Free Vanquished by Hope Tarr

hours posing for a portrait when there was so much of critical importance to accomplish in over the next few weeks? Were her mentor still in England, Callie wouldn't hesitate to plead her case. As it was, the breadth of a great wide ocean stood between them. She briefly considered telegraphing a message but the lecture tour of the United States was a hectic affair involving a great deal of travel by train--did she really want to trouble Millicent with a matter that was, well, trifling?
    And it
was
trifling, or at least should have been. Photographs, people sat for them all the time nowadays. Why, you could scarcely walk into a public park on a Sunday and not encounter at least one photographer, passersby patiently queuing up for shilling photographs of their babies, wives, and sweethearts. Yet the thought of having her imperfect image captured by a camera's unforgiving lens dredged up all the old insecurities.
    God, would it never be over?
She closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over her throbbing forehead. Ten years, and yet at times such as this, when it was night and she was alone, it might have been just the other day, the memory lodged in her consciousness like a deep-seated splinter.
    It was springtime in the countryside, a lovely twilight evening. Lilac and early roses scented the air; the breeze was a silken caress against her face and bare shoulders, welcome balm after the stifling confines of the ballroom. She was nineteen and about to be married to Gerald, one of the season's most sought-after bachelors. Even her parents were thrilled-- this once she'd managed to please them. Yet something was wrong, or at least not quite as it should be, she could
feel
it. On pretense of her dance slippers pinching, she'd sought solace in the garden. Being careful of her gown, a pale pink affair with far too many ruffles and bows for someone her size, she perched on the edge of the stone bench and slipped off her shoes. Above her, the balcony doors opened. Cigar smoke drifted downward, choking out the scent of roses.
    "So, old sod, how does it feel to be about to be leg-shackled to last season's leavings?" It was Gerald's best friend, Larry, his speech a telltale slur.
    Cheeks flaming, she slunk back into the shadows and waited for Gerald to defend her.
    Instead, he answered, "Oh, she's a milcher, to be sure, but with a splendid set of tits and a dowry beyond generous, I can bear marriage to a beast." He paused to take a puff. "The old gaffer must be desperate to be rid of her."
    Chuckling, they stubbed out their smokes and went inside. Numb, she'd sat on the bench for what had seemed like hours. Eventually she got up, walked back in, and carried on with the evening as though nothing were amiss. It wasn't until the following morning that she called her parents aside and told them the engagement was off. When they declined to agree, she packed her bags and boarded the next train leaving for London and her Aunt Charlotte. She'd lived with Lottie ever since.
    Every morning for the past ten years now, she'd scraped her thick waist-length black-brown hair into a tight bun, tucked her offending bosom into high-necked shirtwaists, and hid her curvy hips beneath layers of petticoats and skirts. She'd embraced spinsterhood and then the suffragist cause with the same enthusiasm, the same passion that other women applied to the roles of wife and mother. Instead of home and hearth, she'd chosen to fight as a soldier would fight, for a just and noble cause. Progress, albeit incremental, was being made. In a fortnight there would be the closed-door meeting with the prime minister, Lord Salisbury, who already had expressed some sympathy with their cause. Success was in sight, she could
feel
it. And if she hadn't found happiness exactly, at least she could claim contentment.
    Or so she'd thought.
    But at times such as tonight when all her restless energy spiraled toward a decidedly physical sort of pinnacle, content was the very last thing she felt.