“Well, he described it as a remnant cock—proof we were of Adam, he said. But, like you, he had no idea what it could do. Or if he did, he thought it irrelevant.” She smiled. “It brings a woman pleasure, Esme. That’s its only function. Knowing that changes everything, don’t you think?”

I shook my head, not understanding.

“We’re designed to enjoy it,” Tilda had said. “Not avoid it or endure it. Enjoy it, just like them.”

As we followed Tilda and her entourage, Bill seemed shy for the first time since I’d met him.

“She won’t come home tonight,” he said.

An appropriate response rested on my tongue, but I said nothing.

“She made sure I knew that.”

His words travelled through me, to the place I now had a word for. I knew what would happen if I went with him. I longed for it.

“I can’t be late,” I said.

“You won’t be.”

A few days later, Bill, Tilda and I met for tea at the station. Bill kissed my cheek. Anyone watching would have guessed old friends, cousins, perhaps. They wouldn’t have noticed his gentle breath in my ear, or the shiver that met it. Over three evenings, he had explored me. Found seams of pleasure I didn’t know existed. Should he stay in Oxford? he’d asked. If you have to ask, I’d said, then probably not.

Tilda handed me a paper bag.

“Don’t worry, they’re not leaflets.” She smiled.

I opened the bag.

“A lip-pencil, eye-pencil and eyebrow-pencil,” said Tilda. “Easily obtained, though perhaps not from the hairdresser your godmother goes to. I also bought you some lipstick. Red, to go with that hair of yours. You’ll need a new dress to make it work.”

I took out a slip. “Put lip-pencil in a sentence.”

“The lip-pencil followed the contours of her ruby lips like an artist’s brush.”

“She’s been practising that,” said Bill.

“I can’t write that on a slip.”

“If this is for the real Dictionary, doesn’t it need to come from a book?” Bill asked.

“It’s supposed to, but even Dr. Murray has been known to make up a quotation when those that exist don’t do justice to the sense.”

“That’s my sentence, take it or leave it,” said Tilda.

I took it. Bill poured more tea.

“Do you have a play already lined up in Manchester?” I asked.

“It’s not theatre work that’s taking us to Manchester, Essy,” said Bill. “Tilda’s joined the WSPU.”

“Which is?”

“The Women’s Social and Political Union,” said Tilda.

“Mrs. Pankhurst thinks her stage skills will be useful,” said Bill.

“I can project my voice.”

“And make it sound posh.” Bill looked at his sister with such pride. I couldn’t imagine him ever leaving her.

December 1906