‘Certainly not,’ she retorted.
Mr Coombes gave a slight guffaw and clambered to his feet. He puffed out his chest, but stayed upright.
‘Won’t you rest a little longer, Reginald?’ Mrs Coombes pleaded from the sofa.
‘I’m quite well now, Adeline. No need to fret.’ Mr Coombes took one step forward, one step back across the carpet, as if testing his strength.
Violet and her mama exchanged worried glances. Her papa loathed a fuss to be made about his health, but his turns terrified all of them.
A pang of pain clutched deep in her own chest. For her parents’ sake, she had to stop the scandal.
‘Now then.’ Her papa’s voice lacked its usual ring as he stopped on the carpet and studied Adam Beaufort. ‘Let’s get down to business. Are you serious in proposing marriage to my daughter?’
Adam drained his whisky glass. ‘Quite so, sir.’
Mr Coombes tucked his hands into the lapels of his checked waistcoat. His elbows jutted out. ‘You think a marriage announcement could halt this suffragette business. Is that it?’
‘I believe it would stop the scandalmongers if attention was diverted towards an engagement,’ Adam replied. ‘The Beaufort name will halt adverse gossip. We’re an old family. Well connected.’
‘At court!’ Mrs Coombes put in from the sofa, still fanning herself rapidly. ‘To royalty!’
Adam smiled at Violet’s mother, not appearing to mind her mentioning it. ‘There are a few overlapping branches in the family tree.’
He turned back to Mr Coombes. ‘If we act in time, I hope we can ensure your commercial dealings are not adversely affected.’
‘Do you believe the reputation of my company might be damaged by this stunt of Violet’s?’ Mr Coombes demanded.
‘Surely not!’ Violet put in.
‘I’m afraid so, Miss Coombes.’ Adam spoke quietly, but his tone was firm.
Mr Coombes looked suddenly deflated. ‘I agree. Customers can take such things very badly.’
‘My being a suffragette won’t stop people eating Coombes Chocolates,’ Violet said, incredulous.
‘You have insulted the Crown. Fortunes have been lost for less.’ Adam gave her a direct look that reminded her of their discussion the night before. He knew about such matters, she recalled with a sinking heart.
‘What of the Royal Warrant?’ From the sofa her mother’s voice was hushed.
Her father shook his head. ‘No chance of a Royal Warrant now. No chance at all.’
Violet clutched her corset. The painful pang in her chest moved to squeeze her stomach, as if she’d eaten too many sweets at the factory. She’d done so once, as a small girl.
The Royal Warrant. Chocolate Manufacturers to the King. It had been her father’s abiding goal in life for as long as she could remember. Now the scandal she’d created could dash his dream.
How had it come to this? She struggled for breath. She’d never meant to insult the royal family, never once imagined that her passion for the Cause could risk what her father had worked so hard to build. Yet she couldn’t regret her deed. It was the suffragette motto after all. Perhaps she’d gone too far with the banners at the ball, but she would never give up her beliefs.
‘What do you think needs to be done?’ Mr Coombes was asking Adam Beaufort.
‘Make a formal announcement as soon as possible,’ he replied. ‘Notify The Times.’
Mr Coombes tucked his hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his spotted handkerchief. ‘What you’re proposing might work. It just might work.’
‘But why would you do this for us, Mr Beaufort?’ Mrs Coombes asked, bewildered, from her seat on the sofa. Her fan still fluttered at a rapid rate, like wings of a startled bird.
Violet met Adam’s eye. He raised an eyebrow.
An unspoken communication passed between them.
She held his gaze. In return, his was steadfast. To her surprise, she felt reassured. She had experienced the same security when they’d danced at the ball, after he’d rescued her from being a wallflower. He’d caught her safely when she’d fallen from the balcony, too.
‘Mama. Papa.’ Violet took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Beaufort, alone.’
‘What?’ Elbows out, Mr Coombes gazed from one to the other. ‘Surely a marriage proposal is a matter for your father to consider.’
Violet lifted her chin. ‘I refuse to be discussed like cattle in the market place. No matter how unusual the circumstances.’
The dent appeared in Adam Beaufort’s cheek, as if he were trying not to chuckle.
Mr Coombes wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was still breathing heavily, Violet noticed with alarm, but his eyes were alert. Beneath his handkerchief he appeared to be summing Mr Beaufort up in his shrewd gaze, the way Violet had seen him assess potential buyers for the chocolate factory. She could almost hear his brain whirring, as fast as her own. Finally he tucked the handkerchief away.
‘Very well, Violet. We’ll leave you to consider this.’ Wheezing slightly, he reached for her hands. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you so harshly earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.’
‘We were all upset.’
‘You mustn’t feel any pressure,’ her father said now. ‘Whatever happens, it will be your decision. We would never force you into anything. I hope you know that.’
Violet’s throat choked. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
He gave her hands another squeeze before letting them go, but she could still see the worry in his eyes. Worse than that. There was a despondency she’d never witnessed in him before. In spite of his health concerns, he was always so cheerful.
Her stomach lurched. She’d hurt the people she loved most in the world.
‘Come along, Adeline.’ Mr Coombes held out his hand to his wife.
‘Ought Violet be left without a chaperon?’ Mrs Coombes asked doubtfully, as she got up from the sofa with a rustle of taffeta.
‘We’ve strayed beyond all kinds of proprieties this morning, Mama, in the space of a quarter of an hour,’ Violet replied.
This time she heard Adam Beaufort’s chuckle escape.
Her papa steered her mother towards the door. It closed behind them.
Silence fell, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. She picked up the tin of Floral Creams that still lay on the Turkish carpet. Her father had knocked them off the table when he had his turn.
She clasped the tin to her bodice.
They always kept Coombes Chocolates in the drawing room. There were tins of Floral Creams in every bedroom, too. It was a point of pride for her family.
She looked down at the lid, with its swirled font and bouquet of flowers. Now it might never be adorned with the royal warrant they all wanted so much. Her papa had even left room for it in the design, believing that aiming high was the best method for success.
‘Opportunities fall in the way of everyone who is resolved to take advantage of them.’ Her papa often quoted that. She’d been raised on the philosophy of Samuel Smiles, the author of her father’s favourite book, Self-Help. There was a handsome leather-bound copy of the book in pride of place at the factory office. It had been given to her papa by his employees one Christmas, after their annual party. Over two thousand people,