Two of the speakers had the lean build of coldmongers and stood slightly to the side of the platform. The third was Mr. O’Brien. His red hair was caught in one of the rare rays of sunlight, and it glowed in a fiery corona. He held up his hands, calling for silence. “My friends, I beg you to reconsider. You have heard Sir David speak of the likelihood that the Crown will fire upon us.”
“And that’s why we should march!” A young white man with yellow hair stood and raised his fist above his head. He had abandoned his coat in the absence of women, and his blue armband stood out sharply on his shirt sleeve. “We’ve been cast aside, and must show that we will not be forgotten!”
“No, no, that is what they want. Please. Taking time to reconsider our plans will not harm the movement.”
“What about those of us who are being beaten any time we leave the gates?” A young man with light brown skin pushed himself up. “Chill Will’s been beaten twice, and Ice Mike almost lost an eye. Are we just going to let that keep happening? I say No. No! NO!”
The young men around him roared with approval. They were all young men, some no more than boys. No one here was over thirty. All were slender, some to the point of appearing emaciated. And she counted four men just among those near to her who were missing fingers. Their health was the price paid for cooling Jane in the summer or keeping produce fresh just that little bit longer. And yet, to say that she would not use coldmongers any more … what work would they have, then?
“If you march now, you will confirm every fear, every rumour that has been spread about you. For months it has been put about that coldmongers are a danger, and the march will be seen to confirm that.” Mr. O’Brien stretched his hands toward them, pleading. “Please, Mr. Lucas. Please, consider the consequences. And let me plead that if you are set upon this, that the march give no cause for alarm. Let it be peaceful.”
“If they were afraid of us before, I say let’s give them a reason.” Mr. Lucas stood on a bench and addressed the group. “Lord Eldon has turned his back on his heritage. This will get his attention. And if the people are more afraid of us? I say good. Perhaps they will leave us alone when we go out if we remind them how many coldmongers live in this city. Did we not assemble to march tonight? I say we march!”
The shout of approbation rattled though Jane’s chest. Vincent pressed his hands to the side of his head and squeezed his eyes shut, though whether because his head still ached or from dismay, Jane could not be certain. She felt nothing but alarm and fear. If Mr. Lucas was not the agent of Lord Verbury, then he was doing his work for him out of naïveté.
Mr. Lucas faced Mr. O’Brien and lowered his voice. “My question to you, sir, is if you will also turn your back on us, or if you will march?”
The silence that followed that question rang almost as violently as the shouts had. Mr. O’Brien dropped his hands to his side, looking inexpressibly sad. “Of course. I am with you.”
* * *
The anger carried the coldmongers outside. Mr. O’Brien strode out after them, his face forbidding. In the yard they assembled, passing out signs and banners. Some of the coldmongers had horses and they swung up onto those. Two rode close to each other with a banner spread between them that read, REMEMBER THE COLDMONGERS—SUMMER IS COMING.
The wind had come up while they were indoors, making that slogan seem a lie. It swept through the quadrangle, stirring coattails and snatching hats. The horses’ manes snapped in the cold breeze. Jane shivered and wished for a bonnet, which did more to keep out the cold than a top hat.
She looked at the barely contained chaos and turned to Vincent. He was staring at her with the strangest expression on his face. He blushed and looked away, wetting his lips. Still looking across the yard, he leaned down to whisper, “I was thinking about what my father would say if he knew that I found you attractive in trousers.”
Her coat seemed too warm, suddenly. She whispered back, “I do not care what he would say, if you like them.”
The corner of his eye wrinkled into his small private smile. A frown followed as the first torch was lit. “Will you go home?”
“Will you?”
He hung his head, with a little laugh. “There are times when I wish we were not so well matched in temperament.”
“Melody will never forgive me if something happens to him.” As she spoke, Mr. O’Brien swung up onto his horse. Jane’s heart sank as he did. “Is that the horse that Beau Brummell wanted?”
Vincent turned and scowled. “It is.”
The horse was tall, taller than even the Duke of Wellington’s Copenhagen, and towered over the other horses like an equestrian statue cast in bronze. Its coat could be called bay, but that did no justice to the brilliance of its hide. It was a red horse, as red as Mr. O’Brien’s hair. There could be no other horse like it. “And is it well known that he rides it?”
Vincent’s face tightened as he made the same connection that Jane had. “The Earl must be planning on making him a dupe. I will see if I can convince him to change horses.”
“I brought a horse. See if he will take it?”
As Vincent pressed through the crowd, Jane followed. She had little hope that he would succeed. When Mr. O’Brien heard that Vincent thought the horse made him a mark, he would likely cling to it all the more. The effort must be made, however.
“Sir? A word, if you please.” Vincent looked up at Mr. O’Brien.
“Of course.” Mr. O’Brien glanced at Jane, but did not look beyond her clothing. His attention moved past them, taking in the coldmongers as they prepared to march.
“I think that the Earl of Verbury plans to mark you by—”
“Gods, no.” Mr. O’Brien straightened in his saddle and looked past Vincent. Jane followed his gaze, wondering what had caught his attention. On the far side of the iron gate, she caught a shock of golden curls under a bonnet with blue ostrich feathers.
Jane grasped Vincent’s coat sleeve. What in heaven’s name was her sister thinking?
Mr. O’Brien pushed his horse forward to the gate. Jane followed him through the press of people as he broke through some of the lines that formed as the coldmongers organised themselves.
Jane grasped the metal fence. “Melody, what are you doing here?”
Melody looked at her, then looked again. Behind her spectacles, her eyes widened with alarm as she looked a third time. “Jane?”
Now Mr. O’Brien recognised her. “Lady Vincent?”
“Yes and yes.” She frowned at Melody. “You ought not be here. This is no place for a young lady to come alone.”
“It is no place for a woman at all.” Mr. O’Brien swung down from his horse. “Both of you should go back.”
“Melody, let me take you home.” Jane was aware of Vincent at her back, strong and alert for additional danger.
Melody shook her head. “No. This is a just cause, and I want to add my voice to it.” She held up a placard, neatly written. ALL OUT OF WORK AND COLD FOR ACTION!—HENRY V. “I made a sign.”
“But the Coldmongers’ Company does not admit women.” Mr. O’Brien twisted the reins of his horse. “So, you see, there is nothing you can do here.”
The gates opened and the march tumbled onto the street. Melody lifted her chin and backed away from the fence. “But when they are on the street, who will complain?” She turned and ran to join the ranks of young men, lifting her placard to join theirs.
Mr. O’Brien cursed and swung up onto his saddle. He wheeled the horse and pressed forward into the marching ranks of coldmongers.
Jane started to run after Melody, then cursed, remembering the horse she had brought. She was not enough of a horsewoman to feel comfortable directing it in this crowd. She turned to Vincent. “I hired a hack, the grey mare there. Will you take her? I will have better luck catching Melody afoot.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Be careful.”
Jane ran after her sister. She had no idea what she would do to keep her safe, but she could not abandon he
r, either.
Melody seemed to have a sixth sense about where the rest of them were. She ducked through the lines of coldmongers and pulled away from Jane, Vincent, or Mr. O’Brien any time they neared. If they had not been marching, Jane might have tried to mask herself with glamour, but that was not an option while they were in motion.
As they went, they picked up followers. Neighbours and family came out in force, so that soon Melody was not the only woman marching. Fortified by this early support, the coldmongers began to sing “’Twas in the Summer Warm.”
When they got to the third verse, Jane began to feel as though she had never heard the song before. Though not well trained, the profusion of young boys gave it an ethereal beauty, making the song a prayer for deliverance. Their voices drifted upward.
But I have, when the sun is high,
put forth above the clamour
’Tis winter deep in me, and I
with heart and with my glamour
O God, O brother let me give,
the blessed cool to Thee
that through your Grace I may yet live
May pure and spotless be …
In spite of the clouds overhead, which brought an early gloom to the evening, the torches made it seem all the brighter, but they added little to the warmth unless one stood close enough to be endangered by the flames when they gusted.
“Turn the collar of your coat up.” Vincent swung down from the horse to walk beside her. “You are shivering.”
“I am nervous.” Jane glanced at the clouds. “What if it snows? The people will think it due to the coldmongers.”
“It is not that cold.” Vincent turned and perused the marchers. “William! A question.”
“Sir?” The young coldmonger drifted back two rows to join them, but showed no signs of recognising Jane.
“Is it cold enough to make it snow or do any ice work tonight?”
The boy held out his hand and rolled his fingers as though feeling the air. “Naw. Not even close. I don’t think even Ice Mike could.”
“There, you see?” The brisk air seemed to have refreshed Vincent. He walked with his head up, and much of the colour had returned to his cheeks. Jane could not feel so easy.
As they crossed over Quatre Bras Bridge, the tenor of the march changed. They continued down Quatre Bras Street and a flood of other marchers suddenly joined them, shouting and singing their own songs. More imposing than the coldmongers, these men carried sledgehammers and clubs in addition to their torches.
One of them ran past Jane, laughing boisterously. He slapped her on the back as he passed. “Cheer up! Your Luddite brothers are here to support you!”
Hooting, another man thrust his torch to the sky. A third swept one of the smaller boys onto his shoulder and danced a jig as the little boy laughed and laughed. Thoroughly wild, they nevertheless fought back the gloomy night with much-needed cheer.
Jane, however, could think only of Major Curry and how he had been forced to fire upon the Luddites in the North. The danger of their situation seemed more apparent.
And the crowds they passed changed. The walkers crowded up against the walls of the shops by their passage scowled, or muttered imprecations, or even spat. The coldmongers gathered closer, but did not lose sight of their purpose. The Luddites shouted back, starting a chant of “Shame! Shame!”
Behind them, a mob of people now followed, but not to support them. These were here to watch the chaos.
At the head of the group of coldmongers, Mr. Lucas had pulled one of the younger boys up onto his saddle and rode with the lad kicking his heels in the air and singing lustily. By his side, impossible to miss, rode Mr. O’Brien on his fire-red mount, carrying the banner of the coldmongers. He kept turning in his saddle to watch Melody.
Jane had yet to get close enough to her sister for speech.
William nodded at Mr. O’Brien. “He’s something, ain’t he, Sir David? Told you as he was a great friend to the coldmongers.”
“That he is.”
“Having you with us, too—the Prince Regent’s glamourist—we got nothing to fear, now, do we?” The boy’s hero worship was all too apparent.
Vincent blanched and turned to Jane, the expression upon his face clear to her. By coming with them, he had given the coldmongers unfounded courage. The Prince Regent did not know, nor likely care, that Vincent was here. Yet leaving them would do nothing to stop the march.
Vincent handed Jane the reins of the horse, without a word, and bent down to talk to a boy who could not have been older than six. The poor child was flagging from the walk. With a smile, Vincent picked him up and swung him onto the saddle of the mare. The boy seized the horse’s mane with an infectious grin.
“Stop making it cold!” A gin bottle flew into the coldmongers’ ranks and dashed against the pavement. Glass flew everywhere, but thankfully no one was hit. That bottle, though, gave the mob following them courage.
Another bottle flew into their midst and hit a little boy on the back of his head. He staggered forward and dropped to his knees, blood trickling down his scalp.
“Scottie!” One of the women marching with them hurried over and picked him up.
He clung to her, bawling, and she carried him to the side of the crowd, pressing her handkerchief to his head.
The coldmongers tightened their ranks and sped up to a trot, pressing the ones in front of them forward at an ever-quicker pace. They began to sing “Joy to the World” with much spirit, making the song into an almost shouted chant.
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.
They turned onto Lower Thames Street and the Tower of London stood in front of them. The great causeway across the moat stood empty, with only the two ceremonial guards standing at the far end. Jane breathed a sigh of relief. She had never been so glad to be wrong.
All day—for weeks, it seemed—she had been drawing conclusions grounded in nothing but her own fears. It was a relief. A profound relief, to be wrong in this instance above all the others.
The marchers slowed as they entered the causeway. Broad though it was, it was narrower than the street they had been marching on. Jane took advantage of this crowding to finally reach Melody.
She grasped her sister’s hand to keep her from getting away. “I am sorry. I was wrong and wrong again.”
Melody pulled away. “Let go.”
“I will.” She dropped her hand, knowing that this was no way to make her sister listen. “Please. I was wrong about Mr. O’Brien. I was wrong about how I treated you. I was wrong about—”
A cry went up from the front of the crowd, followed by shouts and a rush back. Mr. O’Brien raised the banner higher and faced them. “Be strong!”
She could not see over the heads of those in front of her to tell what had frightened them. The crowd in back of them heaved, also shouting with sudden fear.
From behind her, Vincent shouted, “Jane!”
She turned to look at him and saw the thing that had so terrified the coldmongers. A great line of British militia was stepping onto the causeway, with rifles at ready. They appeared to pop out of the air. Her heart seized in her chest. They had been hidden by a Sphère Obscurcie.
She turned to the front again and now caught glimpses of red coats appearing in front of the Tower. The coldmongers were well and truly caught.
Jane pulled Melody by the hand, trying to work her way to the side, where the space seemed somewhat clearer. Vincent was trying to reach them, but was caught in a pocket of coldmongers. Even if Jane could get to the side, she did not know what good that would do, since the only escape left was over the edge and into the putrid moat below.
A shout, almost lost in the crowd.
Then a shot.
Screaming began in earnest. The mi
litia opened fire on them, driving the coldmongers into the middle of the bridge.
The little boy on her horse dropped, a single spot of red on his coat.
“Jane!” Vincent shouted. A mass of boys and red coats had him pinned, unable to reach her. Vincent twisted his hands, and an explosion seemed to rock the bridge.
She used the shock to push through the crowd and pull Melody to the edge. Jane threw her down by the stone wall, dropping beside her. If nothing else, they should stay low on the ground. Melody fought her, wildly. “Let go!”
“We have to stay down.”
“Alastar!” Melody reached her hand toward Mr. O’Brien.
He rode on his horse, turning it this way and that, trying to use its body to shield those that he could. The horse reared, whinnying, and the banner streamed against the sky. Red coats surrounded them and pulled Mr. O’Brien down.
A moment later, someone in a red coat reached down for them. “Miss Ellsworth! Come with me.” Major Curry, his rifle over his shoulder, pulled Melody to her feet. “It is not safe here.”
Relieved beyond measure to see him, Jane scrambled up and helped him support her sister. Melody was in hysterics, fighting them to get to Mr. O’Brien.
“Stop it. You can do nothing for him now.” Jane took Melody by the shoulders and held her until she stopped struggling. “We need to go to a place where we can help.”
Major Curry did not waste time with words. Together they half carried, half dragged Melody back across the causeway. Curry’s fellow soldiers strode among the coldmongers, beating them with their rifles. They were undiscerning as to the age of their victims, beating men and children alike, so long as they wore the blue armband of a coldmonger.
Without a Summer Page 20
