She laid there staring at the ceiling for nearly an hour, couldn't persuade herself into getting up and facing a new day. Her thoughts circled around her future with a man so difficult. She imagined getting pregnant year after year, all the horrifying stories about mothers who died while giving birth whired in her ears, while the shocking, unspeakable details of being impregnated were covered by a dark, dense fog. She knew that her bravery of the first night had only been well played, convincing enough to nearly assure herself. But now, there was only fear left. Fear of him and what he would do with her body. She was scared of lying helpless under him with no chance to avoid a pregnancy. It would happen and there was nothing she could do against it. The knowledge of sharing her faith with millions of women didn't comfort her. She seemed to have two options: Go with it or die.
'Maybe it's better to get over with it, return to the strategy of the first night. Maybe it isn't as horrifying as they told. He said it wouldn't hurt, it wouldn't be humiliating or degrading, not in his bed. Why should he lie? A husband has the right to consummate the marriage, even if his wife doesn't want him,' she thought, trying to prepare herself for the inevitable.
The small voice she had as a woman of her time she'd lost when she spoke the vows. He could do whatever pleases him and she had to take everything he gave her without complaining, like a dutiful wife did. It was depressing. It felt like a long time ago – in summer to be exactly – that she dreamed about writing against the oppression of women, a full-time job that needed more bravery than she had, but in her imagination she had been brave enough to stand up against the whole damn manhood.
A soft knock at the door announced a guest and she furrowed her brows. She was alone with Arthur, wasn't she? Before she could invite him in, he opened the door and came in, fully clothed, groomed and shaved. She smelled a hint of his aftershave when he came nearer.
"Good Morning," he greeted and took a seat on the armchair.
She didn't answer, turned around and once more showed him her back.
"Did you sleep well?" He asked politely and she hated herself for answering in reflex: "Yes, thank you."
"Good. So, there are a few more rules, Millie, we didn't finish the rules talk yesterday."
She didn't grant him an answer, so he went on after a few silent seconds, his voice softer than she had heard before: "In general terms: I make the rules, you follow them."
She nodded, feeling the lump in her throat building. May I introduce: Millicent Shelby, née Coates, Suffragette in her dreams, voiceless property of a man in real life.
"You will never disturb business meetings. You're gonna be honest with me, and I'm gonna be honest with you, no lies. No talking back, no yelling, no disputes about nothing. I want peace. Do you understand?"
"Yes. You forgot that I'm not allowed to smoke."
"You already know that, don't you?"
"I do. What will I get?" She asked, thinking of the fighting spirit of Emmeline Pankhurst and Ethel Smyth.
"You make a wish, I fulfill it as best I can."
"Oh. I wish to smoke a cigarette." She gave him a provocative look over her shoulder and noticed a little smile on his face.
"No disputes about nothing, Millie. If you want my advice, never test my patience. Just follow a few rules and we get along great."
"I don't have a choice, right?"
"No, unfortunately not. So, Aunt Polly was here in the early morning and prepared a big breakfast for us. Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I want you to eat at least a bit, Millie. And we add hunger strike to the blacklist, aye? I won't allow it either."
The tears on her cheeks came surprisingly fast, caught her off guard, and Arthur sat silently in the armchair, listening to her miserable sobbing. After a few minutes he cleared his throat and said: "I'd ... I'd like to take you in my arms and comfort you. But I guess you don't want me to come closer, aye?"
She nodded and he went on: "I'm sorry for ... for the rude talking in the hideout. I shouldn't have mentioned these things. I just planned to be honest with you, to ... fuck, I don't know. I apologize."
"I accept your apology, Arthur." She said lowly, fighting to keep control over her voice.
"Thank you. So, can we start over again?"
"Start where? At the shooting or at the point we nearly froze to death?"
"Not quite. Maybe at this point. Right now."
"Good. So I don't have to listen to your repetition of these stupid rules." Millicent said, her voice sadder than she intended.
"Millie ...," his tone was a warning but she couldn't react another way.
Not yet.
"Would you mind leaving me alone so I can get dressed?"
Without a word he got up and walked out of the room, his steps heavy on the stairs. Her soul felt like being in tumult and she didn't really know what she wanted. Crying in his arms? Never ever speak a single word to him? Trying to be a dutiful wife, to live in peace? It would be so much easier if he wasn't this attractive. A part of her wanted to be kissed by him, a thought that shocked her deeply, a part of her wanted his embrace, the comfort and safety he offered. And another part wanted to put a bullet in his head so she could follow her dreams.
After being dressed she walked over to the window and watched the snow falling gracefully on the ground, covering the scrub and the trees with a white, cold blanket of sleep. For a human, this blanket was forever. The thought of lying out there, buried in the dark, quiet earth, snow covering the place of her final rest made her shudder, and she felt the hunger for life pulsing through her veins. Dying was not an option. She had to go with it. How worse could it be? She could still write when he was with the Peaky Blinders, sending articles anonymously to the newspaper, once she was allowed to leave the house.
"Good Morning," she said smiling and took a seat at the table.
Arthur already helped himself to some tea and toast and he was busy reading the newspaper, but he looked up and smiled back.
He mumbled an answer, before focusing on the paper again. She ate in silence – once again – and all the positive thinking, all the bravery seems to melt like snow in March.
"Arthur?" She asked after finishing a piece of toast and a hard-boiled egg.
He placed the newspaper on the table: "Millie?"
"What are the plans for today?"
"Hm. Lunch, tea, dinner? In the afternoon I'm gonna meet Tommy and John at the racetrack but I should be back by tea time."
She nodded, thinking about that it was her job to bring lunch, tea and dinner on this table: "So, uhm, is there anything you don't like to eat?"
"I'm not picky," Arthur answered, shrugging.
"Good. May I have the newspaper, please?" She asked and he nodded, handing her the part he'd already read.
It felt peaceful but she knew it was just facade. They both behaved like a bunch of untalented amateur actors on their first evening on stage. Very close at fucking completely up and far away from a raving success. Her thoughts went back to him saying his vows and she asked herself if lying each other in the faces was a part of honour or of love.
"You kissed me in church," she whispered because she suddenly remembered this moment she had forgotten in all the chaos that happened since then.
"Aye. That's what a husband does, right?"
"Did you like it?" She asked and folded the newspaper.
She would read the articles while he'd be on the racetrack.
"Aye. You?"
"I think so. I can barely remember."
"It was two days ago, Millie."
She nodded absent-mindedly and played with her tea cup, while Arthur watched her closely, until she started to feel uncomfortable.
"Stop thinking about it."
"You don't know what I'm thinking and you can't make me stop, Arthur. You may have a lot of power, but not over my mind."
He leant forward, looking her in the eyes: "You think about the things that will happen in our bedroom. You are afraid. I have the power to make it both stop. The thinking and the fear."
"That's not true," she hissed, shaking her head.
"It is true. Why do you think there are so many children in this city?"
"I don't know."
"A man and a woman, more or less alone in a bed ..."
"What do you mean with more or less?" She asked, looking horrified.
"The poorer you are the merrier children sleep in your room, maybe even in the marital bed. Understood?"
"Yes. Go on, please."
"So, a man and a woman in a bed can make each other stop thinking, they forget about all their sorrows, their fears. It's the only time of peace and joy, an escape from the bitter and hard life they lead. For the rich, it isn't an escape. It's breed. They need sons and more sons. That's why the rich women fear the act and talk shit about it. Just because for them it's not about finding peace and joy in the arms of another. It's only breed, matter-of-factly and focused on his pleasure."
"Are we poor or rich?" She asked, lifting an eyebrow.
She didn't believe him, not a single word.
"We're the middle. I'm gonna make you enjoy it when I get you pregnant." He grinned and leant back, obviously happy with the progression of their talk.
"What if I don't want to have children?"
"Unless you're infertile, you will have a few. It's the course of the world. You consummate the marriage, you get pregnant, you give birth and get pregnant again."
"Why I'm not allowed to say I don't want to have children?" She asked lowly, looking down on her lap.
"You are allowed to say it, until you're married. You don't want children? You become a nun. Once you're married to anyone else but Jesus, children are a given."
She wiped tears from her cheeks and he sighed: "If you want my advice, Millie, just try to trust me and let it happen."
Millicent nodded and stood up: "Thank you for your patience and the explanation, Arthur."
There was no way out. He wasn't an ally, he was her husband and he had an order he was quite eager to fulfill.
The only thing she could do was going with it and writing articles on the subject. Blazing, rousing essays against the oppression of women. Written in private, in her alone time, sent under a pseudonym to a dozen newspapers.