At last! I think I may be focused on how to go with this story now (I always knew, but I needed to get over this bit first - weird the way the muse does or doesn't work). So, here is a full chapter for you - discussions, dilemmas and daring do. Although Wendy has a confused and ambivalent attitude towards the direct actions of Lillie and Olive, she wholeheartedly supports their cause. This chapter is dedicated to the women who struggled and in some cases died to give women in Britain and beyond the vote. They were remarkable and brave and fearless and we owe them so much. Never squander your right to vote democratically - it must never be taken for granted and is still a right denied to so many.

The more Wendy thought about the event at Kew Gardens, the more she wanted to be there, as much from curiosity as anything. Why they were meeting at ten o'clock at night, she did not know. Perhaps it was a question of tying some placards to the railings in time to start the march early the next day. Perhaps they were to plan the route they would take without rousing suspicion during daylight hours.

Many women went on protest marches. That was allowed, after all. She wasn't going to do anything illegal – she was allowed a voice. There would be no militant statement such as chaining herself to Parliament's railings or throwing eggs at the Chancellor, heaven forbid. Her husband may drive her to distraction, but she did not wish to embarrass Jeremy. She owed him that. She had slipped unknown from his bed into that of another; she could at least ensure he retained his social dignity. Indeed, she hoped he would be proud to know his wife had such spirit. She would march and hold her head high and that would be it.

She continued to see Hook in the days leading up to Wednesday, of course she did. She could not imagine a day without him. She was so used to him now that he was simply a part of her life. She had settled into a smooth routine of deception, comfortable and familiar; she could almost pretend it was acceptable. He never mentioned returning to Neverland and she never questioned him on it; she daren't. She feared the answer too much.

'I'm going on a protest with some Suffragettes tomorrow,' she told him as he rested the soft curls of his head upon her left breast on Tuesday afternoon.

'How marvellous.' She detected the sarcastic undertone.

'It will be the first time. Just a quick march, I believe, or putting up posters possibly.'

'Ah well … like all first times, it is best to have it done with quickly.'

She glanced at him. 'You didn't have that privilege with me.'

'What?'

'My first time.'

'No … how I wish I had,' he grinned.

'Would you have had it done with quickly?'

'Not the build-up, oh no. I would have prepared you slowly and carefully and most terribly well, but the final thrust – yes – fast and urgent. There is no point in prolonging the pain.'

'I thought you liked inflicting pain.'

His mouth turned down in a little moue of corroboration. 'On certain individuals, yes. But not a woman. And certainly not my Wendy. You must remember, my dear, I remain a gentleman.'

She laughed aloud.

'Why do you laugh?'

'Pan may disagree.'

'Oh no. He knows that more than anyone. That is why he torments me so – he is jealous of my mature distinction, knowing he will never attain it. He can merely play at mock civility and the pretence of domesticity.'

'Whereas you can merely play at innocence and the freedom of youth.'

He pushed himself up, frowning down at her. But she had not upset him; he stroked her face softly. 'Why must you always speak the truth, Wendy? That is your one failing … you insist on reminding me of my mortality.'

She reached up to kiss his lips briefly. 'And mine.'

'Will you join me in it?'

'If you will have me.'

He held her gaze, smiling gently. 'Where is this march of yours?'

'Kew Gardens.'

'Kew … I used to go there with my mother.'

'And your father?'

His expression grew distant. 'No, not with my father. That would have been a most curious spectacle for all to behold.'

'Why is that?'

'My father was a man of … significance.'

'And?'

'It would have defied the conventions of society for him to take a turn in public en famille.'

'Why ever not? Were your parents not married?'

'Oh, they were married, yes. But not to each other. My mother was married to Mr Frank Strimpole, draper, of 74 Brick Lane, and my father was married to …' He smiled. 'There, I'm afraid, I must censor my little tale. I fear the truth would put you in a position of considerable difficulty. The circumstances of my upbringing were curious, but that does not mean my father did not provide for my mother and me. After all, he had the means. It was a strange affair – he clearly felt an obligation. I saw him from time to time, although I knew not who he was in relation to me. But it was largely acknowledged, apparently, that I was not Strimpole's son and that the wealth my mother and I achieved did not come from the good fortune of the draper's shop. They say my father loved my mother very much. That is not hard to believe. I loved my mother very much. She was a perfect woman.'

'Did Mr Strimpole accept all this?'

'He was a weak man and not immune to marital indiscretions himself. He enjoyed the money given to my mother and was grateful that I, the bastard boy, was packed off to Eton. But his tolerance of the situation was offset by the beatings he delighted in bestowing upon me on my return from school.'

'James!' she gasped.

'Come now. All things considered, that should not surprise you.'

'How did your mother cope?'

'She was a woman. Women cope.'

'James … I am so terribly sorry. But … how did she meet your real father?'

'My mother was a great beauty and a renowned actress. She married Strimpole when she was young but the marriage soon turned sour. He hated her profession and had a strong hand, but even this did not deter her from following her passion for the stage. And Strimpole did not refuse the money she earned. There was always a string of men outside the stage door, some of them wealthy and influential, all of them trying to get her into their beds. My father, rich, renowned, gently spoken, succeeded in seducing her, and she believed herself to be in love with him. He too declared his love for her, it must be said, I know that much, and his patronage of us never faltered.'

'Why is your name Hook if your mother's married name was different?'

'Well, it could hardly be Strimpole, could it? That had neither the corroboration of paternity nor the sharpness I desired. I chose the name as I wished to – how to put it – make a point. I insisted on using it, and I found early on that when I insisted on something, people generally complied. I seem to be most persuasive when the mood takes me. That advantage has served me in good stead since.'

'But then you must have chosen the name Hook before you acquired …'

'The appendage?'

'Yes.'

'I did. A curious thing that, isn't it? Entirely coincidental. In a way, Pan simply made it all terribly convenient.'

'My darling … you are the most fascinating man, what a history you have. Thank you for being so frank with me.'

'Who else am I to be frank with? I find myself realising that it can be quite liberating. These are things I have not thought about for many, many years.'

She smiled gently. 'It is always our childhood which determines who we become.'

'You too had one or two interesting incidents in your childhood, as I recall.' He cocked an eyebrow and smirked.

'Indeed I did. Most interesting.' Hook kissed her again then broke away to nuzzle at her collarbone. She stroked his back.

'One day I shall tell you more.'

'I would like that. Anyway … I shall go to Kew tomorrow night and take another step along my own path.'

'Why at night?'

'I'm not sure. I suppose there are certain things to discuss out of the glare of daylight.'

'It seems rather strange. But I am not one to stop stratagems and schemes. Tread carefully though, my Wendy.'

'I'm sure it will be perfectly fine.'

'Jolly good. Now –' He pushed himself up and threw his leg over her. '– We have done far too much talking. I do believe some fucking is in order.'

How did he make even the naughtiest of language sound so delightful? She'd think about it later; for now, actions spoke louder than words.

-xoOox-

Wendy contrived a visit to her aunt the following night. Jeremy accepted it. He was so increasingly preoccupied in himself that he questioned little these days.

She put on her strong walking boots, her long warm coat, a broad hat and gloves, kissed her children good night with tender adoration, and made her way out. She needed a taxi to take her all the way to Kew at this time of night, but if the driver gave her a few curious glances, he did not openly question her. She was dropped off outside the main entrance. The lamp light was dim and intermittent, casting crepuscular shadows over the silent streets and accentuating dark corners. The gates to the gardens were locked. There was no sign of either Lillie or Olive. Her nerves wavered. This really was a rather odd time to be on a protest.

She waited, rubbing her hands together distractedly, watching her breath misting before her in the chill night air. She wanted adventure, but this was unnerving. Where were they? Perhaps she would go. But just as she decided on returning to her warm Kensington home, there were sharp footsteps behind her. She turned. It was Lillie. She was pacing towards Wendy, her face set straight. Wendy smiled and started towards her.

'Turn around, you fool. What the devil do you think you're doing?'

Lillie caught hold of Wendy's arm, turned and carried on walking them rapidly up the street.

'I was waiting …'

'Not here! You will be seen. We thought at least you'd have the sense to come to the side gate where it is far more secluded.'

'But I …'

'Oh, never mind. At least you're here. Come along. Olive had given up on you. She's ready.'

Lillie was carrying a large portmanteau, and Wendy noted that she was struggling under the weight.

'Are the posters in your bag?'

Lillie laughed and carried on walking.

'Aren't we going to put posters up on the gates for tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow? We're not going to be anywhere near here tomorrow, Wendy, I can assure you of that. We will hopefully be as far away as possible tomorrow.'

'Surely the march is tomorrow.'

'Oh, Wendy, how little you know.'

She walked her around the far perimeter of the wall, glancing behind her at every stage. There, with her hair tied back and a dark coat concealing much of her figure, was Olive. She was also carrying a portmanteau along with a canister of some kind.

'She came then,' said Olive coolly, barely glancing at Wendy.

'I told you she would.' Lillie squeezed Wendy's arm.

'We have little time. Come along.' With that, Olive slipped in between two dense bushes. She turned back to Wendy and demanded, 'In here.'

This was wrong. She should not be here. But she could not fight it – Wendy was back again; she was in Neverland, exhilarated and eager for excitement. Perhaps Olive and Lillie were mermaids or Indians … or pirates. Her heart, yearning once again for that time of exotic innocence, defied her head, and she followed.

Squeezing through the bushes, she found there was a gap in the high fence beyond that had been clawed away by foxes or badgers. Olive was forcing herself through it and into Kew. Wendy, with a little nudge from Lillie, followed too.

'What are we doing here?' she asked in a whisper. 'This is trespassing, surely.'

'Shh. You'll see.'

The two women began scampering across the lawns and along the paths of Kew, keeping to the shadows where possible. Wendy instinctively did the same. They were heading for the tea pavilion. Wendy had come here with the children only a few weeks earlier. They'd had lovely scones.

The tea room had large windows. A good place to plaster the posters. That would certainly make a statement. Wendy imagined the entire building covered in WSPU slogans and propaganda. It seemed a bit excessive but would make a strong point. Lillie and Olive were whispering together, pointing at various parts of the building. She approached them.

'What can I do to help?'

Olive glanced at her, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. 'Hold this.' She handed Wendy a bundle of tow.

Wendy's heart juddered. 'What is this?'

'What do you think, Wendy … Darling?' Olive asked with a cutting laugh. Wendy stood, frozen, as Olive reached into the portmanteau and extracted another canister. And then, in front of Wendy, she undid the lid and walked across to the tea room. Wendy could only watch, aghast, as Olive began to pour out a liquid around the base of the building. Lillie had her own canister and did the same.

Olive came back to Wendy, barely looking at her, and opened another canister. 'Hold it up for me.' Wendy was unsure at first. With a tut of annoyance, Olive grabbed the tow from her and dowsed it in the liquid. A strong smell surged into Wendy's nostrils, causing her to gag and cough.

'You'll need more stomach than that if you want to become one of us, Wendy.' Olive carried on regardless. 'Lillie, use the hammer!'

Lillie took something out of her bag and rushed to the building where she proceeded to smash a window with odd little jabs, as if she was fearful of making too much noise.

Wendy stood, staring as the extent of what was happening slowly dawned. How had she been so stupidly trusting? Olive came across and reached into her pocket for something. It was a box of matches.

'What are you doing?'

'Making them sit up and take notice.'

'No! You can't.'

'Oh, I can. Just you watch.' Olive smiled at Wendy before striking a match deliberately and setting light to the paraffin-soaked tow.

She ran across to the smashed window and threw the flaming tow through it. The inside of the tea pavilion instantly gave off an eerie amber glow.

Wendy gathered up her skirts and sprinted over. 'No! Are you mad? Think of the damage!'

'That is exactly what I'm thinking of. Shock and sensation. Nothing else works.'

'But what if there is someone inside?'

'There isn't.'

'How can you be certain?'

Wendy rushed up to peer in the windows. The flames were already taking hold inside. There did not seem to be anyone there, but panic was setting in. This was not why she was here. 'This will simply put the cause in jeopardy!' she exclaimed to Olive.

'No, Wendy, it's glorious!' Lillie now struck a match and tossed it at the base of the building where the paraffin ignited. Soon there was a considerable blaze both inside and along the exterior. There had been little rain and the wooden tracery was dry. The flames grew quickly, lapping and curling their way over the building with a spiteful crackle.

Lillie ran back to her with a laugh of delight and slipped her hand into Wendy's. 'Oh, I am so glad you are with us, Wendy. Look how magnificent it is.'

'Magnificent? This is someone's livelihood going up in smoke.'

'One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.'

The comment struck Wendy as being oddly domestic for someone like Lillie. Wendy recalled all the times her hands had dripped with raw egg when cooking with the children. Lillie had no children to cook with.

'This isn't right. I had no idea you would do this.'

'Then how naïve and foolish you are, Wendy. What did you expect? That we would sit down and help ourselves to tea and have a cosy chat?'

Olive stepped back, the triumph in her face fierce as it reflected the flames. The heat now assailed Wendy. The fire had taken hold unstoppably and the inferno engulfed the tea room.

'Oy! Stop right there!'

Wendy turned, frozen. Olive and Lillie immediately ran fast into the darkness, scampering on nimble feet in opposite directions. Wendy should run too but her guilt and confusion seemed to have planted her feet to the ground.

'Run, Wendy, run!' screamed Lillie as she escaped. But hands had grabbed Wendy hard before she had time to react.

'I've got you, my girl,' said the constable, pulling her arms fast behind her back. She did not struggle. She was too dumbstruck to react.

The only thought that went through her head was, 'This would make a rather splendid story for the children.'

The man tightened his grip on her wrists and twisted. She winced in pain.

'No getting away for you,' sneered the thick-set constable.

She could see Olive and Lillie running. They threw their portmanteaus into the bushes as they went but two more policemen were hard on their heels. There seemed little chance of them escaping.

Wendy still stared at the burning building. To be so close to such a huge fire was quite an extraordinary thing, like flying through the stars, or sailing on a pirate ship on stormy seas. Time seemed to stand still, or least slip her back to years past; Wendy was not quite aware of what exactly was happening to her, but memories were conjured up. This wasn't so new after all. She had been held in the grip of men before, after all: tied up, restrained, imprisoned. But that was so long ago …

There was more commotion now as a fire truck arrived. The men jumped out with hoses and placed the ends in a nearby pond. Water was pumped over the building, but it would take a lot to douse the raging flames. The building would be razed to the ground. Oddly, as much as Wendy deplored the actions of Olive and Lillie, she felt a swell of satisfaction that the women had clearly achieved their aim.

'Think you're clever, do you? Think setting fire to private property's going to make people sit up and take notice of a mad bitch like you?' The stale breath of the constable made her turn her head away. She was pulled and marched backwards. Bundling her roughly, the man pushed her into the back of a police carriage, shoving her onto the ground and locking the door hard behind her.

She pushed herself to her feet and sat on one of the benches running along the side. Wendy was engulfed in rancid darkness. It smelt vile – of blood and sweat and urine – and caused her to retch. The gloomy awareness of reality began to set in. Oh dear Lord, what had she done? Jeremy would never forgive her. What an embarrassment she was.

The constables were talking outside the carriage. She listened intently. How long would they be here? Where would they take her? What had happened to the others? Would she be locked in a cell? She supposed she would. Oh, what of her children? She was suddenly consumed with a wretched sense of isolation.

There was a kerfuffle outside and the door to the carriage was opened. First Lillie and then Olive were pushed in to join her. They had been apprehended, after all, but now sat opposite her, as calm as ever. She looked at Lillie; she had a smile on her face. At that moment, it infuriated Wendy. What had she been thinking? This girl had no family dependent on her. To her, this was a game, no different to the games Peter played in the Neverland. For Wendy, as for Hook, the consequences of such games had deeper repercussions.

'Well done, Wendy. And welcome,' smiled Lillie.

She frowned, shaking her head. 'I didn't do anything.' It wasn't a denial – she really hadn't done anything. What was there to congratulate her on? This whole ghastly venture had been a great messy mistake. And welcome to what? She was in a police carriage, on her way to a cell. It was not a welcome she wanted.

The men outside could be heard talking, their South London voices remarkably chirpy. It riled Wendy. How dare they remain so happy when she was in misery? But then another voice was heard, distinguished and smooth against the grating Clapham barks. She stood up quickly, stooping against the low roof of the carriage.

'James?'

It was his voice, certainly. She moved to the end of the carriage and instinctively tried to open the door. It was locked, of course. 'James!' she cried out again, banging on the unyielding wood.

'Wendy? I'm here.'

Oh, the sound of him was like the warmest blanket of reassurance wrapped about her. 'Oh, James, get me out of here, please. I want to see you. I want you so much.'

'Sit down and shut it, woman, unless you want to make things worse fer yerself!' It was one of the constables' voices. Wendy heard Hook speaking to them again but could not distinguish his words. She listened intently. Then her lover spoke to her, clearly pressing himself right up against the door as his words were audible and close. She leaned against the door, pushing herself into it, trying to absorb his presence through it.

'Wendy, listen to me. You will endure tonight, and tomorrow the magistrate will see you and we shall ensure you are freed.'

Her soul heaved. 'Tomorrow! I can't! What about my children? What about Jeremy?'

'I shall see him. Do not fear. I shall make sure your children are not alarmed at all. You will be back to them very soon.'

'James … James …' He was so close, just on the other side of the door. But just then the wheels started rolling and she was pulled away.

She sat down, her insides twisting with such despair it caused her agony.

'So … James and Jeremy. One husband, one lover, but which is which? That one must be the lover, while the husband stays tucked up in bed, ignorant and trusting.'

Wendy looked up solemnly. Olive was smiling at her, her eyes twinkling. She seemed far more concerned with Wendy's adulterous life than the fact that she had just been arrested.

'My question is – what is he doing here? My my, Wendy Darling. You have yourself a little puppy dog who follows you wherever you go.'

Lillie tutted. 'Do be quiet for once, Olive. Wendy is not used to this as we are. It's all too much for her, can't you see?'

The carriage lurched, causing Wendy to sit down with a jolt. Lillie moved beside her, placing her arm around her shoulder and soothing her. But it was the idea of James Hook standing outside with the carriage speeding away from him that caused her tears at last to tumble profusely. She closed her eyes, rested her head on Lillie's shoulder, and wept openly.

I have deliberately made Olive a slightly acerbic figure here as a plot device simply to provide a foil for Wendy and to spark some particular emotions. However, I would like to add that the real Olive Wharry was a very brave and remarkable figure. Lillie Lenton and Olive were real women who did indeed burn down the tea pavilion at Kew Gardens one night for the Suffragette cause. Their subsequent arrest and time in prison led to some of the most controversial moments in the government's handling of the Suffragettes. More later. And more of the story very soon.