A convoy of three Rolls-Royces moved slowly through the drizzle toward Westminster Palace. Annabelle sat in the backseat of the first vehicle, protected from the cold by an elegant winter coat and with her granddaughter nestled comfortably against her side. She had cast her ballot in Belgravia this morning and had stayed on to assist first-time women voters. Since leaving, she had had Jamie stop the car twice, in Chelsea, and in St. James, to collect Hattie, Catriona, Lucie, and various offspring from their respective voting booths.
For the last hour, she had sent the convoy through the London districts, pointing out different polling stations to Aurelia, and they had tried to count the women in the queues as they passed. Annabelle glanced down at Aurelia’s small face and watched the girl’s quiet green eyes take in the history being made. She tried to remember her life when she had been Aurelia’s age, ten years old. This close to Christmas, she would have been helping her mother and the maid in their small country kitchen, eager to sneak raisins and bits of dough.
They passed Parliament Square. Westminster Palace looked blurry behind its thin veil of brown fog. Annabelle leaned forward and placed her hand on the upholstery of the driver’s seat. “Stop right here, darling.”
“We are meeting Father at the Old Palace Yard,” Jamie replied, his eyes on the road. “It’s coming up in a minute.”
“I know. Stop here.”
“Mummy, this street is not for parking,” he remarked, but he pulled over and stepped on the brake.
The wide pavement was busy with pedestrians. Straight ahead, a queue of voters ran past St. Margaret’s Church and disappeared into a building on the corner of Broad Sanctuary.
“So many have come,” Annabelle said, not for the first time. “Lucie was right.”
Jamie looked back over his shoulder, his faintly amused expression a copy of his father’s.
“How could you have doubted Lucinda?”
“Frankly, I hadn’t known what to expect.”
The war effort aside, the Representation of the People Act that granted women over the age of thirty and all men in Britain the vote had only just come into effect; it was so new, it was barely real. The suffrage cause itself had been dormant throughout four years of war. Even the militant suffragettes had laid down their weapons and dedicated their efforts to supporting the nation. The world was still in turmoil. The armistice had been called a month ago, but peace returned only slowly; Claremont’s west wing was still a makeshift hospital and convalescing soldiers were wandering around the grounds at all hours. Here in London, motorized omnibuses with American flags hanging from the windows pushed through the traffic.
“I should like to get out for a moment,” Annabelle said.
Jamie glanced at the rear mirror. The automobiles behind them had come to a halt, forming a haphazard line along the curb. Annabelle could see Lucie gesticulating quizzically from behind her wheel. Next to her, their granddaughter Josephine was making faces. That girl. She takes after you, Annabelle would tell her friend; No, she very much takes after you, Lucie would reply, and thank goodness for that. As long as she doesn’t take after Ballentine, was all Sebastian ever said to that. To this day, the duke was baffled to find himself tied to a once-notorious lothario by way of his elder daughter’s marriage to said lothario’s son, and that his and Ballentine’s heritage would mix so well in two delightful grandchildren.
“Very well.” Jamie switched off the engine. He opened his door and Annabelle watched as he carefully climbed down the step, then limped alongside the automobile to assist with her and Aurelia’s descent. Ever since shrapnel had taken the proper mobility of his legs, her son had forgone a chauffeur and driven the Silver Ghost himself. She took his arm because she wanted to be close to him, not because she would have required assistance. Once safely on the pavement, she glanced up at his stoic profile.
“I’m glad you are by my side today,” she said.
He gave a nod. “Of course,” he said. “It’s your victory day.”
Indeed, but not all children cared to understand their mother’s battles.
People walked around her, breathing in fog and exhaling white clouds. Engines rumbled and hooves clopped past. Just a little farther down the street was the Old Palace Yard that fronted the House of Lords. She had stood in this spot here before, clutching a woolen scarf against her chest in chilly autumn air. She remembered a tall man in a top hat seeming to materialize from the fog.
“Jamie,” she said absently. “Why don’t you walk ahead. I should like to stay here awhile.”