by Rose Lerner
“I promise.”
Helen’s taut, thin shoulders relaxed. “Well, come on then. We’re late.”
“Only by”—she glanced at the Town Hall clock—“twenty minutes.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “To other people, that’s a lot to be late by.”
Mr. Gilchrist and another man were seated close to the door, Mr. Gilchrist recounting an amusing anecdote with an air of desperation. He chuckled nervously at the funny parts to fill the silence left by his companion, who was—Phoebe’s heart sank—checking his watch.
And the watch was expensive—less valuable than Mr. Dymond’s, to be sure, but its chain was finely worked and it lay heavily in the stranger’s hand. At least it was brand-new, and his Kerseymere coat did not quite sit easily on his shoulders. He hadn’t been born to prosperity.
“And the grocer’s lady said to the cheesemonger’s wife, ‘Nothing goes after cheese,’” Phoebe finished for Mr. Gilchrist. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” The election agent lapsed into relieved silence as both men stood to greet them. The stranger glanced at Helen, his eyebrows going up, and then at Phoebe. He looked briefly disappointed as he realized which of the sisters must be his prospective bride, but Phoebe had expected that. She hadn’t expected him to hide it so quickly.
He had a set of pale, piercing eyes, and she thought a physiognomist would have admired the lines of his skull, clearly revealed by the close crop of his graying straw-colored hair. There was a restless, wolfish energy about him; he snapped his fingers shut around his watch and dropped it in his pocket with a movement that would have been jerky if it hadn’t been so precise.
He wasn’t handsome, exactly. And he looked older than she had expected. She couldn’t guess whether that was because he was older or because he had driven himself hard. There were few lines on his face, but they were deeply etched.
Maybe, Phoebe thought, to her own surprise.
“No matter.” He smiled—or rather, bared his teeth. “I know a woman is never on time. I had scheduled an extra half an hour a-purpose.”
Phoebe didn’t know quite what to say to this. Fortunately, Mr. Gilchrist jumped in with one of his oily smiles. “Mrs. Sparks and Miss Knight, allow me to present Mr. Fairclough. Miss Knight is Mrs. Sparks’s younger sister.” He put a faint emphasis on younger. Helen bristled beside her, but Phoebe was rather grateful to the young man. “Please do sit down, ladies.” He pulled out Phoebe’s chair first, but he lingered a little behind Helen, looking at the top of her head, before moving smoothly back to his own seat. “Mr. Fairclough is a great admirer of your poetry.”
“You mustn’t flatter me, sir,” Phoebe said.
Mr. Fairclough raised his head. His smile was startlingly boyish and engaging—and startlingly brief. Why, he was as uncomfortable as she was, that was all. “I don’t flatter.” He rearranged his fork and knife. “I bought my daughter your mourning poem. She misses her mother, you know. She was glad to have it.”
He referred to one of the poems Jack printed for her and sold in his shop. She had written it about her miscarriage, and revised and published it after Will’s death. It was among her best work and she chose to sell it, but she often felt awkward discussing it with strangers. Mr. Fairclough had lost his wife, though. He looked as if he understood. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.
He nodded in acknowledgment. “Are you fond of children, Mrs. Sparks?”
“I am.” She glanced self-consciously at Mr. Gilchrist, wondering again if he had seen the baby clothes in her trunk.
Mr. Gilchrist looked very bland as he said, “Do you have that darling miniature of your little girl, sir?”
Mr. Fairclough opened his watch and turned it to face her. The lid held a miniature depicting a girl of seven or eight with carefully tended blond ringlets, a sharp chin and her father’s piercing eyes.
Phoebe tried to hide the covetousness in her breast. “She takes after you.”
“She’s prettier,” Mr. Fairclough said with satisfaction. “Cleverer as well.” He eyed Phoebe. “I’d like to have more.”
Phoebe flushed. “So would I.” There was something shocking in considering marriage, and children, and all that entailed, so early in an acquaintance. Of course it was always on one’s mind when meeting an eligible man, but in a distant way. She and Mr. Fairclough might really be married and sharing a bed in a fortnight.
The memory of her kiss with Mr. Dymond intruded guiltily. She had wanted him so badly, and now half an hour later she was thinking about bedding Mr. Fairclough. Had she grown unchaste and indiscriminate without the regulating pleasures of the marriage bed? Or had Mr. Dymond’s kiss uncovered all her long-buried desires? Her body felt awakened, aware. She had ignored it for years, and now it clamored for attention.
Ashamed and self-conscious, Phoebe couldn’t find much to say through the meal. Mr. Fairclough was either equally anxious or a man of few words. The conversation was carried chiefly by Helen and Mr. Gilchrist, who talked with determined gaiety of the weather and tomorrow’s St. Crispin’s Day celebrations before discovering a topic that interested them both: the latest London fashions.
Mr. Gilchrist was perfectly willing, even eager, to explain the desired cut of the new style of sleeve and what exactly a Spanish button was. A dozen times, Phoebe met Mr. Fairclough’s eyes with shared amusement. It was plain he cared as little for the finer points of fashion as she did.
When Mr. Gilchrist suggested a stroll after dinner, it seemed natural that he and Helen should fall behind still chatting of hussar cloaks and coquilla nut bracelets. Phoebe and Mr. Fairclough, brisker walkers, ended up ahead.
“You are new to Lively St. Lemeston, I understand,” Phoebe said to break the silence.
He nodded. “I spent most of my life in Lewes, processing flax for the sailmakers up North. My brother manages the manufactory now. Lately Mr. Jessop put us in the way of a large contract with the navy. I knew him from the ministerialist party in Lewes.”
Ministerialists, ha! Tories never called themselves plain Tories; it was always a grander name. Don’t let your prejudices spoil a good thing, she admonished herself. “How splendid that you were able to do your part for King and country. I suppose you will be selling the government your gunpowder too?”
He laughed. “I hope so. I shan’t make much money from pheasant hunting.”
She laughed back, turning her face up to his—and saw that they were passing the windows of the Honey Moon. Mr. Moon paused in serving trifle to a customer to gaze stricken at her. Cream dripped unnoticed from his spoon to the counter.
She faced ahead and tried not to think of him, or Betsy or Peter or the way everything in the front of the shop was kept so lovingly clean while the kitchens were a busy, well-used mess. She could not marry to please a confectionery.
“My parents took us to Lewes once,” she said. “We went to see Sarah Siddons when she toured in Macbeth. Helen was only nine and cried so hard at the assassination scene that we were obliged to leave the theater. I’m not sure I’ve quite forgiven her to this day.”
Mr. Fairclough frowned. “Nine is too young for Macbeth.”
“Well, I know that,” Phoebe said hastily. “I was quite angry at my parents for bringing her, too. I wanted one of them to stay at the play with me, but my mother was frightened by Lewes’s bustle and wouldn’t hear of being separated.” Phoebe had sulked for weeks afterwards with all the single-minded resentment of sixteen.
“It’s a big city.” He gave her one of his brief smiles. “I saw Sarah Siddons when she was in Lewes. This was seven years ago?”
Phoebe nodded. “Do you think we were at the same performance?”
“Could be.”
“Wouldn’t that be a marvelous coincidence?”
“Not so marvelous,” he said, frowning again. He fixed his piercing eyes on her. “I was already a man of middle age then. You were a young girl.”
Mr. Moon was a boy next to this man. She resolutely didn’t think of Mr. Dy
mond. “I don’t think a difference in age is a bar to happiness.”
“You may meet a younger fellow later, one you like better.”
She stiffened. “I keep my vows, sir.”
He nodded. “Good. I like you, Mrs. Sparks. I’d like you to meet my daughter. If she don’t take a dislike to you, and you want to marry, we shall. Are you free tomorrow?”
She was, but she felt suddenly cornered. Perhaps in the morning, she wouldn’t feel so certain she preferred him. And then, this was giving her vote to the Tories, and maybe condemning the Honey Moon to bankruptcy. It would be a strange upheaval for poor Miss Fairclough to meet her if Phoebe wasn’t sure.
But if she stalled, would he be angry that she was less decisive than he? “I don’t know,” she said finally. “The polls will open Friday fortnight. We’ll need a few days to obtain the license. That gives us ten days. I’d like to meet you again once or twice before I risk your daughter’s feelings. I like you too, but marriage is a great step, even at election time.”
He nodded, his eyes warming. “You don’t let yourself be rushed into a deal. Good for you. May I take you driving Monday morning, then?”
She agreed. “How was Mrs. Siddons’s mad scene?”
He whistled. “The hairs stood up on the backs of my arms.”
Phoebe sighed.
“She’ll do it again,” he said. “I know she retired this summer, but these actors never really retire, do they? She’ll get up a revival at Drury Lane, or one of her brother’s provincial theaters. I’ll take you.”
She drew in a breath at the idea, eyes widening, and he gave her another of those startlingly boyish smiles.
When the men left them at their door, Mr. Gilchrist bowed over her hand and murmured, “I told you I knew your taste in men.”
“You have the oiliest smile, did anyone ever tell you that?” she murmured back.
He blinked, looking injured. “Frequently. I don’t know why. Will I see you and your sister at the Pink-and-White Literary and Philosophical Society supper this evening?”
She glanced at Helen, who nodded resignedly. “I look forward to it,” Phoebe said, half-expecting to see the sun falling from the sky or some nearby rocks melting. But nothing of the kind transpired.
Chapter Eleven
“Do you think they’ll expect us to be wearing pink-and-white rosettes?” Helen ruthlessly repinned a tendril of Phoebe’s hair that had, against all odds, come loose on the walk to the Drunk St. Leonard.
“If they do, they will be disappointed. They shall have to content themselves with my hair, which looks lovely. Thank you, Ships.” Phoebe’s escape from hair-arranging at dinner was now being paid for. She counted no less than six separate braids, woven into a tight coil at the crown of her head. Four fat curling-iron ringlets dangled, their arrangement and shape about as natural and artless as Lord Wheatcroft’s ornamental trout stream. The odor of heating hair still lingered in her nostrils.
Helen smiled, her face lighting up with pride. “You look lovely. That dress really does become you.” Phoebe was in the same blue dress she had worn to the Whig dance, but she was hardly the only voter in town with only one set of Sunday best.
Besides, since Thursday it had sprouted several inches of white embroidery around the hem, the neck and each sleeve. Helen had spent hours refurbishing Phoebe’s wardrobe over the last three days, sewing until her sight blurred and her fingers cramped. Helen liked sewing and she had good reason to avoid her own thoughts just now, so Phoebe hadn’t said anything, but she worried there was some sort of penance in it.
Opening the tavern’s front door, they were greeted by a great wave of sound. Six trestle tables had been pushed together to fill much of the room’s length. Mr. Jessop was seated at the head of the table with his daughter. Mr. Dromgoole and his wife took the foot, and each side was filled with voters and their families on a hodgepodge of chairs, stools and benches.
Her eyes found Mr. Fairclough immediately. He showed to advantage in the boisterous company, quiet and a little withdrawn, a nearly full mug cradled in his hands. She waved to catch his attention—drat, would he find that vulgar? But he gave her one of his brief smiles and stood, indicating the empty chair beside him. There was only one.
“I was hoping my sister could sit with us.”
“By a stroke of luck there’s an empty seat by me,” a familiar voice said. She turned to see Mr. Gilchrist a little way down the table on the other side, also guarding an empty chair. She shot a suspicious glance at Mr. Fairclough, who shrugged, his eyes creasing in amusement.
It was difficult to be angry when they were so pleased at their small subterfuge. “Helen, if you’d rather not, we’ll find other seats.”
Helen rolled her eyes and smiled. “It will be a sacrifice, of course,” she said, but she was speaking more to Mr. Gilchrist than to Phoebe, already walking towards him. Phoebe felt a pang. This was how Helen’s life should be. She should be free to flirt and talk and enjoy men’s attentions. She shouldn’t have to worry they would expect something of her. She shouldn’t have to guard a shameful secret.
“Sorry about that,” Mr. Fairclough said in her ear as she sat. “I wanted you all to myself.”
Having assumed Mr. Gilchrist wanted Helen all to himself, she warmed at this new interpretation, but didn’t know how to reply. Looking down the table, she recognized the greater part of the guests, ranging from Tory worthies of the town to a few artisans and tradesmen. She saw several lawyers her father had faced in court again and again—he representing some small fellow in danger of bankruptcy or imprisonment, they the interests of the corporation, the landlord or the bank. She saw their clients, too, and the magistrates who almost always ruled in their favor.
One of the men at the table had begun a local petition a few years ago, opposing the expansion of the franchise. She and Will had started a contrary one and got twice the signatures, but the Tories’ names had been higher and more respectable. “The better sort,” Mr. Jessop had called them, and somehow only the Tory petition was presented to Parliament.
Wait till the next election, Will had said. We’ll get our man in then.
This was the next election. Will was dead, and she was at this supper. Will and her father would hate that she was here. She hated that she was here.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Fairclough said. “They don’t bite.”
She tried to clear the trouble from her face. “And you, Mr. Fairclough? Do you bite?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled again. “Only sometimes.”
She liked him. She would probably even like him to bite her. If she left, she would have no choice but Mr. Moon.
“What are you doing here?” someone hissed in her ear. She jumped. Jack. Jack was here? He was wearing his Sunday best, too—although he wore boots instead of his buckled shoes in unmistakable disrespect for his hosts. Miss Jessop wouldn’t be pleased.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she hissed back. “Later.” She turned to Mr. Fairclough. “Mr. Fairclough, this is my brother-in-law, Jack Sparks. He publishes the town newspaper.”
Mr. Fairclough held out his hand. “The Mercury?”
Jack’s face darkened. The Mercury was the monthly Tory newsletter. (If you can even call it that, Will had told her hundreds of times. By the time they bring that thing out, none of it’s news anymore.) Since Jack ran the only press in town, the Mercury was printed in Lewes and shipped in at Lord Wheatcroft’s expense.
“Mr. Fairclough is new to town,” Phoebe interposed hastily. “No, Mr. Sparks’s paper is the Intelligencer.”
“I see.” Mr. Fairclough sounded less friendly. Phoebe elbowed Jack, hard.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Jack said, but his eyes strayed to Miss Jessop halfway through their handshake. The seat on her right was taken by Mr. Anti-Reform Petition. She cast Jack a longing look. He returned it, his fair hair wafting sadly down over his forehead.
“Spill something on his coat and take the chair
,” Phoebe suggested.
“I wish it were that simple,” Jack said miserably. “Even if the chair were free, Jessop wouldn’t let me have it. She’s forbidden to see me.”
Her heart sank. “Is there any more of that cider?” she asked Mr. Fairclough.
Phoebe had almost forgotten what real cooking tasted like. When Mr. Fairclough filled a plate for her without asking what she wanted, she didn’t take him to task but simply set to eating. Roast goose, hot potatoes dripping with anchovy sauce, a roll still hot from the oven, bacon and fricassee of turnips…heaven.
You look like a pig with a trough, her mother’s voice told her. He filled your plate too full. You don’t have to eat it just because it’s there. She drank more cider to shut the voice up and tried not to listen too closely to the election talk around her. But eventually the main course ended and the desserts were brought out.
“Of course we expect our representative to guard against further bills in favor of the Papists,” Mr. Fairclough said to the man on his left as he began to fill her plate with sweets. Across the table, Jack poured another mug of cider.
“I don’t much care for sweets,” she said.
“After all, we don’t know where their true loyalties lie,” he continued, heaping chocolate cream on her plate. “With the Crown or with Rome?”
“Mr. Fairclough, I don’t much care for sweets,” she tried again, louder.
He carefully selected a jelly-covered sword knot and set it next to the chocolate cream. “Napoleon was crowned by the Pope, wasn’t he? Who’s to say they—”
“Whatever their faith, they are still Englishmen!”
A dozen heads swiveled to look at her. Helen shook her head in warning and Jack covered his eyes with his hand—but only for a moment, as it was difficult to drink cider in that position.
Mr. Fairclough blinked. Then he smiled, relaxing. “No, Mrs. Sparks, you must consider the matter logically. Allow the Catholics into public office and the military, and who’s next? The Jews?” There was general laughter around the table at the folly of this idea.
