Love & Folly

by Sheila Simonson

  Like Papa, Emily thought sourly. She led her father up to the salon, in which a fire of seacoal burned. That was a luxury she did not usually permit herself in daytime, but she had been mending linens and could not sew at her usual rate with cold-stiffened fingers. Her work candles flickered as she and her father entered the room.

  Sir Henry looked round with a contemptuous snort, but seated himself without comment. When she had seen him comfortable over a glass of sherry, she said, "I'll fetch Richard. He writ you Saturday, did he not?"

  "Yes, yes. Came as soon as I might. Sick cow." Sir Henry was noted for his stock-breeding experiments.

  "I trust all is well now?"

  "Yes. Your aunt sends her best. Laid up with the lumbago. Meant to come, but I told her she was better off in bed."

  "My word, yes."

  "You're looking a trifle hagged, my dear. Too much excitement?"

  "Papa!"

  "How are the brats?"

  "Very well," Emily muttered. "Sally's cutting a tooth."

  Sir Henry took a satisfied sip of sherry. "Forward for her age, ain't she."

  "Fractious for her age. Peggy and I were up half the night. I'll tell Richard you've come." Emily fled. There was no point in asking her father to be tactful. Tact was a concept foreign to Sir Henry's character.

  When she entered Richard's improvised study, he looked up, scowling. "Don't tell me. Amy has broken out in hives and Mrs. Harry has run off with the verger. At this rate Marlborough will never retire from the field."

  "I beg your pardon, my dear. My father is come."

  He grimaced and set his pen on the standish. "I thought I heard the knocker. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Catching her eye he said ruefully, "It's not your fault, Emily. He was bound to bestir himself, if only to give me the benefit of his counsel."

  "I hope he hasn't taken another chill." Sir Henry had suffered a frightening bout of pleurisy in December.

  Richard shoved the chair back and twitched his cravat, which was rumpled. There was ink on his cuff again. "I'll lay odds he's been overseeing the calving, chill or no chill."

  Emily sighed. "True. He is stopping at the Mitre."

  He frowned. "He knows he's welcome to stay here."

  "My dear, don't strain at a gnat. Do you want Papa walking the floor with Sally--and jibing at McGrath and roaring at Phillida? Come, let us get it over with." She slipped back into the hall and Richard followed. A muffled wail from the direction of the nursery told her that Sally's tooth had not broken through. The baby would be wanting to nurse soon.

  Sir Henry rose when they entered and uttered several platitudes designed to satisfy the proprieties. He had never met the Duchess of Newsham, but he was her contemporary and had known of her scandalous life even before Richard swam into his ken. "Ramshackle" was one of his kindlier judgements of the duchess's manner of living.

  Richard responded to Sir Henry's condolences with cool civility. When he had seen Emily seated, he poured himself a glass of sherry left-handed and took up a defensive post before the fire. He inquired after Sir Henry's prize milch cows and was rewarded with a moving account of Bossy's maternal sufferings. Richard's interest in milch cows was minimal and Sir Henry knew it. He was a man who faced facts. With uncommon good sense, he drew his sad tale to a close.

  "Well, my boy," he said at last, "I was obliged to you for your letter."

  Richard inclined his head.

  "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good. Have you filed for probate?"

  "I asked the duchess's solicitor to do so."

  Sir Henry pursed his lips. "Reliable man?"

  "He appears to be. I have asked him to continue to manage the business of the estate."

  "Is that prudent? No wish to offend you, Richard, but your experience of these matters ain't wide."

  "That is precisely why I asked Chalmers to continue."

  "Chalmers, eh? Chalmers, Rutland, and Morris." Sir Henry nodded. "What bank?"

  "Coutts."

  "Yes, yes, that should hold you. At least until the will is proven. Can't be too careful, you know."

  Richard took a swallow of the sherry. "I asked Tom Conway to give me a letter to his man."

  Sir Henry's eyes brightened. "Aye, that's the ticket. Clanross's affairs have always been well regulated."

  "Not when he was an ensign."

  Sir Henry scowled at this unbecoming sigh of levity. "I meant the Conway estate." Money matters were serious matters.

  Richard watched him, eyes wary.

  Emily had also been watching her father. Now she reached for a damask tablecloth that wanted darning and took up her needle. At least Richard was not in one of his wild satirical moods. Perhaps he wanted her father's advice. As she listened to Sir Henry prying the details of the duchess's legacy from her husband, she considered the possibility.

  In ordinary circumstances, Richard was a self-possessed man, no more inclined to ask for advice than for help. But her father was right. Richard had no experience of wealth. To the contrary. That was Emily's chief resentment against the duchess. If her grace had intended to turn her son into a nabob all along, at least she might have given him advance warning of his coming transformation.

  It did not surprise Emily that Richard had discussed his legacy with Clanross. They were old friends, after all, and used to propping one another up. But Tom's relationship with Richard was not fatherly, could not be. And if Sir Henry could stand in that role so much the better.

  "...all very irregular," Sir Henry was saying, "but welcome news nonetheless. What do you mean to do now, my boy?"

  Emily's ears pricked.

  "Finish the third volume of my blasted history," Richard said coolly. "I have an obligation to Murray."

  After a dangerous moment, Sir Henry chose to be amused. He laughed heartily, finished his sherry at a gulp, and took the refill Richard offered. "Well, well, in future you may scribble away to your heart's content. No harm in that."

  "Papa!" Emily jabbed her finger with the needle, sucked at the wound, and glowered. "Richard does not 'scribble.' He has published one novel, seen his Spanish satires reprinted and completed two volumes of the history since Waterloo..."

  "Left-handed, too," Richard interjected with a wry grin. "Let be, Emily. The point is, sir, the will cannot be proved in less than a year and meanwhile life must go on."

  Emily subsided, still seething. As far as Sir Henry was concerned, writing was no profession for a gentleman. Neither, of course, were the church, the law, the army, the navy, politicks, or the foreign ministry. Gentleman and farmer were synonymous terms in her father's lexicon.

  "You will be looking about for an estate. A landed estate," Sir Henry said predictably.

  "Shall I?" Richard 's eyebrows took on the satirical twist. He sipped his sherry.

  Sir Henry sat up straight. "You cannot mean to confine Emily to a town when there's no longer any need to do so."

  "I had in mind one of the more fashionable spas." Richard, Emily perceived, was beginning to enjoy himself. "Cheltenham" he murmured, a devilish glint in his hazel eyes. "Bath. Brighton. I believe my mother acquired some very handsome properties."

  Sir Henry gave an impatient wave of his free hand. "I daresay. But your permanent residence..."

  "Scarborough," Richard murmured. "Harrowgate."

  "My daughter," said Sir Henry sternly, "will be properly established in a house of her own or I shall know why."

  Emily set the tablecloth aside as a lost cause.

  Her movement caught her father's eye. "We've not heard your opinion, Emily."

  "I was content to live at Wellfield, and I am content to live here."

  Richard's eyebrows rose.

  Their eyes locked and Emily flushed. At least I tried to content myself, she thought mutinously. "I'd like a larger house." In firmer tones, she added, "But where he chooses to live is Richard's business, Papa, and I shall go with him. I daresay Bath would be agreeable." Bath sounded appalling, but
she did not mean to give her father the satisfaction of knowing she concurred in his opinion.

  "Of course," Richard murmured, "there is always London."

  Emily and Sir Henry starred at him, aghast.

  He smiled. "Early days to be making plans, Sir Henry."

  Emily's father cleared his throat. "True. I'll look about me for suitable estates, however, if you've no objection."

  "None." Richard set his glass on the tray.

  "Meanwhile," Sir Henry persisted, "I think you and Emma should come to me. Children miss their ponies. Frances wants company."

  Richard straightened and rubbed his right arm, frowning into the air.

  "Oh, Papa, you know we cannot live under the same roof. I beg your pardon but you must see it is impossible."

  "No, I don't see it. You're cramped and crowded, you miss your old neighbours--" he cleared his throat again, "--and I miss the lot of you. I kicked up a fuss when Richard insisted on moving you to Winchester, and I daresay I said a few provoking words. You were right to assert your independence, my boy, and I knew it, but there's no need to be stiff-rumped about it now. Bring your family to Mayne Hall until you've made up your mind."

  Emily was moved. Her father rarely admitted a fault. He had said more than a few provoking words, he had said a few unforgivable words, but she did miss her kin, including her father.

  At last Richard said slowly, "I can't impose on your good nature indefinitely, Sir Henry, but I shall have to spend considerable time in Town over the next few months. I dislike leaving Emily alone."

  "I'm not alone." Emily protested. "God knows."

  Richard regarded her, unsmiling. "If you have no fixed objection, Emily, I'd feel easier in my mind knowing you were all at Mayne Hall. Newsham..."

  Emily drew a sharp breath. "Yes, I see. Very well, my dear, since Papa is so kind as to offer."

  Sir Henry beamed. Clearly he had not expected to win his way, and he entered at once into enthusiastic plans for his daughter's removal to her ancestral home, ignoring the reference to Richard's half brother. Emily could not ignore it, however. Newsham's malice was real and had once posed a danger to the children, not to mention Richard himself. If Richard expected trouble...

  * * * *

  Men of Britain, loose the plough.

  Lay the Norman tyrant low!

  Owen Davies's clarion tones broke and he finished the verse in a half whisper.

  Liberty in every blow!

  Jean raised clasped hands to her mouth. "Oh... Oh, Owen, how splendid!"

  He ran ink-stained fingers through his tousled hair. "I'm not entirely satisfied with the rhyme. Do you think the last line is strong enough?"

  "Yes, yes, I do. It's perfect." It occurred to Jean to wonder if one could reasonably refer to Prinny as Norman. He was descended from the Electress Sophia of Hanover, after all, and wasn't she a German? But that was a minor point. "Norman tyrant" was probably some sort of trope.

  Owen laid the sheaf of manuscript aside and rose. He began pacing before the book room fire. "If only I were in London. How I envy you, Lady Jean."

  Jean and Maggie were to travel to London a good fortnight before they had thought they would, for the king meant to hold a levee in May and Elizabeth had decided they might as well make their come-out after all. That meant choosing and fitting their court dresses and selecting the gowns and fripperies Jean had been anticipating for at least two years. Now that the moment was come, she had lost her enthusiasm for shallow feminine pleasures. She burned to aid Owen's cause.

  "It is not safe for you to go," she murmured.

  "No." Dejection overcame him, and he flung himself onto a straight-backed chair. "What is the use of writing verses no one will ever read?"

  She ached for him. "I thought your friend Carrington--"

  "Oh, Carrington would see them printed up. But how am I to get the manuscript to London? I cannot entrust it to the mail."

  Jean's heart began to thump. "I'll take the manuscript to your friend. I should have thought of it sooner."

  "I cannot allow it, Lady Jean. The danger is too great." But Owen looked hopeful. The green eyes lit.

  "Who would suspect an earl's daughter of smuggling Radical poetry into London?"

  He seemed struck with the truth of her observation. "Who indeed?"

  She jumped to her feet. "I shall do it. What is your friend's direction?"

  "In Greek Street. It is near Soho Square, I believe."

  "Hist!" Jean interrupted, nodding at the door. Johnny Dyott had just entered, leaning on his cane.

  "What are you two up to?" he drawled. "More conspiracies?"

  "We are working on the catalogue," Jean said with dignity. Why must Johnny always be lurking? Maggie was confined to her bed with a cold, and Jean had thought to have time alone with Owen at last.

  "Splendid." Johnny laid a sheaf of papers on the longer refectory table and pulled the standish to him. "About time."

  Owen said dangerously, "Do you accuse me of dereliction?"

  "Nothing of the sort." Johnny mended his pen. "Happy to see you both so industrious." He bent to his correspondence.

  Owen glowered.

  "Here's the missing edition of Catullus," Jean said brightly. "I knew it would turn up." And in a low voice, "We shall speak of this later, Owen."

  He nodded and took the slim, leather-bound book from her. His eyes spoke volumes.

  * * * *

  The election had not gone well. That much was clear from Clanross's letters. The Liverpool ministry, with its repressions and its hired informers, would remain in power.

  Clanross meant to escort them to London, and Maggie thought Elizabeth was cheered by the fact. Elizabeth wanted cheering, for the weather was obstinately overcast. Though she felt some guilt that her debut in society should rob Elizabeth of time with the new telescope, Maggie had begun to feel considerable excitement.

  Her sniffles confined her to her room for only a few days. Then she was back in the book room, cheerfully retrieving dusty volumes for the catalogue or helping Johnny with his work. She liked to be useful, and she knew that she had eased the tension between Johnny and Owen on more than one occasion.

  Johnny and Owen did not agree. At first Maggie believed that Johnny was jealous of the poet's ascendancy with her twin, but the longer she listened to the two of them brangling, the more convinced she was that their differences were philosophical, too.

  Jean was so deeply in love that the poet's sentiments seemed right to her, but Maggie could not help seeing some inconsistency in his calls for revolution and his simultaneous dependence on the patronage of a nobleman. She wondered if Clanross had ever read Owen's verse. Perhaps he had.

  Her brother-in-law was firmly opposed to the strictures on freedom of the press the government had enacted in the wake of Peterloo. The earl was an even-tempered man but he had looked quite fierce when he condemned suspension of habeas corpus, and he disliked the sedition laws even more. The political events of the past months were all very interesting to Maggie--like watching a history lesson come to life--and since Johnny had confided in her his political ambitions her interest had grown. Dreamily she wondered what her life would be like if she married a member of Parliament. She resolved to ask her sister Anne.

  Clanross favoured reform of Parliament. That placed him among the Radicals, but he had never spoken in favour of violent action--by advocates of change or by the government. That Johnny agreed with Clanross's views was confirmation enough for Maggie. She did not like the thought of bloodletting, though many of Owen's causes did cry out for remedy. So, though she sympathised with Owen and her twin, her convictions placed her in the moderate camp, Johnny's camp, where her feelings also led her.

  But most of the time Maggie eschewed politicks in favour of La Belle Assemblée whose fascinating gowns and delectable bonnets stirred her imagination. Elizabeth meant to open the town house and give a ball, unless Anne thought such an entertainment would seem disrespectful. But by May, by
the twins' eighteenth birthday, the three months of deep mourning for George III would be over. Unless rioting broke out in London as it had in Glasgow, Anne would probably give her consent.

  10

  "Will they hang Thistlewood?"

  Tom nodded. "The other poor devils, too, I daresay." The trial of the Cato Street conspirators was now in its fourth day. Tom swirled his brandy. "I wonder whether they'd have planned so extreme a course if the spy, what's his name--"

  "Edwards." Richard Falk leaned back in the wing- backed chair, eyes half-lidded.

  "Would they have planned a mass assassination if Edwards hadn't been with them from the first, egging them on? Disclosure of the plot was timely for the government. Gave 'em an excuse to crack down on journalists and stir up the voters just before the election."

  "Aren't you over-suspicious, Tom?"

  "I don't think so," Tom said soberly "That Cabinet dinner at Harrowby's house, the one at which the conspirators planned to assassinate the ministers, never existed."

  Richard stared.

  "It was a sham. Sidmouth was feeding the plotters false information for months, before the attempt was scheduled."

  "I thought I had a Byzantine imagination," Richard murmured. "Cheer up, Tom. There'll be other elections."

  Tom tossed off the last of the brandy. "No doubt, unless the ministers in their wisdom decided to suspend the whole government."

  "I've never voted," Richard offered.

  "You could have."

  "True, but I didn't know the men or the issues."

  Tom meditated. Richard's want of interest in the electoral process was common enough among army men, unless they had family connexions in office. After a moment Tom said, apropos of issues, "I don't like this business of Queen Caroline."

  Richard grinned. "I think it's damned amusing."

  A reluctant smile touched Tom's mouth. I consort too much with politicians, he thought. "The devil of it is, no one believes the queen is innocent, but the Whigs have decided to champion her cause. That diverts energy from more important matters."

  Richard cocked his head. "Besides, the king is notorious for his affaires de coeur and has been these thirty years. 'A little touch of Hypocrisy in the night...'"