The Battling Bluestocking

by Scott, Amanda

  The drum was only the first of many such activities, however, for once Lady Susan made up her mind to do anything, she did it with a will. Jessica soon found herself involved in such a whirlwind of activities that even her sister laughingly predicted that she was overdoing it.

  “I find it most entertaining,” Lady Gordon said as they enjoyed a dish of bohea together one drizzly afternoon in Duke Street, “that you and Aunt Susan of all people are hobnobbing with the beau monde instead of sitting through stuffy dinners with the likes of Mr. Grey-Bennett or Mr. Wilberforce and their reformers. I look to see you both at the next assembly at Almack’s, dear Jess.”

  Jessica had laughingly denied the likelihood of such a thing coming to pass, but though she did not go to Almack’s, she attended a good many entertainments that her busy aunt had hitherto stigmatized as frivolous wastes of one’s valuable time. Instead of the dinners with politicians, and meetings of the Institute or the Society to End the Employment of Climbing Boys or any of the other similar societies of which her aunt was an avid and active member, Jessica found herself enjoying routs and balls, masquerades, Venetian breakfasts, and dinner parties with such people as Lady Jersey, the Cowpers, the Princess Esterhazy, or Lady Prodmore, the latter being a wealthy social climber with a number of annoying affectations, not the least of which in Jessica’s opinion was a small black page named Albert. It rather shocked Jessica that her aunt would encourage the notice of a woman like Lady Prodmore, particularly when she discovered that the woman had informed Lady Susan that Albert was not merely a servant but was, in fact, her personal property, a slave purchased two years before in France. However, Lady Susan informed her niece bluntly that if the woman wanted to cut a dash, she ought at least to be encouraged to put her money to good use, since she so clearly never put her mind to any use at all.

  During her come-out Jessica had often found the social scene boring and unappealing, but somehow it didn’t seem so any longer, except upon those rare occasions when Sir Brian failed to escort them. Her popularity had by no means diminished over the years, and she never lacked for a partner or just someone to talk with, but whenever Sir Brian was present, the evenings seemed to pass especially quickly; whereas, when he was not, the time passed with maddening slowness. It did not seem to matter whether he was engaging her attention himself or merely watching her; Jessica found that, in his presence, she enjoyed herself considerably more than she might have expected to do before having made his acquaintance. He made no mystery of his interest in her, but neither did he declare himself, seeming content enough, for the moment at least, merely to enjoy her company. Consequently, she began to relax her guard. He was someone to talk to who entered into her thoughts and seemed to understand them, and he was someone with whom she might exchange a speaking glance whenever someone like the detestable Lady Prodmore did or said something quite ridiculous. Jessica never looked his way in vain. The smiling eyes were always waiting to meet hers, and that fact alone gave her a sense of being looked after that she had never enjoyed before. And she did enjoy it. So much so that the thought of his West Indian estates and his mines didn’t so much as enter her head for days at a time.

  7

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S come over my uncle of late,” Andrew Liskeard said as he helped himself to a glass of Malaga from a tray that Bates held out to him.

  Jessica poured herself a cup of tea. “Do let Bates give you some of these delicious sandwiches, as well, Andrew,” she said. They were seated opposite each other in Lady Susan’s drawing room, awaiting that lady’s return from the Court of King’s Bench, where Mr. Hatchard’s trial was going forward. When Bates had departed, Jessica lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “What were you saying about Sir Brian?”

  “That he isn’t himself these days,” Andrew replied promptly, helping himself from the tray of crabmeat and cucumber sandwiches resting upon the table between their two chairs. He had renewed his habit of visiting her frequently, and though he never referred to the bogus princess, he seemed to have recovered his spirits entirely. He grinned at her now. “If anyone had suggested that he would spend his days at the King’s Bench instead of at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, or his evenings at routs and balls rather than at the Daffy Club, I dashed well wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “But he hasn’t been spending his days at court,” Jessica protested. “My aunt has certainly done so, and she has scarcely mentioned him.”

  Andrew wiped his hands upon a napkin and sipped Malaga. “Perhaps not whole days, ma’am, but I know he is there today, and he has kept a close watch on all the proceedings. That is not the way he generally spends his time in London.”

  “No, Georgie said he customarily spends a good many hours with the Corinthian set.”

  “I don’t know about that. I daresay he don’t belong to any particular set, you know. But in other years he has gone almost daily to Angelo’s for fencing practice and Jackson’s for sparring, and evenings he is often to be found at the Daffy or in Cribb’s Parlor with the backroom set. This year, besides this business with Hatchard, he’s been spending an inordinate amount of time just doing the fancy.”

  Jessica grinned at him. “Paying too much attention to his nephew’s activities?”

  Chuckling, Andrew shook his head. “I don’t mind. It just seems odd and very unlike him. He actually chatted with that devilish Lady Prodmore for quite ten minutes at Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s soiree last night. And he allowed her to send Albert—her young page, you know—to fetch his wine for him.”

  “But he must be accustomed to that sort of thing,” Jessica pointed out.

  “Good Lord, ma’am, why?”

  “Well, he has slaves of his own, after all.”

  “Dash it, Miss Jessica, young Albert can’t like making such a cake of himself, but he’s no slave.”

  “Indeed, he is,” she told him. “Lady Prodmore took great delight in informing Aunt Susan of the fact only the second or third time we met her.”

  “But slavery is illegal in this country,” Andrew protested.

  “Oh, no, it is not,” retorted the well-informed Miss Sutton-Drew. “England has seen fit to outlaw the trading of slaves, but not their ownership. And Lady Prodmore purchased Albert in Paris.”

  “Well, but dash it, ma’am, you still oughtn’t to make it sound as if she and Uncle Brian are cut from the same bolt,” Andrew said roundly. “He may own slaves, though he never sees them, of course, let alone has them about to wait upon him. And he dashed well don’t keep them all tarted up like miniature sultans and use them to puff off his consequence,” he added in a disgusted tone.

  “No, he doesn’t do that.”

  “You don’t approve of him, do you?”

  A delicate pink tinged her cheeks. “It isn’t that,” she said, trying to explain the matter without revealing the fact that her emotions were more than a bit confused. “I cannot approve of the exploitation of human beings merely in the name of profit. We see it all the time these days. My aunt will not allow a chimney sweep in the house, though her chimneys desperately need cleaning, simply because of the way sweeps treat their poor climbing boys. And the same is true in other professions. Apprentices are brutalized, like slaves. Your uncle owns mines throughout the West Country, and I cannot reconcile my liking for him with that fact, knowing that in every one of those mines, women and children are crawling about in the dark, doing work that grown men refuse to do.”

  Andrew cocked his head, regarding her searchingly. “Have you ever discussed your feelings with him?” he asked.

  “I’ve told him precisely what I think of the whole business,” she replied with a sigh.

  The young man’s eyes twinkled. “I am persuaded you were most explicit, ma’am, but did you ask him to explain his position?”

  “What can there be to explain? Mining conditions throughout the kingdom are known to be thoroughly disgraceful.”

  Andrew opened his mouth to say something, but just then the door from the entry hall opened
and Lady Susan swept in, followed by a stout dame trailing brightly colored scarves and followed by a slim black boy of approximately eleven, who wore a green silk jacket and baggy trousers and matching turban with a small white plume.

  “Only see whom I met upon our very doorstep,” Lady Susan said in carefully even tones when Andrew and Jessica stood to greet them.

  Jessica stepped forward. “Good afternoon, Lady Prodmore. Have you met Mr. Liskeard?”

  The woman gave a hearty chuckle, holding out her hand to the young man. “I cannot pretend that we have been formally introduced,” she said in a brassy voice, “but I have certainly encountered Mr. Liskeard at a number of affairs lately. Wherever one chances to see Miss St. Erth, actually. How do you do, sir?”

  Andrew’s eyes glazed a bit, but his training stood him in good stead, and he acknowledged her greeting with his customary politeness, merely saying that he did very well.

  She cast him an arch look. “With a face as handsome as yours, I don’t doubt it. But don’t be flinging your cap over the windmill for the first pretty face you encounter, eh?”

  “No, ma’am.” He glanced at Lady Susan, and Jessica was grateful to note that he didn’t seem in the least discomposed, not even by her aunt’s twinkling gaze. “Did everything go well this afternoon, my lady?” he inquired pointedly.

  Lady Susan sighed. “I fear the prosecution was in fine fettle,” she said. “Is there any more tea, Jessica?”

  “Yes, Aunt, but it has been sitting here growing cold. Let me ring for another pot. I am persuaded that Lady Prodmore would also like some.”

  “Can’t say that I’d refuse,” agreed that lady. “We’re running into summer if the heat of the day is any indication. Go and stand by the door, Albert,” she said tartly. “Do you intend to be mistaken for a statue in my lady’s drawing room?”

  “Mais non, madame,” murmured the boy, abashed. He moved quickly to stand beside the hall door, which opened but a moment later to admit Bates and one of the maids with fresh tea and sandwiches.

  As she helped herself, Lady Prodmore demanded to know if Lady Susan had actually set foot in a common courtroom.

  “Yes, of course. ’Tis poor Mr. Hatchard, you know.”

  “I do know, and though I’m aware that you are involved with that Africa Institute, my lady, I’m not one to hide my teeth, and I shan’t scruple to tell you that I believe that man has gone too far.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lady Susan’s tone chilled slightly, but her guest took no notice.

  “No civilized person could ever believe that such a series of events as that described can ever have taken place on English soil,” said Lady Prodmore firmly. “What gentleman would ever strike a woman, even a black one, who chanced to find herself in a delicate condition? No, no, my lady, I know you believe your heart is in the right place, but I’ll wager you was taken in like the rest of them. That Mr. Hatchard ought to have had better sense than to publish such a pack of nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. Scandalous, malignant nonsense at that. I’m sure it will be seen for what it is before long—a malicious fabrication.”

  “You think the Africa Institute, with members like Mr. Wilberforce and the Duke of Grosvenor, not to mention myself, would stoop to such fabrication, my lady?” There was a dangerous note in Lady Susan’s cultivated tones. Jessica held her breath, not daring to allow Andrew to catch her eye.

  Lady Prodmore, recollecting herself, gave an apologetic chuckle and a dismissing wave of her hand. “How you do take one up. Of course I meant nothing of the sort. However,” she added, “I don’t doubt you was misinformed, my lady, and with intent. The purpose is clearly to prove to the British public—aye, and to the black population of the West Indies islands, as well—that those who are called to administer justice in. Antigua are so debased that no black person can obtain redress at their hands. That, of course, must be pure fabrication. There is no doubt a plot at hand, and you have merely been the victims of it, as has Mr. Hatchard, which is why he ought to have been more sensible than to publish something without first proving the facts.”

  “A plot, Lady Prodmore?” Jessica asked. “Are you suggesting that members of the Africa Institute would involve themselves in such a thing merely to establish some point or other about the cruelty of slavery?” Involuntarily she found her gaze drifting toward Albert, listening to their discussion from his position by the door.

  But Lady Prodmore had mounted a hobbyhorse, and she did not observe Jessica’s glance, nor did she spare a thought for the listening boy. “I would not suggest that all the members are involved,” she said, “though I do find it suspicious that there has been such adamant refusal to name the source of their so-called information. Surely that source could be protected if the British public knew who he was, so it’s pure poppycock to suggest that it would be dangerous to reveal his name. Now I come to think about that, I am sure, if the respectable individuals you have mentioned and others whose names I have seen in the list of members of your society had been present when the question of his identity was raised, they would never have refused to name him. Such a refusal can only have proceeded from some person who was influenced more by zeal than discretion in promoting the measures which your society has undertaken to advocate. Furthermore,” she went on in grand style, oblivious to Lady Susan’s rising indignation, “I would have you remember that not long since, right in the center of those very West Indies, the inhabitants of one of the largest islands rebelled against their white masters, establishing a Negro republic at the cost of many lives. Could there be anything more wicked than to attempt to stir more such rebellion?”

  Noting that her aunt was completely incapable of returning a civil reply, Jessica answered hastily, “Surely no one wants that to happen, my lady.”

  “No, indeed,” Andrew added with equal haste and his own weather eye on Lady Susan, whose color had risen alarmingly. “I say, Lady Prodmore, did you ever hear tell of a fellow called Woodfall? Henry Simpson Woodfall was his name, and he was caught up in a libel business very like this one. Printed the infamous ‘Junius letters,’ don’t you know? Happened about fifty years ago right here in London. Poor Woodfall was in the same position as Mr. Hatchard, for no one ever knew who actually wrote the ‘Junius letters.’ Could have been that Wilkes fellow, or Burke, or even that Mr. Gibbon, who wrote about the Roman Empire. Famous stuff. Read all about it up at Oxford. Created quite a stir at the time, but never came to much. Couldn’t get up enough evidence about Woodfall, though they did convict one poor fellow for selling a paper with one of the letters printed on it. Fined him. Expect all this will blow over too, don’t you think?”

  Lady Prodmore had been staring at him as if she thought he must be demented; however, his intervention had not only given Lady Susan time to compose herself but had also tickled her sense of the absurd.

  She smiled at him now. “Pray, have we not had enough talk about trials, Andrew? I cannot think that Lady Prodmore paid her call with any intent of whiling away the afternoon in such serious discussion. Really, dear boy, do have some more Malaga. And help yourself to another cup of tea, Lady Prodmore. Jessica, pour out, my love.”

  Releasing a long breath, Jessica obeyed, glad to see that her aunt was sending out no more storm warnings. The conversation drifted along more desultory lines for some minutes longer until the hall door opened again and Bates, with a near-smile of approval, announced Sir Brian Gregory.

  Sir Brian came in, dressed casually in a loose-fitting bottle-green coat, cream-colored pantaloon, and Hessian boots. As usual, his neckcloth was snowy white and neatly tied, and his boots were highly polished, but the rest of his outfit was, Jessica had little doubt, the despair of his tailor and excuse enough to send his valet to the nearest corner pub to drown his sorrows in heavy wet. But, sensing rescue, she was very glad to see him.

  He bowed to Lady Susan and to Lady Prodmore. “Ladies, good day. I see you are on the point of departure,
Lady Prodmore,” he added glibly. “I have come to take Miss Sutton-Drew, who has been feeling a bit down pin—though she has no doubt made little complaint of it—for a refreshing stroll through the square garden, so if you like, we shall be happy to escort you to your carriage on our way.”

  Jessica had all she could do to control her countenance, but she noted with relief that it did not so much as occur to Lady Prodmore to contradict him. Indeed, she was out the door and halfway down the stairs, the slender page like a shadow behind her, before Jessica realized that Sir Brian was waiting for her to join them.

  “I…I need my pelisse,” she said helplessly, “and a hat.”

  “Rubbish,” he retorted. “’Tis a fine spring day, so bustle about, unless you wish that distressing creature to return.”

  His voice was low, but Jessica wasn’t by any means certain that it hadn’t carried down the stairs. She gave him a speaking look, which he ignored while pointedly holding the door open for her. With a shake of her head, she got to her feet, glancing first at Lady Susan, who was grinning openly now, and then at Andrew, who was staring at his uncle and looking a little taken aback. The expression on the lad’s face brought a smile to her own, and she moved past Sir Brian with a spring in her step.

  They bade a polite farewell to Lady Prodmore from the flagway, then watched her elegant crested coach roll off down George Street, before turning toward the garden in the center of Hanover Square. Sir Brian waited only until they had passed through the gate in the wrought-iron railing that enclosed the garden before taking Jessica’s hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow.