The Battling Bluestocking

by Scott, Amanda

  “Simple. No Habeas Corpus. Suspended back in January as a result of that dreadful business with the Regent after the opening of Parliament, you know. Habeas Corpus—the act, that is—is what enables us to get a fellow—or a lady, as in this case, you know—out of jail when he, or she, don’t belong there. Without it, not much we can do, I’m afraid. Likely to stay there till the trial. Or be moved to Bridewell, of course.”

  A small moan escaped Jessica’s lips. “Bridewell.” The word came out in a whisper. “They cannot send her there.”

  “No reason to think they will do such a thing,” said Lord Gordon, frowning. “Might just as likely keep her right there at Bow Street. Trial should be attended to pretty speedily, I should think.”

  “Depends,” Mr. Wychbold told him. “Does Lady Susan have any compatriots who might be willing to cast a spot of bread upon the waters, so to speak?”

  “You may speak as you choose, sir,” Jessica told him, “but I fear I, for one, do not comprehend your meaning.”

  “In a word, miss, to fork over a little of the ready in order to speed things along, don’t you know?”

  “You mean to bribe someone?”

  “Not that word, miss!” Mr. Wychbold protested hastily glancing about the room as though to reassure himself that they could not be overheard. “Merely a tidy something to encourage the clerks to work a bit harder to get her to court a few days sooner than might otherwise be the case. You see, the Court of King’s Bench is still in session, but if the justices adjourn before her case is added to the docket, she will be forced to await the next session, which could be a month or more. Another unfortunate result of the Habeas Corpus business, I’m sorry to say. She can be held as long as they like without trial, you see.”

  “She will be sent to Bridewell then, to await the next court.”

  “In a nutshell, miss.”

  “How desperate is her case if she does get to trial immediately?” Lord Gordon asked. When Jessica gasped, he frowned at her. “Don’t get yourself into a taking, now. I merely asked a question. That don’t mean I favor locking the old girl up. Not but what it might not be such a bad idea,” he added, irrepressibly. “Keep her out of mischief, at all events.”

  “Cyril!”

  “All right. We’ll get things moving. Don’t bother your head about the money, either, Jessica. If she needs it, I’ll see to it. But how much are we up against it here, Wychbold?”

  “Well, I’ve looked into the matter a bit since you spoke with me yesterday, m’lord”—Jessica cast his lordship a grateful glance—“and it appears to me that Lady Prodmore and her man intend to argue that since the page—Albert, that right?—well, they’re saying since he was legally purchased in France, he represents legitimate property which Lady Susan has stolen. I seem to recall hearing of a similar case some years back, but I couldn’t locate it straight off, and I don’t recall the particulars. In any event, the laws in this country regarding property are perfectly clear, so we must prove that what is property in France ain’t necessarily property here when all’s said and done. If we cannot accomplish that, we shall have failed just as Hatchard failed, for her ladyship—Lady Susan, that is—has no intention of denying that she kept the boy here against Lady Prodmore’s wishes. She will be found guilty, and I daresay the judgment in such a case will be a deal harsher than it was with Hatchard. Howsomever, that’s a wee bit down the road at present, and the man who will speak for her before the King’s Bench, Sir Reginald Basingstoke, can make one believe dogs is cats or apples is oranges if he’s of a mind to do so.”

  Jessica’s heart sank, for she could not imagine anyone being able to convince a jury, let alone three prominent justices, that what was property in France, or anywhere else, was not legitimate property in England, as well. But she thanked Mr. Wychbold for his assistance, asked her brother-in-law to relay her best wishes to her sister, and saw them off the premises with a little sigh. Andrew, coming into the drawing room an hour and a half later, had no information to lift her spirits.

  “Not a word from him,” he replied promptly in answer to her first question. “Can’t understand it. And I can tell you I wish we would hear from him, for you’ll get no help from Lady Susan’s precious Institute, Miss Jessica.”

  “What can you mean, Andrew? They must help her. She is one of their most avid supporters.”

  “Aye, that’s just the problem. The one man who might be able to exercise his influence on her behalf, old Grosvenor, is out of town, and his people insist they don’t know where he’s got to. Lying through their teeth, of course. Bound to be. Uncle Brian’s people do the same thing when he tells them to cover his tracks. But that don’t help Lady Susan. And that Mr. Harrison dashed well don’t even want to hear about her. Says he cannot have his precious Institute involved at all, that whatever Lady Susan has done is nothing to do with them, and such stuff as that. So I went to see old Wilberforce.”

  “You didn’t.” Jessica had never personally met Mr. Wilberforce, although her aunt had spoken admiringly of him many times. Besides being a well-known politician and friend of the late prime minister William Pitt, he was also a philanthropist on an even grander scale than Lady Susan and was undoubtedly one of England’s foremost opponents of slavery. He was also a member of the Africa Institute. Jessica was touched but astonished to think that Andrew had actually called upon such a prominent man in his efforts to assist her aunt.

  “I did,” he returned stoutly, “but it did us precious little good, I can tell you. I believe the man is sincerely sorry about her ladyship’s predicament, but his compassion seemed a trifle ironic when you consider that he supported suspension of the very act that would see her released.”

  “Indeed, people were astonished when he voted with Liverpool and the others.”

  “No more astonished than when he supported the Corn Laws, ma’am. Uncle Brian said it’s because Wilberforce fears anything that might lead to anarchy, and therefore supports any law that will keep the lower classes in their place. On account of the long war with France, you know, and all the resulting shortages of food here. Many people fear that when the poor go about seeing what the wealthy have, their discontent will lead to revolution here, just as it did in France. Uncle Brian says Wilberforce is one of that lot, despite his Christian preaching and his seemingly very real desire to see an end to slavery all over the world.”

  “But that desire alone should compel him to assist Aunt Susan,” Jessica protested.

  “Not at all.” Andrew’s voice was laced with irony. “If you please, Mr. Wilberforce applauds your aunt’s courage, and says her martyrdom will do more to assist the cause than any number of speeches in Parliament. Indeed, he says the very fact that she is being held in jail will cause questions to be asked there. He seemed to think that would be a very good thing.”

  “Merciful heavens, if he likes having her at Bow Street, what will he say if they move her to Bridewell?” Jessica asked bitterly.

  “Daresay he might suggest the move himself if he comes to think of it,” Andrew replied with a grimace. “I don’t mind telling you, I don’t like the look of this business one bit.”

  Jessica didn’t like it either. She was of half a mind to write to her father, asking him to come to London, but she could think of no way in which he might be really helpful, aside from the fact that he would sympathize with her position. Moreover, the news that Lady Susan was in Bow Street jail would distress her mother. But there seemed to be no one to whom she could turn. When she visited her sister several afternoons later, even that lady seemed too taken up with her own concerns to lend more than half an ear to her troubles.

  “I tell you, Jessica, there is only one good thing about Aunt Susan’s having landed in the briars just when she did. Not,” her ladyship hastened to add, “that I am not most distressed over her sad state of affairs, but at least it has partially succeeded in keeping Cyril from hovering over me.”

  “Dear me, does he hover?” Jessica asked politely.


  “Indeed he does. I do wish you had not blurted the news as you did.”

  “Well, I’m truly sorry if I’ve made matters difficult for you, Georgie,” she replied sincerely, “for I certainly didn’t intend anything of the sort, and I know you would prefer to have had the news to yourself for a time longer. However, I’m afraid I simply wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. Poor Aunt Susan had just—”

  “Really, Jess, how could she do such a thing?” her ladyship asked, shaking her head. “Surely she must have known it would lead to something dreadful. I declare, it is all I can do to hold my head up when I speak to someone like Lady Jersey, you know, when I’m so well aware that the only reason she is condescending to notice me instead of giving me the cut direct, as the Countess de Lieven did only yesterday, is that she is hoping the latest on-dit regarding my aunt will fall from my lips to her all-hearing ears.”

  Jessica felt sudden irritation with her sister. “Georgie, do you realize they won’t even let me see her? When I took a basket of food and some fresh clothing to Bow Street, they were kind enough to say that they would see that she got the things but insisted that they’d had no orders to allow her to see anyone. Imagine what it must be like for her. And just think what indignities she will be subjected to if they should actually send her to Bridewell. I become frantic, just contemplating the possibility!”

  “Well, I said I was sorry, and I am,” replied her ladyship, pouting, “but it isn’t as if I can do anything, Jessica, or as if I had any part in what happened. And it is a great deal too bad that I must be made to suffer for what is none of my doing. People stare something awful, and I can see them talking behind their hands. And this is only the beginning.” The last sentence ended on a wail, and Lady Gordon put her hands to her face. “Oh, I’m most dreadfully sorry. I seem to be on the edge of tears all the time lately. Sir Richard said I must expect to be like this yet a while, but, oh, Jess, I don’t mean to turn into a watering pot. I truly am sorry about Aunt Susan, and I wish there was something I could do to help, but…but…”

  She sniffled, much as a child might, and Jessica gave her a quick hug. “Never mind, love. You mustn’t upset yourself.”

  Lord Gordon, walking in upon them at that moment, agreed. “Upon my word,” he said testily, “what’s this? You must go straight upstairs to your boudoir and have a good lie-down, my love. No tears, now. I shall send someone up presently with a nice hot posset to calm your nerves. Now, go along,” he added more gently as he ushered her toward the door. “I’ll attend to everything.”

  Jessica stood up and reached for her reticule, assuming he would wish to escort his lady upstairs. “I’ll see myself out, Cyril. Take care, Georgie.”

  “Not just yet, if you don’t mind,” his lordship said, glancing at her over his shoulder. His voice was hard, and when he had shut the door behind his wife, he moved back toward Jessica, a glint of real anger in his eyes. “I will not allow this business to distress Georgeanne, Jessica. She is to be kept out of it entirely, which means that you are not to come here babbling every detail to her. Is that clear?”

  She saw that he really meant it and thought the better of him for it, knowing he was thinking only of his wife, and that it did not mean he cared nothing for Lady Susan’s troubles. Still it was difficult not to show a trace of resentment. “I did not intend to upset her, Cyril,” she said stiffly. “I had no reason to think she would not wish to be kept apprised of the facts.”

  “Well, even if she wants to know, you aren’t to upset her,” he said flatly. “I’ll tell her as much as she needs to hear.”

  “Very well, only you will have to guard her from the gossips, too. She mentioned Lady Jersey. I daresay there will be others.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’ll deal with it.”

  He sounded quietly confident, and for once there was no pompous note in his voice. Jessica realized he was truly worried about the effect Lady Susan’s predicament might have upon his wife. She had despised Lord Gordon, however cordially, for a number of years, and it had never occurred to her that he might truly love her sister. The notion seemed to present the fussy little man in an entirely new light. For several moments, Jessica felt she might actually be coming to like him.

  But then, in the carriage on the way back to Hanover Square, the evils of the situation seemed to close in around her. All she seemed able to think about was the fact that Lady Susan was incarcerated in the most dreadful, noisome place Jessica had ever set foot in and was likely to be sent to an even worse place if something could not be done to avoid it. So far, everything she had attempted had failed miserably, particularly the ill-judged visit she had made to Lady Prodmore in an attempt to convince her to drop her charges. Just to think about that incident now made her grit her teeth.

  Facing Lady Prodmore in her opulent drawing room, Jessica had first suggested tactfully that matters would be more amicably settled in a private rather than a public fashion and then, more desperately, had promised to try to convince Lady Susan to agree to return Albert if Lady Prodmore would only be more conciliating.

  Lady Prodmore had uttered a short bark of laughter. “She would never agree,” she had said tersely, “and, truthfully, I prefer matters as they are, Miss Sutton-Drew. The highborn ladies of this town have despised me from the outset, and few have taken any trouble to conceal the fact. Well, your aunt, for one, won’t think so highly of herself, now that she’s besmirched with the taint of Bow Street.”

  Jessica hadn’t been able to get out of her ladyship’s house fast enough after that, and she had mentally kicked herself more than once in the meantime for ever having set foot in it in the first place. Now, as she thought matters over, lulled a bit by the easy rocking of the carriage, she decided the visit had not been such a bad thing.

  Before confronting Lady Prodmore, she had been of two minds. First, she believed that Albert ought not to belong to the woman simply because any form of slavery was an outrage. However, perversely, she wished at the same time that her aunt had never launched them all into the scandal and would agree to return the boy just so she could be set free again. But after the visit to Lady Prodmore, the confusion in Jessica’s mind dissipated completely.

  She knew that now, no matter what happened, she would support her aunt and do what she could to see that Albert never had to return to his mistress. Even if Lady Prodmore were to come to her that very night, retracting what she had said earlier and promising to drop all charges if Albert were returned, Jessica would refuse to agree. Not, she told herself bitterly, that there was the remotest likelihood of that event ever coming to pass. No matter what anyone did now, Lady Prodmore would be no more minded to drop her charges than she would be to jump off the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral at midday. The woman was reveling in the scandal, cheerfully believing it affected only Lady Susan, and caring nothing for the narrow looks she received herself. Her chief interest seemed to be to achieve some sort of vengeance against those members of the beau monde who had slighted her. It seemed rather unfair that Lady Susan should be the scapegoat, however, since Jessica was certain that her aunt had always taken care to be polite to the woman.

  Suddenly Jessica realized that everyone she knew had been carefully polite to Lady Prodmore. But somehow her ladyship had deduced that they all despised her, which meant she was not so oblivious as Jessica had thought. Or perhaps the woman merely imagined slights. The current situation might just as easily have arisen out of the fact that Lady Prodmore herself believed she had no rightful place among the members of the beau monde.

  Not that it mattered what motivated her, Jessica mused. Just the fact that she wanted to make life miserable for Lady Susan was enough. All that mattered now was finding someone, somewhere, who would help. Someone she could depend upon. Someone—preferably a large, broad-shouldered someone—who would understand that she, too, had need of attention and support through this crisis. Andrew was sympathetic. Surely, Lady Gordon—despite her own view of the matter—wa
s also sympathetic. Even Lord Gordon, Jessica had to admit, had shown himself to be dependable in a crisis. But they were not enough. Not nearly enough.

  Mr. Wychbold was clearly a competent man. He had also seemed to think there might be a way, despite the clear-cut nature of Lady Susan’s offense, to bring matters to a satisfactory end. And he had said, also, that Sir Reginald Basingstoke, whenever he spoke before the bench, could make apples appear to be oranges, or something to that effect. Even Cyril had seemed properly impressed that Sir Reginald would be taking Lady Susan’s case to court. But no amount of Mr. Wychbold’s confidence or belief in Sir Reginald’s talent was sufficient to keep Jessica from feeling anything but despondent as the carriage rolled on toward Hanover Square.

  The house would be empty. One needn’t consider the servants. Even Mellin would be cold comfort, for she had lately proved to be something of a Cassandra, prophesying doom at every corner. Besides, servants simply weren’t like having a friend to discuss matters with. A friend would listen and not only hear the details of Lady Susan’s situation but also understand what Jessica was suffering as a result of that situation. He would be sympathetic, not just to her ladyship but to her anxious niece as well. He would offer needed comfort, a shoulder to lean upon, a hug.

  Jessica’s eyes closed, and she let her body relax against the squabs as she imagined what it would be like to enjoy the warmth and comfort of a hug right then. Strong arms enfolding her against a broad chest. Not just any strong arms, of course, or any broad chest. The vision of Sir Brian floated in her mind’s eye: He smiled down at her, and the warmth of that smile sent a glow through her just as surely as though he had been sitting across from her in the carriage. She gave herself a tiny shake, but she didn’t open her eyes, and the image refused to disappear on its own. His dark brown eyes were crinkled at the corners, and there were corresponding lines etched beside his mouth, showing that he had made a practice, over the years, of smiling. There was a lock of dark blond hair that had tumbled over one eye, making her yearn to push it back into place. It was odd, she thought drowsily, that just thinking of the man so could send the familiar tingling warmth flowing through her body. She could even hear the sound of his voice in her head, actually hear it, although that was not so unusual, after all. She could make herself hear other voices when she wanted to remember someone clearly. Usually, she simply remembered a phrase they liked to use, like when Lord Gordon said, “Upon my word.” She could make herself hear his lordship’s voice easily, not that he was a person she generally wished to call to mind.