“My mother had to bring me up alone while working at the Press,” Gareth said. “I know quite a lot.”

Gert scoffed. Tilda threw her a silencing glance. Gert raised a glass of sherry to her lips, and I noticed a gold band and a large diamond ring. She was a class or two above Betty. Shona had remained silent throughout the conversation, her head bowed deferentially, and I suddenly had the thought that she might be Gert’s maid. My heart started to pound.

“And what do you know of our struggle, Gert?” I asked. Shona did her best to conceal a smile.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, it seems to me that we are not all struggling in the same way. Isn’t it true that Mrs. Pankhurst was willing to negotiate for women with property and education to get the vote, but not women like Gareth’s mother, for instance?”

Tilda sat open-mouthed, a smile in her eyes. Gert and Betty were appalled, but speechless. Shona looked up for a moment, then back at her lap. The men immediately beside us had gone completely quiet.

“Excellent, Esme,” Tilda said, raising her now empty glass. “I was wondering when you would join in.”

The January night was cold, and Gareth offered me his coat for the walk back through the Oxford streets to Jericho.

“I’m quite all right,” I said. “And you’ll freeze if you take it off.”

He didn’t insist. “What did Tilda mean about you joining in?” he asked.

“She’s always thought I didn’t know my own mind when it came to women’s suffrage.”

“Your ideas sounded pretty clear to me.”

“Well, that might be the most I’ve ever said on the subject, but that Gert woman was so awful I couldn’t bear to be agreeable.”

“I didn’t like what they were hinting at,” Gareth said.

“What do you mean?”

“Deeds not words.” He was thoughtful for a minute. “Essy, do you know why Tilda is in Oxford?”

Essy. Gareth had never called me anything except Miss Nicoll, or Esme. A shiver went through me.

“You are cold,” he said, and he took off his coat and placed it over my shoulders. His hand brushed my neck as he straightened out the collar. I tried to remember what he’d asked me a moment before.

“She’s here for the procession,” I said, pulling his coat around me. The warmth of him was still in it. “And me. We were quite good friends for a while.”

We slowed on Walton Street, passed the back of Somerville College and stopped when we came to the Press. It was completely dark except for the orange glow from an office above the archway.

“Hart,” Gareth said.

“Does he never go home?”

“The Press is his home. He lives on the grounds with his wife.”

“And where do you live?”