A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  “Charles!” Thomas barked from the far end of the table.

  Carleton Westover, an interested observer of Mr. Saunders’s remarks and of Mrs. Lanning’s expression, looked thoughtful. His employer’s instructions regarding his wife’s role in the campaign had been vehement. Yet . . .

  “I believe, Thomas,” said Mr. Westover, “that you may wish to rethink the matter of your wife’s participation. I am quite certain Mrs. Lanning is lady of great pride. A lady who has no desire to be the wife of the losing candidate for Parliament.”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Nineteen

  As if a general political conversation at the dinner table was not a sufficient breach of proper conduct, later that evening, Relia and Livvy suffered the ignominy of having their most skilled efforts on the pianoforte go unheard and unnoticed. The men, huddled in deep discussion over the intricacies of something called the canvass, did not even lift their heads when the two women exchanged exasperated looks, then exited the drawing room. Relia’s visit to Gussie Aldershot was equally frustrating. A sudden indisposition, her friend and companion murmured. It was nothing. She would be her old self in the morning. Relia was still frowning over this patent untruth while she allowed Tilly to prepare her for bed.

  “The new dressing gown arrived today, ma’am,” Tilly announced with some glee. “The quilted rose satin with the Chinese embroidery. Right gorgeous it is, too.” With a grand flourish the maid swirled the dressing gown off the bed and held it up, turning it around so her mistress could admire the full length of the intricate design on the back. “Mr. Lanning’ll figure it money well spent, I promise you.”

  As Relia allowed Tilly to slip the new dressing gown over her nightwear, she noted in her full-length cheval glass that her cheeks were the same rose red as the satin. Drat the man! Even with a truce in effect, their lives were awkward. As if they were attempting to walk along the top of a wooden fence, teetering one way, then the other, constantly searching for balance. Always on the edge, gazing longingly, hopefully, at the safety of firm ground below.

  At least tonight she would not have to manufacture an excuse to linger in the sitting room. Relia dismissed Tilly, then settled at her bureau de dame. She lit a brace of candles and began to record the endless lists necessary to organize a Winter Festival to which every freeman and his family would be invited. Copious quantities of food and drink, activities for every age group, sports and games that could be played in the snow. Or on ice. Bonfires—yes, definitely bonfires—and where they might safely be lit. A list of those from whom they might borrow sleighs and sleds. Surely her old one-seat sleigh was still in the stables somewhere. How she had loved gliding along, a groom trotting beside her pony—almost as if . . . ah, yes—as if she had acquired fairy wings and was flying above a sea of ice crystals.

  Relia smiled and made another note. No doubt the mothers would queue up for the opportunity of allowing their little ones to ride in her elegant miniature sleigh. And return home with warm memories of Pevensey Park. And not be averse to whispering kind words in their husbands’ ears about Thomas Lanning’s candidacy. Perhaps in the dark of night, in the warmth of the marital bed . . .

  Relia was swept by an even stronger wave of heat than the rosy blush that had matched her new nightrail. Impossible man! As if she truly cared if he won or lost. She forced herself back to the list at hand.

  Her pen was still scratching away when Thomas entered the room. Wearily, he pulled up a chair, turned it around and dropped into it, folding his arms across the back. A barricade? Relia wondered. If he needed one, that was perhaps all to the good. Or was it simply the lateness of the hour and her brain was turning fuzzy?

  His gaze moved appreciatively from her face, past her shoulders, down to the point where the hem of her rose satin dressing gown lay in graceful folds against the carpet. “My head may be whirling with the idiotic intricacies of politics,” her husband said, “but I am still capable of noticing your new finery. Most attractive, my dear. An excellent choice.”

  “I am indeed surprised you noticed,” Relia responded coolly.

  “A-ah!” Thomas nodded sagely. “We were shockingly rude, I daresay. Rattling on about committees, canvasses and charity projects with not a thought to the ladies amongst us.”

  “Indeed you were.”

  “So you took yourself off without so much as a “Goodnight, sweet prince.” Mournfully, Thomas shook his head.

  “I considered taking myself off to my grandmama in Bath,” Relia snapped back.

  Thomas chuckled. “No, you will not, for you would be certain we were tearing Pevensey Park to bits in your absence. And”—he cocked his head to one side, examining her face with some interest—“I do believe Westover is right. You would not wish to miss the excitement of helping your husband become an MP Nor the triumph when I win,” he added softly.

  “Speaking of winning,” Relia said, ignoring her husband’s annoyingly sharp assessment of the situation, for which she was unable to summon a suitable retort, “I know what charity work you should pursue. Mr. Yelverton first proposed it, and papa was going to pay half the cost. An almshouse,” she declared. “The expense of building and upkeep are great, I know, but it is much needed—”

  “An almshouse?” Thomas straightened in his chair, frowning thoughtfully.

  “I am sorry,” Relia apologized. “It is probably more than you can afford, but you could use funds from Pevensey, just as papa was going to aid Mr. Yelverton, and—”

  “Mrs. Lanning,” Thomas pronounced, “have I told you you are a remarkable woman?”

  “I am arrogant, independent, sharp-tongued, and stubborn. I can assure you no one, including yourself, has ever termed me ‘remarkable.’”

  “Then consider it said.” Thomas proffered a lop-sided smile. “We will be assembling an election committee in the next few days. If they give their approval, an almshouse it is. And, Relia . . . I do not need funds from Pevensey Park to build it. I never needed funds from Pevensey,” he added, “though I assure you I fully appreciate its value.” Ah, good. His wife was looking thoughtful, assimilating the wonder of a husband who did not need her money.

  “There is another matter,” Thomas said. “Have you spoken with Miss Aldershot this evening?”

  Thomas could clearly see the play of emotions as his wife’s thoughts changed direction from his wealth, to puzzlement, to dawning understanding. Suddenly, her eyes snapped fire. “Do not tell me you have learned what I could not!”

  Thomas shrugged. “We were all tired, we’d drunk a bit more than we should have. Westover was last to take himself off to bed . . . and eventually a bit of the story came out.”

  Fascinated, Relia leaned forward—a mistake, as she found herself only inches from her husband’s lips. Swiftly, she straightened her back to ramrod, clenched her hands in her lap. Thomas, she noted, was wearing his amused look again. “Well?” she demanded.

  “It seems Westover and your Gussie were childhood sweethearts, but he was full of dreams and ambition, and must be off to London. She was tied down with an ailing mother and could not leave home. And, as happens, he was dazzled by the city, letters were severely restricted by her father, Other Interests came along.”

  “For him,” Relia interjected bitterly.

  “Naturally,” Thomas murmured. “It is always the fault of the man, is it not?”

  “Do you think . . . is it possible there is still some interest there?” Relia asked, making a valiant effort to recall that she and Thomas had declared a truce.

  “I have never before seen Westover even close to maudlin. He was tonight. I believe he was quite as shaken as Miss Aldershot.”

  “And Livvy has fallen under the spell of Mr. Blacklock,” Relia sighed.

  “Good God!”

  “’Tis far better than her making sheep’s eyes at The Terrible Twyford, I do assure you.”

  Thomas groaned and dropped his chin onto his folded arms. “Ah, Relia, what have I done to you? If I wer
e the devil creating a hell designed exactly for you, with all the things you hate most, I could not have done a better job.”

  Mrs. Thomas Lanning stared at her husband for some moments. In spite of the lateness of the hour and the amount of drink consumed, his eyes were wide open, studying her as intently as she was studying him. “You know, Thomas,” she said at last, “you are the perfect candidate for Parliament.”

  “Somehow I know that statement is not a compliment.”

  “I find I am no longer certain of anything,” his wife responded, “except that you have the gift of telling people exactly what they wish to hear.”

  “If I am improving in what I say to you, then I have exceeded my wildest fancies. No? I am not improving, or you do not wish to admit it? Come, my dear, there is no one else here. Can you not concede that I am becoming more experienced in the business of being a husband?”

  “Perhaps.” Thomas noted, however, that his wife was regarding him as if he were one of the lions in the Tower. An animal ready to spring and gobble her up at a moment’s notice. “Relia . . . Westover is not the only one who felt the need to bare his conscience tonight. It’s more than time I fully explained why I went off to London directly after our return from Tunbridge Wells.”

  “To see Mrs. Ebersley?”

  Thomas’s head shot up, his hands tearing at his dark locks. “Damnation, woman, no, not to see Mrs. Ebersley! I mean, yes, I did see her, but only to reaffirm what I had told her earlier. That I had given her her congé.”

  His wife’s nod was slight. She still looked as if she were confronting a ravenous beast.

  “Just as I told you I went to London to take care of business matters left unresolved by the haste of our marriage . . . but I stayed there, in spite of the short journey down to Pevensey, because . . .” Thomas gripped the side rungs of the chairback, leaned away from his wife and admitted, “I have always been a very controlled person. I give great thought to every action. In Tunbridge Wells I discovered I was not the iron man I had supposed, but a male as vulnerable as any other. A creature whose mind could be sent reeling by the sight of his wife about to break her pretty little neck. By sharing a sitting room with a woman en déshabillé. By knowing this woman was my wife. My wife! And yet I was no more ready for marriage than you were. So I ran back to the safety of the City, to the only home I knew.” Thomas paused, regarding his wife with a silent plea.

  Her response was . . . applause. “Oh, bravo, Thomas. You are indeed learning the art of being a husband,” she informed him with dignity and no little sarcasm. “But perhaps you would care to tell me what other matters kept you in London for six long weeks after only three days of supposed connubial bliss?”

  Thomas had the grace to chuckle. Truly, her quickness of mind delighted him, even if he might wish her less stubborn. “Very well. If you must have the wood with no bark on it, in addition to being terrified of failing to keep the ridiculous promise I made to you, I was deliberately shirking my responsibility to you and Pevensey Park, as I had to Livvy and Nicholas. I wanted the life I had for so long, free of all obligations except those of the empire I had built. Oh, I wanted the By-Election, but I was daunted by all that went with it.”

  “Such as a wife, a sister and brother.”

  “An agricultural empire I knew nothing about. County people, county ways. A world more foreign to me than Paris, Rome, or Athens.”

  “People who thought of you as a Cit.”

  “That, too.”

  “A wife who thought of you as a Cit.”

  “Yes,” Thomas breathed. The air between them seethed with unspoken thoughts and chaotic emotions.

  “Then it is fortunate we have a truce, is it not?” Relia declared. And fled the room.

  As Thomas found his way to bed, he marveled, not for the first time, at the forethought of his wife’s ancestors. In most households his bedroom would have been joined to his wife’s by the width of his dressing room plus the width of hers. Their rooms would have had separate entrances. Husband and wife would converse only if one, usually the husband, sought the other out. Since this process tended to involve actions with little need for conversation, husband and wife could go for months, perhaps years, without private conversation. Without that blessed sitting room, he would not be any better acquainted with his wife than he had been after three days in Tunbridge Wells.

  Nor would he feel as tormented—both physically and mentally. If not for the blasted election . . .

  Get thee behind me, Satan! The words of his Dissenter grandmother echoed down through the years.

  No, he dare not chance it. He needed his wife’s support. And yet . . . Thomas pictured Relia’s sharp eyes turned sultry, her lips as inviting as the rose red satin of the new dressing gown. A garment never intended to keep a husband at bay. The woman was driving him mad!

  After the election, Lanning. After the election!

  Malcolm Reaves, the new steward, arrived with his wife and three children on the day the hustings went up in the market square. Although his north country accent brought the inevitable speculations about his ancestors earning their name by reaving other people’s cattle, it was generally agreed that Mr. Reaves was a good choice. Mrs. Thomas Lanning handed over Pevensey Park’s daily problems and its accounting ledgers with a right good will. On the following day, accompanied by Miss Olivia Lanning, Relia sat, proud and erect, behind her husband on the banner-draped raised platform while he declared his candidacy, speaking to the crowd with a power that confirmed her belief that he was born for politics. And shamed her cynical conviction that such a gift was not a virtue.

  And yet . . . she was sitting here, was she not, as a candidate’s wife should? She and Livvy, shockingly garbed in bright blue velvet pelisses with small matching hats that did not hide their faces—hats topped, quite outrageously, by two scarlet ostrich plumes. What did it matter that she was wearing a proper half-mourning gown beneath? All anyone could see was blue and scarlet. It was humiliating. They looked like lightskirts!

  Relia raised her eyes from her toes, which were beginning to go numb with cold, and caught the broad smirk of a rider hovering at the back of the crowd. Twyford! And she could not blame him for laughing. Who would have thought when Nicholas proposed blue and red for Thomas’s colors that matters would go to such an extreme as scarlet feathers on a blue hat!

  Her cousin Twyford was wearing a cockade on his top hat, Relia noted, almost grinding her teeth, for it was a tasteful arrangement of burgundy and gold pinned to one side of his black beaver. His jacket was burgundy, his waistcoast striped in burgundy and gold. Beau Brummel himself could not have faulted The Terrible Twyford’s appearance. Relia sighed.

  The crowd burst into applause, then into a full-throated roars of approval as Thomas ended his maiden speech in ringing tones. Carleton Westover rose and, taking the arms of both women, drew them forward to stand on either side of Thomas, where they smiled and waved . . . and did exactly as they had been instructed.

  Relia greeted those nearest the hustings by name. She kept smiling, waving . . . and wondered, deep down, if she truly wished her husband to win. If he did, her life was never, ever, going to be what she wanted it to be.

  What she had thought she wanted it to be.

  Thomas was bending down, shaking hands. At the back of the platform, Patrick Fallon and Big Mike Bolt, with the aid of several committeemen, were attempting to match those in the enthusiastic crowd with the poll lists in Fallon’s hand. The crowd surged forward, sweeping around the platform into The Hound and Bear for a round—several rounds—of ale, laid on by Blue and Red Election Committee.

  With a wave of his riding crop Twyford Trevor saluted his cousin and trotted off. The campaign had begun.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty

  “My dear,” declared Margaret Stanton, her generous bosom overhanging her lap in a manner reminiscent of a pouter pigeon, “you are aware, I trust, that you will be entertaining every butcher, baker, and candle
stick maker in this part of Kent.”

  “Mama!” Chloe Stanton protested.

  “It is the nature of politics, my dear Margaret,” declared Lady Trent, looking down her nose at the squire’s wife.”

  “In Freeman Boroughs, at least,” Livvy qualified.

  “Innkeepers, brewers, mercers, grocers, shoemakers, glovers, cabinetmakers, tailors,” Chloe intoned.

  “Soldiers, sailors, bankers, wool buyers, booksellers, solicitors,” Jane Edmundson added.

  “Apothecaries, surgeons, blacksmiths, leather workers, jewelers,” said Gussie.

  “Enough!” Relia laughed, holding up her hand. “Indeed, Mrs. Stanton, I am well aware of the numbers and occupations of the electors in this borough. I have heard little else this past sennight. Which is why I have asked you ladies to join me for tea. The men have their Election Committee; now we ladies must have ours. I am not so arrogant as to think I can manage the entertainment of the entire borough without assistance.” Mrs. Thomas Lanning smiled benignly at her circle of Whig neighbors. “Ladies, may I have your support? My husband and I will be eternally in your debt.”

  Visions of advancement for younger sons danced enticingly through the elegant drawing room at Pevensey Park. Of houseparties filled with distinguished and influential gentlemen down from London for the weekend—eligible suitors for the hands of Kentish daughters. While Lady Trent, Margaret Stanton, and others of their generation examined the advantages of actively supporting Thomas Lanning, Jane Edmundson studied the toes of her half-boots with a small secret smile. “What if . . .,” she ventured, “what if Captain Fortescue were to support Mr. Lanning?”