Vanquished (41 page)

"We have already women enough sacrificed to this sentimental, hypocritical prating about purity, without going out of our way to increase the number. Women have crucified the Mary Wollstonecrafts, the Fanny Wrights, and the George Sands of all ages . . . let us end this ignoble record and henceforth stand by womanhood. If this present woman must be crucified, let men drive the spikes."

--E
LIZABETH
C
ADY
S
TANTON
in response to criticisms of Victoria Woodhull, 1871

E
xtra! Extra! Read all about it. Maid of Mayfair bares all." Standing at the breakfast room window overlooking the street thronged with reporters and photographers and sundry scandal mongers, Callie had to admit that the future, hers, looked decidedly bleak. Even so, now that the initial shock was wearing off, she felt an eerie calm descending. Knowing Hadrian had caused her to take a long, hard look at her life, and though their relationship had brought her harm as well as good, she couldn't help preferring the woman she was now to the walled-off person she'd been but a few weeks before. Just what could one say about a woman who'd been utterly at home lecturing to hundreds, and yet at a perfect loss when it came to carrying out a simple, honest conversation with a friend? A woman who'd known how to give orders but hadn't the faintest idea how to smile, who craved physical satisfaction with all her being and yet until a few days before hadn't the courage to let a man close enough to touch her in ten years. So even though she found herself ostracized by her suffragist sisters and polite society alike, she somehow fell short of feeling completely crushed. But before she stepped down, she meant to make a public statement the likes of which would not be heard again for some time.

The sound of a throat being delicately cleared had her turning her head to the breakfast room doorway. Lottie, restored to her customary elegance, stepped forward. "I delivered your message as you asked. Are you quite certain you want to do this?"

With a sigh, Callie let the fold of brocade drapery drop and moved away from the window. "Yes, quite, and the sooner better." She started toward the front hallway.

Lottie's voice stalled her in her tracks. "Will you want these?"

She glanced down to where the older woman held out her late husband's spectacles.

Callie bent and pressed a kiss onto her aunt's smooth cheek. "Thank you, Auntie, but no. I don't think I'll have need of hiding behind Uncle Edward's eyewear ever again."

Fueled by the promise of a hefty tip, the hansom driver made it to Hadrian's shop in record time. As eager as Hadrian was to go to Callie and throw himself on her tender mercies, he didn't care to plead his case stinking like a dead fish and bleeding like a stuck pig. In the process of shucking off his putrid clothing, he heard a soft thud. Looking down, he saw that something had fallen from his inside coat pocket to the floor. Impatient to change and be on his way, he thought about leaving it lie until Dinah bounded up and started batting it about.

Cursing beneath his breath, he stiffly bent to retrieve the fallen object. Scarcely larger than a postage stamp, it was swathed in so much cotton wool as to make its shape indecipherable. Sally's gift, he'd all but forgotten. Remembering her admonition that he wait until he was with Callie to open it, he trusted that under the circumstances she would forgive him a small preview peak.

Swollen fingers clumsy, he unwound the wrapping and pulled out the thin square of pressed metal. Turning it over to view the imprinted image, a smile stole over his mouth, setting his scabbed lip to bleeding.

Oh Sally, were you here, I'd plant a big, smacking kiss on your cheek.

His old friend hadn't given him just any gift, but the key to his future, and quite possibly, Callie's, too.

Out in the front hallway, Callie draped a light shawl about her shoulders. Looking from her aunt to Jenny, she drew a deep breath and then nodded for Jenny to open the door. Tears in her eyes, the maid complied and then moved out of the way as a cacophony of voices poured inside the room on a draft of icy air. Cold wind rushing her face, Callie stepped out onto the stoop. Even though she'd been observing from the window, the scene stretched out before her momentarily stole her breath. The normally quiet street resembled nothing so much as a marketplace on fair day. In addition to members of the press and newspaper boys, a good many vendors had set up shop outside the wrought iron gate, hawking their wares of roasted chestnuts, hot cross buns, and gingerbread from three-legged barrows. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, was the black-and-white image of her nearly naked self.

In the midst of the melee, a high-pitched voice piped up, "It's 'er, the randy Maid o' Mayfair."

Laughter greeted that remark. "Use your peepers, Jack. She's no maid as that
photogruff
shows."

Holding her head high and her shoulders back, Callie motioned for silence. Clearing her throat, she began . . .

Coming to Half Moon Street, Hadrian all but jumped off the carriage step while the hansom was still moving. Calling down from the box, the driver said, "I'm that sorry, sir, but this is as near as I can take you. There looks to be some goings-on up ahead."

Heart in his throat, Hadrian paid the fare and jumped down to the street blocked by pedestrian traffic. Judging from the dull roar, it seemed that half of London congregated outside of Callie's front gate.

Determined, Hadrian elbowed his way through the crowd. It took considerable doing, but eventually he pushed his way toward the wrought-iron gate. Being tall afforded him the advantage of seeing over most of the crowd to the house's Palladian facade. A thick-waisted woman selling fresh-cut flowers blocked the gated entrance. When she wouldn't budge in response to his request, he pushed a five-pound note in her meaty fist and all but moved her aside bodily.

Circumventing her cart, he squeezed inside the gate door to join the dozen odd persons parading about the patch of frosted lawn. The gate had just fallen closed behind him when a hush fell and heads turned. He turned, too, in time to see the front door open and a tall woman with dark hair and large eyes step out onto the front steps. Callie!

Hadrian froze in mid-step. The crescents carved beneath her swollen eyes spoke to her suffering, yet the dignity and self-possession that struck him the first time he set eyes on her was still there in abundance. But there was something different about her, too, something more than there used to be, a new ease that he noticed at once though she'd yet to speak so much as a single word.

"Dear friends," she began as though the reporters and the newsboys and even the hawkers selling newspapers and sundry savories at her expense were all friends and neighbors she'd invited over for a chat. "Before we begin, I would like to thank you in advance for this opportunity to be heard in my own way and my own voice. I know the day is cold and the morning hour grows late, so I promise you I will be brief."

From outside the gate, a cheeky male voice cried out, "Let's have a look at those lovely titties, love. We'll stand out 'ere all day for that."

Other than a slight flushing of her face, she ignored the heckler and continued, "I would like to say I deeply regret any embarrassment my recent behavior has brought upon the supporters of women's suffrage throughout the country, the London Society for Women's Suffrage specifically, and my most esteemed colleague and mentor, Mrs. Fawcett. I trust that our distinguished representatives in Parliament will continue to weigh the suffrage bill on its own merits and give it all due and fair consideration when it is brought before them later this day."

Inside his bruised chest, Hadrian's heart was swelling to bursting with pride and love. No, he would never be halfway to good enough for Callie nor could he expect her to forgive him let alone to take him back, but neither circumstance would stop him from loving her for the rest of his life.

"On the personal front, however, I can admit to having few--if any--regrets. I may not have loved wisely, but I have loved well. Yes, I have bestowed my body outside of marriage, but not without first having given the whole of my heart. And while I hold to my conviction that every British subject should be born with the right to vote regardless of sex, I have learned that the most precious things in life aren't the rights wrested from governments or granted by princes, but the inalienable gifts bestowed by the Creator. The free will to love where and whom our hearts direct us is the greatest gift, the greatest freedom, that any man or woman might wish for."

Callie, my splendid, brave girl, I love you. I've loved you all along.

And because he loved her, with all his body, mind, and heart, he couldn't let her stand up there alone for so much as a moment more. He had to get to her. Amidst the pop and flash of cameras and the scraping of pencil stubs across notepads, he pushed a path through the dispersing crowd, stiff leg dragging.

From the entrance, Callie's half-moon brows shot upward and her beautiful eyes widened. "Hadrian, dear Lord, what happened to you?"

Taking hold of the rail, he climbed up to join her. "I'll explain later but first things first." He reached the top and turned to face out onto the yard, shouting to be heard above the hubbub. "Hold, hold, I say. I am the photographer who took this picture. If you want the full story, you'll stay and hear me out."

From the crowd, someone demanded, "Who the devil is that?"

Turning back en masse, the spectators reassembled. Keenly aware of Callie's gaze on his face, he announced, "Foremost, you need to know that it was Mr. Josiah Dandridge, MP for Horsham, who caused that photograph to be commissioned--yes, commissioned. In fact, Dandridge blackmailed me into discrediting Miss Rivers whom, you also should know, is the most moral woman I've ever had the honor of knowing--or loving."

He slanted a gaze at Callie but her expression, riveted on his face, was unreadable.

That admission won the crowd's attention as well as hers. The raised voices dimmed to a collective whisper. Satisfied his voice would carry, he continued, "When I declined to carry out Dandridge's scheme by turning over the photograph, he had my studio ransacked and Miss Rivers's photograph stolen. I confronted Dandridge last night and demanded he return the photograph. The coward informed me he'd already turned it over to the press, and then called in his henchman to beat and then drown me."

Beside him, Callie's gasp found its way to his ear. He thought she said his name but couldn't be sure if it wasn't his own wishful thinking.