The Veil of Virtue

by Karen Joyce

  “Lincoln, my good friend, what a pleasant surprise,” said Percival, as he rose from his desk to greet Lincoln with a firm handshake, “or should I call you Councillor?”

  “I trust my visit is not ill-timed,” said Lincoln, smiling at his friend.

  “Not in the least. I’m thankful for the distraction from my work,” replied Percival, as he walked over to an antique French carved walnut Breton Brittany Bookcase cabinet and reached down to open the door to retrieve a bottle of Grant Constance wine and two cut glass whiskey tumblers. Using his mouth he pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a small measure of wine into each of the glasses on the cabinet before walking over to Lincoln to hand him a glass. Lincoln took the glass willingly and swallowed a large mouthful.

  “I dare say, Lincoln, you look like you needed that,” said Percival, as he took a seat on a carved dark walnut lounge chair with forest green velvet upholstery.

  “If only it were enough.”

  “Well then, I suggest you keep drinking until it is.” Lincoln walked over to the cabinet and poured himself another glass of wine, feeling the distinct, rich flavour of Muscat grapes and the tangy spiciness of ginger burning his flesh as it ran down his throat. Placing the glass on the cabinet, he turned toward Percival.

  “Are you a god fearing man, Percival?”

  “I believe in the Almighty Father, but I do not believe we should fear him if our conscience is clear.”

  “And if it is not?”

  “Surely, there is nothing that you could do to cause the fear of God to strike your heart.”

  “What if I told you there was? What if I told you I have committed sins of the greatest magnitude?”

  “I suppose I would tell you to ask for God’s forgiveness.”

  “What if my sins cannot be forgiven?”

  “Come now Lincoln, God always forgives his children,”

  “Some things cannot be forgiven.”

  “For goodness sake Lincoln, what manner of speaking is this? Take a seat, old chap. Unburden your soul.”

  “Do you remember that time before, during our college days, when we were unmarked and unsullied by the vices of this world?”

  “If I remember correctly, we weren’t all that blameless back in those days.”

  “I am not merely speaking of the trivial misdeeds of a misspent youth. What I’m speaking of is much, much graver.”

  “I declare, Lincoln, your solemnity of mood is quite unsettling.”

  “I apologise, Percy. I fear I’ve made a mistake in coming here today.”

  “Please, I am your friend. Whatever is on your mind, you can speak of it to me. Now, I beg of you, enough of this beating around the bush. What in carnations is troubling you?”

  “I have learnt the great lengths that Lord Ashwood has gone to in order to ensure the success of my campaign and the lengths to which he has conducted his affairs to achieve this end have been done in the upmost unspeakable way.”

  “Surely you were aware before entering the political arena that it is not without its indiscretions. When I think of the history of our government, there are not many occasions where one can say that it has been free of these scandalous operations.”

  “Fraud, bribery, these are things that even I myself am not surprised of, but, Percival, what of murder?”

  “Murder?”

  “Murder most foul has been committed on an innocent man, his wife, on their young children and I bear the fruits of their bloodshed. Their lives taken by Lord Ashwood’s men so he could illegally purchase his land giving me the most wealth and support of my constituents.”

  “Lord Ashwood, think of what you are saying. The murder of an innocent family by a member of parliament. You must be mistaken.”

  “I wish it were all just a terrible mistake, but, I assure you, what I have told you is the God’s honest truth.”

  “What is one to do?”

  “What is there to be done?”

  “You could go to the police.”

  “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I have no evidence. No witnesses.”

  “I guess there is only one other thing for you to do then.”

  “What?” asked Lincoln, as a look of hope flashed across his eyes.

  “Resign and get as far away from this bloody mess as you can before you are implicated in it too.”

  “I cannot resign.”

  “Can you remove your support from Lord Ashwood’s party?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Listen Lincoln, if you want my advice, you must fulfil your duties until your term runs out and hopefully in time, you can leave all of this behind you and walk away unscathed.” Lincoln looked out of the window, up at the sky. It was such a perfectly clear day. He felt if he looked upon that deep shade of eternal blue for long enough he could escape his life and when he looked back down, he would be in another time before now, running through the courtyard of the college; rushing to a morning lecture on philosophy or English literature. He waited for some moments to pass, one…two…three… but he was interrupted by Percival calling his name and when he looked away from that sky, at the reality that surrounded him now, he saw there was no escape.

  “I’m sorry for coming here, I just needed someone to talk to. Someone I could trust,” he said, as he rose from his seat.

  “Of course, my friend, whenever the chips are down,” said Percival, as he also rose from his seat and patted Lincoln on the shoulder.

  “I have to get back. There is a town meeting this afternoon.”

  “By all means. I will not keep you,” said Percival, as they walked toward the door. Lincoln took Percival’s hand in his and shook it tenderly.

  “I cannot enough express my gratitude for your friendship.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” said Percival, as he placed his other hand upon Lincoln’s. Parting ways, Lincoln walked back through Oriel College toward the front quadrant, but this time he didn’t look around him. Didn’t see the paintings upon the walls, nor the students as they passed. All he could think about was how dark it had become and how much harder it was to breathe. He needed to get outside. He needed fresh air. As soon as he made it outside he leaned against the wall of the front entrance to catch his breath, but he couldn’t calm the rapid beating of his heart. That feeling of panic. That sense of foreboding. There was no release from its hold. No one could help him now. He was trapped, and like a fly in a web, the more he struggled to free himself the more entangled he became.

  X

  And so it went, one meeting after another until life fell into a routine of sorts. One that allowed the sordid details of the past to fall into memory and the present, with the many responsibilities that came with being a representative of Gravesham, to fulfil that need to which Lincoln so desperately latched onto, giving him some sense of achievement and normality. But that feeling of gloom never left him and from it grew a desire for a way to amend for all the sins that had been committed in his name. And it was on such a day, when the final breath of winter still chilled mother nature’s withered bones, as she waited in earnest for the light, carefree steps of spring’s warmth to dance upon the earth that Lincoln came upon the very opportunity he had been praying for when he chanced upon a noisy mob of men gathered together inside The Anchor Inn. An old London pub on the south bank of the River Thames. In its long history, the Inn was noted for river pirates and smugglers and in more recent decades, the actors from the neighbouring playhouses whom sought refuge within its walls. Lincoln had been travelling through the town by carriage on his return from Lord Ashwood’s home in Lancashire when he had heard the bellowing of men’s voices echoing into the night. There was considerable commotion, but it wasn’t the usual discordant sounds of men caught up in that marriage formed through the union of alcohol and quarrels, but another sound, that of men who have come together for a common cause, as if on the battle field ready to fight for something bigger than them all. That rare something that lends itself to meaning and honour.
Lincoln tapped on the carriage roof to signal to Eldon to park the carriage.

  Entering the Anchor Inn, the noise was even greater inside than it had been from without, but now it was more articulated, affording greater clarity and meaning. As Lincoln removed his coat and top hat, hanging them upon the coat stand by the door of the entrance, he observed that many of the men were gathered around a large wooden table at the far end of the Inn, surrounding a smaller number who were seated on wooden stools huddled over a number of pamphlets of great interest to them, which was evident from their fixed expressions. Lincoln wandered over to the end of the bar near to the men, providing the most discreet vantage point from which he hoped to decipher that other language to which the native tongue deteriorates in the space that falls within the distance between one and another. Seating himself upon a stool and leaning upon the bar he ordered a pint of beer and allowed his ears to seek those voices seated at a large wooden table that held everyone around them in suspense.

  “We cannot give up this fight, for it is the fight of every man. The fight for freedom, for equality, for justice.”

  “Hetherington, I’m not saying we should give up, only that perhaps there is another way.”

  “And what would you suggest we do O’Connor? We who are without the means of money, arms or the position of a title as you have been endowed?” Lincoln recognised the names and knew without a doubt that these two men were Mr Henry Hetherington, the editor of a radical political penny weekly newspaper that had been published during the early years of the 1830s called The Poor Man’s Guardian, and Mr Fergus O’Connor, an Irish national was the MP for Nottingham and had founded the radical newspaper, The Northern Star.

  “Men, as you know, I have founded the Chartist Cooperative Land Company some years before and have been purchasing agricultural estates and subdividing the land into smaller holdings in order to let them to individuals.”

  “That is all well and good, but these Chartist Settlements are only one small solution to the troubles we face that are too great and too many.”

  “Hetherington,” replied the voice of O’Connor, “I am not suggesting that we give up, only that we consider other viable alternatives in addition to, rather than instead of a third petition.” There was some murmuring of voices now as the men who were standing gathered around them began to discuss amongst themselves what had been said.

  “Millions of men have signed those petitions, yet each time they are rejected. With the exception of a few, those Lords and Ministers of Westminster are not for the people. They don’t care for us, yet if they don’t help us, then there will be the blood of a revolution on our hands,” said another third man whom Lincoln could not place. This man’s suggestion caused another uproar among the men, divided as they were between how the French revolution overthrew the monarchy, establishing in the long run a republican government and the Jacobin Reign of Terror that followed in the early days and weeks of its aftermath.

  “And who, Harney, do you suggest we ask? The Whigs. The Tories. Even the Peelites with their liberal claims are afraid of supporting us,” said Hetherington. Harney, George Julian Harney, Lincoln thought to himself. He had also heard of this man before who was renowned for his political activism.

  “Even with the minor electoral reform of the Law Reform legislation, there still isn’t enough enfranchisement and therefore, it doesn’t afford us the support we need,” said another unknown individual.

  “I believed the same as our good friend here, Mr Cooper, but as it stands, I haven’t been getting anywhere by fair means, so we need to do anything we can, even if it means foul play.” Thomas Cooper was a poet and another whom Lincoln had heard of as a significant member of the Chartist Movement. As Lincoln heard the repetition of these names, he suddenly understood who these men were and why they had come together on this night, and though he had never met these men before, it were as if they were of the same brethren. Brothers in arms against the same fight. One that he had been lost to until that moment, for now he had found his way back to them. His heart yearned for their camaraderie. What he wouldn’t give to lend an ear or a shoulder to each and every one of these men whom were all that he had wished he could have been and all that he had failed to be. My brothers, his mind spoke to them. How I have needed you. How we have all needed you. What I wouldn’t give. Whatever it is, it is yours. Lincoln was staring into his half empty glass, but his soul had joined them. He was listening still to their words, their strategic plans toward victory and then his thoughts were interrupted by another still unrecognisable voice.

  “I will help you,” it said, and then he realised the voice was his own. He stood up then from his seat and went to them where he stood at the head of the table.

  “Pardon me, gentleman, I couldn’t help but overhear and I believe I may be just the man you have been seeking.” His words caused a silence to fall upon the men. These great men that Lincoln would not have hesitated to sacrifice his own life for. Their cause his very own. O’Connor turned to look upon this person with suspicion whom he had already surmised from his style in dress, the richness of his attire that he was not a commoner.

  “And who is this fine gentleman that stands before us, offering to help us in our hour of need? Do you even know what it is you are offering?” O’Conner asked, as he looked upon him mockingly, the other men standing around the table laughing at Lincoln.

  “More than you know,” replied Lincoln. Then as all the men turned to look upon him, it was as if all at once they recognised this man who stood before them just as Henry Hetherington opened his mouth to confirm what some of them suspected.

  “Why, if it isn’t Sir Lincoln Rinehart, the representative of Gravesend and what could you possibly hope to achieve by consorting with the likes of us radicals and misfits?” Lincoln faltered for a moment unsure of what to say when one of the men called to the barman for another round of drinks, causing the men to cheer in response.

  “Well don’t just stand there Sir Rinehart, join us, for the night is young and there is much to discuss,” said O’Connor as he moved from his seat and pulled one from a dark corner of the room placing it at the table for Lincoln. Lincoln took a seat and feeling all their eyes upon him began his tale of woe that led all of them into the yawning hours of the night.

  It was many hours hence when Lincoln finally departed the Anchor Inn to make the journey home, but he was to replay that evening over and over within his mind all the way and long into the small hours of the night. Each of these men had embraced him with open arms as they spoke to him of their movement, the Chartist Movement. At first they were somewhat suspicious of his motives, but as they spoke, as he confessed his own demons of how he had come to win his seat and they had come to see the visible pain that fell upon his face over the guilt that anguished him still, they knew he was an honest and genuine man. How he had never met these men before in all his days, he didn’t know, but he thanked God now for the opportunity that allowed their paths to finally cross. When he had prayed to God he had believed it fell upon deaf ears, but now it seemed he had been heard after all. God was listening. I will not let you down, he told him now. I will make things right, he promised. And he remembered what they had told him to do. How he could help them by supporting their third petition. He was to go on as before, as if nothing had changed, but all the while he would help them in secrecy to get their petition presented in Parliament and to garner support from the other party members. He would also help O’Connor’s candidacy as one of the representatives for Nottingham to increase their support within the House of Commons. Anything he could do for them, he would, but it was imperative that he go on as before so as not to create any suspicion from Lord Ashwood and the other members. This meant, of course, he would have to support whatever motions they presented to parliament and reject whichever of those they did not. That night when he finally fell to sleep, he didn’t dream for the first time in months and the fears that had overwhelmed his waking days, did not follow h
im like a dark cloud or cause him to toss and turn into the night when he had given in to that momentary respite from the world. When he awoke, there was a re-emergence of hope that stirred again within him; and when he placed his palm against his chest he could almost imagine into life that his fingers could feel with the faintest touch the fine, delicate wisps of feathery wings as his dreams began again to take flight from within the shrinking womb of his bleeding, desolate heart.

  This new emancipation from the toils of his days and the labours of his mind allowed another sight to come into view. One that had been pushed aside all this time but was there all the same. Somewhere hidden among the other stirrings within his heart; and when he looked upon this view what he saw caused the slightest smile to form upon his lips which were at most times firm and set. The corners pressed tight within his tensed jaw. It was barely discernible from any other, but there was no denying the change it had set in motion within him. For a time he had dreaded the coming of the days, the closing of the eve. Now he opened a little more willingly than ever before toward the morning like a flower opening its petals toward the warmth of the sun; and he surrendered more readily to the night as it embraced him like the blanket of darkness descending upon the earth. This change within him, upon him, all around him was because of her. For he knew that with the passing of each new day that day would soon follow where it would bring her back to him; and as surely as the ocean meets the shore they would come together again. Lady Delphinia Iris Montague, he spoke her name within his mind over and over. Then he went back, back to before, when their fleeting youth held them in that magical, ethereal place before being shed like fairy dust. Her pupils dilating with the excitement of fear from being chased by another, and the maddening surprise when he finally caught up to her, spinning her around, losing his footing, as they stumbled and spiralled, twirling her against the broad trunk of an old Evergreen. The stillness in their eyes betraying the depths each of them roused within each other, settling the fluttering of their hearts, quietening the longing whispers of their desire. He could almost hear her laughter, feel her joyous heart pulsating within his hand when he had taken her wrist before she slipped from his grasp and ran from him.