Thomas had kissed her hand.
And declared the gorgeous, sophisticated Eleanor Ebersley a thing of past.
He had declared a truce. And, truth to tell, it seemed about time.
I have a veritable army to do that. Thomas’s words seemed to echo through the basement room. A noisy, conniving political army was descending on Pevensey Park. Along with a new steward and a tutor who caused Miss Olivia Lanning to lose, on the instant, all interest in Harry Stanton and Twyford Trevor.
A truce. If she bottled up her emotions over these various invasions of her privacy, Relia very much feared she would explode, rather like an inexpertly bottled jug of wine.
But they had shaken hands on it. And . . . well, other things—silent, private things—had passed between them at that moment. Like her marriage, they had just made a bargain.
~ * ~
Chapter Eighteen
“Thomas, Thomas!” Charles Saunders cried, charging past the astonished Biddeford to burst into the bookroom. “You will not credit it. I have just come from the village. Gravenham was so incensed over the captain’s refusal, he has chosen the first alternate in sight.” Mr. Saunders paused, waiting expectantly for his friend’s perspicacious mind to leap to the correct conclusion.
“He would not be such a fool,” Thomas enunciated slowly. “Never!”
“Ah, but he is,” Charles told him. “Gravenham roared so loudly his entire household could hear him, and the village is talking of nothing else. In the midst of railing at his son, the earl clamped his mouth shut, turned to Trevor and barked, ‘You! You’ll do. My son may run off and hide, but I will control the borough! My name, combined with yours, boy, is all you need to win the seat.”
Mr. Saunders sank into a soft leather chair, while his employer swore imaginatively and colorfully. “Trevor is from Sussex, is he not?” Thomas said at last.
“As you are from London.”
“Our election laws are in sad need of reform, Charles,” declared Mr. Lanning, with considerable irony.
Mr. Saunders made a noise that could only be described as a snort. “Our election laws are a frightening hodgepodge needing sweeping reform from Hadrian’s Wall to Land’s End. That is, as I recall, one of the reasons you wished to run for office.”
After a few moments of glum silence, Thomas asked, in uncharacteristically plaintive accents, “Did we not banish The Terrible Twyford, Charles? I am unaccustomed to being such an inept dragonslayer.”
“I am beginning to fear there is only one way to banish him, and that, my friend, is a path we cannot walk.”
Thomas tapped a thumb against his lips, his gray eyes reflecting the depths of an arrogant, stubborn determination second to none. “Then we must do it at the polls,” he said.
“This borough is even more peculiar than most,” Mr. Saunders replied, with a shake of his head. “The earls of Gravenham controlled the vote for years, but they grew complacent, forgot their obligations, and Yeleverton beat out the Tories by a goodly margin. Gravenham’s determined to get the seat back.”
“And yet some of his tenants must have voted independently,” Thomas mused. “We must make certain they do so again.”
“As they will, if you are generous in your largesse, munificent in your promises, and lay on ample amounts of charm, as well as pounds sterling.”
“Delightful.” Thomas lowered his head into his hands. “I wanted this, did I not, Charles?” he added softly. “I have turned my life upside down so I could run for Parliament. I have acquired vast country holdings I did not want. I have married—”
“And gained a great deal even if you never become an MP”
“Thank you, Charles. What would I do without you to provide my conscience?” The sarcasm was tossed like a knife from Mr. Lanning to his long-suffering solicitor.
“Our agents and workers will be arriving over the next few days. We will canvass door to door, stand drinks every night at The Hound and Bear. Perhaps an assembly or two. A picnic party in the park would have been splendid, but the timing is wrong,” Charles sighed. “But perhaps a parade, handbills . . . and you must think of some good works. You will recall we spoke of this in London. Something grand—enlarge the village school, add to the bells in the church steeple, a new organ, an almshouse—”
“I am a wealthy man, Charles,” Thomas groaned, “but you would bankrupt me.”
“You could buy and sell Gravenham three times over,” Charles declared. “Believe me, I investigated the costs when you first spoke of running for MP Funds are not a problem.”
Thomas nodded, but did not raise his dark head from his hands. “You are aware,” he said, “that my wife is going to hate every moment of this campaign. And likely every moment of being a political wife thereafter.”
“Mrs. Lanning is a lady who always does her duty.”
“Yes, of course,” Thomas murmured, his fingers clutching at his hair. Aurelia and her blasted sense of honor. Aurelia, the Ice Maiden. Lady of the Manor in inch-thick armor. His wife.
His penance.
He couldn’t look at her now without being consumed by guilt. No matter. Once he won the election, he would go back to London, leaving her at Pevensey Park as she so clearly desired. They would lead separate lives, as so many married couples did. An occasional visit, of course, to ensure continuation of the line . . .
“You’re smiling,” Mr. Saunders said. “What miracle has brought that about?”
“Just a thought that crossed my mind, Charles. Just a thought.”
On the fifth day after Twelfth Night, Relia looked down the length of her greatly expanded dining table, rejected an almost overpowering urge to grimace, then firmly replaced her inclinations with a gracious smile, albeit a trifle wan. To her right was Mr. Carleton Westover, her husband’s Election Agent, a tall, distinguished man of indeterminate years, whose streaks of gray hair merely added authority to a dynamic and commanding presence. Gussie Aldershot had taken one look at Mr. Westover when he arrived and tottered off to her room, later sending word that she would not come down to dinner. Relia, respecting her companion’s privacy, had not pressed the matter.
With a table predominantly male, there was no hope of balance, so Thomas had allowed Nicholas to join them, remarking that the boy might as well learn about politics. Olivia and Relia, therefore, were the only ladies in a veritable sea of males. On Thomas’s right was Thaddeus Singleton, a writer. Speeches, squibs, handbills, poems, newspaper articles, he told her grandly—everything a candidate needed in the way of words. A man in his mid forties, Mr. Singleton was short of stature, almost as broad around as he was tall, and in imminent danger of becoming completely bald. But he brimmed over with confidence and loquacity, his stream of conversation providing a steady drone over which all others must attempt to converse.
Nicholas, seated next to Mr. Singleton and almost opposite his sister, was, Relia noted with considerable interest, as animated as the day he had helped bring home the Yule Log. Evidently, like his brother, he found politics fascinating. Never . . . absolutely never would she be able to understand why! The other newcomer at the table this evening was Mr. Patrick Fallon, an Englishman of Irish ancestry. His job description, when offered to Aurelia at teatime, was so vague that she had not been able to make sense of it. But, interpreting the sly smiles, the winks and nods exchanged by the other newcomers during Charles Saunders’s glib introduction, she could only suspect that Mr. Fallon was the man who handled the aspects of the election campaign that were not discussed in the drawing room. This suspicion might, of course, have been augmented by the very large, very brawny behemoth who hovered at Mr. Fallon’s side, a man who topped even her husband by several inches and at least three stone in weight. He had a face that looked as if he had spent his life in the prize ring. His name, Mr. Saunders told her, was “Big Mike Bolt.” The man mountain had promptly tugged his forelock, obviously fearing to take her delicate hand in his. His relief, when swept below stairs by Biddeford, was patently o
bvious.
Thaddeus Singleton’s voice rose above the others. “We need an artist, Lanning. And a musician,” he boomed. “I can write, but I cannot draw worth a brass farthing. We must have cartoons, caricatures of this Trevor. I understand there’s enough material to draw on! And songs. Poems alone won’t do, no, indeed. We need music, catchy tunes for people to sing. We’ll parade ‘em down the street with your colors flying—”
“A fine picture, Singleton,” said Mr. Westover, “but we must move one step at a time. First, we must form a committee, with strong locals we can trust. And we must listen to what they have to say. Nothing riles up the local electors more than someone dashing in from the outside and telling them what to do.”
“He is right, you know,” Thomas said to Mr. Singleton. “The earls of Gravenham have greatly influenced the vote for more years than any of us have been alive. In order to win, we have to cultivate every last freeman in the borough.”
“You are wrong,” Relia said to Mr. Westover in a voice that carried the length of the table, surprising everyone, including herself. “Nothing riles the local freemen more than being ignored by their supposed aristocratic patron, Lord Gravenham. He has expended little money and less energy in cultivating the vote in this borough. That is why his candidate lost to Marcus Yelverton in the last election. I heard Mr. Yelverton and my father speak of it many times.”
Thomas leaned back in his chair and regarded his wife with the amused expression she found so intolerable. “My dear, I had no idea you knew anything about politics.”
“I don’t, nor do I want to,” she snapped, much stung by his despised patronizing look.
“But my dear Mrs. Lanning,” cried Mr. Singleton, “you will be an immense asset to your husband in this campaign. A lady’s touch is just what is needed, I assure you.” Smoothly, he turned a beaming smile on Olivia. “And Miss Lanning’s also. Lovely ladies standing by the candidate’s side are precisely the image we want. They are a glowing example of womanhood, an inspiration to all those of lesser stature. Beauty, elegance, noble bearing. The men will be dazzled, the women charmed.” Thaddeus Singleton waved a hand above the table, nearly oversetting his wine glass. “And if you do not think women have an influence over how their men vote—”
Thomas grabbed the swaying wine glass, as Mr. Westover interrupted the spate of words. “I am certain Mrs. Lanning will be happy to do all she can, Singleton, but you will leave her role in this election to me. We will not discuss it again at table.” The momentary silence following this pronouncement left no one in doubt about who was in charge of Thomas Lanning’s campaign.
“I draw,” ventured Hugh Blacklock. “And I’ve a sketchbook full of caricatures. It seemed a talent I would never use, but I should be happy—”
“Excellent,” Carleton Westover beamed. “You may show them to me directly after dinner. “A resident artist would be most convenient.”
“Now all you need is a musician,” said Patrick Fallon.
“And some locals willing to serve on our Committee,” declared Charles Saunders, who was seated to Relia’s left.
“Do you not have to choose colors?” Livvy asked, speaking up for the first time since the table conversation became general.
“Blue,” Nick declared. “Everybody likes blue.”
“What do the Tories use?” Fallon asked.
“Burgundy and gold,” Relia supplied.
“Blue and white, blue and tan, blue and yellow?” Thaddeus Singleton threw out.
“Blue and red?” Nick said. “Like the flag?”
A general chorus of aahs. Eyes gleamed. “By Jove, perhaps the lad’s right,” said Mr. Fallon.
“A bit bright, but I like it,” Thomas agreed. “Nicholas, we thank you. Choosing the right colors is not only important, but it lets us move forward with the banners. Which, I am assured by my faithful town crier”—Mr. Lanning tossed a conciliatory grin at the chastened Thaddeus Singleton—“is of utmost importance.”
“Ribbons and cockades,” Fallon added. And we’ll find people to paint our colors on the handbills with your picture.” He broke off, turning to Hugh Blacklock. “Do you do portraits, as well as caricatures? We need a noble view of our candidate.”
“I shall most surely try,” said Mr. Blacklock earnestly. Turning to his employer, he inquired, “Can you manage a sitting in the morning, sir?”
“I can see by the anticipatory grin on young Nick’s face that I must agree,” Thomas declared. “No doubt this education in politics will do him more good than the lessons he will be missing.”
“The time of year is unfortunate,” Mr. Singleton sighed, looking doleful. “Saunders was saying your park fairly begs for a lawn party, Mrs. Lanning. Such an event would have garnered a great many votes.”
“Could we not have a skating party?” Livvy asked.
Thomas offered his sister an indulgent smile. “I fear that many people would shatter the ice of our small pond. We would drown our electors rather than secure their vote.”
“But it snowed again last night,” Nick said. “We could have sleigh rides and sledding. There’s a fine hill out beyond the ha-ha.”
“Do you skate, Thomas?” Relia inquired sweetly into the silence following Nick’s suggestion.
“I’d fall flat on my—” Thomas bit back his words, adding ruefully, “In front of all the constituents.”
“Do you have a sleigh, Mrs. Lanning?” Carleton Westover inquired.
“Yes. At least I think so. It has not been used in many years. And there are sleds somewhere, I believe—”
“And we could borrow from the Stantons,” Livvy cried. “On Twelfth Night Harry mentioned organizing a sleigh ride sometime soon,” she added on a blush.
“We certainly need the squire’s support,” Thomas mused.
“The Stantons dislike my cousin Twyford,” Relia said. “It is doubtful they would support him. And the Trents are staunch Whigs,” she added thoughtfully. “It is possible, they, too, would contribute.”
“If necessary, I’ll buy new,” Thomas declared. “I like this idea. Livvy, Nick, I thank you.” Then, tempering his enthusiasm, Mr. Lanning studied his wife. “Is this feasible, my dear? Can we manage hot food and drink for such a crowd? Fires and shelter for the faint-hearted? I know how much work a simple Twelfth Night party caused . . .”
Mrs. Lanning’s serene expression never changed. “Of course,” she told him. Monster! He knew quite well she could not resist such a challenge to her management skills. Nor could she resist his open, if manipulative, attempt to placate her by consulting her opinion. Impossible man!
Her husband would make a superb Member of Parliament. Born to guile.
“And what if it warms up and rains away the snow?” Mr. Singleton inquired, patently enjoying his role as the Voice of Doom.
“You are paid to look on the bright side,” Thomas told him a tad sharply. “You write glowing words about me, while making dire accusations about my opponent. Which, believe me, is an easy task. Do not trouble yourself about the weather. I shall ask the vicar to pray for us. I understand that, his cloth not withstanding, he is a devoted Whig. Most odd for an Anglican clergyman, but in this case, quite true.
For perhaps the hundredth time Relia wished she could tell when her husband was joking.
Thomas looked up, caught the gaze of his Election Agent. “Ah, Westover, are you about to tell us you do not care for our scheme?”
“Not at all,” said Carleton Westover. “There is little so effective as an expensive treat for the electors and their families. You will have to do more, however. Some lasting project, I think. Something the constituents can see and admire every day . . . something to improve their lives.”
Thomas’s nod was echoed by the other men at the table, even young Nick demonstrating his understanding of this aspect of courting the vote. Livvy was frowning. Relia looked thoughtful. A long-term benefit to the borough? If politics could accomplish that, perhaps it was not as much of an anath
ema as she had thought. And . . . she knew the very thing!
“What’s burgage?” Nicholas’s demanding voice, plainly lacking in proper dinner table manners, interrupted Relia’s thoughts. But before she could chide him for interrupting the men’s conversation, Carleton Westover spoke up.
“In some boroughs, young man, votes are tied to a specific piece of property. Whoever owns that property—even if the building where a voter once lived is now used only as a barn, or is perhaps nothing more than a tumble-down chimney or a pile of rocks—has the right to vote. Those are said to be Burgage Boroughs.”
“And then,” said Thomas, eyes twinkling, there are Scot and Lot Boroughs and Potwalloper Boroughs.”
Nicholas blinked, grinned, then demonstrated that behind his frequent sullens was a wit that would one day rival his brother. “Does that mean that anyone who can wallop a pot may vote?”
“Exactly, my boy!” Patrick Fallon chortled. “A man must only attest that he is head of a household and has a pot to cook in. A far more fair and equitable means of choosing electors, to my way of thinking, than ancient burgage rights.”
Nicholas frowned. “What was the other one you mentioned, Mr. Westover?”
“Scot and lot, boy. In those boroughs a man may vote if he has enough substance to pay the poor rate.”
“In other words,” Relia declared, “our methods of selecting voters are a maze of inconsistency. Yet not a one of them includes females.”
Every male face, including young Nicholas’s, went blank. Livvy’s mouth fell open. “I fear, my dear,” said Thomas at his most bland, “that even if I should win this election—and even if I should succeed in accomplishing much-needed reforms—the vote for females is quite out of the question. Not in our lifetimes at least.”
“Good God, I should hope not!” cried Patrick Fallon.
“Women are very important, however,” said Charles Saunders, ever the peacemaker. “Any assistance you are able to offer in this campaign, Mrs. Lanning, would be invaluable. Yours is an old, established family, with a vast number of tenants and employees. Although this is a Freeman Borough, Gravenham controls most of the ancient burgage rights. He did not exercise them in the last election, but since his candidate lost, who knows what he will do this time? I fear Singleton was right. Your style and elegance, the woman’s gentle touch, would work wonders with the voters.” Charles executed a half-bow, proffered his open and patently genuine smile. “I assure you, the electors cannot fail to be charmed.”
A Gamble on Love Page 18