I’ll have to tell Abby I won’t be able to come with her this weekend.
But then, Abby would surely understand. She’d do just fine without her.
Hester carefully placed the old book in its usual place and threw an accustomed glance at her lady’s working table. The typewriter stood there silently, all the papers taken away. Hester couldn’t help but sigh: she wished Lady Lucy was just as careful and tidy with everything as she was with her clandestine writing. The magazines and newspapers were spread over the table rather chaotically.
Poor Abby, Hester thought. She must’ve been really tired today to forget to clean it up.
Yes, she remembered; there was a reason for that. The laundry had finally come back today, and it was up to Abby to check the state of the sheets.
These napkins, pillowcases, sheets, tablecloths, and towels – everything, that needed to be mended, patched, darned, and given a respectable appearance; it seemed to cover Abby’s life, like masses of snow.
Hester couldn’t now even breathe the velvety scent of beeswax, rising from the polished floors, without thinking of Abigail’s calloused hands.
She closed and folded the newspapers, arranging them into a neat stack. She couldn’t help but admire Lady Lucy’s diligence: here were, as far as Hester could recognize, most of the publications she either wrote for regularly or contributed to occasionally. Apparently, she tried to keep an eye on all the latest developments in the world beyond these walls.
The next title, unearthed by Hester’s efforts, made her stop and stare in a vague not-quite-recognition. The front page was adorned by a great symbol: a striking lightning bolt in a black circle. Beneath it was a similarly familiar, starkly printed name: The Blackshirt.
Hester strained her memory. Where could she have seen it? Definitely not here. Still in her hometown, perhaps? Did anyone she knew read it? Anyone in her family? No, she would’ve …
And then, it clicked.
Yes, of course.
An autumn evening, an eerie glow of gaslights on Northumberland Street. And a chant, sudden like a wind, cutting her ears like a knife.
‘Two-Four-Six-Eight-Whom-Do-We-Appreciate: Mosley! Mosley! Take a leaflet, Miss.’
She took it partly out of politeness, out of a perpetual desire not to offend; partly because she was too startled to argue. She didn’t remember the text on the leaflet now, but she remembered the word. The Blackshirt. No, in plural: the Blackshirts.
Yes, she’d heard that word, she’d heard it all right. It didn’t come up regularly in any discussions; however, it still managed to reach her every now and then, touching her ears like a draught of wind.
Hester remembered the brooding young men, gathering for the meetings outside the pub. She saw them sometimes, if she passed by on a Friday evening. She thought of the hunger in their eyes, of the gloom in their faces.
And her Lady Lucy was curious, after all. She wasn’t content with dedicating her attention to – how did she put it? – christening receptions and the length of women’s skirts. She knew about the Hunger Marches, about the Northern troubles. Moreover, she seemed to be able to recall every single instance when the protesters were spotted singing Red Flag.
There is nothing to be surprised about, then. Nothing to worry about.
That was what Hester was telling herself, when her glance fell on the tiny printed words beneath the grand title.
Editor: A. K. Chesterton.
I know this name.
Of course, her inner voice reasoned. It’s just like the writer. The mysteries you used to borrow all the time, remember?
No, no, that was something else.
She must have heard it …
Yes.
She remembered the moment now; it was tinted with her own curiosity and marvel at the power of the machine.
Could it be a coincidence?
What do you think? The inner voice again, impatient. How many editors called Chesterton are there in this country?
Probably not many, Hester conceded.
I absolutely had to find these numbers.
What kind of numbers could Lady Lucy have needed for her usual articles? The number of guests at a costume party …?
Everything will change soon, Blake.
And those responsible for it will answer.
It was no empty consolation, then. It was a sincere promise.
Suddenly, Hester felt very cold.
So, her lady wasn’t merely a curious observer. She was one of the acolytes.
Why do you think it so strange? You know next to nothing about the Blackshirts. Lady Lucy is a reasonable person; surely she wouldn’t have supported them without good reasons?
Perhaps their aims were noble, even if they looked a little disconcerting. Perhaps.
And still, Hester couldn’t get rid of a tight, unpleasant feeling forming in her chest.
Apprehension. Resentment. Bitterness.
She didn’t even tell me! The bitterness in her wept, unpleasant and irrational and strong. She didn’t even tell me.
Why should she have? her mind asked in return. You are her maid.
***
Lucy Fitzmartin lay in the darkness, feeling absolutely no inclination to sleep. Her mind was ablaze with stories, with thoughts, with possibilities. She could feel the spectres of a thousand plots at her fingertips. Words flared up in her head, colliding and intertwining with one another, forming sentences and paragraphs of the stories yet to be written.
Now she had someone to read them.
What was it about Hester that made her open up like a flower, vulnerable as an overexcited child? She would have never showed these scribbles to any of the Bright Young Things she met last year – not even to Nora Palmer, sweet though she was.
Guarding her words like a poisonous medicine, remembering every favour and dissecting every gesture; it all felt as natural to Lucy as a corset must have felt to her grandmother. With Hester, that was different. Why? Was it because she was safe? A servant girl, a half-invisible creature? No, hardly. Lucy knew better than most just how painfully these seemingly harmless creatures could stab you.
Something else, then. What? Her gentleness? The spirited ring in her voice when she defended these – what was it? – landscapes of Northern counties?
Lucy found herself smiling, absent-mindedly and happily.
Well, even her grandmother must have taken her corset off sometimes.
In less than two months, they would finally be away for the Season. Lucy couldn’t wait to show her new confidante all the wonders of the ancient capital. She was also impatient to return there herself, to find herself once again at the magnificent heart of the Empire – a dying, withering Empire, but an Empire nonetheless. At the place where everything important happened. At the place where all the vital decisions were made.
She would meet, once again, her comrades-in-arms. She would shake Mr Chesterton’s hand. She would hear Sir Oswald speaking.
Her introduction to the movement was almost as accidental as her introduction to the Society journalism. Lucy fulfilled the promise, given to herself that sunny afternoon in the restaurant of Claridge’s hotel. She set out to find out everything she could about Oswald Mosley and his supporters.