CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Olivia Rossetti was now married and with her husband in Italy, but after a call to Mr. Perry at Duckworth, Kate had no difficulty finding Helen Rossetti, who was living with her father in a small, comfortable house with an ivy-draped porch in a street in Chelsea. Kate had no difficulty introducing herself, either, since she had finished reading the manuscript of A Girl Among the Anarchists the night before and could tell Miss Rossetti that she had heartily enjoyed the adventures of Isabel Meredith and was recommending the novel to her editors for publication.

“I admired it very much,” she added, with genuine enthusiasm, when they were seated in the parlor. “It showed me an aspect of an Englishwoman’s life that I would otherwise have found difficult to imagine.”

Helen Rossetti, a small, plump young woman with dark eyes and dark hair pulled snugly back into a bun, sat back in her chair and gave a little cry of delight. “My dear Lady Sheridan!” she exclaimed. “How kind of you to come and tell me!” She flashed a mischievous smile that showed the dimples in her round cheeks. “And you are truly Beryl Bardwell?”

“Really, truly,” Kate said with a smile, glancing around the parlor. Miss Rossetti’s young years may have been unconventional, but her radical past could not be seen in this thoroughly conventional Victorian parlor: the tables skirted to conceal their legs, the windows heavily draped and closed to keep out the air, the souvenir knickknacks displayed on the fireplace mantle. But one wall displayed a large print of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s “Proserpine,” and on a table lay a leather-bound copy of Christina Rossetti’s book, New Poems, which had been published two years after the famous poet’s death. Helen’s uncle was perhaps the best known of the Pre-Raphaelite artists, while her aunt’s poetry was widely admired.

“You’ve read some of my work?” Kate added, seeing two of her novels on the bookshelf.

“With great pleasure,” Miss Rossetti replied. “In fact, Olivia-my sister-and I have often read your books aloud. Our Isabel is a little like your Fanny, don’t you think, in The Adventure at Devil’s Bridge? Fanny is such an unconventional woman! Olivia and I loved the scene in which she drives the motorcar in pursuit of the balloon.”

“Your Isabel has an even greater sense of independence than my Fanny, I should say,” Kate replied, wanting to lead the conversation away from herself. “I understand that her adventures as the publisher of the Tocsin were inspired by your own experience with the Torch.”

“You know about that, then,” Miss Rossetti said, half-ruefully. “I suppose the editor at Duckworth must have told you. Yes, Olivia and I printed the newspaper on an old hand-press, and it was distributed by the local Anarchist group. We were very young-I was only thirteen when we brought out the first issue, and Oliva was sixteen-but we were quite in earnest about it.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Kate ventured, “it seems an odd occupation for two young girls.”

“It was indeed,” Miss Rossetti agreed cheerfully. “But it may be that Anarchism-as we understood it, at least-chiefly attracts the rebellious young, or those who never mature. Olive and I both came to believe that Anarchism, as a philosophy, does not allow for the ties of love and family, or permit the Anarchist to accept responsibility for anyone but himself. That is why Isabel gives it up, in the end. She is disillusioned with Anarchism’s self-centeredness.” She smiled reminiscently. “In some ways, I’m sorry the Torch is gone. It was a remarkable education for a young woman, to be accepted in such militant circles. And I had more freedoms then than I do now that I am older-freedom to go about the city alone, freedom to say and write exactly as I thought. I doubt that many girls are granted such opportunities.”

Kate was sure of that. The English girls she knew were kept at home, where the reading of newspapers and the discussion of political topics was thought to be unladylike. “You say that the newspaper is gone,” she said. “You discontinued publication?”

Miss Rossetti nodded. “My sister married in ’96 and went to Florence. I was not well, and Father took me abroad soon after. The Torch survived our departure by only a year or so.” She gave Kate a slanting glance. “That kind of existence is chaotic, actually. There was always some turmoil or another-we did not much exaggerate Isabel’s experience. Life is much more peaceable now. Father and I live here very quietly. I am helping him write the life of my Aunt Christina.”

Kate smiled. “I know of another young woman like your Isabel, who edits an Anarchist newspaper. She also speaks of chaos-although she clearly values the independence her work affords her.”

“You must be speaking of Charlotte Conway,” Miss Rossetti replied. Her face darkened. “I understand that the Clarion was raided by Scotland Yard last week, and is now closed down. The men were arrested and jailed-something to do with that appalling Hyde Park business-but Lottie got away.”

“Oh,” Kate said, leaning forward eagerly, “you’ve talked to her, then?” Perhaps her search was over.

“No,” Miss Rossetti said, and Kate felt immediately disappointed. “I read about it in The Times. I haven’t seen Lottie for some time, I’m afraid.” Her expression was regretful. “We write very often, however. Mrs. Conway-Lottie lives with her mother-is not well. She does not permit her daughter to have visitors.”

“I’ve met Mrs. Conway,” Kate said carefully. “She edited the Clarion before her daughter took it on, I understand.”

Helen gave a short, hard laugh. “Yes, she edited it. But speak of anarchy! Mrs. Conway was completely disorganized, and the newspaper was always on the brink of total disaster. It didn’t come out at all half the time, and when it finally did appear, it might be one page, merely, or two.” She pulled her brows together. “And it was always full of the wildest rantings and ravings. Some people said that the editor must be mad, and I do think so.”

“I see,” Kate said thoughtfully. Yes, it had seemed to her that Mrs. Conway might be mad, and she was sorry, for her daughter’s sake.

“Lottie was very reluctant to take over her mother’s job,” Miss Rossetti went on, “but it was a good thing for the Clarion that she did. She takes her work seriously, and others have taken her seriously-unlike Mrs. Conway, I must say, who was always the butt of jokes. No one could take her with any seriousness.”

Kate looked at her. “Miss Conway did not want to become the editor of the newspaper?” The girl had said that she did it out of a sense of duty, but she had not said that she did not want to do it.

“Oh, my goodness, no,” Miss Rossetti replied. “Oh, she supported the Cause, of course. But her heart was set on entering Girton College at Cambridge and becoming a teacher, and she had even won a scholarship. When her mother suffered what was thought to be a nervous collapse, however, Lottie felt there was nothing for it but to continue the work. The Clarion brought in almost no money, but even so, it was Lottie’s and Mrs. Conway’s only source of support. Now, under Lottie’s management, the paper has begun to yield a little money. And the rooms Lottie lets in that big old house bring in some additional money.” Her voice took on a darker edge. “Enough to keep Mrs. Conway in chocolates and incense, anyway.”