Mabel. I hadn’t seen her since…The thought wouldn’t configure itself. Since what? Since I’d asked for her help? Since I’d gone to Ditte’s? Since Her. This was what happened every time I thought about my last visit to Mabel. It marked a moment in time, and thinking about it caused me to think of Her. I wondered how Sarah and Philip might have celebrated Her first birthday. What gift they would give Her for Christmas. I imagined Her walking and wished I’d heard Her first word.

“She has a word for you,” Lizzie said, and I looked up, startled. For a moment I wasn’t sure who she was talking about. “Says she’s been saving it. I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t reckon Mabel’s long for this place.”

I rose early and dressed with unnecessary care. I was nervous about seeing Mabel. Ashamed it had taken me so long. When the morning post fell through the slot in the door, I was glad for the distraction. It was one of Tilda’s sporadic postcards. The picture on the front was of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster.

November 2nd, 1908

My dear Esme,

You told me once that you wished our slogan was “Words not Deeds” instead of “Deeds not Words,” and I laughed at your naivety. So, when I heard about Muriel Matters chaining herself to the grille in the Ladies’ Gallery in the House of Commons, I could not help but think of you.

It was an ingenious act of attention seeking (I’m sure Mrs. Pankhurst wishes she had thought of it), but it will be her words that move minds. She is the first woman to speak in the House of Commons, and her words were intelligent and eloquently spoken. Hansard may not record them, but the newspapers have. She is Australian, apparently. Perhaps it is the right to speak in her own Parliament that gives her the confidence to speak in ours.

“We have sat behind this insulting grille for too long,” she said. “It is time that the women of England were given a voice in legislation which affects them as much as it affects men. We demand the vote.”

“Hear, hear!” we must all shout.

With fondness,

Tilda

Australia, I thought. She will be able to vote. I put the postcard in my pocket and hoped the thought of Her having a better life on the other side of the world would protect me from regret.

Lizzie and I paused amid the morning crowd jostling in front of the fruit stall.

“I have a long list,” said Lizzie. “I’ll join you soon.”

She left, but for a moment I stayed where I was. I could see Mabel’s stall, pathetic in its poverty, its lack of custom. Mrs. Stiles’ flower-filled buckets were a cruel contrast.