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  When George entered the common room he spotted Andrew slumped in a comfortable leather chair by the window, reading a newspaper. George poured himself a cup of tea and strolled across to join his friend.

  “Have you seen The Times this morning?” Andrew asked.

  “No,” said George, placing his cup and saucer on the table between them. “I usually catch up with the news after evensong.”

  “The paper’s correspondent in Delhi,” said Andrew, “is reporting that Lord Curzon has brokered a deal with the Dalai Lama to allow a select group of climbers to enter—”

  George leaned forward a little too quickly and knocked over his colleague’s tea cup. “Sorry, Andrew,” he said as he grabbed the newspaper.

  Andrew looked faintly amused by his friend’s rare lapse of good manners, but said nothing until George had handed the paper back. “The RGS is inviting interested parties to apply,” continued Andrew. “Are you by any chance, my dear Mallory, an interested party?”

  George didn’t want to answer until he’d given the question a little more thought, and was relieved when the bell alerting masters that break would end in five minutes came to his rescue.

  “Well,” said Andrew as he rose from his chair, “if you feel unable to answer that particular question, allow me to put a less demanding one to you. Are you doing anything other than reading The Times on Thursday evening?”

  “Marking the lower fifth’s essays on the Armada,” said George. “I do believe that lot finds a sadistic pleasure in rewriting history. Wainwright even appears to think that the Spanish won the battle, and Drake ended up in the Tower.”

  Andrew laughed. “It’s just that one of the school governors, a Mr. Thackeray Turner, has invited me to join him for dinner that night, and asked if I’d like to bring a friend.”

  “It’s kind of you to think of me, Andrew,” George said as they walked out of the common room and into the quad, “but I expect Mr. Turner meant a lady friend.”

  “I doubt it,” said Andrew. “At least not while he’s still got three unmarried daughters.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 12TH, 1914

  GEORGE CHALKED HIS cue. He liked Thackeray Turner the moment he met him: blunt, open, and straightforward, if somewhat old-fashioned, and forever testing your mettle.

  Andrew had told George on the journey to Turner’s home that he was an architect by profession. When George was driven through a fine pair of wrought-iron gates and down a long avenue of lime trees to see Westbrook for the first time, nestling in the Surrey hills, surrounded by the most magnificent flower beds, lawns, and a sunken water garden, he didn’t need to be told why Turner had made such a success of his career.

  Before they had reached the top step, a butler had opened the front door for them. He guided them silently down a long corridor, where they found Turner waiting in the billiard room. As his dinner jacket was hanging over the back of a nearby chair, George assumed that he was prepared for battle.

  “Time for a game before the ladies come down for dinner,” were Turner’s first words to his guests. George admired a full-length portrait of his host by Lavery above the fireplace, and other nineteenth-century watercolors that adorned the walls—including one by his host’s namesake—before he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

  Once the three balls had been placed in position on the green baize, George was quickly introduced to another side of his host’s character. Mr. Turner liked winning, and even expected to win. What he hadn’t anticipated was that George didn’t like losing. George wasn’t sure if Andrew was simply happy to humor the old man, or just wasn’t that good a player. Either way, George wasn’t quite so willing to fall in with his host’s expectations.

  “Your turn, old fellow,” said Turner, after he had posted a break of eleven.

  George took some time considering his shot, and when he handed his cue to Andrew he’d amassed a break of fourteen. It soon became clear that Turner had met his match, so he decided to try a different tactic.

  “O’Sullivan tells me that you’re a bit of a radical, Mallory.”

  George smiled. He wasn’t going to let Turner get the better of him, on or off the table. “If you are alluding to my support for universal suffrage, you would be correct, sir.”

  Andrew frowned. “Only three points,” he said before adding that sum to his meager total.

  Turner returned to the table, and didn’t speak again until he had posted another twelve to his name, but just as George bent down to line up his next shot, Turner asked, “So you would give women the vote?”

  George stood back up and chalked his cue. “I most certainly would, sir,” he replied before lining up the balls once again.

  “But they haven’t been sufficiently educated to take on such a responsibility,” said Turner. “And in any case, how can one ever expect a woman to make a rational judgment?”

  George bent over the table again, and this time he had scored another twenty-one points before he handed over his cue to Andrew, who failed to score.

  “There’s a simple way to remedy that,” said George.

  “And what might that be?” asked Turner as he surveyed the table and considered his options.

  “Allow women to be properly educated in the first place, so that they can go to university and study for the same degrees as men.”

  “Presumably this would not apply to Oxford and Cambridge?”

  “On the contrary,” said George. “Oxford and Cambridge must lead the way, because then the rest will surely follow.”

  “Women with degrees,” snorted Turner. “It’s unthinkable.” He bent down to take his next shot, but miscued, and the white ball careered into the nearest pocket. George had to make a supreme effort not to burst out laughing. “Let me be sure I understand exactly what you are proposing, Mallory,” said Turner as he handed the cue to his guest. “You are of the opinion that clever women, the ones with degrees from Oxford and Cambridge, should be given the vote?”

  “No, sir, that is not what I was proposing,” said George. “I believe that the same rule should apply to women as it does to men. The stupid ones should get a vote as well.”

  A smile appeared on Turner’s lips for the first time since the game had begun. “I can’t see Parliament agreeing to that. After all, turkeys don’t usually vote for Christmas.”

  “Until one of the turkeys works out that it might just win them the next election,” George suggested as he successfully executed a cannon and pocketed the red. He stood up and smiled. “My game, I believe, sir.”

  Turner nodded reluctantly. As he was putting his jacket on, there was a gentle tap on the door. The butler entered. “Dinner is served, sir.”

  “Thank you, Atkins,” said their host. Once he’d left the room, Turner whispered, “I’d wager a year’s income that Atkins wouldn’t give women the vote.”

  “And I’d wager a year’s income that you’ve never asked him,” said George, regretting his words the moment he uttered them. Andrew looked embarrassed, but said nothing.

  “I do apologize, sir,” said George. “That remark was unforgivable, and—”

  “Not at all, dear boy,” said Turner. “I fear that since my wife died I have become something of—what’s the modern expression?—an old fuddy-duddy. Perhaps we should join the ladies for dinner. As they crossed the hall he added, “Well played Mallory. I look forward to a return match, when no doubt you’ll enlighten us with your views on workers’ rights.”

  The butler held open the door to allow Turner and his guests to enter the dining room. A large oak table that looked more Elizabethan than Victorian dominated the center of the oak-paneled room. Six places had been laid, with the finest cutlery, linen, and china.

  As George walked in, he caught his breath, which he rarely did even when he stood on the top of a mountain. Although all three of Mr. Turner’s daughters, Marjorie, Ruth, and Mildred, were waiting to be introduced, George’s gaze remained fixed on R