s the pity.’
Digging my heels into the ground, I continued to express my opinion of the oppressors of womanhood in no uncertain terms. To my considerable satisfaction they had a great deal of trouble moving me five inches, let alone down the steps from the doors of the polling station.
We had just reached the last porch step when out of the bank on the opposite side of the misty street stepped a figure I remembered all too well: Rikkard Ambrose, his classical features as hard as ever, his black cloak wrapped tightly around him. When he caught sight of me being dragged away, he stopped in his tracks.
‘Officer!’ In three long strides he was in front of us. His face was just as unmoving as before, but there was a steely glint in his dark eyes. ‘Officer, what are you doing with this young man, may I ask?’
The sergeant turned, and paled as he saw the visage of the much younger man. He took one hand off my arm to salute. My, my. Mr Rikkard Ambrose had to be someone of importance to elicit that kind of reaction from one of London’s stoic defenders of the law.
I tried to use the opportunity to wrestle free, but immediately the sergeant stopped saluting and clapped his hand around my arm again.
‘Good morning, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ he said, trying to stand at attention while not loosening his grip on yours truly. ‘Um… Sir, if I may ask, what young man are you speaking of?’
With a sharp jerk of his hand, Mr Ambrose pointed at me.
‘That one, of course. Are you blind? What are you doing with him?’
‘Not him, Sir.’ Reaching up, the sergeant gripped my top hat and pulled it off, so my chestnut bob cut was freed and tumbled downwards. ‘Her. That’s a girl, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
The expression on the face of Mr Rikkard Ambrose at that moment was quite possibly the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. His stone face slackened and he gaped at me like he hadn’t seen a single female before in his entire life.
‘Something wrong, Sir?’ the sergeant inquired, dutifully. When no answer was forthcoming from the stupefied Mr Ambrose, the sergeant shrugged, and made an awkward little bow. ‘Well, if you’d excuse us, Sir, we have to take this one,’ he nodded at me like he would at a rabid horse, ‘away to where she belongs. Maybe a night in the cells will teach her not to do what’s only for men.’
‘Aye,’ one of the constables chuckled. ‘Women voting? Who ever heard of something like that? Next thing we know they’ll want decent jobs!’
His colleagues laughed at his joke and started dragging me to a police coach standing not twenty yards away.
In that moment, I made a decision.
I turned my head around to look back. Mr Rikkard Ambrose still stood there, pale and unmoving as a block of ice. Even though he was already a dozen yards away, and the Bobbies dragged me further and further, I could see his stone face very clearly. I could see his dark eyes starting to burn with cold anger. A grin spreading across my face, I yelled:
‘Looking forward to seeing you at work on Monday, Sir!’