“Equal suffrage? Are you sure? What did she say?”
“She said it meant all women . . .” Maisie choked up. It had never mattered to her before, not politics, not anything. But women had died for this. Phyllida lived for it. It mattered a lot. Her words came out in a squeak. “All women over twenty-one can vote. No restrictions.”
“Oh . . . Maisie.” Hilda yanked a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face. Her head popped up quickly, eyes damp and glittering. She swan-dived onto the studio phone to ring Millicent Fawcett. Maisie stood behind her, bouncing on her toes. Even through her excitement, she couldn’t help looking at the controls and thinking they’d be such fun to work. It couldn’t be so hard if people like Billy did it. Women weren’t allowed, but maybe . . .
“She said yes!” Hilda crowed. “I’ll go fetch her myself. Oh, we’d best say something to the DG,” Hilda remembered. “Can’t risk an apoplectic fit.”
Except that telling him meant giving him a chance to veto. Luck was with them; his secretary said he was gone for the day and no, he couldn’t be reached.
“A jolly good night for him to be gallivanting,” Hilda said, sighing with relief. They had, after all, attempted to follow protocol. Now they just needed to rearrange the evening schedule to accommodate the broadcast and write a script of sorts.
“Someday the BBC is going to have the right to do all its own news, hang the papers,” Hilda grumbled with uncharacteristic vitriol. “Honestly, why can’t the future be now? Even being a political secretary didn’t require so much disassembly.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and paced.
“Let’s see: ‘Rumbles from Parliament hint at the long fought-for right to equal franchise. If this is true, it will have some real bearing upon our next general election. Dame Millicent Fawcett, one of the great activists for women’s universal suffrage, is here to reflect on the legacy of the struggle and what true universal suffrage might entail.’ And then Dame Millicent can say: ‘I hope this is the case, as we don’t want to remain behind our American sisters, and it’s important for Britain, generally a universal leader, to show it trusts all its women with this task.’ Hm. This sacred task? No. This sacred duty? Bit hyperbolic? But we can’t overstate the import.” Her grin nearly split her face, and she hugged herself. “It will be a terribly interesting election.”
“Where’s Our Lady gone?” Fielden asked Maisie, standing over her desk, arms folded, ignoring the furious gallop of her fingers as she typed the script.
“She’s escorting Dame Millicent Fawcett here for a special broadcast,” Maisie said, overflowing with the joy of superior information.
“Oh, Lord, not the Fawcett woman.” Fielden moaned. “Perfect name—turn her mouth on and it never stops running.”
“She is an enormously important woman! One of the great suffragettes, and a dame, besides!” Maisie retorted, outraged.
“Damn the dames, I say.”
“Mr. Fielden!”
“I’m a republican. Small ‘r.’ It means something different over here, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Maisie snapped. “I have actually lived in Britain most of my adult life and I read all the newspapers.” She slammed the shift lever over, thundered through her final sentences, and snatched out the papers.
“Well, look who’s got a temper on her.” He tsked, smirking. “What are we coming to?”
“I’ll leave you to determine,” she told him, and flounced off to the typing pool to scoop up Phyllida. The nearest spot for a private talk was the second-favorite ladies’ lavatory and, after checking under the stalls for feet, Maisie broke the momentous news.
Phyllida gripped hold of the sink and stared at her.
“Nae. Is it really true? It must be. Lady Astor wouldn’t spread a rumor. Oh, my life!” She began to weep. “Can you believe it? We’re all of us going to have a voice at last.”
“We really are,” Maisie said, and she started crying too.
Both of them were still red-eyed when they emerged a few minutes later. Eckersley saw them and chuckled. “What would you poor girls do without lavatories to bawl in?”
They were floating far too high to bother with a response.
Meeting Dame Millicent passed in a blur. She was frail, with papery-white skin and trembling hands, but like Hilda, her eyes were shining.
“I think I lived to see this out of sheer stubbornness,” she declared in a voice much stronger than her body.
She bore herself with extreme elegance and sat as upright as if she were still wearing corsets. Which perhaps she was. Mr. Burrows, the BBC’s announcer, had to be brought into the secret so he could interview Dame Millicent—there was no time to find anyone else. And listeners would think the presence of a man added gravitas to the occasion.