Mama had sighed. “We shall go—all except Verity, of course, for while it is indeed very kind of Lady Rovingham to have included her in the invitation, I refuse to let that young miss have anything that might be considered a treat.”
Cecy kept silent, rather suspecting Verity would not mind missing out on an evening she would doubtless consider a dutiful chore rather than a treat. As for herself, she would endeavor to act with dignity and cool grace, and not let anyone suspect that visiting Lord and Lady Rovingham danced hope within, and that she still entertained warm and foolish hopes about their son.
Foolish hopes, she told herself sternly, as the carriage drew up outside the main entrance. He would not be there; he was in London.
Yet the disappointment crowding her chest at the confirmation of this made her realize her foolish hopes still had the ability to blind.
“I’m afraid Edward is still in Town,” Lord Rovingham said, eyes holding the edge of a frown. “He works so very hard.”
She managed a smile she hoped conveyed politeness and nothing more, as the gong sounded and they were led towards the dining room.
Lady Rovingham was, as usual, all grace and calm, but it was hardly to be supposed that she would not speak of her younger son at all. Cecy tried to maintain a calm demeanor, tried to assume a mien of disinterest, while her ears strained for every snippet of information, and tried to learn from his mother’s nuances in speech just what was really meant.
“It appears he is working extremely hard, almost too much so, or so dear Lionel writes. He seems quite pleased with him.”
John muttered under his breath.
Cecy turned to him, where he was seated at her right. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ned. Can do no wrong. Always the apple of my parents’ eyes even when he does wrong.”
His bitterness shocked her. “Forgive me,” she murmured, “but such words make you appear to wish your brother ill.”
“I don’t wish him ill.” He glanced at her, darkness crossing his features. “I just wish he’d reap the consequences.”
Her breath caught. “You cannot mean that, surely.”
“Why not? He carried on with a married woman then came back here expecting everyone to welcome him with open arms? As if we should rejoice that our family name has been tainted.”
“I understood him to be almost near death when he was brought back here. Surely you would not have wished that upon him?”
He made another dismissive sound. “Of course not. But I don’t think it fair that he seems to always land on his feet.”
“You think he does that?”
He turned to study her more fully. “You think he doesn’t?”
She said carefully, “I do not know how much he has confided in you, but the little I have gathered suggests he holds far more guilt than anyone suspects. You may not have noticed, but he seems bent on doing good deeds, as if he thinks such things will somehow make up for his sins. That is a terrible cross to bear, would you not agree?”
“You are right.”
He thought she was?
“You know only a little of what happened.”
The air between them seemed suddenly full of a nameless poison, something dark and heavy, forbidding further speech. What didn’t she know? Did it have to do with that name her father had mentioned last week? Unease nibbled within.
The hard look in John’s eyes softened. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken so. I forget you are innocent to the ways of the world.” A smile without humor crossed his lips. “And that you have always had a soft spot for him.”
He must be the only one who forgot.
She bent her attention to her plate, working to hide the mortification sure to be stealing across her cheeks. Oh, how could she have ever felt sorry for John?
But a stolen glance revealed his continued agitation, his rigid demeanor, unsmiling mien. Was he truly upset with his brother, or was his burden caused by a feeling of being passed over, with the attention and concern his parents had towards their younger son? Did he perhaps feel resentment at being cast aside after the events of the past year, a sentiment she could, in fact, well understand?
She tilted her head, and said in a voice for his ears only, “I do not think your parents’ generosity to him difficult to understand. They hold a warm degree of affection for both their sons.”
He looked at her sharply.
Cecy swallowed. “Surely when we fear we are to lose something precious it makes us value that thing all the more.”
“So, you’re suggesting I should go and be scandalous and nearly die and then my parents will treat me with the affection they lavish on him?”
“You do not have to,” she whispered. “You already have it.”
He blinked, drew back, glanced quickly at his mother, who seemed to recognize his unspoken plight and smiled at him.
The tautness lining his features eased, and, sensing opportunity to promote further familial harmony, Cecy turned to Lord Rovingham and asked about the progress of some of the estate changes she knew John was responsible for. This led to a discussion where his father’s pride in him was made quite plain, as they talked about improvements in pastures, thanks to some new fertilizer developed by the “Farmer Duke.”
“Hartington is at the forefront of such developments,” John admitted. “I could not have done so well without his expertise.”
This more humble note from John won him even greater esteem, judging from the nods and smiles from around the table. His expression, too, looked clearer, lighter, something she noted when he found her later, and mumbled of his appreciation for her.
He shook his head again. “I don’t know what that brother of mine is doing, but I do know this. He is a most fortunate man to have such a kind, thoughtful young lady as you.”
Her smile grew tremulous. “He doesn’t have me.”
“I hesitate to disagree with a young lady, but I think he does.” His smile, though a faint echo of his brother’s, caused her heart to pang.
Oh, how she missed him. Yearned to see him. But he seemed forever destined to be elsewhere, sure proof he had no thought of her. Heat burned her eyes; she blinked the moisture back, and turned the conversation before he could trouble her equilibrium again.
Throughout the day he’d chased worries with prayers. Today was the day of the massed protest in St. Peter’s Field, on the outskirts of Manchester. Something momentous seemed to hang heavy in the air, some sense of doom his work did little to appease. Would all be well? Would the government listen? It was not until late on Tuesday he finally learned the truth.
The man was holding court in the back corner of the coffeehouse Ned had frequented on occasion, his words, his gesticulations, the indignant manner of his audience suggesting an event of great import had occurred. Ned inched closer, nodded to a few men with whom he’d spoken before, and listened.
“… hundreds injured, scores killed! The soldiers showed no mercy, sabering women and children alike!” He dashed a hand over his eyes. “I saw one poor mite ripped from his mother’s arms and trampled underfoot, and her left screaming until a soldier’s boot shut her up!”
Horror filled him. Could such atrocity be true?
“They surrounded ’em, in St. Peter’s Field, all them just trying to listen to the speakers, doing nothin’ illegal, just trying to hear Hunt speak, then they charged! I was there, I saw these so-called soldiers striking at the banners and flags, so many held by women. The people tried to escape, but they ran into bayonets”—his voice broke—“they had no chance!”
Ned’s throat clogged, his chest was tight, the emotion lining the nearby faces doubtless also on his own.
“It was a sea of blood, and bodies, so many bodies, lying everywhere. Then the streets be filled with rioting …”
The rush of vocal sympathy stymied further attempt to garner facts. It wasn’t until the next day, after a fitful night’s repose drenched with images of horror, that a newspaper account lent
further weight to what he’d heard.
He scanned the article carefully, his bile rising, the nausea arrested only by deep breaths. How could a civilized country permit this tragedy, that a peaceful demonstration lead to bloodshed? How could a Christian country treat its citizens in such a way?
Indignation blazed, continued burning, as he passed through the streets and attained his uncle’s office. Inside, the talk was all about the Manchester massacre, as the deaths were now being termed. He tried to work, but couldn’t, his agitation too great. His hands possessed a tremor akin to an old man’s palsy, something that perhaps sprung from the distress in his soul. His uncle’s words of caution—that Ned needed to present himself calm for the visit of Mr. Whittaker later—shaved off only the sharpest edge of his tension, and caused him to wonder later whether the sharp-eyed justice had seen beneath his bitten-off answers to the turmoil that seemed ready to leap from his skin.
After the magistrate left, his uncle had sighed. “You cannot afford to let your emotions get the better of you, not if you want to make barrister.” Lionel eyed him thoughtfully. “And truly, if you care about these incidents, then I’d be very careful about what you are seen to be doing. I cannot help but feel there will be grave consequences for all those involved. The government will not take lightly those they believe are trying to usurp them.”
“It is hardly a revolution,” argued Ned.
“Is it not? I think you will find few in political circles who agree with you. In fact, I would not be surprised at all if we do not see a marked suppression of such demonstrations. No, if you truly want to see change, then you will need to be discreet.”
His uncle was encouraging him?
“I, too, am filled with shame and grief about this situation,” Lionel said, when questioned. “And I do not think these actions should be permitted to go unheeded. But change takes time, as those laws promoted by Wilberforce have shown. There will be outrage, I assure you, but the real work is done when those horrors start to fade from people’s minds. Then it will be important to have those willing to argue for what is right, willing to take on the causes of those who have little means to pay. Would you be willing to fight for reform in the long term, or will you permit today’s anger to diminish your future potential?”
He swallowed.
“Truly, Edward, I have thought for quite some time now it might be best for you to visit home. I’m sure it would do your heart good, and that of my sister as well, if you were to get away. You have looked rather weary of late, and I do not want your getting sick being laid at my door, so take some leave. And take the time to consider what your future should be.”
He swallowed again. Acquiesced.
He would return home, and seek God’s direction.
HIS RETURN LATE on Friday was met with his father’s exclamations, his mother’s jubilation; even John appeared less opposed to him than usual.
“Terrible business about this Manchester situation,” Father murmured. “I have requested that Reverend Poole include prayers at services on Sunday for those killed and injured.”
Ned scarcely stepped from the house on Saturday. Fatigue seemed to have soaked in his bones, a feeling not dissimilar to that he recalled eight months prior, when his recovery from the shooting sapped all strength for weeks.
However, his lassitude did not prevent him attending the Sunday morning service, his return met with smiles from most, save Stephen Heathcote, and Lord and Lady Aynsley.
Cecilia Hatherleigh, after one wide-eyed look where her pallor caused an inward palpitation, had ducked her head, her attention fixed to the prayer book she held. His inner agitation eased a degree. He knew she shared his faith, remembered he remained in her debt about the gypsy, wondered whether she knew—or cared—about the Manchester situation.
Later, as the minister prayed for those affected by the tragic news in Lancashire, he heard a quiet sob. He pressed his lips together, willing the emotion burning in his eyes to keep at bay. Truly it was good to see the situation north had touched hearts here. Yet who had forgone propriety to cry in church?
“Amen.”
He echoed the reverend’s word, snapping open his eyelids to scan the congregants. No wiping of tears suggested the mourner, although the bowed head of chestnut curls being given such glares from her parents suggested a potential candidate.
But any chance of speaking to her vanished as he was swarmed with well-wishers wanting to know about his time in London, including Colonel Porter, who informed him that the Hoskins man had been apprehended in Bristol, and Mrs. Cherry, whose invitation that he visit had to be postponed for a few days, his weariness ensuring he would not be able to manage more than a few crumbs of conversation. “And I must look in on Franklin Park.”
“When you can, then.”
He’d agreed, relieved to leave the morning’s exertions, and to sleep the remainder of the day away.
The following morning he spent with his father, discussing something of his hopes to establish an organization to help the poor and disenfranchised with the costs of their legalities. “For I have seen too often such cases are not presented well and are merely handed to a junior clerk who has little skill, let alone any interest in pursuing justice at the expense of expediency.”
His father’s cautious support brought a measure of reassurance, a feeling further fostered by his father’s admission about Mr. Drako’s new abode in one of his properties in the north. “My son has challenged me that it is not enough to say we care while we refuse to act.”
Ned’s chest tightened with emotion, as he basked in his father’s approval.
Colonel Porter visited later to share more recent news about the Hoskins case. An enquiry agent had been employed to discover the man’s whereabouts, and had learned he was a violent man given to stirring up trouble against travelers, resenting those who fraternized with gypsies to the extent that he’d “mete out punishment,” though this appeared to be the first time he’d attacked someone of Ned’s rank. Ned need only write his account and the Bristol magistrates would ensure Hoskins spent considerable time serving at His Majesty’s pleasure.
“Unless of course you think he should be sentenced to transportation,” his father said. “Of course, it will mean court, and you’ll be asked to give evidence I’m sure, but it’s not as though you have no experience in such things now.”
Sending the man far away, to ensure he’d never hurt those people again?
“Send him to the colonies.”
His father nodded. “I hoped your compassion would not get in the way of what is right, and what is due an earl’s son.”
Still later, a visit to his manor revealed the gypsy had effected some positive changes in the garden, that the inside rooms remained as undisturbed as his last visit back in June. Relief at no signs of intrusion was mitigated by the reminder from his father about whom he still owed thanks to. He hadn’t spoken to her yesterday; her parents having whisked her away too quickly. He would have paid a visit this afternoon, but he sensed his brother’s invitation to see the improved fields should not go passed over, such goodwill being rare. His lips twisted. Even in the depths of Somersetshire obligations stalked him.
He would do it soon. And he would pray, and plead with God to show him the way forward.
CHAPTER SİXTEEN
AT THE SOUND of her mother’s voice, Cecy hurried through the French doors to the path screened by blooming rhododendrons. She had no wish to incur further censure, but her task could not be delayed. Above her, the treetops wove an intricate display, the sounds and scents of late summer adding to her pleasure at escape: the call of spotted woodpecker, the chirrup of tits and finches, the earthen scents of ferns and leaves. As she hurried, her thoughts traced back over the past few days.
Her parents’ shame at her outburst in services had been leavened by her meek acceptance of her fate: that she was not to have anything to do with Ned Amherst if he visited.
“For every time that man is in
your vicinity you seem to forget yourself, and behave in a way most unfitting for a daughter of Aynsley.”
“It was not he who made me weep—”
“Enough! I do not want you to perjure yourself and pretend that it was the minister’s prayers that made you so forget yourself. Your outbursts last week were dreadful enough.”
But it had been the subject matter of the minister’s prayers that made her cry. The newspapers, vivid in their accounts of the tragedy last week, had reignited the pain inside her heart. Women, children, husbands, fathers, lost. How could people be so cruel to others? How could those in power pretend such consequences only just? It was not just; it was not right.
Her pain had led her to pen another letter, this one signed, most daringly, in her own name. The time for reticence was over; indignation demanded she be brave. So she had poured out her heart in words that flowed as if her pen itself was impassioned. She had entrusted the posting of the letter once again to Mrs. Cherry, and needed to return now to recompense her for the postage.
Such surreptitious dealings did not concern her; this was about a cause far more important than whether propriety’s boundaries might be singed. Neither was she concerned about whether it was untoward for her name to be published in the newspaper. This was a cause for women, as much as for men.
The newspaper reports had also mentioned the women involved.
“See?” Cecy had pointed it out to Verity. “There have been female reform societies established, and many of those who attended were women. They were not the rabble hotheads Father likes to think; they were ladies, mothers, sisters, daughters, dressed in white.” Tears had pricked. Dressed in white, like she and her sisters might when headed for a picnic.
Verity’s eyes had rounded. “Are you saying you want to form a society here?”
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 16
