As she paced the floor of her dressing room she turned the facts over in her mind another time. What kept her anger at a simmer was the recollection of how long the government had toyed with the Cato Street conspirators. Lord Sidmouth had known of the plot for months before his agents acted. Maggie and Jean were still in jeopardy. So was Tom.
She did not suppose Tom would be charged, or the girls, though Owen might. What troubled her was the possible effects on reputation--the girls', for they risked ostracism, and Tom's.
Her husband was a reluctant politician, but he was a sincere one. He not only favoured extending representation to the manufacturing towns, he also wanted annual Parliaments and a wider suffrage. His opinions were heard because he spoke carefully, without threatening blood and revolution. His critics might think of him as a blue-blooded sansculotte, but his integrity compelled their respect.
If he were accused of harbouring an out-and-out revolutionist--
A knock at her door startled her from her nightmare phantasy. "Come!"
Johnny Dyott entered looking like one who has steeled his nerves to storm a bastion.
Elizabeth sighed. "Come in, Johnny. I was wanting to talk with you in private."
He entered. Though the whites of his eyes did not show, his apprehension was clear enough.
"I ought to apologise for my intemperate language this afternoon," she said glumly. "I was startled as well as angry. I had nearly tucked the twins' misconduct in the back of my mind as just another escapade I'd laugh at in ten or twenty years."
He ventured a faint smile. "What you said to Davies was mild to what I've been thinking. I'm sorry to cause you distress."
"You didn't."
"Not directly, perhaps."
He was bound to blame himself, but Elizabeth was in no mood to be Johnny's hair shirt. "It's I who should apologise for placing you in an impossible dilemma. You're in love with my sister Margaret, are you not?"
He nodded, wide-eyed.
"I ought to have seen how torn you would be. She didn't tell you why they had gone to Soho?"
"She couldn't betray Lady Jean. I saw that clearly enough."
"So you were caught between your loyalty to Tom and your affection for Maggie. I am sorry, Johnny."
He cleared his throat. "How did you know? I've tried to be circumspect. I don't want to frighten her. She's so young."
"Too young," Elizabeth rejoined, "as this harebrained episode proves." His face fell and she added, hastily, "You must know I have no reservations about you Johnny. I cannot agree to Maggie's marriage at eighteen, but if you're of the same mind in a few years, and if she consents--"
He spoke several disjointed but grateful phrases. His surprise and relief were evidence of the sincerity of his feelings. If Elizabeth's exasperation with Maggie had been a shade stronger she would have thrust her sister at him. Take her, she's yours.
When joy left him speechless, Elizabeth said wryly, "I wish Jean showed a little of Maggie's discernment. Will you carry my letter to Tom, Johnny?"
"Of course."
"Meanwhile, what am I do to with the poet? Keeping in mind that I'd like to shove him down an oubliette."
Johnny hesitated. "He's not such a bad chap, you know. Merely impractical."
"And egotistical."
"You could lock him in his chamber with bread and water."
"He'd probably write dithyrambs on the moulding."
Johnny grinned. "Only think what he'd write in an oubliette."
20
"Richard!"
Richard Falk stepped down from the hackney into the rain. It had been pouring for two days.
Tom, muffled in round hat and greatcoat, was about to leave the house. His butler held an umbrella over him.
"Never mind, Waite. Hold it for the colonel." He ducked back in the foyer and removed his hat. Richard entered, damp but not soaked.
When the two men had retired to the bookroom for a glass of brandy out of earshot of servants, Richard said, "I've come about this business of Johnny's. Has he told you?"
"Of the twins' Soho adventure? I believe I have you to thank for advising him."
Richard flushed. "I gave him a week's grace."
"Because of Maggie?"
Richard heaved a sigh of relief. "Then he's made a clean breast of it. Good, because unless you understand his attachment to Lady Margaret his conduct is inexcusable. And mine. I ought to have writ you at once."
Tom rubbed his forehead. "He spoke to you in confidence. I'm sorry Johnny and the girls fancied me such an ogre they couldn't confide in me."
"It wasn't quite that, Tom. When you were a subaltern, did you tell your captain everything?"
"No, though I was trying for a less military bond with the girls. I daresay with Johnny it was inevitable. I was his captain."
Richard swirled the brandy absently in the glass. "How grave a matter is it?"
"If I knew I'd be at Brecon right now. At least Davies wasn't fool enough to sign his name. Discretion is called for, but the danger may blow over."
"Can I be of use to you?"
"Do you have connexions in Bow Street?"
Richard took a warming sip. "In the dock, more likely. I was thinking of my connexions with publishers, writers, and other seditious types."
That had not occurred to Tom, though it should have. "Will you find out whether the printer knew Owen's identity?" He had ascertained the printer's name through Sir Francis Burdett. He gave it to Richard, adding, "The man was a jobber."
"I'll try."
"And you might question Davies's friend, Carrington, for me. I sent Johnny back to Brecon to reinforce Elizabeth, and my presence at the Radical Poets' Club might cause remark--"
"Whereas I am known for my outrageous opinions. I thought they called you Radical Tom?"
"That may be, but no one has ever accused me of poetry." He met his friend's amused eyes over the rim of the snifter.
"Is there such an establishment? I rather fancy masquerading as a Radical poet. Mind you, I've not writ so much as an iamb since I was eighteen and in love with the colonel's daughter."
"Coffeehouse in Rose Street."
"I'll test the waters."
"Emily will be wishing me in Hades."
"For dragging me from Mayne Hall? Nonsense, she's being spared nightly skirmishes in the drawing room between Sir Henry and his freakish son-in-law. Besides she's packing for Brecon. She says all three boys need new shirts. I left her to it."
"Well, I'm glad you've come."
"Er, speaking of wives, Lady Clanross--"
Tom groaned. "She's wonderfully restrained in her letters."
"But she wants your guts for garters?"
"Lord, you're vulgar."
Richard grinned.
"Something along those lines," Tom admitted. "Richard, what the devil shall I do with this poet?"
They discussed Tom's choices, which were limited, and Tom began to feel less harrassed, though he knew Owen Davies was going to be a knotty problem to solve. The mood in London was strange. On the one hand, the Mob continued its noisy support of the queen. On the other, the government were perplexed by the king's insistence on a divorce and well-nigh hysterical with fear of the Mob. The servants of Tory MPs set up makeshift barricades of chiffoniers and ironing boards nightly in elegant town houses. The Tories expected the revolution at any moment. The Duke of Wellington had been jeered in Hyde Park.
From Tom's viewpoint their terror was foolish. So far the Mob were good-natured enough. Caricaturists were enjoying a heyday. The queen's cause was a publick entertainment, no more. Still, it could not be pleasant to have one's windows broken every time the Mob wished to express itself. Tom had some sympathy for his neighbor, Lord Harrowby, but if Harrowby and his friends insisted on stifling lawful dissent, what more could they expect? The people, in Tom's opinion, would always find a way to be heard.
The trouble was, the penalties attached to publishing material the government considered seditiou
s were extreme. If the men in Westminster were frightened enough to pursue a caricaturist for portraying the king as a grossly fat man--which was true--God knew what they might do to a poet whose figures of speech were a little intemperate. Tom did not want to see Owen Davies languishing in custody. Boiling in oil, perhaps, but not stewing in prison.
* * * *
Whilst Clanross and Colonel Falk were attempting to find out how far the damage had gone, the party at Brecon held its collective breath.
Jean's devotion to Owen burned with a fierce flame. He was by turns defiant and melancholy. If Elizabeth had chained him in a dungeon--there were no dungeons at Brecon but it did boast extensive wine cellars--Jean would have moved mountains to rescue him.
Apart from maintaining an icy civility toward Owen at dinner, however, Elizabeth did nothing untoward. It was true that Jean and Owen were never left alone together, but they had not been before Johnny's revelations either. Nothing had changed but the climate.
Jean had begun to look on Maggie as her gaoler, too, though she knew the feeling was unfair. Maggie had not betrayed her and swore she would not, but Jean knew there had been a shift of allegiance. It galled her that Maggie's attachment to Johnny was acceptable whilst hers for Owen was not. She wanted to attribute the persecution of Owen to his comparative poverty, but neither Elizabeth nor Clanross was mercenary. They objected, she thought with resentment, because Johnny was dull and conformable and Owen was colourful.
That Maggie didn't find Johnny dull Jean knew very well. The sonnet he had writ for Maggie shook Jean's conviction when she finally read it, and she had to admit Johnny was well-looking and knew how to make himself agreeable, but he was not romantic. If Maggie had spurned Johnny he would have been unhappy, perhaps even taken to drink, but he would not have died for love.
Owen's more sensitive nature led him into an observable decline. His eyes grew heavy, shadowed with sleeplessness. He took long solitary walks. Jean saw him brooding by the waters of the lake. Several times he was so unwell he could not come down to dinner. She worried that he might be consumptive.
She smuggled notes to him to cheer him. It was no easy matter to do so unobserved, but she didn't grudge the effort. She had to wake herself at three in the morning to slip out into the hall with her letters, and then she ran the risk of bumping into Elizabeth, who was working at her telescope again and apt to be up at strange hours. Owen's first note to Jean--a tragic epode called "Frost in Spring"--came by the way of Polly, the chambermaid who served all the bedrooms in that wing. Thereafter Polly was their courier.
Twice Owen suggested meetings, and twice Jean attempted the tryst but was foiled by the vigilance of her wardens. Miss Bluestone on the first occasion and Elizabeth herself on the second appeared as if by magick as Jean tried to make her way outdoors unnoticed. "Going for a walk? I'll join you." How could they be so unfeeling?
She was balked, stymied, frustrated at every turn. Finally her frustration led her to confront her twin.
"I want to see Owen alone."
"But Elizabeth--"
"Does Elizabeth put an armed guard on your visits with Johnny?"
"Well, no, but--"
"How would you feel, Maggie?"
Maggie was neck-deep in soapsuds. She flapped one hand delicately and made a small wave of soapy water. "I shouldn't like it."
"Then help me meet him."
Maggie submerged, sloshing water on the rug, and surfaced. She mopped her eyes with a cloth and began soaping her hair. "No. It wouldn't be right. Rinse, please."
After her own bath, Jean had sent Lisette, whom she trusted not an inch, from the room. So she hefted the can and poured warm water over her twin's head.
Maggie spluttered.
"What did you say?"
"I like my cropped hair. It's much quicker to wash. And I needn't brush it forever."
Exasperated, Jean watched as her twin climbed from the tub, towelled dry, and slipped into nightrail and robe. "You meet Johnny alone."
"I've only met him alone twice." Pink spots burned on Maggie's cheeks. "On our birthday and when he rode up from Hampshire last week. The second time was an accident. Otherwise we've been chaperoned by you or Elizabeth or one of the maids. Besides, you know Johnny wouldn't do anything improper."
"And Owen would?"
Maggie sat at the dressing table and brushed her damp curls. "His language makes me blush."
"He says what his heart tells him to say." Maggie couldn't have heard Owen's avowal of love. She'd been too far off.
Maggie daubed lotion on her nose. The twins were subject to freckles. The lotion was supposed to bleach them, but Jean had never noticed dramatic results and had given it up.
At last Maggie said, with an air of grave deliberation, "I think you ought to wait until Clanross comes before you try to meet with Owen."
"Why?"
"Because, if you see Owen alone now and you're found out, Clanross will be twice as angry with all three of us. He's probably very angry already."
"We won't be found out unless you peach."
Maggie went white. She turned. "I've never broken your confidence, not even to Johnny, and I don't think it's fair of you to suggest I may."
Jean's eyes fell. She was rather ashamed of the impetuous remark, but she had thought Maggie would be easier to persuade. "I'm sorry."
Maggie rose. "All right." She walked to the window and looked out at the starry night. "I won't help you meet Owen, because it's underhand dealing. I don't like sneaking about deceiving people. It made me sick in London." Maggie turned to face her. "And I won't deceive Johnny again. That's flat."
Jean gaped.
"Don't bully me."
"I don't bully."
"Yes, you do. You poke and poke and I give way because it's easier. Well, I won't this time."
Jean's eyes welled with tears. If Maggie was against her the whole world was.
They made up the quarrel after a fashion. Their quarrels never lasted long. But Maggie would not be swayed. When Jean raised the subject again, Maggie gave her a long, unsmiling look. "You're bullying again," she said, and Jean had to give it up.
* * * *
When Tom finally came from London, Elizabeth had gone from outrage through gloom to honest anxiety. Why didn't the man come?
She was with the babies in the nursery and hadn't heard the carriage, so he startled her when he came into the sun-filled room at the top of the house. "Tom! Thank God!" She thrust Dickon at the nursemaid and ran to her husband.
He kissed her cheek. "Are you all right?"
"Am I well, do you mean? Of course, though I'm near distraction." She touched his face. "Why didn't you come sooner?"
"I had to find out the consequences of that poem's being published." He looked grim. "I've summoned Johnny and the three conspirators to the bookroom in half an hour. I should like you to be present, Elizabeth."
"What is it?"
He glanced at the head nurse and her assistant. "It will keep."
"All right."
He went to the boys who had recognised him and were making importunate noises.
Elizabeth wondered if Tom had chosen the library for its air of courtroom gloom. The withdrawing room would have been a friendlier arena, but it did not take long to see that Tom was in an unfriendly frame of mind.
When the brief courtesies were done and everyone but Tom was seated, he said, without preamble, "The Runners have identified you as the author of that poem, Davies."
Jean gasped.
Elizabeth stared at the poet. He had been unusually pale when he entered the room. Now his eyes darkened.
"There's little doubt that you'll be charged," Clanross continued. "They're building a dossier. The only question is when the warrant will be issued."
Johnny shifted in his chair. "Do they know of the girls' role?"
"Not yet, according to my sources."
Maggie raised her clasped hands to her mouth, and Jean set her jaw.
El
izabeth said quietly, "How good is your information, Tom?"
He frowned. "It's not official, if that's what you mean. I was constrained to ask through friends, and friends of friends." He turned back to Owen. "I understand you'd already published a piece calling for revolution under your own name."
"It was published privately." Colour returned to Owen's cheeks. He sat straighter on the stiff chair. "How did they connect the 'Anthem' with me? Carrington wouldn't betray me."
"I've no idea. The point is you'll have to leave the country or stand your trial."
Owen's lip curled. "Let them charge me. I shall not be the first martyr!"
"Save your oratory for the dock, you poetaster." Johnny clenched his fists on his breeches-clad knees. He had come in from riding and not had time to change. "Have you no thought for Lady Jean and Lady Margaret? If you're tried, the Runners will make every effort to identify the young women who brought the poem to London."
Owen blinked.
"Johnny's right," Tom said heavily. "I've booked passage for you on the Urania packet bound for Halifax at the beginning of September."
Jean made a noise.
"He ought to leave at once!" Elizabeth protested. Her heart was thumping.
"He may have to make a run for it yet." Tom paced to the cold hearth. "I'm gambling that they won't act so soon, and that his departure will appear to be a mission I've sent him on. I meant to send Barney Greene. Owen will take his place." He raised his head and looked at Owen directly. "Once the river freezes, you may travel by sledge to Montreal and Kingston. My agent there will employ you."
"I prefer to stand trial."
"I can't allow it."
Owen threw back his head, flipping the fair hair from his eyes. "You can't stop it."
Tom said coolly, "I've no doubt you'd enjoy the notoriety. The Radical press would make a hero of you and you'd swank it in prison like Leigh Hunt, receiving callers and sending out your latest incendiary thoughts to the journals. You'd probably get two years or less and you'd leave gaol a famous man. I daresay that's what you were aiming for when you suborned Lady Jean to run your risks for you."
"He did not s-suborn me. It was my idea!"
Tom's face softened. "My dear, he could have prevented you easily enough by withholding the poem. And how should you have heard of his friend in Soho if he hadn't told you?"
Love & Folly Page 21
