Taking me by the arm, he manoeuvred me forward. I tried to pull away, but his grip was like granite. Soon I was standing at the edge of the podium, facing the crowd. Hundreds of eager faces looked up at me, expecting me to betray my most cherished beliefs.
‘Go on,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Speak. And make it memorable, if you ever wish to receive your first month’s wages.’
Hundreds of people were looking up at me expectantly. The silence stretched.
What am I going to say? What in heaven’s name am I going to say?
I opened my mouth.
And I closed it again.
And opened it again.
And closed it again.
I can’t do this. I can’t speak out against everything I believe in!
Then I heard a gasp from one of the expectant people. Instinctively, I looked in the direction of the noise and, with a nasty shock, saw who it was: Patsy. And in her eyes I saw what she saw. All the other people might see a small young man with shoulder-long hair standing on the platform, opening and closing his mouth like a suffocating goldfish. But she saw her friend, Lilly, dressed in trousers and a baggy old tailcoat, standing amongst her worst enemies.
Our eyes met.
And suddenly, I had an idea. Suddenly, I knew what I was going to say.
Swallowing hard, I raised my chin and stared down the crowd with strength and nobility shining out of my eyes - or at least that’s what I hope it looked like.
‘I think,’ I began, my voice not nearly as weak as I had feared it would be, ‘that it is time for us to reconsider our antiquated prejudices. I think it is time that we grant women the rights that have too long been denied them. Political rights are rights of self-expression. Would you deny a woman the right to express her heart and her soul? To aid in the forming of the country which is as much hers as it is any man's? I stand here today to tell you: we need women’s suffrage in Great Britain!’
There were cheers and claps from the women among the crowd. There were even a few claps and cheers from those men who were too slow to realize what I had actually been saying.
We need women’s suffrage.
Not we don't need women’s suffrage.
Out of the corners of my eyes I could see the happy smiles on the faces of Mr Cartwright and his cronies slowly dissolve. I saw Mr Ambrose, too. He, of course, had no happy smile to dissolve in the first place. But I noticed him stiffening, and a certain pallor creep over his features.
‘Women and girls of Great Britain!’ I shouted. ‘You are not alone! Even-’ I had to work hard to suppress a smirk, ‘-among the hardest conservatives such as Mr Ambrose and myself, there are those who have been secretly convinced of the righteousness of your cause; they are just too afraid to admit it!’
Turning my head slightly, I gave Mr Ambrose a small, meaningful smile. The eyes of every member of the audience followed the motion, mesmerized. His face… Oh my God, his face!
With difficulty, I managed to tear myself away from the sight and face the audience again.
‘Do not give up! Eventually, the resistance shall crumble and the way shall be open to a Britain in which all people, men and women alike, are allowed to express their political opinions freely and without having to fear reprisals. Stand fast, and you will be victorious!’
In the midst of the crowd, I could see Patsy gesturing wildly to Flora and Eve, who had already started to retreat when Mr Ambrose had held his speech, terrified by his unforgiving glare. Now, they had turned around and come back to Patsy, who whispered excitedly to them. She kept pointing up at the podium, up at the speaker.
The two girls looked up at the speaker - and their eyes went wide. I smiled at them, and their mouths dropped open.
Mr Cartwright was now shaking his head in confusion, looking between me and Mr Ambrose. Other members of the assembled anti-suffragist organization had stuck their fingers in their ears and started cleaning them, as if they were sure that what they were hearing would change once they had gotten rid of residual earwax. Only the deaf old duke beside Mr Ambrose was looking just as cheerful as before, probably because he couldn’t understand a word I was saying.
‘I heard a story the other day from one of my closest acquaintances,’ I continued, marvelling at the fact that I was holding a speech I had never actually rehearsed. Apparently my acting skills went beyond simple lying. ‘She had decided to take it upon herself to fight the unfair laws of her country, to rebel, and dress up as a man in order to vote. And can you imagine what happened? When discovered for what she truly was, the poor young lady was dragged off like a criminal and put into prison! Into prison, ladies and gentlemen! And people wonder why there are no female politicians and generals, when the mere attempt to speak your mind can get you thrown in jail?’
My fist slammed down on the lectern.
‘And do you know what is the most outrageous? People who allow this dare to call themselves gentlemen, and dare to say that women’s suffrage would put an end to chivalry! I say the contrary - men’s suffrage puts an end to chivalry! It already has put an end to it for hundreds of years! No true gentlemen would allow a lady to be treated thus!’
There were calls of agreement from the crowd, both ladies and gentlemen. Three ladies in the midst of all were leading the way, clapping and yelling enthusiastically: Patsy, Eve and Flora were all grinning like lunatics on a field trip to the circus. Eve could hardly hold herself upright, she was laughing so hard. Patsy met my eyes again. There was a fiery glow in hers that spread over her entire, broad, apple-cheeked face, and in that moment I knew that I was forgiven. Or rather, that there was nothing to forgive at all.
‘Women deserve suffrage! So we have no prime ministers who are women, nor generals, nor admirals, nor entrepreneurs! What does it matter? For, let us not forget,’ I said, raising my finger, ‘let us never forget, that they all rank beneath one individual, one mighty sovereign who eclipses them all in her glory - our sovereign, Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, a woman! Long live the Queen! Long live suffragism!’
All over the square shouts of ‘Long live the Queen!’ rose up. Even the sour-faced men behind me started to fall in with the rest of us. You had to. It was practically built into the English national character to want the queen to live long, and to say so at every available opportunity. Never had I heard anybody say ‘Short live the Queen!’ or ‘Gruesomely die the Queen!’ My words were the perfect thing to say, at just the right moment. They united my audience. Mixed in with the royal shouts, I could even make out one or two yells of ‘Long live suffragism!’
I was on a roll! I would have continued bewitching the masses, and no doubt started a revolution in the middle of Hyde Park that very day, but before I could continue my speech, rough, manly hands grabbed me from behind. A few of the anti-suffragists had finally grasped what I was actually saying. They started to drag me backwards, away from my audience. At least I got out a last shout of ‘Long live suffragism!’ before I was towed off the podium. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my friends whooping and waving their signs in support for the best speaker of the day.
~~*~~*
The door slammed open when he kicked against it. None too gently, he pushed me into his office and strode in after me. Staggering backwards, I managed to right myself again just in time to face him as he whirled towards me.
‘You!’
Have you ever heard the phrase ‘chilling contempt’ before? Well, you don't know the full meaning of the phrase until you’ve heard a few words out of the mouth of Mr Rikkard Ambrose when he’s really cold under the collar. Burning cold.
‘You,’ he whispered, and his voice sent chills down my back. ‘You will regret this. You will regret this very much.’
I raised my chin defiantly.
‘Indeed? What will I regret? Speaking the truth?’
‘You will regret making fun of me in public. It is not something I tolerate.’