The Slightest Provocation

by Pam Rosenthal

  Only a week to wait.

  The stairs Peggy had taken were particularly squeaky ones. But Nick Merton, a flight up in the attic, had hardly taken any notice of the noise. Nor was he bothered by the stale, still air he and the other local temporary boys had to breathe, cooped up as they were at the very top of the house. The straw pallet he lay on was quite comfortable-newer and rather larger, if truth be told, than the one Nick shared with his youngest brother at home. In any case, Nick’s own thoughts were far too interesting to admit distraction from stray late-night household rumbles, creaks, and clatterings.

  A week and a day, to be more precise.

  Nice to have such a full belly. The food was good here too, besides being plentiful. He stretched out his long legs and arms and grinned in the darkness, imagining himself on a raft, buoyed on waves of the breathing (some quiet, some raspier) of the boys asleep on every side of him, floating out somewhere in the middle of the ocean he’d never seen.

  A week and a day had a nice round sound to it-oratorical, almost a scriptural ring to it. Nick no longer read the Bible-there were so many other stirring things to read-but when he thought about something really important, he liked to put a ringing cadence to it. Like that excellent speech Mr. Oliver had delivered.

  Good man, and there’d be others like him in London, who knew how to act, to call out large numbers of men in a noble cause. Nor was a week and a day really so long to wait-for the moment when everything would change. When the last should finally be first and Albion’s real rulers rise up to claim what was theirs, and when Nick’s dad wouldn’t have to sneak about like a criminal for having spoke his mind, and his mum might get a rest now and then from weaving and the hungry babies still at home.

  Not a long wait at all, even if it seemed that way. Because sixteen-year-old Nicholas Merton felt he’d been waiting all his young life for the New World the London delegate had promised him.

  My Dear Matthew,

  It is with the deepest regret and not a little chagrin that I write to inform you of my changed intentions…

  She’d made a fair copy from the original she’d written the night before. Same words, though-which was rather a wonder, given the difference in her state of mind today.

  All or nothing; post or burn it. More prudent to burn it, forget whatever fancy had caused her to write it in the first place. Matthew would be a good husband; they’d have exactly the sort of serene, satisfying life she wanted.

  Burn it instead of blotting and folding it, as she seemed to be doing, and now sealing and addressing it. She corked the ink bottle and stared up at nothing in particular from over the writing desk resting on the coverlet atop her bent knees. And then, as though searching within herself for anything left unsaid, she closed her eyes and leaned back for a moment against the pillows heaped behind her on the bed.

  She opened them again. Nothing to add or emend. She’d post it tomorrow.

  Would Matthew be surprised? In truth, he’d probably always suspected how hard it would be for her to break her connection with the husband she couldn’t agree with on anything. He’d probably be less surprised than angry, or perhaps disappointed that she’d known herself so little. No doubt upon reflection he’d decide himself pleased to be well out of it.

  A pity. It had been such an agreeable notion to throw her lot in with a man who offered so many solutions to so many of her problems. It simply wasn’t the right notion-especially when you respected the man so heartily. Respected him enough to believe he deserved a wife who wanted him in her bed quite as wildly and passionately as Mary had recently rediscovered it was possible to want someone.

  Would Kit be very angry that he wouldn’t be able to look for a new wife as soon as he’d hoped to? Ah, well, at thirty-two, a man’s time was still cheap. While for a woman of thirty-one? (For in retrospect she didn’t know whether to feel regretful or wildly amused at the horrified look on Lord Ayres’s face while she’d sniffled, wiped her eyes, and tried to keep from guffawing at his importunities.)

  Still, she had a few more good years in her.

  Sorry, Kit. You’ll simply have to wait a little longer to be free of me. Not that long. There’d be another lover sooner or later, an affair of her more typically pleasant, practical, well-managed sort.

  She turned her head in the direction of her door. Now that she thought of it, the soft rapping had probably been going on for some time while her distracted mind rejected it as one might slap away a gnat. She called out her apologies and bade her visitor come in.

  “It’s only me, your ladyship.” Peggy dipped into a brief curtsy. “Come to see if I might take the russet cloak you promised, for to… to turn up the hem, you know. Beg pardon for the lateness of the hour, but I can’t sleep, you see, ma’am.”

  “Nor can I. Of course, when one is waiting… for a rainstorm, sometimes…”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Well, the cloak’s in the press. Of course you may take it.”

  But instead, at the sound of the explosion outside, Peggy had thrown herself into Mary’s arms, the two of them huddled together for what had felt like a very long and noisy moment.

  Thank heaven she’d corked the ink bottle.

  Which of us screamed? Shamefaced, Mary rather suspected it had been herself.

  Was that sudden loud popping and cracking noise a fusillade of pistols or muskets?

  It wouldn’t be a cannon. No, of course they wouldn’t have a cannon. But what was that flash?

  Her stomach clenched with the sudden suspicion that she’d been terribly wrong not to tell Kit about what Nick Merton had said about weapons.

  The local revolutionists… she’d been a fool… and if anyone got hurt, it would be her fault…

  “What did you say, Peggy?”

  “I asked if you supposed it might be fireworks, Lady Christopher. It give me a start at first, but then I remembered what we seen in Rome-do you remember?-and the sound was very like.”

  The girl had drawn herself away from Mary and was smoothing out the papers. “Here, my lady, lucky nothing you been writing got too wrinkled. But what’s odd is that there was just a few sounds here, and fireworks, you know, they go on forever-it’s the fun of ’em. Could such a thing be, ma’am?”

  Of course it could. In clear fact, it was nothing else.

  She’d been too abstracted to attend to Fred’s dinner-table chatter, but she could recall now that he’d wondered whether it would be worth doing fireworks on a night like this one. For they’d had so few clear nights lately… What if Midsummer Night were cloudy and overcast? “Well, then we’ll simply have to go without,” Elizabeth had answered, and the other young people had agreed with her. But Fred, always the optimist, had thought it might be worth a try, just to see what would happen…

  For all Mary had been attending, he and Lord Ayres might well have agreed to try it tonight. It might be only she, among the household, who’d been taken by surprise.

  Which was apt, she supposed, since it was only she, among the family and their guests, who knew about the danger of insurrection.

  And only she who’d overheard Nick Merton. And who was, in truth, more concerned about the dangers Kit had warned her about than she’d liked to admit to herself until now.

  “Lady Christopher?” Peggy’s timid voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. “Lady Christopher, are you quite all right?”

  “I beg your pardon, Peggy. I’m fine. And yes, you’re absolutely correct. It’s fireworks. Mr. Fred Grandin and Lord Ayres performing a late-night experiment. I… I completely forgot about their project. You don’t suppose I woke the household, with my silly screaming?”

  Peggy peeked outside the door to the hallway where the family had their bedchambers. No one seemed to have been disturbed, and Peggy hastened to assure her mistress that she hadn’t screamed so awfully loudly-more like a squeak, you know, or perhaps a yelp, as though she’d had a bad dream.

  “Would you like a glass of water, my lady, or
me to go down to the kitchen and make you some tea? Or, um, something else, to help you sleep?”

  “Water, thanks. Don’t bother with the tea. And no…” She laughed, rather dryly at first and then with a bit of pleasure. “Just water; I won’t be dosing myself tonight. Because listen, Peggy, the wind’s blowing in the trees, and I think those are raindrops.”

  The girl laughed too as she poured water into a glass. She handed it to Mary, straightened the coverlet and-at Mary’s nod-took away the writing desk, implements, and papers, putting them neatly in their places.

  “Yes, well. The russet cloak is in the press-please take it. And take this letter, to post tomorrow, and those coins to pay for it. But perhaps you needn’t begin turning up the hem tonight.” Mary waved her hand at the windowpane, where fat raindrops were beginning to make their quick paths down the surface of the glass. “Perhaps you’ll be able to get a good sleep now, and even to have some happy dreams.

  “Yes, leave the window open-I shall want air, even if it makes a bit of a puddle. Yes, thank you, I think I shall also sleep well.”

  And with a clearer conscience, at least about Matthew. Even if happy dreams might be a bit too much to ask for.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A good thing, Kit thought, that Wat had gotten a few additional words back this morning-enough vocabulary to inform Susanna that he’d had quite enough b-b-b… well, he couldn’t quite manage bloody, though Kit applauded him for trying. But he’d had enough gruel, and wanted an egg.

  “Why not?” Susanna had replied. “Yes, why not indeed, love? An egg soft-boiled, Stephen, as quickly as you can. Tell Cook the marquess wants an egg soft-boiled.” Turning her head to speak to the footman, so quickly, almost girlishly, that Kit wasn’t sure whether he’d seen or only imagined a gleam of moisture sliding down her cheek from the corner of her eye.

  Nice to have someone who’d stand by you during the difficult times.

  In any case, he was grateful to find his brother and sister-in-law so distracted by the matter of breakfast-and by the weather, for although the rain had thinned to a fine mist, the freshened air was rather chilly, leading Susanna to wonder aloud if Wat ought to be kept inside this morning, and Wat to scowl in response.

  There was still a bit of a wind blowing, though with nothing of the fierceness of last night: leaves and branches were strewn about the lawn out the window; the rhododendrons were nearly denuded of their blossoms. Kit watched the gardener cleaning them up, boots and wheelbarrow sinking into the sparkling, very wet and bright green grass.

  The gardener disappeared behind the hedge. Kit’s eyes remained fixed upon the pristine vista the man had left behind him. He would have liked to lose his thoughts in that wide, blank green expanse. But Lord Sidmouth’s letter lay before him on the table, and would continue to lie there, until Kit decided what to do, or at least what to make of it.

  He had to believe that it was good luck, the London mail coach coming so promptly through last night’s storm. Always best to receive a vexing communication as soon as possible; capable Major Stansell never procrastinated in the face of the inevitable. Urgencies existed to be managed, surprises and reversals a part of the life of the world.

  Not that he’d necessarily expected the Home Secretary to agree to Kit’s suggestion that they try to arrest the London delegate, in the interest of squelching whatever dissension was brewing among the people.

  But he’d expected rather more of an answer than a curt demand that I should wish that no Persons should be arrested at present… With no explanation whatsoever, followed by a request that you continue to procure all the Information in your Power, & that you will transmit it to me at this Office without Delay, under a Cover marked “Private.”

  In response to which, one could only whisper b-b-bloody hell, and then turn one’s eyes back downward to the letter, perusing it yet again, in an attempt to extract the redeeming scrap of meaning that one had surely missed during the first nineteen readings.

  “You were saying, Kit…” Susanna turned to him.

  “No, nothing at all…”

  “Ah and here’s the egg-just see, Wat, how nicely they’ve set it into one of those pretty silver eggcups, and snipped off the top exactly as you like them to… Yes, thank you, Stephen, a perfectly boiled egg. Yes, very good indeed, and all our thanks to Cook for her promptness…” Smiling at Kit, inviting him to share her joy at Wat’s evident pleasure in eating something he’d asked for by himself. And then turning her attention quickly to her husband and his breakfast.

  Violence was certain if no one moved to arrest the London troublemakers. Couldn’t Sidmouth see that the situation would only build and worsen?

  Kit needed to discuss it with someone.

  Colonel Halsey? But after so many years of drilling, the militia commander would be thrilled by the prospect of real engagement. Which would hardly make him a dispassionate confidant. And not Sir Charles Benedict either. For Benedict enjoyed being told what to do, the less thought demanded of him the better, the sad fact of the matter being that Benedict wasn’t terribly bright.

  At least when compared to… the only person he did trust to parse the logic of events and help him put his thoughts in order.

  Which made it rather too bad, didn’t it, that he’d made such a hash of his chances of speaking to her about it? Or about anything at all.

  Still, there was no point continuing to stare at the remains of his breakfast.

  Nor was he improving matters by pacing around the room with the crumpled letter in his hand.

  “I’m going to ride out to Grefford,” he called to his brother and sister-in-law, from the doorway where he seemed to have found himself. Good to get some air. He’d go down to the church, have a look at those records he’d been wanting to see. Cool his head. Maybe-who knew?-an idea would come to him about what to do next.

  “And do take him outside, Susanna; the air will do him good,” he added, winking at the crooked but indisputable smile of appreciation the marquess summoned up in response.

  The parish records told him pretty much what he thought they would. Lots of the names were familiar to him; he’d read them enough times in Traynor’s reports. Which confused his feelings even more thoroughly. Still, it was good to know. No illusions anyway.

  A nice-looking round-faced girl was curtsying to him from the porch of the post office. Absently, he nodded in response and urged his horse along the street.

  No. Wait. He wheeled the horse around.

  “Peggy,” he called. “Peggy, I need to speak to you.”

  He’d wait. The worst she could do was not show up.

  “He didn’t say where to meet him, your ladyship. Like you’d know, I expect. And I didn’t like to ask.” The maid’s announcement coolly and demurely put.

  “Yes, thank you, Peggy. Thank you, ah, very much indeed.” The mistress’s response rather less so.

  “Oh, and Lady Christopher?” The girl had pursed her lips at the thought of the gentry and their inexplicable outlandish tastes. “His lordship said to be sure to bring your spectacles.”

  An unbearably long luncheon, the young people unusually talkative. Fred had a thousand ideas about last night’s pyrotechnic experiments; Elizabeth was nearly as voluble about a new pair of earrings in moonstone and aquamarine. Each of them seemed to have an interminable list of things needing Mary’s or Jessica’s assistance in preparation for the assembly tonight. (And why, she wondered, was Fannie gazing at her so thoughtfully, her fine wide brow so deeply furrowed above those keen hazel eyes?)

  When she finally did get out, the day had turned chilly, the sun, still fairly high in the sky, sporadically obscured by clouds that were still blowing in. Her cloak billowed about her in the brisk, wet wind.

  The forest was quiet, muffled by wind and water. A few birds were calling, but one mostly heard dripping and rustling, the branches and undergrowth being too wet to crackle under someone’s feet as he approached.

  For it seemed
that she wasn’t late after all. They’d reached the stream at nearly the same time. She’d arrived a bit sooner; he was approaching briskly, appearing and disappearing behind tree trunks, his head bobbing up from behind wet tangles of blackberry, his hand carelessly batting branches and vines out of his way as he came.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Had she wished for this?

  He looked angry. Absurdly, his hat was in his hand rather than on his head, where it might have done him some good. His thick black hair was mussed, tightened into curls, and quite soaked in the misty air. She remembered-across how many years?-how he’d mimicked Jemima the gossipy nursery maid. Angel face on ’im below the mop of hair… mother’s dark secret…

  And she remembered not only what she’d said to him, but what she’d been thinking, which was a good deal worse: Bitch. Cow. I hope you die, Jemima. For making Kit like you.

  I’m not quite that bad now, she thought. She’d made some progress from the wild little pagan she’d been at fourteen. Thank heaven for small favors anyway.

  Why was his face contorted by such anxiety? Had he also heard last night’s fireworks? Had he thought they might betoken violence? Was he-rather as she deserved-blaming her from keeping important and dangerous information from him?

  Lovely. First she’d confess to Kit that she hadn’t reported the dangerous things Nick Merton had said. Then follow it up by telling him that he was still encumbered with her, there no longer being a lover waiting to take her off his hands.

  Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t seem to speak now that he was here.

  Which might have been just as well, because he’d begun speaking as soon as he’d broken through to the clearing where she stood.