“We deserve the vote! We are women, not property!”

A resounding roar of applause echoed around Downing Street. To any ‘civilised’ man, the audience was a collection of demented creatures in finery and stockings. Amongst this jungle collection, Shelagh Delaney was thrusting angry pleas at passersby. Most threw up gloved fingers in disgust and scurried away.

“Declaring war on a nation infamous for its conquering ability. Brilliant plan.”

The disembodied voice that had reached out to her was baritone, pleasant – definitely not English. It belonged to a man with white hair and a face creased like an evening shirt before a good iron. After all, she was a woman, she should know that, shouldn’t she?

“It worked for your people, didn’t it?” she countered, dangling a leaflet in his direction. He studied it, scanning the yellow pages.

“It did,” he upturned his face, “You write well. I’m a poet myself.”

“I’m writing to help people, what does your poetry do?”

“My sentences reach the unreachable, without having to throw myself under a horse.”

Delaney bristled. The smile fell from her face and she squared her shoulders.

“That’s no way to speak of a martyr. We’re not one of your bedtime stories.”

Blue Eyes shrugged lightly.

“Britain can control entire continents, what challenge is your little tea party?”

Delaney looked at the ravenous swarm.

“Stick around, this is just the starter – wait until they bring out the tiffin. I hear it packs a punch.”

“As do your officers’ batons. I’ll pass. Good luck. The road less travelled by is always the better choice, in my opinion. And this one looks deliciously ready to be trampled.”

“Goodbye, Mr America.”

Just before he slipped away, he offered one last piece of information:

“It’s Frost. Robert Frost.”