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Darcy returned to Pemberley after taking Georgiana back to school.

The grand house stood dreary and empty, so when an invitation to a shooting weekend in Scotland arrived, he accepted.

He knew himself and his tendencies well enough: he would collapse into brooding and isolation if left alone in his great house.

With the winter season bringing an end to much of the farm activity and fewer visitors to the public rooms of the house, there wasn’t much to occupy him or banish his gloomy thoughts.

Perhaps he should have waited until after Boxing Day to leave Netherfield.

Perhaps he should have paid a call on Elizabeth once more.

That dance with her in the music room… he felt a change in her then, or was it merely his fevered imagination?

He so wanted her to relent in her opinion of him.

Could his letter have awakened her affections?

The letter he received from her afterwards did not indicate any profound change.

He had the chance to speak to her at Netherfield but couldn’t find his tongue.

Now he would never know. The time had passed.

The shooting in Scotland did serve to divert him for a time, and he accepted another invitation to Netheravon House near Salisbury.

The Duke of Beaufort, Archibald “Archie” Somerset had a lovely house overlooking the River Avon, and the hunting was expected to be excellent.

Darcy was in vain hopes that Charles would be there, but he was completely preoccupied with readying Netherfield for his impending nuptials.

He was on his own this winter. Ah, well.

At least there would be activity, and activity was as good a substitute as any for a life with purpose.

Soon after he arrived, they were shown into a large drawing room filled with overstuffed chairs and other comfortable furniture arranged in small groups.

A roaring fire in the hearth warded off the chill.

Darcy was surprised and, dare he say it, pleased to see Harry Gordon Selfridge among the weekend guests.

As soon as he caught sight of Darcy, he strode over.

“This is such a pleasure. Is Charles here with you?”

Darcy shook the man’s hand warmly. “No, I am afraid not. He is preparing his new house for his bride-to-be.”

Selfridge’s eyebrows popped up in surprise. “Well, well, good for him. A man should be married. Gives him stability, don’t you think?”

Darcy didn’t reply at once. Harry Selfridge’s reputation for chronic infidelity had taken him aback for a moment.

Darcy admitted to himself that he was never good at small talk because the first thing that popped into his head was the truth.

Therefore, it took him a moment to think of what he was expected to say.

“ Yes, I suppose so. Charles is a very solid fellow in any case.”

“ Yes, he is. Yes, indeed. You know, Darcy, I meant to speak to you.”

“ Certainly.”

Selfridge took Darcy by the elbow and led him to two vacant chairs by the fire, away from the other men, who were now being joined by their wives and, dare he think it, mistresses.

Whatever Selfridge had to say to him, it was no doubt something to do with business.

Darcy’s endeavours to familiarise himself not only with retail commerce but the flamboyant way that Selfridge organised his business sometimes left him completely flummoxed.

It was so different from the life he lived and the life he had been prepared for.

As soon as they were seated, Selfridge leaned in close. “You’ve taken a greater interest than most of my board members in how I do business.”

“ Does that worry you in some way?” Whatever was this man getting at?

“ No, no, of course not. No… I welcome it. I do…” Selfridge seemed to be searching for words. “I was just thinking… now this would be completely up to you, of course… that perhaps you might visit Marshall Fields in Chicago. It might give you greater insight in why I do the things I do.”

“ Marshall Fields? Who is he?”

Selfridge gave out a great guffaw, so great that it drew the attention of some of the other men who were now seriously engaged in imbibing.

“No, I didn’t mean the person. Marshall Field has gone to his reward, but his store is what I am referring to.

I think you should visit his store. It is where I started out, and I think you would gain a greater understanding of the workings of my mind and, of course, the way we Americans view commerce. ”

Darcy blinked at Selfridge in confusion. Had the man actually suggested that he take an ocean voyage and then who knows how long a train journey just to see a store? It was absurd. Since Darcy didn’t answer immediately, Selfridge eased back.

“ Well, you don’t have to make up your mind right away.

It was just a suggestion.” Swivelling in his seat, he caught sight of someone and called out, “Syrie, what a surprise to find you here.” Selfridge was out of his seat like a shot.

Darcy sniffed in disgust. A surprise, indeed.

Everyone knew of his affair with Syrie Wellcome.

Darcy had had enough. It was back to Pemberley for him.

Even brooding alone was better than this company.

The seed for travel, however, had been planted, and the thought of a journey to America began to turn over in his mind.

***

“ My humble abode…” Wickham acted as doorman with a mock bow for Lydia.

“I arranged for a small repast for the two of us.” A few weeks had passed from the time he first diverted Lydia from her young crowd, and she was now putty in his hands.

Still, he would proceed carefully. Who knows what might have been said in Lydia’s ear about his past indiscretions.

She may be on her guard against him. He would never force her.

Never. There were so many fish in the sea, there was no need for drastic measures.

Lydia turned this way and that. “Is this all for you? You don’t live with anyone else?

My, goodness. It’s lovely.” She removed her hat and laid it on the table near the entrance.

The place was small: a galley kitchen to the right and a small sitting room with two floor-to-ceiling windows at the front.

The furniture was of good quality, if sparse, and a sofa and button-backed chair faced the hearth in which a fire burned.

He was proud of it. His paramour and patroness, Mrs Maxwell, had provided for him nicely.

Next to the kitchen stood the bathroom, complete with a sink, toilet, and tub.

Wickham motioned her inside. “If you would like to refresh yourself, I will make us a cup of tea.” She handed him her coat and entered the bathroom.

He deliberately didn’t show her the bedroom.

Experience taught him that any reference in that area, especially to one so young and inexperienced, usually meant immediate flight.

No, he would take his time. If things progressed as he imagined they would, the sofa would do just as well.

***

Elizabeth shook Mr Goldsman’s hand warmly as she left work on March 4.

He had no idea of her plans, but she doubted that she would ever see him again.

With almost an hour remaining before Lydia would be dismissed from her class, she wandered the store as the clerks and shopgirls put away merchandise and cleaned their counters for the night.

Lizzy would never forget her time here at Selfridges.

It opened a whole new world for her, but she was now committed to a more important cause.

Her throat constricted at the thought of what might happen to her on the streets tonight.

The police had been brutish to the suffragettes, pawing them, reaching up their skirts, pinching their breasts.

The women who had been imprisoned and went on hunger strikes were strapped down and force fed.

She shuddered. It was one thing to lose one’s position; it was quite another to be tortured and violated.

Lizzy sat down in the employees’ locker room and watched the bustle of her fellow workers.

Tears filled her eyes, and she wiped them away quickly so that no one would notice.

She didn’t know them all, but she would miss them.

Looking at the clock on the wall, she realised it was time to collect Lydia after her class.

Would she ever do that again? One thought cheered her: she no longer saw George Wickham hanging about amongst the younger employees.

The talk she gave Lydia must have had the desired effect, or George had returned to a rich woman who was keeping him in the style he desired.

“There you are, Lizzy. What’s the matter?”

Lizzy took Lydia by the hand. “We’ll talk about it at home. Did you have a good day?”

“Everything is just ducky.” Lydia launched into the dramas and intrigues of the cosmetics department.

Lizzy was grateful for the ebullient chatter.

The animation in her younger sister’s face momentarily took her mind off the momentous task she was about to undertake.

After she delivered Lydia home, she would strike out for the rally.

***

“Don’t endanger your position at Selfridges by looking for me tomorrow,” Elizabeth said to Jane as she donned her purple, green, and white sash.

“Don’t go, Lizzy. Please. Someone else will take your place.” Jane hurried over.

“If everyone said that, no one would be there and nothing would ever change. I must go.” She threw on her coat and gave Jane a quick hug. “I will contact you if I can. Be of good cheer. Perhaps I won’t even be arrested.”

Lydia sat watching the exchange, and when Elizabeth let go of Jane and turned towards the door, Lydia grasped her from behind and held her close. “Oh, do be careful, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth was moved at the sudden show of emotion from her. “I’ll be all right. You’ll see. I’m doing this for you, you know? For all of us.” With that, she left quickly and ran for the Tube station.

***

All doubts and thoughts for her own safety fled Lizzy’s head during the speeches given by the Pankhursts, Millicent Fawcett, and Edith Garrud.

They were heroic and unstoppable. As she stood in the crowd, Lizzy felt as if she were standing on the cusp of history.

The suffragettes would succeed; she knew it.

And she needed to be a part of it. Her actions today would pave the way for women to finally influence the course of the nation.

She looked into the expectant faces of her compatriots and surreptitiously accepted a toffee hammer from a woman who passed through the crowd.

Before long, they were on their way back to a place Elizabeth knew well, Oxford Street.

After emerging from the familiar Tube station where she and her sisters exited every morning since she began her employment at Selfridges, Lizzy and her sisters-in-arms scattered along the street towards their objective: office and shop windows.

It gratified her that they were all given specific instructions to spare Selfridges.

Mr Selfridge was an ally, who printed their news leaflets at his own expense.

Lizzy and Jane even hung bunting about the store and in the windows in the WSPU’s colours of green, purple, and white.

Running along as best she could, considering the confines of her skirts, she took aim at a shop window and swung her hammer.

As she turned her face from the glass, the window shattered.

Satisfied, she ran on. Women on both sides of the street shattered glass.

Elizabeth was gratified as the crowd in their rampage slipped past Selfridges without leaving so much as a scratch on the building.

After that, every window within her reach, however, was fair game, and she smashed one after the other without so much as a look back.

Men sprang seemingly out of the very brick and mortar of the buildings.

None were dressed as policemen. They quickly outran some of the women and catching them by the arm or by the skirts, they threw them to the ground or bludgeoned them with billy clubs.

Lizzy looked about for an escape route, but before she could take a step, nothing but blackness and a shower of stars filled her gaze.

The jostling of the horse-drawn police van awakened her.

“Are you all right, my dear?” A woman’s voice cut through the fog. “That’s a nasty bump that copper gave you.”

Elizabeth gingerly touched the back of her head. She felt as if it was split in two. When she looked at her glove again, blood covered it. “I don’t feel very…”

Blackness and stars returned.