Jamie gave her an odd look. “Aurelia, sweet,” he said, “come with Papa.”
Aurelia looked like a doll on his hand, in her small blue coat and with her honey-blond braids lying neatly on her shoulders. How strange life is, Annabelle thought. Had Lucie not ordered her to hand out pamphlets in this very spot forty years ago, had Sebastian not walked toward her at that minute, this perfect little girl would not exist. Either all existence was frightfully fragile, a result of infinite, random chances, or it was preordained in every detail.
Lucie’s voice came from behind: “My lovelies, what are we doing?”
She was approaching with Josephine and Josi’s brother, their mutual grandson, Alexander. A sour-faced Charlotte stomped behind the trio in her sturdy old boots. Annabelle’s second-eldest daughter had shared a ride with Lucie, not wanting to squeeze herself into the space next to Jamie while he was driving. Farther behind, at the curb, Hattie and Catriona seemed to struggle with closing their vehicle doors properly, until their chauffeur set himself to the task. Elyssa, Catriona’s only child, stood aside and covered her eyes with her hands, clearly unimpressed by the collective practical incompetence on display. Like Charlotte, Elyssa’s patience seemed to wear a little thin today. At one-and-twenty years old, she wasn’t qualified to vote during this or even the next election.
“Aunty Elyssa wanted to vote, and Aunty Charlie is cross because not a single woman has been elected, and she thinks Aunt Lucie should have run for MP,” Josephine announced in her bright voice when their group had caught up.
“It is a sad thing,” Charlotte remarked, looking down her proud nose.
“According to poll estimates, Constance Markievicz ought to win her seat,” Elyssa pointed out.
“Indeed; if only she weren’t currently in prison for anti-conscriptionist activities,” Charlotte snipped. “Or were not a member of Sinn Féin and as such can’t take her seat anyway.”
“A clever choice, to vote in a convict bound by abstentionism,” remarked Alexander, his hazel gaze flicking back and forth between his aunties.
“Young man, at your age, you ought to refrain from sarcasm entirely,” Lucie scolded him, as though he had had a choice in the matter with all the Ballentine blood in his veins.
“Why didn’t you run for MP, Aunt Lucie?” Josephine asked.
“Ah well.” Lucie gave her a lopsided smile. “Because, my dear, I’m tired.”
This confused the children, who only knew the kind of tired that took place shortly before bed.
“You could have done it for just one term,” Charlie said, her blue eyes flashing, “to make a point . . . to set an example. I thought that was what you fought for.”
“Charlotte,” Annabelle said quietly.
Her daughter pressed her lips together and ducked her head.
Lucie sighed. “Charlie, child,” she said. “I have fought for this day today since 1868. How many years is that? Fifty years? Yes, fifty.”
“Half a century,” muttered Alexander.
“Am I that old?” Lucie asked mildly. “So it seems that for half a century, seven days a week, I rose to a list of tasks I had to accomplish for the Cause, and I went to bed knowing I still hadn’t done enough. Does this not sound tiring to you?”
A contrite expression came over Charlotte’s face. “I didn’t mean to—”
“When we pioneered this cause,” Lucie broke in, “we knew very well that it was for the benefit of those who were to come after us. Had I hoped to see this day today? Absolutely. But I had never expected it. This fight began before I was born. I recall too many women who dedicated their lives to the Cause, and they passed on decades ago. Most of you won’t ever know their names. Don’t mistake me, there is still work to be done; the wheel of human inanity will undoubtedly keep turning. However, my ride on it ends here, today. This is your cause now, if you want it—pick up the torch. See that the right to vote extends to women in their twenties, and the penniless. Help women put themselves up for every election. See to it that Oxford will finally give its women proper degrees. Support your sisters, regardless of their position in life, and tell them to use their rights—to receive an education, to keep their earnings, to find a husband who treats them as an equal, or to remain single. As for me, I desire no thanks for helping you get those rights, but don’t begrudge me my rest. I shall spend the next part of my life napping, going to pretty places, and making my husband happy. Ah. Speaking of the devil.”