Charlotte Wynthorpe and the Case of the Disappearing Diamonds

2. Dull, Dull, Diamond

Once they'd said their goodbyes to each other and Olivia's taxi had pulled away from the taxi rank outside the cinema, Charlotte had returned home to spend the evening telephoning with friends and wading through what had fluttered in with the second post. 

The ever-churning riptide of parties, lunches, afternoons-at-home and other societal obligations expected of her had to be talked about, invitations accepted or rejected. Her seamstress had to be consulted and the tattle column of the papers memorised to avoid sticking her foot in her mouth at the wrong moment. 

Being in society was a chore. At times a roaringly fun chore, Charlotte had to admit, but not always.

On a sunny, pleasant afternoon only a few days after Olivia's visit, Charlotte found herself in Mayfair at one such "not always" obligation, a Ladies' Charity Society event, trapped between two duelling women. The more-than-robust one to her left had a voice like a foghorn, and the one to her right resembled a pinch-nosed terrier in an ancient fur-trimmed jacket. And just like a terrier, she simply would not let the matter lie.

"And I say, extending the vote to all women is a dire mistake! What's wrong with the law as it is?"

"What's wrong with it?" bellowed the robust woman, causing Charlotte to raise a hand and cover her ear. "What's wrong with it? It's elitist and old-fashioned, that's what! When only wealthy and highly-educated women are allowed to the polls--"

"Then only considered and competent votes will be cast!"

"Then only conservative and backwards-looking men will be elected and much needed reforms will never be put through! The country will stagnate."

"Balderdash! Come clean, you can't sleep at night for fear of what the likes of your scullery maid would do if given the vote, exactly like the rest of us. The mere thought of illiterate women, for whom their own street is the entire world, having a say in how the entire British Empire is governed is absurd."

"I would encourage all of my female servants to vote, I'll have you know! Equality between the genders begins with-"

"Vote for whom? The man with the most attractive moustache? Or the one their fathers and husbands tell them to vote for? Because that's exactly what they will do. What do you think you are actually encouraging, other than tripling the vote for socialism? These women do not have a shred of political understanding. Are you so very keen to see an October Revolution in the streets of England?"

"Excuse me, sorry. If I could just get past," Charlotte said, moving forward out of the corner where she'd stood, neck tickled by a palm frond for the last five minutes, waiting for a pause in the cannon fire.

There had been none, and she had to get some air or she would scream.

The two warring parties cast irritated glances in her direction, but neither one of them seemed willing to part with more than a foot's worth of the floorboards. They confined themselves to glaring at each other as Charlotte gently pushed her way between them, holding their tongues until she had cleared the battle field before they let loose again. 

Once free, Charlotte snaked her way through the clusters of chatting women to the drinks table, where she requested a cold lemonade from the sleepy-eyed attendant.

Charlotte despised these charity society meetings. Not because she despised being charitable, she'd gladly loosen her purse strings for a soup kitchen in some slum or other, or for missionaries dying of malaria in the darkest reaches of Africa, if asked. But these all-female gatherings were nothing but moaning sessions about the catastrophic state of the world and extended political debating of the self-same topics month after month.