Nickname(s): Strangers call her Lilibet - never Margaret - and the family universally refer to her as Topsy
Age: 53 (19 January 1870)
Gender: Cisgender female
Sexual orientation: ????????
Occupation: Philanthropist (current)
Nationality: English
Religion: Catholic (devout)
Class: Upper
Place of birth: Montmere House, Yorkshire
Hometown: As above
Faceclaim: Kristin Scott Thomas (in Easy Virtue)
𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
Height: 6′2 (187 cm) - unusually tall for a woman
Weight: Underweight, with prominent collarbones and a sharpness to the face
Build: Topsy is willowy: remniscent of an aging ballerina, she holds herself with grace and rather seems to glide instead of walk. All of this is the result of an iron-fisted governess and punishing dance lessons
Distinguishing marks: N/A
Hair colour: Dark with streaks of grey, naturally a dark auburn
Hair style: Carefully set into waves and bobbed; her natural hair length falls to just below the chin
Eye colour: Brown, and rather dark for it - there is something Romanov about her eyes, a sadness that speaks either to lost nobility or something of a drooping basset hound
Clothing: Topsy dresses in the style of the day, although she wears her dresses slightly longer than is typical. Dark colours: black, red, navy; all in sensible fabrics, except for evenings, where she favours silk. She wears low heels and has no particular affinity for hats, unlike her mother
Scent(s): Fresh foliage, gardenias, face powder, Earl Grey
Accent: Received Pronunciation (RP)
𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲
Summary
Content to sit alone for hours with her newspapers and letters, Topsy values her own company above all else. Her inner world is rich, for she has much to occupy her time: charity endeavours, her philanthropy, political efforts, and the running of her own estate as Viscountess. Topsy believes in being busy, but her version of busy can be invisible unless to the untrained eye. She moves through the world with singular purpose, focused on her next moves; in this way, she is rather selfish, for unless she is prompted, Topsy would hardly think of anyone else at all. She does not expect others to care about her life, and so she does not really care about theirs. That is not to say that she is unfeeling: in fact, she feels deeply, though she is so preoccupied with asserting the right sort of emotions that she can come across as insincere. In truth, Topsy is extraordinarily shy. It has been a burden throughout her life - and, like how left-handed children are corrected, she takes pains to overcome this defect by being as amiable and mild-mannered as possible. This rather gives her an insubstatial quality, bringing to mind a foreigner in a train car who is content to share a meal with you without speaking a single word.
Habits: Gardening, attending charity and/or local events, reading the political section of the newspaper and taking notes for future Letters to the Editor
Character tropes: Charlotte Lucas (Pride and Prejudice); Henry Winter (The Secret History); Fanny (The Pursuit of Love); Mr Bennett (Pride and Prejudice)
𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬
Parent(s): @margaretryland
Sibling(s):
Spouse: Widowed
Child/ren: @edwinbalfour @apatcs & a secret daughter born when Topsy was sixteen, but given up to a nunnery in France
"Oh yes, I'm fine," Prudence replied with a small smile. Physically, anyway. Her head was spinning constantly since the chauffeur's arrival and it did occasionally force her to grasp a wall or lean on her cane more than usual. But fine was subjective and she hated to make someone else worry as much as she did.
She pulled out a chair to have a seat. "I wanted to ask you what exactly you're...doing. What you're writing." She felt a bit childish, but she admired Topsy and her work she spoke about at dinner. Her eyes scanned the papers her aunt was piecing together.
"I think I'd like to help," she finally announced. She had thought about it for a long time, but her aunt was passionate, and the dinner discussions always lead to some good riveting debates, and that was certainly a case Prudence could get behind.
"Ah! Well. I am composing a letter to the editor. There was an argument put forth a few days ago against the CPGB, poor things, and I've taken it upon myself to spirit a defense. A challenge, needless to say, on account of some disparities between my views and theirs, but even so."
Topsy flattered herself in thinking that she was perceptive. It was true: she did typically pick up on attitudes otherwise hidden by cannier conversational partners, especially if those attitudes shared her blood. There was something about the downward tilt to Prudence's mouth, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, that stirred Topsy's dusty maternal instincts. But the trouble with being perceptive was that she never knew when to deploy an interrogation. And her niece looked far too weary to withstand questioning, even a light round.
Then a gleam entered Prudence's eye, and Topsy regarded her with newfound interest.
"Thus spake Zarathustra," Topsy remarked, a smile tugging the corner of her mouth. "I've certainly no objection, and goodness knows your father won't notice." She studied her niece even closer, her narrowed eyes skipping over Prudence's wan face.
"Politics," Topsy continued carefully, "can be a good distraction; it is also a jealous lover. Your temperament would suit such a cause... But darling, might I enquire as to why?" There was a joke to be made about Prudence being a secret little communist, but Topsy restrained herself.
Once again, his mother had pulled off in one, albeit oblivious, stroke what thousands of people could not: she silenced Edwin Balfour. He could feel himself going red and himself mumbling something nonsensical about the mail train, yes, yes of course the mail train. He was scooping up her letters sans envelopes, handing them back to her when he realised he had no idea which one was to be addressed to whom.
"Perry! Mr. Alderman!"
There was nothing that the butler could do in that moment that would be useful, but Edwin was already on his feet and shouting indiscriminately in the direction of the stairs helped calm him down immeasurably. His face, as he noted, did not subside to their normal colour until hours afterwards. Hours.
“Your secrets die with me,” Edwin promised, as solemnly as the twitch of his mouth would let him.
The pursed, closed-lipped way his mother had told him that story has been barely scandalous, let alone worth repeating. But he could see it had cost her something to say it, and well, it was endearing. Once, it would have made him feel inadequate, like some mean little grasper interested in ugly things while she held onto ideals of gentility and breeding.
He was, slowly but inevitably, coming to realise that his mother was a person. Just another human being.
Leaning forward in his chair, he lowered his voice as he met her gaze and said, “I’m glad you told me, you know. Not just to know that we grow out of the follies of our youth but…” He shrugged, that short burst of emotional courage failing him mid-word. “You. It’s good to know you, Mother.”
Was it... could it be that easy? Was that all Edwin needed from her: honesty? The concept seemed rather foreign. Topsy held his gaze for a beat before shifting away, her shoulders doing a funny shuffling shrug that she used to rely upon as a shy adolescent.
"It's nothing," Topsy replied briskly, though her eyes flicked back to Edwin for a sign of his approval. Her son. Her eldest boy. She gave him a small, affectionate smile.
He was handsome. Too much like his father, perhaps, but handsome all the same. He had Topsy's noble bearing and his father's angularity that had, in his youth, made him so arresting. She admired Edwin discreetly, then flushed when she realised the silence had grown protracted.
"Goodness," she remarked, flustered, "look at the time. I'll miss the mail train." Topsy picked up her pen and fidgeted with it. The next words were difficult.
"Thank you, Eddy. You can be so tender when you wish to be. I pray that you recognise how attractive and good that makes you."
Topsy struggled. A stutter fluttered on her tongue.
WHEN: 22 June 1923
WHERE: The sitting room
WITH: Open to all!
"Naturally, she couldn't leave the spaniels behind. The children, however..."
A ripple of appreciative laughter accompanied Topsy's joke. Smiling wryly, she sipped her champagne and considered the little ring of guests around her. Occasionally, very occasionally, she enjoyed such extravagance, although with each minute she had to suppress the urge to disappear upstairs and to hide away with a good book.
The problem was - as it usually was - that her brothers had vanished early into the evening, citing friends to see and acquaintances to catch up, leaving Topsy to entertain the set that no one else wanted to be saddled with: Montmere's elderly neighbours, all tweedy and typically dull, were it not for the champagne that a footman Topsy had tipped. Continuous flow: that was the trick.
Topsy scanned the crowd. Noticing a saviour, she caught their eye and gave them a tight little smile that said Do NOT move.
"And thus, I shall leave you. Please, enjoy your drinks. I've just seen someone I must say hello to." A chorus of good-natured groans accompanied Topsy's retreat; her face fell once her back was turned.
Clasping their arm, Topsy nearly sank with relief.
"Thank goodness... I rather suspected I would be fending them off until Doomsday. You haven't seen the Earl, have you? Or my other idiot brother?" Annoyed, Topsy batted a drooping feather out of her vision. "This hat is hideous. I don't know why I agreed to such a thing."
Billie's knowledge of Emma Goldman began and ended with "Love and Marriage" which she'd skimmed amused, and knowing "if I can't dance I don't want any part of your revolution" felt correct though she couldn't explain why. But she'd passed Lady Melville's test. She might have time to actually read something that wasn't for work now that she was here, so perhaps it behooved her to make herself a little more informed.
"I'm not sure if I'd call myself athletic, does it require I play tennis?" Tennis was almost as dull as golf, and presented fewer wardrobe options. "I like to ride though I'm afraid I don't have the right coloring for the hunt." More to the point, hunting a fox sounded positively medieval and continued to prove to Billie that anything more rural than Bath was no better than being back in Burma or the Punjab. Worse actually, the food and the weather weren't nearly as good. She avoided the subject of the orchid collection, sensing it was some sort of conversational bomb that might trap her into horticulture against her will.
The subject of Simon made Billie want to freeze, as if the household were all going to pop out and declare her an unnatural mother. She should have sent him to boarding school, only she couldn't bear to make any child feel like she had, shipped off and left with adults who treated her as something between a problem and a disease. "I quiver at the very thought. I'd never get him back. His greatest heart's desire is to be Ivanhoe. Or possibly Robin Hood. He hasn't decided yet."
Mrs Starkweather was an amusing creature. Topsy did not flatter herself: she knew that she was not a society woman by nature, and so every conversation felt somewhat strained. Mrs Starkweather, however, made her feel almost a natural.
Shooting her an indulgent smile, Topsy said: "Don't let my sons or nephews hear you say such things, Mrs Starkweather. This is a thoroughly tweedy household. May God preserve you for suggesting it is little more than a fashion-walk." No one looked good in tweed. Well, Giles looked good in tweed, but he was more centaur than human.
Topsy detected the stiffness in Mrs Starkweather's shoulders at mention of her son, although she politely pretended to rearrange her necklace. Truthfully, the reaction intrigued her: so few women could admit that motherhood was difficult, perhaps even moreso than marriage. Such feelings only made themselves known through the animal instinct - the unrepressed shudder, in this instance. She vowed to keep a close eye on Mrs Starkweather. They might have more in common than Topsy initially thought.
Satisfied that her necklace was organised, she folded her hands in her lap and nodded at her companion.
"Indeed," she replied, crisp as a pear, "well, if you do not mind the opinion of an old woman with two grown boys, I will suggest that dashing about the estate might be beneficial for you. After all, mothers need space to be people, do we not?" A vague smile: not a test, never a test, but to see if Mrs Starkweather shared her own distaste, even discomfort, for motherhood.
Picking up her cup and saucer, she added: "Tell me, what is it that brings you to Montmere?"
She had been looking for Topsy for a while now, a proposition filled her mind. As she heard more about Topsy's involvement with the current state of politics, Prudence felt strangely compelled to it as well. She wasn't sure how much of it was the actual cause or how much of it was the spirit with which her aunt was committed to it. But either way, she was intrigued.
Prudence strained to bend down and grab the rogue sheet of paper, her eyes lingering a bit too long on the content as before she handed it back to her aunt.
"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," she replied, pulling out a chair to take a seat at. An unfamiliar brush of nerves ran over her for a moment, one she hoped didn't show. "Though, if now is not a good time, I could always come back later."
Topsy took the paper from her niece with a short thank you. Expecting Prudence to retreat, as she normally did, Topsy was surprised when she instead made to accompany her at her desk. Topsy rather awkwardly reshuffled the papers, narrowing her eyes at Prudence as if she hoped to deduce the truth like a medium.
"No, dear, of course." Topsy stacked the papers with finality. Turning in her chair, she crossed her legs at the ankle and considered Prudence.
"I'm all ears. Although, I'll confess that I'm concerned. You are quite well, are you not?"
"Of course, mother," Emerson answers, his voice level and normal. He'd been off kilter for a while, ever since his fight with Edwin had escalated to a near-wrestling match, as if they were children once more and not fully grown men. Honestly, Emerson was lucky he'd made it this far with Edwin not tattling to his mother about the whole thing.
He'd kind of figured this trip to Ripon was so he could be scolded, like he would when he was a child. Maybe this is his chance, to get ahead of it.
"Edwin?" he asks, with a glint in his eye, "Oh, the lamb. Sounds great - I don't know what I'll get. But - you, how long ago, was your lunch with him? Have you heard that he's declared that he'd rather see me dead than going back to Oxford?"
Topsy eyed Emerson and restrained a sigh. It was never about playing her children off against one another - that was more the purview of her dear mother - but she did wish they were both a little more... jolly. More serious and more jolly. Yes.
However, Edwin's nasty little comment caught her attention, and she turned in her seat to stare at Emerson.
"What?" Balderdash! "I should hope that you are joking, darling, except I fear that you are entirely sincere." Her mind raced. Once they returned from lunch she would need to hunt Edwin out. Emerson was sensitive and gentle enough that he might have taken such harsh words as the gospel... Really, Eddy! What a fool that man could be.
Topsy's hand fluttered, as if she intended to grasp Emerson's hand, but he wasn't dying, was he, and the prospect of physical affection made her skin contract. She settled for patting his knee.
"You must not listen to your brother," Topsy declared, searching Emerson's expression. "He hasn't the brains for Oxford, and so he says things that he does not mean. It is vital that you continue your studies, darling. When I die, you will be Edwin's beneficiary and my subsidiary titles will pass to you. A lord is more than cricket and the club." This last remark was made with slightly more acid than she intended.
Thinning her lips, Topsy clutched the purse in her lap.
"Really," she muttered to herself. In a normal tone of voice, she said: "You haven't taken what he's said to heart, have you? I would implore you otherwise. I intended to learn of your plans over lunch, but now is as good a time as any. Darling, what do you want to do?"
It was like looking at the armchair where his mother was supposed to be, and seeing Lilibet Balfour instead of her.
It momentarily stilled Edwin’s reflex to roll his eyes, to ward off one more admonishment about his comportment. All this while he had thought that his mother was the only one of them who didn’t understand that there was an outside version and indoors version of the same person, but he was beginning to realise he’d been wrong. So very wrong.
“You, mother?” He couldn’t keep the marvel out of his tone. “You’ve never been appalling in your life.” He was grinning as he sat forward, fingers lacing together in what was bare-faced amazement. “Do tell me everything.”
Topsy blushed and pretended to reshuffle her papers.
"Darling, no. No! I couldn't. It's really too embarrassing..." Still, a smile pinched her mouth and she considered Edwin in her peripheral vision.
"Well, alright," she relented. "But really, Eddy, you must not repeat this. Besides, it was years ago now. Positively a relic. Don't go digging up things you don't understand." Admonishment over, Topsy clasped her hands in her lap and considered where to begin.
"In essence, I acted like a spiteful side character in a Dickens novel. Your uncle had been away, you see, to America and then to Monte Carlo for quite a bit. He was on his tour with a few chums and had already written to Papa about some trouble or another...
"Just as we thought he wouldn't come back home for the summer - although he had insisted, and by this stage Prudence was a toddler and so very ill, we were all worried about her - he arrived. Vainglorious man... Really, if you think your uncle is bad now, darling, you cannot comprehend it. He was positively a cad. God forgive me." Topsy glanced upwards and crossed herself.
"As I was saying, he arrived with this... peculiar young creature on his arm. At first, we all thought they were, um, friends, but their activity quickly put that notion to rest. My ladies maid would tell me the most scandalous stories... Suffice to say that they did not act appropriately." Topsy cleared her throat, discomforted by the memory. "But I was young and had none of the wisdom I do now. I simply saw red. I cornered your uncle and let him have it. He still jokes that I branded him with my tongue. I was cold to his sweetheart. There was some kind of party, I recall, and I told her what the theme was and she, well, made a fool of herself." No one ought to appear in public in a Greek toga. It simply wasn't done.
She sighed. What first felt salacious and entertaining now made her feel sour. Topsy fidgeted with her rings.
"Oh, dear. I'm upsetting myself. I truly acted so abominably, it revolts me even now. Don't repeat this, Eddy," Topsy added, all humour utterly absent. "In fact, I shouldn't have said anything at all."
All thought of the uselessness of debate, and the need to pour cold water on Communists getting big ideas, left Edwin at once. It left only a blank canvas of sheer, screaming panic.
“What’s he got to do with anything?” he said. Too quickly, and too slow to hitch his expression back into something casual. Caroline. It was Caroline always so much on his mind that he’d nearly forgotten his mother’s side-swipe about people noticing the way he took potshots at his cousin.
“I mean,” said Edwin, clearing his throat, “he’s fine. It’s fine. He takes his horses and, er, goes to the paddocks or whatever he does.” Edwin placed one hand on his heart and the most innocent expression on his face. “You needn’t be so suspicious, Mother. I’ve taken your advice. I’m leading the most blameless of lives.”
"I only ask because you two have fought like cats and dogs all summer. Honestly, it was getting a little boring for the rest of us. It's hardly suspicion when we've so many guests and the two of you ought to be a united front."
Sniffing, she shuffled some papers while observing him in her peripheral vision.
"You'll regret fighting when you're older. You know... I'm not sure if I ever told you this." Topsy's hands stilled and she pressed them flat on the desk. When she looked back at Edwin, her expression was unaccountably serious.
"When I was younger than you, I had the most terrible falling out with your uncle. Marchy did his level best to unite us, but if Mama couldn't solve it, well, March was quite out of his depth. We fought because..." She inhaled, lips pursing. "I disagreed with how your uncle had conducted himself after the so-called abdication. I thought he was wasting his life. Throwing it all away. Privately almost everyone agreed with me, but it was my public manner that was truly appalling."
Topsy realised she had started to spin the rings on her fingers and forced herself to stop.
"Darling, what I'm trying, in my own way, to say, is that you two are the next heads of our family. Do try and get along. It will save Patrick's sisters and your brother a great deal of heartache in the future." She gave him a knowing look. "Take it from me."
Billie shrugged artlessly. "I read bits. I rather liked his thoughts on women. I preferred Emma Goldman, but then, I like dancing." There had been a time, before she was a widow, when Billie had been a Bright Young Thing and read controversial political writings and had opinions on things other than fashion. Having a baby and no money had cured her of that rather quickly.
Billie tsked and made a face. "Just because one CAN wear orange with red hair, doesn't mean one should be allowed. There's too much of a good thing, and I'm not even convinced orange IS a good thing." There was something rather magical about how easy it was to bond with someone else when discussing the sartorial failings of others.
"I have no manners, but if it's helped you then I'll pretend it was for your benefit instead of mine. I'd happily take an interest in politics if it ever took an interest in me." The question wasn't one she wanted to answer because "being around my own son this much is making me physically ill and I keep seeing my dead husband, oh yes and I have to get married and I think your brother might not break my heart or ruin my life" was too long and far too honest. "I feel a bit out of place, actually. I'm not sure what to do with myself when I'm not attending twelve different social events a week. How does one spend free time?"
Topsy burst into laughter. "Emma Goldman! Oh, very good." She admired Mrs Starkweather with a twinkle in her eye.
"Lady Drummond is something of an excess of personality. However, she is useful when one wishes to wile away the minutes into an hour." And, of course, her husband had some business dealing with one or both of her brothers. Best not to dwell on such matters. Topsy had her own fortune to worry about - what her fool brothers did with their money and privilege was their prerogative.
Peter arrived with their tea. Topsy thanked him, as she did for all staff, and bade him retreat. She poured Mrs Starkweather a cup.
"Milk or sugar, dear? And, well, I'm afraid you've touched on the great mystery of our age. Next to whether God exists - which, of course, he does - is that nasty little perennial: what are women to do with their lives when a man is not involved?"
Topsy handed Mrs Starkweather a cup and smiled warmly at her. There was something about the serene young woman that reminded her of herself, although this was perhaps a flattering portrait. Topsy had never been so glamorous in her youth.
"There isn't much to do here, I'm afraid. It's likely why my brother fills the place with guests every summer. If you're not athletic, like my sons or nephew, you must contend with reading, drawing, or any of the modern arts. For example, I have a keen orchid collection."
As always, Topsy's voice brimmed with a joke she was not forward enough to set free: it simmered in her dry tone and awaited further instruction.
"You have a little boy, don't you?" Topsy asked, changing tack. "You might enjoy taking him to see the ruins around the estate. A rather inspired ancestor attempted to build Olympus. I'm afraid he had more faith in the local builders than is strictly sensible. Most of the ruins are safe... enough."
The garden was dreary. Perhaps that wasn't fair, it was lovely, Billie just had no desire to wander it yet again. Why were country women expected to traipse among the shrubbery every morning like pet dachshunds? She'd rather chew glass.
Wearing filmy cotton layers, Billie was cool and comfortable as she glided into a seat. "I have no idea what any of that means, but please don't let me stop you. I'll just take the fashion pages."
Billie approved of Communism in theory, though less the parts where they came and shot you for being of noble blood. Though truthfully, having met a great many people of noble blood, she couldn't really blame the masses for feeling like the world might be improved without them. One fewer world war would've been nice.
"I try not to, unless absolutely forced." As far as Billie was concerned, Yorkshire existed mostly conceptually. It was there somewhere, sometimes people went there, occasionally they came from there, and that was as much as she cared to know. "Do Communists approve of fashion, or shall I be the first up against the wall?" Attempting to look serious, Billie hid a smile while she rang for tea. "Am I interrupting? I'm hiding from ... no, I can't recall the name, it's escaped me. She's described her children and her dogs to me and I've gotten them terribly confused."
Topsy's grip tightened reflexively on her Montblanc. Naturally, not everyone was politically-minded, and it was unfair of her, perhaps, to ask such questions when her brother the Earl's guests tended to be more woolly-headed.
"You will have to consult Marx," Topsy replied drily, watching as Mrs Starkweather rang for tea as if she owned the place. "I can't recall there being a particular missive. I imagine the CPGB have more important issues to discuss."
The print on the papers swam before her. Frowning, Topsy tried to concentrate on her drafted reply. It was either Mrs Starkweather's company or the heat that made it difficult to concentrate, but either way, Topsy eventually sighed and capped her fountain pen.
"I'm afraid there are far too many people in this house for me to know. Not Lady Drummond? Red hair, orange dresses?" Topsy smirked at Mrs Starkweather as she took an armchair opposite her. When one of the footmen appeared, Topsy said, "Tea for two, Peter."
Topsy crossed her legs at the ankle and toyed with one of her long necklaces. "It is possibly a good thing that you interrupted... My sons would say that I spend too much time on such things, but I am passionate about politics, I'm afraid. It's rather hard not to get over-excited." She offered Mrs Starkweather a smile. "How are you finding Montmere, dear?"
WHEN: 17 June 1923
WHERE: In the car, heading to Ripon
WITH: @apatcs
The drive to Ripon was usually pleasant, and on a day as stifling as this, it was a boon to be out of the house. Topsy and Emerson bumped along in the backseat as the chauffeur took them through the village. It took about twenty minutes by car; Topsy had had the butler make a reservation for them at midday. Plenty of time.
"Well, this is nice, isn't it?" Topsy smiled at Emerson. Her closely-fitted cloche did not obstruct her view; at this proximity, she could study every twitch and grimace of her youngest, arguably more sensitive, son. Topsy patted Emerson's knee in a manner one might an over-excited spaniel.
"I do like our routine lunch outings. Last time, Edwin and I had the lamb, and it was positively scrummy." This, delivered in Topsy's crisp monotone, had the potential to be humourous. She glanced at Emerson to see if he noticed.
Was he funny? Because he couldn’t resist the notion that his mother was always seconds away from laughing at him. Edwin didn’t know what ideas the French newspapers gave her, but he wasn’t sure he understood them, let alone liked them.
“What good is it for the tailor to be persuaded to an alternate view if his vote doesn’t change?” The question sounded facile, even to Edwin who had formulated it, but all things did when faced with that particular facial expression of his mother’s. That eyebrow, perennially on the verge of rising quizzically. The gentle suggestion of Are you sure that’s where you want to go, dear?
“Not that,” he hastened to explain himself, “I expect the hypothetical tailor to be voting for the same reasons I do.” He didn’t have his head that far up his own arse, thank you. “The only answer to this country’s unemployment problems is the tariff reform. Like it or not, our last coalition with the Liberals is falling down around our ears, and they’re not going to ask for imperial preference. I trust Baldwin for that. It’s good for business, it’s good for the domestic economy. Baldwin’s been Exchequer, at least he’s brought down some of the great whacking war debt we’re still paying to the Americans. Pardon me for putting my hopes in the Conservatives, Mother, but Communists aren’t going to bring jobs back for the people. More money circulating in England will.”
Topsy smiled warmly at him. Pride beat once in her chest, like a drum.
"Very good," she remarked sincerely. "See, darling? I am convinced! That is why we must defend these notions in the newspapers. If we live in a democracy, we must ensure that all men have the opportunity to expand their mind and consider alternate viewpoints. So what if Communism is distasteful to you or me? It is not for some people, and so we should fight for a balanced depictation."
Topsy leaned back in her chair, her smiling fading somewhat.
"I hope you can see what I'm driving at, darling. Life is nothing without good debate. It would be quite tedious if we all agreed with one another all the time. Oh - speaking of."
She folded her hands in front of her and assumed a concerned expression. The prospect of confrontation made her feel feverish... but it wasn't confrontation, was it? She was merely asking a question.
"Did you c-clear things up with Giles?"
The stutter made her flush. It slipped out at the worst times and succeeded in making her sound like a girl again.
Devotion to scratching their own—Edwin judiciously cut off the thought in his head to make sure he stayed straight-faced and polite in front of his mother.
The particular chair he sat in had very little by way of fluffy cushion back support. He supposed one had taken the hit in the minor scuffle with Emerson from weeks ago.
“You’re being facetious, Mother,” he said, unable to understand how she found this so amusing. “I don’t think disappointment flows upriver, but if it did—I mean, Communism? Really? They’ll never scrape together the seats and it feels like a waste of time and money to bother this much about them!”
"I am certainly not," Topsy replied. She'd be affronted if Edwin's own indignation didn't amuse her so. "Are politics funny? Perhaps I missed that memo, darling. I seem to recall reminding you that a lord's responsibility is to cater for all of his constituents, if only to ensure that they feel understood by you."
Topsy resisted the urge to sigh and instead tried to consider where her son was coming from. He was a man of privilege, of course, as she was a woman of means. They were both titled - or he would be, upon her death. There was a degree of distance in his observations that were borne from such privilege. Was it harsh, to judge him when this was all he knew? Topsy was not a skilled parent, but she owed it to her children to improve herself.
"From my perspective," Topsy began in her usual measured tone of voice, "it is less about winning and more about providing a different perspective. Why, if a tailor in Ripon reads my letter and I persuade him to an alternative view, is that not a victory unto itself? Must I ensure his vote has been unalterably changed?"
All this was delivered with Topsy's flicker of amusement - a shield against her crushing shyness, which threatened her edges almost constantly. Her lips trembled only slightly as she smiled at her son.
"Tell me. Who has your vote? Can you explain why they've secured your loyalty?"
