by Carola Dunn
As Pippa descended the stairs with Kitty and Millicent, Lord Selworth and Mr Chubb were admitted to the house. Mr Chubb had flowers for Kitty, the viscount two nosegays, for Pippa and his younger sister.
“You look particularly lovely this evening,” he said to Pippa, presenting a posy of white rose-buds.
She scarcely heard him. Her looks were irrelevant tonight. “Thank you,” she said automatically, then voiced the only thought her mind was at present capable of accommodating: “What if no one comes?”
But everyone came. Had everyone come at once, Mrs George Debenham’s party would have been not a “dreadful squeeze,” an accolade, but an unbearable crush. However, most people had prior engagements, so they came before, or after, or in between.
Those who apologised for giving credence to false rumour could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Some, like Mrs Drummond Burrell, brazened it out as if they had never given the Lisles the cut direct. Some, like the Pendrells, were shamefaced and would not quite meet Pippa’s eye. Some, like Lady Stanborough, were over-effusive when they complimented Mrs Lisle on her younger daughter’s splendid match.
To Pippa’s relief, though few guests were so embarrassed as to avoid her altogether, Kitty was the focus of attention. Less satisfactory was the attention Lord Selworth received.
He stayed near her all evening, ready to spring to her defence if necessary, so she could not but notice the way the gentlemen chaffed him about his books. In spite of his prophecies of disaster, she had hoped he might still be taken seriously as a politician. Dismayed, she realized it was now highly unlikely his unconventional views would receive a respectful hearing.
As he said, all they could do was to make his speech as brilliant as possible, regardless of the probable outcome.
* * * *
Delighted as he was to see his love no longer an outcast, Wynn wished her sister’s disappointed suitors would leave her alone. Whether they wanted to make reparation for having snubbed the family, or, no longer blinded by Kitty’s more obvious attractions, they had discovered Pippa’s quiet charm, they flocked about her.
“She was engaged in advance for every single dance last night,” Wynn grumbled to Gil one morning.
“Eh? What’s that?” Gil went around in a revoltingly blissful daze these days.
“I said, Miss Lisle didn’t stand up with me even once last night.”
“You should ask her the day before. Or better still, pop the question. There’s nothing like it, old chap, simply nothing like it. You can dance with her all night and no one gets in a pother.”
Wynn grunted. He was not ready yet to propose. In fact, though he loved her more each day, he was less ready than ever, in spite of his jealousy of her new admirers.
They were part of the problem. Whereas before he had at least been able to tell himself that he had little competition, now he had a lot. This one was richer than Wynn, that one handsomer, one of higher rank, another the very image of elegance, another the height of savoir-faire.
What Wynn had hoped to offer Pippa was the opportunity to support and share in a political career devoted to the principles they held in common. He might as well ask her to buy a goldmine in Peru as beg her to enter upon a betrothal without knowing whether he had a career before him or not.
Suppose no one came to hear him? Or suppose the peers were kind enough to attend despite his notoriety as a trifling creator of frivolous fictions—and he made a mull of her brilliant speech?
In spite of her new popularity, Pippa found time to work hard with him on the speech, and that it was brilliant he had no doubt. She played every note of pathos, every sharp of terror, every flat of despair, with a sure ear, never overornamenting the tune as he was still wont to do.
If Wynn did it justice, the House of Lords ought to end up weeping bucketfuls. He was just afraid that, while they might howl into their handkerchiefs, it would be with laughter, not tears.
He pushed away his breakfast half finished and turned once more to conning his speech.
The day after tomorrow....
* * * *
The petition to abolish the employment of climbing boys was presented to the House of Commons that afternoon. Despite its thousands of signatures, it aroused little interest among gentlemen more concerned with putting down the uprisings of desperate men across the country. The harvest promised well, but would it be enough to make up for last year’s deficit? Would the mills start rolling again in time to prevent revolution?
The torment of several hundred, even thousands, of small boys was of little importance in comparison with the torment of a nation.
The Commons found time, however, to crowd into the Upper House that evening to listen to the maiden speech of a new member of that august body. Viscount Selworth was an author of novels; more, an author of Gothic romances which were ribald as well as funny and thrilling, said those who had read them. His speech should be worth hearing.
The noble lords were apparently of the same opinion, for every seat on the red leather benches was filled. To Wynn, rising to his feet upon the invitation of the Lord Chancellor, the room was a sea of heads, an ocean of pale faces all agog.
He took a deep breath and launched his words, Pippa’s words, upon that sea, fragile lifeboats to save yet more fragile children from drowning in misery.
“My lords, gentlemen,...”
Thanks to Pippa, he had no need to resort to his notes, yet he had not studied so much as to render the matter stale. He spoke with fire and passion, the horrors of a climbing boy’s life vivid in his mind as the periods rolled from his tongue. Lords and Commons alike, they hung upon his words. A collective gasp went up when he spoke of little Henry, torn from the wealthy family he would see no more.
Not so short as to seem unimportant, not so long as to bore the audience—and then, closing with a final plea to end the unnecessary suffering, it was over. With a slight bow, Wynn dropped exhausted to his seat.
The Whig lords crowded round, shaking his hand, slapping him on the back, congratulating him, lauding his eloquence. As they eventually began to drift away, some of the Tory lords took their place. Even the Prime Minister and the Lord High Chancellor approached Wynn to present their stiff, cool compliments.
“How soon can a bill be presented?” Wynn asked eagerly.
“Oh, as to that,” said Liverpool, “the agenda is already overfull, is it not, Eldon?”
The Chancellor agreed. “No knowing when we shall be able to prorogue,” he said testily.
“After all,” put in Lord Lauderdale, “affecting as was your tale of the child Henry, there are only one or two cases of the sort. I for one am not acquainted with anyone who has had a child abducted, are you, my lords?”
The rest of the noble gentlemen nearby shook their heads.
“As for the rest,” Lauderdale continued, “they are guttersnipes who if they were not engaged in an honest trade would be out on the streets a-begging—or picking our pockets!”
Amid laughter, the group broke up.
Furious, Wynn strode out to the lobby. Half an hour had passed since his speech ended, and the Commons had long since returned to their chamber. No doubt by now they had forgotten all about him.
A page boy stopped him. “Lord Selworth? Mr Bennet, m’lord, he told me to beg you to wait awhile till he can have a word with your lordship. The gallery’s that way, my lord, if you was to wish to go up.”
Wynn hesitated. He was in no mood to be polite, nor to lounge about waiting. He wanted to hurry back to Charles Street to acquaint Pippa with his success and his failure. On the other hand, he did not want the Radical Commoners to think him too toplofty to care for their opinions of the speech.
He turned to head for the stair to the gallery, just as the doors of the Commons chamber opened and Henry Grey Bennet came out. With him were Brougham and Burdett and two or three others.
Bennet saw Wynn. “Selworth! Well met. I was just coming to look for you. Any luck with the Lords?”<
br />
“None,” Wynn fumed. “Oh, they liked the speech.”
“Damn good speech,” put in Brougham. “I’d be hard put to it to do better myself, and I’m not sure I wouldn’t bet on you against Orator Hunt, if you weren’t on the same side, more or less.”
“Thank you,” Wynn said, “but what’s the use of speaking well if you can’t persuade anyone to take action? They don’t care a rap for the agonies of mere guttersnipes.”
“They may not,” said Burdett, “but we do. And what’s more, you have talked enough Members into caring to pass a vote to set up a Select Committee to study the question. Congratulations!”
As the others added their congratulations, Wynn’s spirits soared.
“It’s a small first step,” Bennet warned, “but I’m to be Chairman of the committee and I’ll see its findings don’t gather dust in a corner. Come, let’s go and drink to your achievement and the abolition of climbing boys! Tell me, is it true you had Prometheus’s aid in drafting the speech? There are others could do with his help.”
Parrying questions about Prometheus, Wynn accompanied his friends to the Blue Boar to celebrate.
* * * *
Pippa was on tenterhooks. She knew exactly how long Wynn took to deliver his oration. He ought to have finished an hour ago, but he did not come.
She made allowances for a late start. Perhaps it would take him a while to escape afterwards if everyone wanted to talk to him, to congratulate him. He did not come.
As time passed, she grew more and more certain that the speech had been an abject failure. Wynn was reluctant to face her and tell her he had made a mull of it. Or he had delivered it perfectly but what had seemed so clever in the sitting room in Charles Street turned out to be hopelessly inappropriate for the House of Lords. He did not want to tell her she had wrecked his chances.
It was time to change for dinner, and still he did not come. Pippa was in two minds: Should she go and hide in her chamber lest he arrive with a tale of disaster? Could she bear to be in the middle of dressing and thus unavailable if he turned up in need of comfort?
Her mother chased her upstairs. “My love, your sitting and moping will not alter matters for better or worse,” she pointed out. “I daresay he will come in time for dinner. Your papa was wont to say nothing gave him such an appetite as making a speech.”
As soon as she was upstairs, Pippa knew she wanted to be downstairs. Not waiting for Nan’s help, she flung on the first evening gown which came to hand, though she had decided days ago that the azure crape, made over from one of Bina’s, did not become her. She unpinned her hair, swiftly ran a comb through it, and hurriedly pinned it up again.
“That is a mess,” said Kitty. “It is going to fall down any moment. Let me do it for you.”
“No, it does not matter. We are staying at home this evening and not expecting visitors.”
“Except Gil and Lord Selworth,” Kitty reminded her unnecessarily as she departed.
If he came. Where was he?
Pippa went down to the drawing room. At least she would not have to go out and dance, nor even stay in and try to help entertain guests. Mama and Bina had decided a quiet evening at home was a good idea after all the gallivanting of the past ten days, besides giving Lord Selworth a chance to tell them all about his speech.
If he came. Pippa went over to the window and looked out, just in time to see Gil Chubb arriving. Alone.
She heard Gil’s knock on the door, his voice as he spoke to the butler, his feet on the stairs. Turning from the window, she was moving towards the door when he came in.
He glanced swiftly around the room. Seeing no one else there, he said, “Congratulations, Miss Lisle!”
“Congrat...? It went well?”
“Brilliantly. Almost had me in tears. I was up in the gallery, of course. Could have heard a pin drop while Wynn was talking—well, almost. “ He frowned dubiously. “Don’t know if you could have heard a pin drop while he was actually talking.”
“But they listened? Were many there?”
“Place was full to bursting. All the Commons came in, too. A good half of ‘em, anyway. You should have seen ‘em crowding round him afterwards—the Lords—patting his back and shaking his hand. A grand success.” Puzzled, he added, “He hasn’t come to tell you?”
“No,” said Pippa bluntly. “You have not seen him since?”
“Missed him somehow at Westminster Hall, what with all the people swarming about. He’ll be here any minute, I expect.”
Kitty came in then and distracted Gil’s attention. Pippa went on hoping Lord Selworth would arrive at any moment right until they all went in to dinner.
Then she began to grow angry.
Rearranging the food on her plate to pretend she was eating, she let Millie’s chatter wash over her unheard as she racked her brains to think why he should stay away. Only one answer came to mind. Now that his speech had proved a triumph, he did not want to acknowledge her part in writing it. He wanted all the glory for himself.
Pippa neither expected nor desired any public glory. She did not want Lord Selworth’s gratitude—she had worked for herself and for the climbing boys as much as for him. But she did want to know he appreciated her help and recognized its value.
Here, where all but Millicent knew she was Prometheus, he would have to share the honours.
So he did not come.
At long last dinner ended. The ladies arose to leave George Debenham and Gil Chubb to an undoubtedly brief session with their port. Pippa was telling the truth when she murmured to her mother that she had the headache.
“Go to bed, my love, and I shall bring a tisane.”
“It is not bad enough to need rest, only quiet. I shall go up to the sitting room.”
Mama nodded understandingly. “I am certain there is an explanation,” she said.
Indeed there was, and Pippa had guessed it. By now he had probably persuaded himself it was all his own doing. After all, when it came to politics, what had a mere female to offer?
The others went into the drawing room. Pippa continued up the stairs to the sitting room, where she slumped into an easy-chair. Tears pricked her eyelids, but she refused to let them flow. Crying would only worsen her headache, and he was not worth it.
How could she have believed he was different from all the rest, that he respected her talents and was glad to see her make use of them? No doubt all along—or at least since he guessed she was Prometheus—he had told himself he was humouring her while he did all the real work. He was deluding himself, as he would discover when he tried without her, but nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand contrived to delude themselves that they were superior beings.
Only Papa was different. Even Mr Cobbett had not liked to admit that a woman was capable of taking on the mantle of Prometheus. Only his friendship for Benjamin Lisle had persuaded him to consider Pippa’s articles, though once convinced of their value he remained a staunch friend.
A letter from him, from America, had arrived yesterday, when Pippa was too busy putting the final touches to the dastardly viscount’s speech to pay much attention. Now she needed something to distract her thoughts.
She went to sit at the desk, unlocked the drawer, and took out Mr Cobbett’s letter. Holding it so as to catch the fast fading light from the window, she reread it. He intended to resume publication of the Political Register, writing from America, and he wanted Pippa to start writing articles again. What should she write about? Her mind was still full of chimney sweeps.
Chimney sweeps and Wynn Selworth. Again she felt the prickling of tears, tears of anger, not of heartache, she told herself.
She concentrated on the view. Chimneypots silhouetted against a dusky pink sky, so many chimneypots, every one needing to be swept, every one an instrument of torture to a small, terrified child. She would start an article with that view, and lead on from climbing boys to other injustices equally capable of solution by men of good will.
&nb
sp; Men like Wynn Selworth. How could someone of such generous principles prove so perfidious? And having betrayed her, would he next betray his principles?
Pippa sat musing unhappily, the twilight deepening about her. When she heard the door open behind her and a soft glow suffused the room, she assumed Mama or Bina had sent a footman up with a branch of candles.
“Thank you,” she said without turning.
“Wrong way round,” said a slurred voice. “I’ve come to thank you.”
“Wynn!” Pippa swung round. “Lord Selworth, I mean.”
“Wynn’ll do nicely.” He stood leaning against the doorpost, his flaxen hair in wild disarray, cravat loosened, candelabra in hand.
“I thought you were a footman,” she said inanely.
“Met him on the stair. Said I’d bring you this.” Beaming, Lord Selworth gestured with the candelabra. As candles wobbled and flames flickered and flared, Pippa sprang to rescue it. “Sorry. A trifle bosky—just a trifle, mind!”
“You had best sit down.” She took the candelabra to the desk and set it down.
He was close behind her. “Come and sit with me,” he begged, taking her hand and tugging her over to a sofa. “Got a lot to say to you. Lots and lots.”
The hours of anxiety burst forth. “Then why did you not come sooner?” Pippa demanded angrily, withdrawing her hand from his clasp.
“Tried. Tried and tried and tried. Every time I got to the door, someone else came in, same thing all over again. Congrat...you know, drink to your success—my success, that is, only your success too. Pro-me-the-us,” he said with great care. “All his doing. Yours. Had a deuce of a time answering all their questions.”
“You did not tell them who I am? Who Prometheus is?”
“Not that bosky. Anyway, wouldn’t give you away if I was drunk as a wheelbarrow. Want to keep you. All for myself.”
He recaptured her hand. However bosky he was, his smile was the same as ever, and had the same effect on Pippa.
“Wh-what do you mean?” she faltered.
Lord Selworth looked surprised. “Marry you,” he said. “Marry me. Pippa, do say you’ll marry me? Be a viscountess, and it’s the only way I’ll be sure of an endless supply of brilliant speeches. Do say you will?”