Unsatisfied curiosity warring with wounded pride, Fannie took her seat in the back and snapped the big umbrella open.
Mary took the reins. She could hear more singing from inside the tavern. The men who wouldn’t be dissuaded, she thought.
“Best to pretend you’re still dazed,” she whispered to Kit. And they were off.
“How do you feel?” she asked him.
“Like I’ve taken a heavy fall to the floor,” he answered, “and a bit of a knock on the jaw.”
She smiled, and he shook his head.
“And like hell that I couldn’t stop all of them.”
“You stopped quite a few. Perhaps they’ll disperse on the road; perhaps the Nottingham magistrate will be reasonable…”
They rode on in silence for a few minutes.
He rubbed his nose. “Not broken, at least.”
“That’s a mercy. I’ve always loved it…”
He moved closer to her. “We stopped them, together-those that we did stop. We kept a few men from being clapped in irons anyway. For that’s what will happen to some of them-I’ll wager that the magistrate toward Nottingham will be out, with his troops, to arrest those marching through there when the sun comes up.”
She nodded, shivering in the wet.
“He’s my cousin, you know,” he said a few minutes later.
“Who’s your cousin?”
“Well, probably more than one of them, but I mean that boy who tried to punch me, Nick Merton.”
“Ah, I always thought of you when I looked at him.
But how do you know?”
“I spent an hour reading the parish records. Third cousin, once removed. Of course, he’s not the only one-Mr. Greenlee comes from a large family. It gives one a different sort of feeling about the people here.”
“I see.”
“And what was almost as bad,” he said, “was shattering their hopes, when I’d manage to convince one or another of them that it was a sham, that there wouldn’t be chartered boats down the Trent or thousands of their cheering fellows awaiting them in London. It’s awful to take hope away from anyone.”
“You’d hoped for something too from the Home Office.”
“I’d hoped for quite a lot. A life’s work. A calling, I expect you’d say. I don’t like living to amuse myself. I want to know what I’m going to be doing tomorrow, besides writing to Sidmouth to withdraw my application for employment and to protest their use of provocateurs. I wish I could offer you a husband who knew what he’d be doing tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she said, “you must meet Edward Elyot. He needs your help with an essay he’s going to write.”
“Elyot? What do you mean?”
“You really don’t know? You… honestly liked what I wrote? But why didn’t you tell me?”
She’d flung her arms around him.
“What the devil?” But he hadn’t passed spy messages for nothing. “Really, that was you? How extraordinary.”
“Yes, and I’m going to write about what happened tonight at the Anvil Tavern and how the men were wronged, and Richard will publish it. And you must use your eloquence, and your memory, and your talent for detail in particular, to make sure… that I… that he… that we get it right.”
“Edward Elyot, eh?”
“You used to call him Cousin Ned when he wore his bright red neckcloth.”
“Indeed. You’re a woman of parts, Lady Christopher.”
“Will you help me?”
“I will,” he said.
“And after tomorrow?” he asked. “Have you any suggestions for what I shall do after tomorrow?”
“Inquire how we go about building a cistern in the village-which will be as immediately important to the women as the vote will be to the men. And of course, they’ll continue petitioning for the vote until they get it. They could use your help, I think. And someday perhaps you could run to represent the district.”
“As my brother’s candidate?”
“As theirs, perhaps. Who knows? Perhaps as mine.”
“Yes, that would be a life work. One would have to understand everything-rents, prices, new industries, good roads, and pure water… in order to make fair decisions. Would you help me, to be sure I… got it right?”
“I would, Lord Christopher. I will.”
The cloudy sky had become a little lighter, although the rain still came down upon the gravel road to Beechwood Knolls.
She yawned, and he stroked her wet hair.
“Were these our vows?” he asked.
“I expect they were.”
No need to vow to love each other-it felt as though they always had. It was difficult for either of them to remember who they’d been and what they’d done before they’d loved.
And no use to vow to stop struggling and squabbling-for that would never change. But to vow to try to help each other, imperfect as they were in the far-from-perfect world in which they found themselves.
There wasn’t a great deal more to say, and Fannie must be getting awfully wet back there. So they stopped, and Mary managed to convince her to let Kit wedge himself into the little backseat.
“I’ll drive home,” Fannie said, and so she did, in silence, while Mary admired the grace with which she handled the ribbons.
Fannie stopped the horse, and Kit jumped out of his seat to come help her down. She allowed Mary to kiss her good night, but when she tried to say something to Kit it came out a sob and she turned away quickly.
They stood arm in arm to watch her run up the front stairs.
The door opened. Elizabeth had been waiting up. They could see a golden tress escape from her nightcap before the girls became one form, engulfed in a tight hug, in the dimly lit doorway.
Still, Mary thought, what she’d heard from Fannie had been a sob of mortification and not of heartbreak. A sob of not believing you’ll ever be able to face someone again, though of course you will and quite soon too. Mortification, at eighteen, might seem a lot like heartbreak, but it wasn’t, thank heaven. At thirty-one, one had learned the distance between mortification and heartbreak, as well as the distance between thirty-one and eighteen.
There’s nothing like young people about you to make you feel, to make you know how old you are, Mary thought, and how responsible you are to them.
“I don’t want to stay here tonight,” she said. “Fannie needs a day or two without either of us.”
“Good,” he said, “I want to bring you home to Rowen.”
She yawned quite unromantically. It would be nice to get some sleep.
How quiet it was in this still, wet hour before dawn.
He gave her his hand, to help her up to the box.
She raised her foot to climb up and then lowered it again.
For in the quiet, you could hear another of the house’s doors opening-the side door, up from the kitchen.
Was no one safe abed tonight?
A small figure, looking rather wide in a russet cloak, bonnet, and several shawls, coming through the gate of the kitchen garden and softly closing it behind her, and now picking up her packages and coming quickly down the gravel path. Stopping now, and gaping at the two of them.
Had Peggy been waiting up to see that Mary was home safely?
One doubted it, for she seemed to be dressed for traveling. The sky wasn’t quite so black anymore, and one could see-for she continued to walk toward them, though slowly and warily-that she was wearing a large portion of her best clothes piled atop each other, with what looked like the remainder of her possessions wrapped in yet another large shawl and jammed into two of Mary’s discarded bandboxes.
A hedge rustled, and an imposing man stepped out from behind it. He carried a shabby valise; his overcoat was brown, his boots Wellingtons, and for a moment Mary and Kit each and simultaneously imagined that Mr. Oliver was making an oddly chosen final appearance.
Only for a moment, of course. For it was a taller and much handsomer man. An honest mistake for people of the
ir station; neither of them had ever seen Thomas out of livery.
“My people in Ripley won’t give permission,” Peggy explained. “They’ve got somebody they like better than Tom that they want me to marry, but I won’t.”
Kit winked, Mary began to laugh, Peggy raised her chin proudly, and Thomas put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him.
“Of course you won’t, Peggy. You’ll marry who you want, with my hearty congratulations.” Kit brought some coins out of his pockets and handed them to Thomas, who thanked him gravely.
“Even if it means I’ll be left all tied up in my corset?” Mary asked.
Peggy made a hurried and slightly abashed curtsy. “I wouldn’t have left you like that, Lady Christopher, if you’d been home earlier. I’d have put you to bed, quite tidy as always.”
“It’s all right,” Mary said, “I meant it as a joke, and anyway, we can depend upon Lord Christopher to put me to bed until you return. He’s not as tidy as you, Peggy, but he has other qualities to recommend him. I shall manage. Just don’t stay away too long, will you, on your honeymoon? Ah, but on second thought, you must have secured a position with the marchioness, for you’ll want to be working with Thomas, I should imagine.”
The two servants looked at each other, Peggy finally shrugging her shoulders while Thomas drew himself up to his full, impressive height. “I won’t be a footman any longer, Lady Christopher,” he said. “And we won’t be returning here.”
“Been studying about fixing engines, he has.” Peggy’s expression warred between pride and skepticism. “Talks about steam, says it’s good for more than kettles and tea. Says he can earn more than three weavers or two footmen by it.”
“Good man,” Kit said. “Good night-well, good morrow, I expect-and Godspeed.”
“But at least take the umbrella,” Mary called, “to make up for how drenched the two of you got in Calais. My husband and I shan’t be needing it tonight on our way to Rowen.”
Epilogue
The dower house at Rowen had several entrances. One, toward the back, seemed to lead to the kitchen, but if you knew how to slide a certain panel, you’d find a hidden staircase.
It really was a clever piece of work, Mr. Greenlee had thought, when he’d climbed the staircase to the marchioness’s bedroom earlier that night. He nodded. Probably my cleverest piece of work.
He wasn’t usually the sort of man to make a fuss about his accomplishments, but tonight he was feeling in rather a celebratory mood. Estate carpenter at Rowen was an excellent position. He’d loved the same woman for, oh, forty years it must be, shared her bed for most of that time, and weathered the difficulties of a long, hidden, sometimes maddeningly complicated liaison. Good times and bad-the worst, perhaps, her episode with the Prince of Wales, just to draw people’s suspicions away from what was really happening. But mostly good.
The best, perhaps, that their son might be finding his way to happiness.
Mr. Greenlee had been thinking these thoughts at about eight at night-before Kit and Mary had interrupted a bad elopement, helped along a more optimistic one on its way, and done what they could do to turn back the tide of an ill-fated revolution. For all Mr. Greenlee had known at eight, their night out in the rain and the wind might have turned out disastrously. But he hadn’t thought it would, and as it happened, he was right.
“Emilia?” Rapping softly on a secret panel that led to the bedchamber.
Still, the marchioness thought some hours later, it was a relief to hear the horse, the creaking of wheels, and the jingling of traces.
She’d hoped they’d be back before dawn. For you never stopped worrying about your children.
She thought she could hear a faint sound of laughter. Yes, she was pretty certain of that. It was laughter.
We had fun, Mary had once confided through her tears. We could always make each other laugh. But I expect that fun and laughter aren’t enough, are they, your ladyship? Poor child, it was when she and Emilia both were waiting to hear the news from Spain.
Fun and laughter make a good beginning, Emilia had answered, thinking of a certain day, many years before, in Martin Greenlee’s workshop. Perhaps the most fun she’d ever had, and the only day they’d dared make love there, and possibly the beginning, amidst shrieks of pleasure and whoops of laughter, of what would turn out to be Kit…
“They look happy.” Martin Greenlee stood by the window in his dressing gown, which hung hidden behind yet another partition during the day. Living in this room, Emilia thought, sometimes felt like living in a conjurer’s box, with its trick panels and false walls.
It wasn’t what she would have chosen, but it was fun in its way.
She plumped up the pillows behind her, wrapping a shawl around her naked shoulders. Her white breasts, grown heavy but still very pretty, shone in the firelight. She felt his eyes on her. The room was a bit chilly, but she let the shawl drop open. He nodded, grinning in a way that most people didn’t see, and folded his arms in front of him, tapering, squared-off fingers resting on upper arms that still had plenty of muscle and sinew in them.
“He’s taking her back to the castle,” he said. “They’re going to wake up together, eat their breakfast together…”
She sighed. “You would have liked that.”
“You know it wasn’t only your secret to keep, Emilia. There was also Martha to consider.”
Since his wife’s death, they’d sometimes wondered if they might be a bit freer about their meetings-being careful, of course, to keep it from Wat and Susanna.
“We could go away together,” he said now. “There’s a small lodge I know about. We could be alone for a few days.”
He’d always enjoyed the sound of her laughter, but just now he didn’t know what he’d said to set her off that way. “Well, why couldn’t we?” he asked. “Why is that so funny?”
“We should starve. I don’t know how to cook.”
“Not even eggs?”
“Eggs? You know, I’ve always wondered what one does to them to get them hard like that. And the shells, however does one…?”
He laughed too. “Perhaps we’d better not. We’re all right as we are.”
“Even if Kit never knows his father?”
“I think perhaps he does.”
“I hope he does,” she said. “I think it might help him be a good man, to know…”
But sentimentality had never been their way, and so she found it a great comfort that even at his age, he could still leer at her, and very convincingly too.
She licked her lips, which weren’t as full as they once had been, but which still had a sinuous curve to them when she smiled. She nestled back among the swans-down pillows and let the shawl fall away from her.
He’d be leaving in an hour, as he always did. While Kit and Mary would be waking tomorrow, smiling into each other’s eyes and still in each other’s arms when the busy sun stole through the windows.
Doesn’t one always wish one’s children to have more than one’s self has had?
And anyway, what she’d had-what she still had-was good enough.
She stared across the room to meet his contained, confident gaze. Same way he’d looked at her from the first, when she’d been told to oversee his work on the old paneling, on her way to learning to be a great lady. But now she knew how to return his look-and to value it and everything good she’d gotten from her life and had still to look forward to.
And no, it wasn’t really very late. The sun’s rays hadn’t stretched over the hills yet.
She laughed again.
“Come back to bed, Martin,” she said. “There’s still time.”
Afterword
As far as I know, there was never a village of Grefford in the southeast corner of Derbyshire. But there was and is a town called Pentrich, and on the night of June 9, 1817, a few hundred men did set out in the rain for Nottingham, hoping to continue on to London. A farm servant was shot accidentally; it was the only blood spilled tha
t night. Those of the marchers who got to Nottingham were met by a waiting detachment of cavalry; those who weren’t arrested immediately were hunted down in the next few days. Three men were convicted of treason and hanged; fourteen others (knitters, miners, masons, clerks) were transported for life to the brutal penal camps of Botany Bay.
And there was an agent named Oliver (or Hollis, or Richards, or perhaps his real name was something else entirely), in the employ of the Home Office, who presented himself to reformers in the countryside as a delegate from the London leadership, and who urged them toward insurrection. At the British National Archives, you can read a microfiche copy of his reports to Lord Sidmouth, as well as the reports of local informers and Sidmouth’s correspondence with the local magistrates.
As the date of the planned insurrections approached, reformers in the countryside grew increasingly suspicious of Oliver; unfortunately no one from Pentrich was present at the Nottingham meeting where these suspicions were aired. Oliver was finally exposed by a Mr. Dickenson, who knew something was wrong (as one would in that society) upon seeing General Byng’s servant doff his hat to a man of the lower orders.
Dickenson broke the story to the Leeds Mercury. And even as the leaders of the Pentrich rising were tried and convicted of treason, the story of “Oliver the Spy” became a lightning rod for public sentiment against domestic espionage, and helped contribute to the passage of the First Reform Act of 1832, which extended suffrage (though not awfully far) among the men of Britain. As for Oliver, he was spirited away to the Cape Colony in South Africa, where he was given yet another name and an undemanding job with the British East India Company, and where he died several decades later.
While in the village of Youlgreave, a bit to the north and west of Pentrich, there’s a cistern, built in 1829 to bring piped water from the local spring, and established through the efforts of the Youlgreave Friendly Society Women.
I wanted to locate Mary and Kit’s love story in this world of change and conflict, dark intrigue and incipient popular progress. And I wanted as well to situate them among characters (like Peggy) with love stories of their own. I like to imagine my romantic hero and heroine as one pair among many, their joys and sorrows amplified and reflected among a variegated and brightly hued populace, as though in a country dance.
The Slightest Provocation Page 29