NOVEMBER 1792
Eliza sat watching the sculptor high on her scaffold, at work on her Kings left ear. The clay figure was still primitive, except for the head and sober face, which was emerging slowly from the gigantic armature of wires and rods. There was a smear of grey clay on Anne's left cheekbone. Such patience the woman had, such tireless hands. Eliza remembered sitting in this workshop four years ago, having her eyelids pasted with plaster.
'Funnily enough,' remarked Derby, snapping his snuffbox shut, 'I thought you loathed the man. Don't we all?'
'It's not about the man,' said Anne, looking down owlishly. 'It's an abstraction.'
'Of what?' He paused for a pleasurable sneeze. 'The power of the Crown?'
'Oh, Derby, not in that sense, not the undue influence of King and PM on Parliament; we've always opposed that.'
She's still saying we, meaning Whigs, noted Eliza.
The sculptor folded her arms, holding a small muddy hook. 'What I want to express, I suppose, is that we English change and reform ourselves by degrees, not by pikes and gunpowder. I want to carve a symbol of ... firmness.'
Eliza felt slightly embarrassed for her friend and looked away.
'Couldn't you call it Albion, then?' suggested Derby. 'Or do a lovely Britannia on a chariot?'
Anne chuckled. 'I doubt I could carve a chariot.'
'Well, an armchair, then.'
'For all your flippancy, Derby,' said Anne, 'don't you think the idea of kingship is a sacred tradition, something to cling to in these strange times? Why, your own noble title derives from it, as a stream from a river!'
Instead of answering he asked Eliza, 'Have you told her about Louis?'
Her stomach sank. 'He's to be put on trial for treason,' she told Anne, who stared. 'A strongbox was found in the Tuileries, full of his secret correspondence with foreign powers.'
'How very convenient,' said the sculptor, gouging at the clay. 'Just when they want an excuse to put their lawful king in the dock, they happen to come across a strongbox full of evidence.'
'It's a sad business,' Derby conceded.
'It's not some necessity of fate, Derby, it's an appalling crime.'
'Well. The French are making dire mistakes, but one wouldn't wish them the cowed serfs of Versailles again.'
'Oh, please. I knew Versailles.' Anne's head snapped round. 'You never go any farther than Liverpool.'
'As I was saying to Fox the other day,' he continued, unruffled, 'we must stand by the new Republic, because when it comes down to it we're on the same side. It's a crusade against the unchained power of kings'—and his eyes flicked upwards to Anne's clay model.
Eliza shifted uneasily in her seat.
The sculptor glowered down at the Earl. 'Perhaps you wouldn't speak so casually and naively about bloodshed if you'd ever been to war yourself.'
His eyebrows soared up.
Eliza had to speak. 'But my dear Anne,' she began as winningly as she could, 'while one deplores tragedies like the September massacres, one can still applaud the founding principles of the Revolution, can't one? Remember that day we read the Declaration of the Rights of Man together?'
'Barely,' said Anne, her face blank. 'So many more distressing memories have overlaid it.'
Was the older woman talking about politics, Eliza wondered, or the hiatus in their friendship? Her pulse began to throb in her throat.
'Tom Paine's arguing that Louis should be allowed to retire to America,' remarked Derby to Eliza, as if they were alone, 'since Louis helped the Americans win their war of independence—but I can't quite imagine the Capets settling down as good citizen farmers! Sherry heard that from Lord Edward, who's in Paris, staying with Paine. Only I shouldn't call His Lordship that—since he's solemnly renounced his tide and now goes by le Citoyen Edouard Fitzgerald.'
'You'd never go that far, would you?' Eliza asked. 'I can't imagine you as plain Mr Ned Derby.'
'I'd rather fall on my own sword, frankly. Oh, another funny thing: Fitzgerald's married that girl Pamela, what's her name, Pamela Égalité.'
'But I thought she was engaged to Sheridan?'
Derby shrugged. 'There's a certain neatness to it, a poetic justice on Sheridan for his rakish years. Fitzgerald seduces Sherry's wife, then weds his fiancée and they're still the best of friends.'
'People are running quite mad these days,' said Anne from her scaffold.
'Yes,' said Derby with a hard look at the formless statue.
'There's been a terrible run on the banks, Walpole tells me. Unrest all over the British Isles, reports of cargoes of arms smuggled in, not to mention the 3000 daggers ordered in Birmingham. And what of last month's declaration by the French that they'll aid any revolutionaries in any land who long for liberty?'
Eliza fanned herself. She'd witnessed a very comical scene in the Commons, when Burke had produced one of the famous daggers from his pocket and hurled it down, and Sheridan had hopped up and asked politely for the fork to go with it. She was beginning to wish she and Derby had taken their leave half an hour ago; they might have been on the Strand looking at prints of thoroughbreds and fashions by now.
Derby's lips twisted. 'That was a bit of Gallic hyperbole. And as for arms and unrest, that's all puffed up by the ten scaremongering papers Pitt finances. Fama nihil est celerius, as Livy would say. Nothing's faster than rumour,' he glossed for Eliza, apologetically. 'Take it from me, Mrs Damer: there are no English revolutionaries.'
Anne came to the edge of the scaffold and her jaw was sharp. 'I heard that one of these Societies tried to set up a Tree of Liberty on Kennington Common.'
'Yes, and the 15th Dragoons were marched all the way from Maidenhead to stop them,' drawled Eliza, 'which seems an excessive reaction to a tree planting!'
Her delivery would have raised a great laugh at the King's Theatre, but it was wasted here. 'I tell you,' said Derby in the urbane voice that told Eliza he was struggling to hold on to his temper, 'I know the kind of earnest, bespectacled tradesmen who fill the Re-form Societies, and all they do is make speeches and draft petitions. Yes, there's occasional ranting by maverick preachers, or window smashing by the out-of-work, but on the whole this is a prosperous nation, run by a responsible aristocracy—and nothing like France.'
'Then why, when I ride to Hyde Park,' said Anne in a shaking voice, 'do I pass scribbles on walls that say Damn Richmond, Damn Pitt, Damn the rich, Damn the King?'
Derby spoke with deceptive lightness. 'You've turned quite the royalist these days, haven't you, with your symbolical giant'—one finger flicked up at the armature—'and your fresh-minted Tory sentiments.'
Eliza winced. 'Derby,' she murmured, 'perhaps—'
Anne had drawn herself up. 'I've been a firm Whig as long as you, My Lord—longer, in fact—and I'm devoted to Charles Fox.'
'Oh, really? I hear Nollekens is sculpting a marble bust of our dear leader these days, while you're raising a monument to Old Satan!'
The door opened and they all jumped. It was only the maid with the tray of wine and cake. Derby knocked back half a glass of Madeira without a word and announced he was due at the Lords for a committee meeting.
Alone, the two women avoided each other's eyes. 'You were harsh with him,' said Eliza, putting down her cake, 'particularly when you threw in his face that he's never been to war.'
'Perhaps. But then he called me a Tory.'
'Don't take it personally. Under normal circumstances—'
'Circumstances haven't been normal for some years now,' said Anne bleakly.
'Yes, but at this very moment,' Eliza explained, 'the Party looks set to break up like an ice floe.'
Anne's head shot up. 'You really think Portland's anti-French faction would split away?'
'Not if, but when. If Fox ums and ers much longer, he'll lose the respect of both sides,' Eliza told her. 'Derby says it's time for him to show his true colours and lead all those, in Parliament and outside it, whore resisting Pitt.'
'Resisting Pitt,'
Anne echoed mournfully. 'That's what we've talked of since '84, but I don't know what it means any more. Perhaps there are more important aims, like resisting anarchy?'
'Oh, my dear, don't be ridiculous,' Eliza snapped. 'Our poor aren't half as oppressed and starving as the French were; I know it, I was one of them myself! And even our radicals—take a man I know personally, Holcroft the playwright—they're high-minded, idealistic men with no taste for violence. The English hate to go to extremes; they'll never revolt.'
Anne's eyes were huge. 'I pray you're right.'
DECEMBER 1792
Derby stood in his hall. He had to decide whether to give orders for his trunks to be packed for Knowsley. His mind jumped around like a hare fleeing from the guns.
Tom Paine had been tried and found guilty of sedition in absentia. Things were shaky in the City; the 3 per cent consols had fallen to ninety and a half. Pitt's spies were everywhere and there was a sinister new Loyalist organisation with hundreds of branches in London alone, whose main purpose was to watch their neighbours and servants for signs of mutinousness and send all reports to the Home Office. After months of being accused of weakness and procrastination by the hard-line Tories, the Prime Minister had struck hard. He'd just announced, via the King's Speech, that the country was at risk of riot and insurrection by Englishmen working in league with foreigners—but he hadn't given any hard proof. Pitt had called out the militia in ten counties to preserve order and summoned Parliament early, two things which were only legal in times of invasion or civil war. As Lord-Lieutenant of Lancashire, Derby should really have been at Knowsley already, ordering drills for his militia regiments. But the last thing he wanted to do was leave the capital.
A loud knock at the door startled him. On impulse he opened it himself; it was surprisingly heavy.
'Derby!' Fox's swarthy face goggled at him through the sleety rain. 'Don't tell me your servants have run away?'
'I just happened to be in the hall,' he explained with a little laugh and waved away the footman who was standing behind him, aghast at the sight of the Earl opening his own door. 'Come into my study, you must be freezing.'
Fox knocked back a glass of brandy in one. 'Pitt means to truss the country up in a straitjacket,' he began, like some breathless messenger out of Shakespeare. 'Troops are marching into London to guard the Tower and the Bank. There's going to be a bill to increase the army and navy, and another to round up and eject undesirable aliens,' he said witheringly.
'And Portland?'
'Oh, our putative leader appears to have lost his mind,' Fox reported. 'He dithers and nibbles his nails, and polishes his spectacles, and says perhaps we should maintain national unity by supporting the government's emergency measures at this time of crisis. I said to him, I said, "Portland, this crisis is Pitts invention and there's no bill the evil Eunuch could propose that I wouldn't feel honour bound to oppose!'"
Derby grinned and patted his friend's knee. 'Have you prepared your speech for the opening of Parliament?'
'Mm, it's very simple; I'm going to ask where this hypothetical insurrection is happening. It's a wicked falsehood, a libel on the British people,' growled Fox, 'and a French noose is too good for the man who invented it. Let it be on Pitt's conscience, if his crying wolf comes true and he brings on civil war!'
'Calm down, man.' Derby refilled their brandy glasses. Fox was the Members' Garrick, their eloquent conscience, he thought, and the speech would inspire them to tears and rapturous applause—before they gave their votes to Pitt.
'But it's a nonsensical charade; the kingdom's not in danger! No, I'm going to propose that we should formally acknowledge the French Republic instead of getting dragged by Continental tyrants into hounding it, and ease what tensions do exist in Britain and Ireland by bringing down the price of bread and coal.' Fox's voice dropped. 'What kills me, Derby, is the suspicion that Pitt's staging this whole tempest-in-a-teacup in order to split the Whig Party. And they call me irresponsible!'
All right, let's tally the names,' said Derby briskly, as if rousing an invalid. 'With Portland will go Fitzwilliam, Windham, Loughborough—' he was counting on his fingers—'Malmesbury, Porchester, Eliott, Sheffield...' He could think of dozens more.
The black bear's face cracked. 'These men are my friends. Or were.'
'We've seen this coming,' Derby said gently. 'It's not just France. Many of your most cherished views—on Catholics, Unitarians, blacks, free speech—are too strong for most of the Party. Your passion for liberty, which makes some of us love you, scares others off, especially now Pitt's spreading panic with his talk of bayonets and bombs.'
Fox had buried his cheeks in his hands. 'I wish Liz were here.
She doesn't like to be in London when I'm busy, but I miss her sorely.'
Derby was counting up devoted Foxites in his head. Sheridan, Grey, Whitbread, Francis, Lauderdale, Erskine, Fitzpatrick ... maybe Devonshire ... The young Duke of Bedford was made of sterling stuff. Last week he'd been invited to Portland's mansion on Piccadilly for what turned out to be a meeting of the cabal; on learning that Fox wasn't there, he'd picked up his hat and left. These loyal men had influence over a puny total of about sixty votes, perhaps, but they could also drum up protests among fellow Reformers outside Parliament.
Derby found he'd decided what instructions to send to Knowsley: the Lancashire militia would have to train without their leader. His place was by his friend's side.
VII. Écorché
From, the French, meaning flayed or peeled.
A sculpture representing a human or
animal figure in which the skin has
been stripped off to reveal the
muscles, tendons, arteries
and veins.
SINCE February last, when the regicide French declared war on Britain, Spain and Holland, the letters of our Correspondents have taken on a not unsurprisingly military tone. We have received numerous communications from Loyalist Associations about the seditious symptoms displayed by their neighbours, such as the using of a Froggish word like Enchanté, or for that matter, Beau Monde. Some write seeking information on the Duke of R-ch—d's plan for Homeland Security, others to enquire how a Coalition of eight nations can be taking so long to subdue the ragtag Citizen Army of France, or how many Englishmen have been arrested under the Traitorous Correspondence Act for the crime of buying Burgundy wine. That the various new laws have not proved wholly successful in keeping down Discontent was evinced by the late riot at Bristol, where troops sent in to quell the crowd killed ten of them; whether this should be considered an example of the People attacking the Authorities, or vice versa, we leave to the discernment of our readers.
It is a curious fact that social relations of all kind have taken on a martial tenor. The Proprietor and Manager of the homeless troupe formerly resident on D^-y L—e are said to be at Battle Royal. And that same Sh—d-n is not the only gentleman who's obliged to change his lodgings from month to month to avoid a swarm of Creditors. Because of the war, the rate of Bankruptcies is now full twice as high as last year and a certain Foxy Politician who plays deep may soon be among the unfortunates. The outbreak of war has caused a Schism in his W—g Party, which is now two, viz. the Duke of P—t—d's followers, who have washed their hands of all Re-form, but cannot bring themselves to go over to their old Enemy P—t, and Mr F-x's stalwarts, who break out daily in more outrageous levelling and Jacobinical language.
Whether the war can be blamed for the startling increase in the number of Bills of Divorce is a moot point.
—BEAU MONDE INQUIRER, October 1793
SHE WAS TAKING HER DAILY RIDE IN HYDE PARK WHEN William Fawkener came up. 'Good day, Mrs Damer. That's a handsome mount.'
'Oh, I only hire him, I'm afraid,' said Anne, trying to think of some excuse to prevent him from riding beside her. Her mind was still full of something that Mary had told her the other evening: that there was a comedy of Mrs Cowley's on at Covent Garden called The Town Before You, which feature
d an eccentric ageing sculptress who in the last act threw away her chisels and vowed to make the hero a good wife. As satire it sounded mild enough—it didn't touch on her dreadful subject, at least—but Anne was uneasy. Could the author possibly have been inspired by gossip about the regular appearances of a certain handsome diplomat in Mrs Damer's workshop?
'Exercise becomes you,' said Fawkener.
It was a trite compliment—didn't pink cheeks suit every woman?—but she threw him a sharp glance. 'Any news, sir?'
'Yes, there always is these days, I'm afraid. Marie Antoinette is on trial.' ,
Anne's horse slowed to a walk. Fawkener reined in to keep pace with her. Now there was another woman who'd been accused of the most unnatural behaviour with her own sex—and probably without any foundation but envy. It was said the widowed Queen was grey-haired and crippled already. Anne tried to picture her in a damp cell with stains on the floor. 'Why can't they just let her leave the country?'
He shrugged, his face suave as ever. 'They've kept her from her lawyers and accused her of every possible crime against the Republic and against morality. They even plan to claim she took indecent liberties with young Louis!'
Anne covered her face with her gloved hand. 'They must hate women. Her own son? He's eight years old!'
Her horse stopped; Fawkener was holding two sets of reins bunched in his fist and offering her his handkerchief with the other hand. 'My dear Mrs Damer, I do beg your pardon. I'm afraid wartime presents so many horrors that I take refuge in flippancy.'
'I knew Marie Antoinette, you see,' she said, drying her eyes on the handkerchief. 'At Versailles, in the '60s.'
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