Nice Man Jack

He stared into the flames, imagining geysers of blood erupting out of the tea room’s polished floorboards as Carolyn wittered away.

Beneath the table, he could hear his feet sloshing in the –

Skills for day, skills for night.

He frowned at the whispery intrusion. Where had that come from?

Carolyn called his name sharply, causing him to look up from the fireplace.

Yes, dear...?

Are you listening to me?

Of course.

Then what was I talking about?

He smiled and glanced at the ornately carved pendulum clock sitting on the mantelpiece before dropping his eyes to the splendid spread covering most of the table – scones and clotted cream, lemon squares, finger sandwiches, a selection of fresh fruit, and a choice of Earl Grey or raspberry punch. He poured a cup of tea and inhaled the familiar scent of oil of bergamot as Carolyn vigorously fanned her face with the silk folding fan he’d stolen from a Parisian brothel last year.

Mmm, lovely. And these cakes look nice, don’t they? He proffered the plate. Take one.

No, thank you. She gave herself another agitated fanning. I’m asking you what I was talking about.

He frowned, not caring for her tone, a tone that was becoming ever more prevalent. For a few moments he just blankly examined her features – the blue eyes, the small, upturned nose, the sensuous mouth, and the long, slender neck that he so liked to caress. There had been a time during long strolls by the Long Water in Kensington Gardens when she’d hung off his arm, only speaking when spoken to, and obviously rapt at the prospect of becoming a doctor’s wife.

Now she’d been infected with strange ideas, resulting in an increasingly quarrelsome nature. Even the way she dressed was confusing, typified by today’s outfit which had caused him to pause before rising to his feet as she made her way across the room. They were having afternoon tea and yet she’d chosen to sweep her hair up into a knot and match her bustle dress with a black, short-sleeved jacket, a high-collared white blouse, and some sort of free-hanging garment that looked suspiciously like a tie.

Why was she not wearing a silk dress, elbow-length gloves, and a flower-decorated hat like all the other ladies in the room?

He sighed, suspecting he was partly to blame. He really should have put his foot down after she’d joined the National Society for Women’s Suffrage and started submitting articles about workplace equality to the Englishwoman’s Review. If he weren’t careful, he’d end up the laughing stock of Harley Street, the surgeon whose uncontrollable fiancée shouted slogans in street demonstrations like some damned Irish navvy.

He took a breath and flexed his hands under the table. No matter. When she was his wife, she’d fall into line.

You were talking about... He waved a hand at her. Something to do with John Stuart Mill.

"Yes. And what a fine man he was and how we need more MPs – more men – like him to stand up for women and our rights."

Your rights? He smiled, taking a small bite of a lemon square before dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. Carolyn... How many more times? Such matters are men’s business. He took another sip of the excellent Earl Grey. Now, can we kindly change the subject? I’d much rather have a nice afternoon discussing the wedding.

Stop patronising me.

He replaced the fine china teacup in its saucer. There was that strident tone again. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake the notion that he’d somehow turned into an actor in a poorly staged play. Earlier at church his suit had felt like a straitjacket as he’d half-listened to the elderly dummy in the pulpit droning on about the importance of turning the other cheek in such troubled, spiritually impoverished times. Love your enemy, he’d preached, which was little more than the contemptible creed of a beaten dog licking its abuser’s hand. After a while his eyes had slipped past the gesticulating minister waving his book of fairy tales about and instead fixed on the huge wooden crucifix behind him. The sight of Jesus nailed to a couple of planks always seemed to symbolise a religion in its death throes, forcing him to suppress a smile as he imagined the whole thing crashing to the floor in a great plume of dust.

And after being bored witless in church, he was now having to put up with another of Carolyn’s interminable lectures.

"Darling, how can I put this? Men and women are different. Women are known as the fairer sex for good reason. They are not so robust, physically, emotionally, and intellectually. They’re more delicate. They need a man’s protection, they need a man to make decisions for them. It’s for the best. Please try to understand. I mean, do I have to remind you what happened during the fox hunt?"

Oh, not that again!

Well, it illustrates my point perfectly and –

"You hacked its tail off to keep as a trophy, smeared blood over my face, and then threw it to the hounds where it was torn apart. Of course, I was shocked."

"Darling, you fainted."

And what? That means I don’t have the right to vote?

He looked around as some of the other customers glanced at them with their teacups raised halfway to their mouths. Keep your voice down. There’s a good girl.

That whole sport, if you can give it such a name, should be banned. It’s an affront to civilised behaviour.

There you go again, attacking the history and fine traditions of this great country. It’s like you want to tear everything down and –

I do want to tear everything down! She frowned. "Well, I want to tear some things down. Open your eyes. There’s so much wrong with London, with England. The Contagious Diseases Act, the workhouses, the sweatshops, the subordination of women, East End poverty, the... and we have to start trying to put things right."

By we, I assume you mean the National Society for Women’s Suffrage.

Yes. And why shouldn’t we have the vote on the same terms as men?

Oh, give me strength! Because you’re a woman, that’s why! This is a man’s world, a brutal, predatory place, and you need to know your place for your own safety. He reached across and patted her hand, pursing his lips as she yanked it away. Married women can already own property. Isn’t that enough? Now please let this drop. I’m tired of all these disagreements. I don’t think you should go to any more of those infernal meetings.

She stared at him with sheer defiance, if not contempt, a demeanour that had him struggling to keep his hands by his side. In his mind he’d already backhanded her across the room before she came weeping and bloodied into his arms begging forgiveness and promising never to question him again.

She was just lucky they were in a public place.

He waited for her to look away. Instead she carried on staring with a set jaw. The heat in his face began steadily rising. His hands twitched beneath the lace tablecloth. One more second and...

She finally put a hand over her mouth and looked out the window. This isn’t working, she mumbled. Our...

"Darling, you really have to stop going to those NSFW meetings. I mean it. Can’t you see that’s the problem here? It’s clearly not doing you – us – any good."

She shook her head ever so slightly with downcast eyes. When she looked at him again, he was pleased to see tears brimming.

This isn’t working, she said. This just isn’t working anymore.

What are you talking about?

If I marry you, I’ll just end up as another downtrodden housewife, some awful angel of the home and... I can see it... and... and... There’s so much I want to...

Carolyn...

I’m sorry... I don’t... I don’t...

What?

I don’t want to marry you anymore.

He swallowed, brought his hands out from under the table, and flexed them repeatedly, aware of a burning need to wrap them around her neck.

You’re not making any sense, darling. You’ve become hysterical.

No, I haven’t. Don’t worry, I’m not going to faint again and cause a scene. I know how you’re in love with appearances, with being such a well-respected gentleman. What I’m trying to say is... is...

Carolyn...

"...we are simply not compatible any longer. I guess I’ve been aware of it for quite some time, but the way you just looked at me... It’s not just your chauvinism. It’s... Sometimes you frighten me... You have these moods... these... I get this sense of... another person... inside you, waiting to climb out and... I have this terribly confusing sense of not knowing which one is the real you. Sometimes I think you don’t even believe in God... that all our times together in church you were just... pretending.

And now I know. I cannot marry a man like you.

"What? He reared up, vaguely aware of the chair crashing to the floor as he somehow resisted hurling the table aside. You cannot say that to me! You – "

He broke off as she cowered against