A Dangerous Fortune(133)

Southwark

London, S.E.

September 10th, 1890

To the Editor of The Times

Dear Sir,

I read with interest the letter from Dr Charles Wickham on the subject of women’s physical inferiority to men.

She had not been sure how to go on, but the arrival of Rose Porter had given her inspiration.

I have just admitted to this hospital a young woman in a certain condition who has walked here from Bath.

The editor would probably delete the words “in a certain condition” as being vulgar, but Maisie was not going to do his censoring for him.

I note that Dr Wickham writes from the Cowes Club, and I cannot help but wonder how many members of the club could walk from Bath to London?

Of course as a woman I have never been inside the club, but I often see its members on the steps, hailing hansom cabs to take them distances of a mile or less, and I am bound to say that most of them look as if they would find it difficult to walk from Piccadilly Circus to Parliament Square.

They certainly could not work a twelve-hour shift in an East End sweatshop, as thousands of Englishwomen do every day—

She was interrupted again by a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called.

The woman who entered was neither poor nor pregnant. She had big blue eyes and a girlish face, and she was richly dressed. She was Emily, the wife of Edward Pilaster.

Maisie got up and kissed her. Emily Pilaster was one of the hospital’s supporters. The group included a surprising diversity of women—Maisie’s old friend April Tilsley, now the owner of three London brothels, was a member. They gave cast-off clothes, old furniture, surplus food from their kitchens, and odd supplies such as paper and ink. They could sometimes find employment for the mothers after confinement. But most of all they gave moral support to Maisie and Rachel when they were vilified by the male establishment for not having compulsory prayers, hymn-singing and sermons on the wickedness of unmarried motherhood.

Maisie felt partly responsible for Emily’s disastrous visit to April’s brothel on Mask Night, when she had failed to seduce her own husband. Since then Emily and the loathsome Edward had led the discreetly separate lives of wealthy couples who hated each other.

This morning Emily was bright-eyed and excited. She sat down, then got up again and checked that the door was firmly shut. Then she said: “I’ve fallen in love.”

Maisie was not sure this was unqualified good news, but she said: “How wonderful! Who with?”

“Robert Charlesworth. He’s a poet and he writes articles about Italian art. He lives in Florence most of the year but he’s renting a cottage in our village; he likes England in September.”

It sounded to Maisie as if Robert Charlesworth had enough money to live well without doing any real work. “He sounds madly romantic,” she said.

“Oh, he is, he’s so soulful, you’d love him.”

“I’m sure I would,” Maisie said, although in fact she could not stand soulful poets with private incomes. However, she was happy for Emily, who had had more bad luck than she deserved. “Have you become his mistress?”

Emily blushed. “Oh, Maisie, you always ask the most embarrassing questions! Of course not!”

After what had happened on Mask Night, Maisie found it astonishing that Emily could be embarrassed about anything. However, experience had taught her that it was she, Maisie, who was peculiar in this respect. Most women were able to close their eyes to just about anything if they really wanted to. But Maisie had no patience with polite euphemisms and tactful phrases. If she wanted to know something she asked. “Well,” she said brusquely, “you can’t be his wife, can you?”

The answer took her by surprise. “That’s why I came to see you,” Emily said. “Do you know anything about getting a marriage annulled?”

“Goodness!” Maisie thought for a moment. “On the grounds that the marriage has never been consummated, I presume?”

“Yes.”

Maisie nodded. “I do know about it, yes.” It was no surprise that Emily had come to her for legal advice. There were no women lawyers, and a man would probably have gone straight to Edward and spilled the beans. Maisie was a campaigner for women’s rights and had studied the existing law on marriage and divorce. “You would have to go to the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court,” she said. “And you would have to prove that Edward is impotent under all circumstances, not just with you.”

Emily’s face fell. “Oh, dear,” she said. “We know that’s not so.”

“Also, the fact that you’re not a virgin would be a major problem.”

“Then it’s hopeless,” Emily said miserably.

“The only way to do it would be to persuade Edward to cooperate. Do you think he would?”

Emily brightened. “He might.”

“If he would sign an affidavit saying that he was impotent, and agree not to contest the annulment, your evidence won’t be challenged.”

“Then I’ll find a way to make him sign.” Emily’s face took on a stubborn set and Maisie remembered how unexpectedly strong-willed the girl could be.

“Be discreet. It’s against the law for a husband and wife to conspire in this way, and there’s a man called the Queen’s Proctor who acts as a kind of divorce policeman.”