by Diane Gaston
Now she understood. ‘Domina sent you? I am sorry you have been put to so much inconvenience.’
He shook his head. ‘She did not send me.’
He had come of his own volition? She flushed again, too instantly aware of him.
She stepped aside. ‘Do come in.’
Reilly appeared, all smiles when he saw who it was. ‘Captain! May I take your things?’
He handed Reilly his hat and gloves. ‘How do you fare today?’ he asked the butler.
A pleased expression lit Reilly’s face. ‘In good health, sir.’
‘Well—’ Marian clasped her hands together ‘—come to the drawing room, will you? Reilly, bring us tea.’
‘Yes, miss,’ he said.
She led the captain to the small drawing room on the first floor, the one that faced the front of the house. ‘Do sit, Captain, and tell me why you have come.’
He stood until she lowered herself in a chair. ‘I merely was in the neighbourhood and thought to see how you went on.’
‘Why?’ There must be more to it than that.
‘Do I need more reason than the concern of a friend?’
They could never be friends, not even if they were not political enemies.
‘Everything is splendid here.’ She did not wish to be the topic of conversation. ‘How is the Home Office?’
His eyes flickered. ‘No Blanketeers at the city gates as yet.’
Had he been a part of thwarting the Blanketeers’ march?
Marian tried to keep her voice even. ‘Ah, but did not one of the Blanketeers make it through? The newspapers said he delivered his petition.’
‘One man is not a riot,’ he countered.
This irritated her. ‘Not every protest is a riot. The papers said the men marched peacefully in small groups.’
The captain countered, ‘Ah, but the intent was for them all to meet in a large gathering. When numbers are large, there is always the danger of riot.’
Her brows rose. ‘Cannot large numbers of men gather and behave in organised, disciplined ways?’
‘It only takes one spark to set a fire. One man, one mistake, and a riot might result.’ His fingers tapped the arm of the chair.
She smiled stiffly. ‘I was not thinking of marches upon Parliament. I was thinking of soldiers. Are soldiers not disciplined, even though their numbers are large?’
‘Even soldiers can run amok.’ His tone turned bleak and pain filled his eyes.
He witnessed such a thing, she realised. In the war.
She wanted to comfort him, to soothe away the pain of whatever it was he’d endured.
Would he want her comfort if he knew she was planning a soldiers’ march? Her march would be different, however. Her soldiers would maintain discipline. There would be no arrests, no injuries. They would make the government pay attention, to recognise that if their needs were neglected they could indeed be a force to be reckoned with.
Reilly entered with the tea tray. After he left Marian was silent as she fixed the captain’s tea, remembering from Brussels exactly how he liked it.
He took a sip and closed his eyes, as if savouring the taste. ‘I have learned how to appreciate this luxury.’
Marian knew instantly what he meant. ‘Yes. There is so much I no longer take for granted.’ She handed him the plate of biscuits.
‘Good food,’ he said, taking a bite of a biscuit.
She touched her gown. ‘Clean clothing.’
He seemed to be thinking for a minute. ‘Absence of pain.’
That pierced her heart. ‘No one brandishing axes.’
‘Or shooting at us.’
‘Dry shoes and stockings,’ she added.
He lifted a finger. ‘Speaking English.’
She smiled and patted her chair. ‘Furniture.’
He smiled in return. ‘A bed.’
Their gazes caught and held and he was slow to glance away. She remembered the night she had shared his bed, remembered the lovemaking they shared, remembered how she urged him to do more.
She stared into her teacup.
He spoke quietly. ‘I only regret the suffering you endured.’
She glanced up at him. ‘I do not regret even that.’
Marian regretted nothing between them, except the interference of her uncle and cousin. That she greatly regretted.
‘It made me realise what is important,’ she told him. ‘It made me realise I can be strong.’
He looked at her. ‘You were remarkably strong, Marian. To that I owe my life.’
She felt her cheeks burn. ‘Say no more. You deserve equal credit.’ She brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and latched on to a safer subject. ‘We should give equal credit to Valour, you know. She saved us a time or two.’
He smiled. ‘Indeed.’
‘Where is Valour?’ She would like to see the horse again, stroke her muzzle and whisper her thanks. ‘Do you have her in London?’
‘I do.’ He took another sip of tea. ‘I may have to send her to my uncle’s country house, though. It is expensive to keep her here and I have little time to ride her.’
Marian lowered her gaze, reminded of his limited finances. ‘She will not like being parted from you.’
‘But she will enjoy galloping through the fields and breathing the fresh country air.’
The door opened and Blanche walked in, followed by Mr Yost. ‘We are back.’ Blanche saw the Captain. ‘Oh—forgive me. I did not know you had a caller.’
Allan stood. ‘It is good to see you again, Mrs Nunn. I trust you are well.’
She curtsied. ‘Very well, Mr Landon.’ She turned to Mr Yost. ‘Allow me to present our neighbour, Mr Yost. Mr Yost, this is Mr Landon, who was acquainted with Miss Pallant in Brussels.’
Marian’s heart raced. She had not felt this level of anxiety since Waterloo. The captain was already suspicious of Mr Yost; he had said so that first day. He could make this meeting a very difficult one.
Instead he surprised her.
He strode forwards and extended his hand in a most gentlemanly manner.
Mr Yost shook it. ‘You were in Brussels for the battle, then?’
‘With the Royal Scots,’ he explained.
‘A momentous day in history,’ responded Mr Yost.
Marian was still filled with anxiety. She needed to warn Yost. ‘Captain Landon is now working for Lord Sidmouth at the Home Office.’
Mr Yost did not miss a beat. ‘Are you, sir?’
‘I am.’ The captain smiled genially. ‘I am no longer a captain, however, although Miss Pallant persists in calling me one.’
Marian doubted she could ever call him anything else.
She rose and walked towards the door. ‘Do sit. I will ask Reilly for more tea.’
Once in the hallway, she leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to sort her disordered emotions.
She found Reilly nearby. ‘You ought to have warned me Mr Yost was here, Reilly.’
He appeared chagrined. ‘I could not, miss. Mrs Nunn asked where you were and I said the drawing room and she was already at the door with Mr Yost behind her.’
She pressed her fingers to her temple. ‘Never mind. I suppose we need more tea. Can you bring some?’
When she walked back into the drawing room, the gentlemen started to rise, but she signalled them to remain seated.
As she returned to her chair, Mr Yost addressed the captain. ‘Work for the Home Office, you say? I suspect you have heard my name spoken there.’
What was he doing?
‘It has been mentioned,’ the captain replied. ‘I am afraid you have a reputation as a radical essayist.’
Yost was unapologetic. ‘I dare say I have written what might be termed radical criticism of the government in my time. My views remain liberal, but the climate is too dangerous to publish them at the moment.’ He leaned towards the captain. ‘I am curious, sir, why you choose to work for the Home Office.’
The captain’s eyes turned p
iercing. ‘I know the carnage protesting mobs can do. I seek to stop it.’
Marian remembered. ‘Your father,’ she whispered, too low for anyone to hear. She was surprised she had not thought of it before. She raised her voice. ‘The captain’s father was killed by rioters.’
Yost lowered his head. ‘My sympathies, Mr Landon. That is a great sadness to bear.’ He raised his head again. ‘Perhaps we can agree that violence helps no one’s cause.’
The captain lifted his tea cup to his lips. ‘On that we can agree.’
The tense moment passed and the two men continued discussing their differences, but in a quite civil manner.
Reilly, looking abashed, entered with the tea tray. ‘Cook says dinner will be ready in an hour.’ He hurried out.
Marian bit her lip, wishing she had not snapped at him.
The captain rose. ‘I have overstayed my welcome, I fear.’
‘Oh!’ Blanche exclaimed. ‘Right in the middle of your debate.’
He smiled at her. ‘We are not likely to resolve anything no matter how long I stay.’
‘But it is interesting,’ Blanche went on. ‘I should think you could talk even through dinner.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Marian, might we ask Mr Landon to join us for dinner?’
Marian could not compose an answer. Had Blanche’s wits gone begging?
Captain Landon glanced at her. ‘I am not dressed for dinner.’
‘Well, neither am I,’ said Yost.
The captain’s voice changed in tone. ‘You are staying, sir?’
‘Yes,’ Blanche answered. ‘You would make our numbers even and it would be like a party. Can we not include him, Marian?’
She was trapped. She turned to the captain. ‘You are very welcome to stay to dinner, if you do not have another engagement.’ Perhaps he would take the hint that she expected him to say no.
Instead he gazed into her eyes. ‘I would be honoured to dine with you.’ He smiled. ‘I never take a good meal for granted.’
Marian felt herself flush. He was reminding her of their past hardships, hardships of which they’d so light-heartedly jested earlier.
‘That is splendid, Mr Landon,’ Blanche said.
Marian had never confided in Blanche about the exact nature of her acquaintance with the captain in Belgium, but surely Blanche knew not to keep the fox in with the chickens for longer than necessary.
More tea was poured and the conversation resumed, but about foods and favourite dinners, not politics.
Dinner was a lively affair and one Marian enjoyed more than she could have anticipated. Mr Yost and the captain listened attentively to each other and disagreed respectfully, much to Marian’s relief and admiration. Both she and Blanche entered in the conversation, but Marian was careful to follow Yost’s lead so she would not rouse Landon’s suspicions. In many ways the captain’s views were sympathetic to the people’s suffering; he merely advocated different means to alleviate it.
‘Change best happens within the boundaries of the law,’ he said. ‘If left to a mob, we risk the anarchy of the French Revolution.’
‘But our government has been part of the problem,’ Mr Yost countered. ‘The Corn Laws, for example.’
The Corn Laws set high prices for grain and restricted its import. The laws protected the profits of large landowners, but also made bread, the staple food of the lower classes, very costly.
‘Government makes bad decisions sometimes,’ the captain responded. ‘I am not saying the Corn Laws were bad. It is more complex than that. If the government makes too many mistakes, then one must elect a new government. That is working for change within the law.’
‘You forget that only landowners can vote.’ Yost stabbed the air with his fork. ‘Who speaks then for those suffering souls who do not own land?’
‘For that matter,’ added Blanche, ‘who speaks for women? We cannot vote no matter what.’
Captain Landon smiled at her. ‘Do you advocate suffrage for women, Mrs Nunn? That is radical, indeed.’
She coloured. ‘I meant only to make a point.’
Marian kept quiet. She strongly believed women should have the power to decide their own fate. Perhaps the captain would be shocked that she felt that way.
The captain speared a piece of meat with his fork. ‘I believe that if good men are elected, they will do the right thing by everyone.’
The problem lay in recognising good. Marian gazed at the captain through lowered lashes. He was a man she’d once trusted with her life, yet now his job was to arrest organisers like herself and have them hanged for sedition. Would he see her hanged if he knew what she was about?
The discussion continued through the dessert and after-dinner tea, but Marian was more absorbed in observing the captain, yearning to be close to him again and at the same time wary lest she gave him cause to send her to the gallows.
The clock struck ten and the captain stopped mid-sentence. ‘I had no idea of the time. Forgive me for staying so late.’ He stood.
‘I should go, too,’ Yost said, but he made no effort to move.
‘I’ll walk you to the door, Captain.’ Marian rose.
Their shoulders brushed as they walked to the hall. Marian could almost fantasise that they were companionable again.
The captain picked up his hat and gloves from the hall table. ‘You did not need to walk me out, Marian.’
‘Mr Yost and Blanche would have no time alone if I did not.’
His brows rose. ‘He is courting her?’
She smiled. ‘Oh, yes. It is quite a romance.’
He pulled on his gloves. ‘I meant only to stay a civil fifteen minutes.’ He glanced at her. ‘But I much enjoyed dining with you.’
It had seemed right to her to see him seated across from her at the evening meal.
‘I hope you did not think our neighbour too radical in his beliefs.’ She meant she hoped he would not suspect Yost of more.
His expression turned serious. ‘He was an interesting man. I liked him.’
She watched him adjust the fingers of the gloves and remembered when his bare hands had stroked her.
‘I like him, too,’ she replied. ‘Which is a good thing, because of Blanche.’ He smiled.
She opened the door to a cool breeze that ruffled her skirt and cooled her face. He placed his hand on her arm and drew her closer. Her head tilted back and she closed her eyes.
Like before he placed a light kiss on her forehead and moved away slowly to step out of the doorway.
‘Goodnight,’ she managed, trembling with the need to be in his arms one more time.
He tipped his hat to her before placing it on his head and starting to walk away.
She hurried back to the drawing room and watched him through the window as he made his way down the street.
‘To what do you owe that visit, Miss Pallant?’ Yost asked, his voice grim.
‘I do not know.’ She was no longer able to see him.
Blanche leaned against the back of her chair. ‘Well, I believe he has a tendre for you.’
Marian wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I cannot think so.’
‘He could be spying for the Home Office,’ Yost said.
‘I do not believe that!’ Blanche cried.
Marian gave Yost a worried look. ‘Do you think he suspects me?’
‘I do not see how,’ he replied. ‘We keep your name out of everything. Likely he suspects me of something.’
‘He is much too nice to be a spy,’ Blanche insisted.
Yost laughed. ‘Those are the kind one must worry about, my dear.’
Marian felt sombre. ‘What shall we do?’
Yost lowered his brows in thought. ‘It is best to act as if you have nothing at all to hide. That was my strategy tonight, and I think it worked well.’ He tapped his chin. ‘I suggest you accept his calls. In fact, accept some of the invitations your friend sends your way. No one will think a society lady is the organiser of a protest.’
She to
uched the cool window pane. In two weeks her soldiers would march and the entire event would be over. She did not know what would happen after that, how she would fill her time.
She did not know if Captain Landon would be a part of it.
The next day Lord Sidmouth summoned Allan as soon as he walked in to the Home Office.
‘Well?’ Sidmouth looked up from his desk as Allan entered. ‘Did you call upon her?’
Allan scowled. ‘I did.’
‘And?’ Sidmouth persisted.
Allan shrugged. ‘I spent a pleasant evening. I even met John Yost. He was a guest of Miss Pallant’s companion. Our conversation was lively and interesting.’
‘Interesting, eh?’ Sidmouth brightened. ‘What did you learn?’
Allan gave him a direct look. ‘Nothing we did not already know. Yost freely discussed his views, but said nothing to make me suspect him of sedition. He was a thoughtful, intelligent, reasoned man.’
Sidmouth made a derisive sound. ‘Delighted you like the fellow. Go back. Keep digging. Keep your eyes and ears open.’ He waved him off.
Allan started for the door, then turned. ‘Sir, I cannot help but feel my continuing to call upon Miss Pallant is toying with her sensibilities—’
‘I care nothing about her sensibilities!’ Sidmouth replied. ‘Your job is to gather information and this is the way it is done. Yost is the key, I tell you. I feel it.’
Allan left the room.
He waited two days before calling upon Marian again. A grey-haired maid answered the door this time, obviously one of Marian’s war widows. She showed him into the drawing room and went to fetch her mistress from some other part of the house.
He heard the mumbling of voices. A door closed nearby and footsteps sounded in the hallway. A moment later she walked into the room.
‘Captain,’ she said with an edge to her voice. ‘Good afternoon.’
He bowed to her. ‘I hope I did not take you from something important. I had an impulse to call.’ Less like an impulse and more like a command.
Still, a part of him gladdened to see her, to hear her voice again, to smell the scent of roses.
‘I was finished,’ she said, not explaining. ‘Do sit. I’ve ordered tea again.’
