by Regina Darcy
“Who would govern us if not the king and Parliament?”
“I’ve no idea. But I am not enthusiastic about the situation as it now stands, and Prince George—King George, rather—is unlikely to be any better as king than he has been as Prince Regent.” He smiled. “Perhaps Guy Fawkes had the right idea. Barrels of gunpowder below the chambers where the House of Lords sits and ignite them.”
“Uncle! Surely you’re not saying we’d be better off with anarchy!” Phoebe smiled at him, amused by his fanciful notions.
“As Fawkes was foolish enough to have been discovered before his plot could unfurl, we shall never know, shall we? We could transport the gunpowder ourselves and see, taking care not to be noticed so that our political experiment could proceed.”
“You are quite the radical today,” Phoebe responded with a laugh.
“If you read the newspapers, you’d be radically inclined as well,” he said, handing it to her. “There’s a great deal of discontent bubbling up from the bottom.”
Bubbling up from the bottom was an intriguing description. “What do you mean,” Phoebe asked perplexed.
Unlike Papa and Mama, Uncle Glaston approved of a young woman knowing what was going on in the world around her and he encouraged her to read the daily newspapers. It was a secret between uncle and niece, one not shared with her parents who would have been shocked at the liberal boundaries of guardianship which Phoebe’s uncle allowed.
“The Prince Regent and his set live a very ostentatious sort of existence,” Lord Glastonburg explained. “He’s a fool, of course.”
“But with very good taste,” Phoebe interjected.
“I concede his taste; I dispute his sense. For people struggling to put food on the table, the magnificence of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton is an affront. Nothing at all is being done to balance the power of the traditional ruling class with the rising power of the industrial class. One cannot simply rattle one’s ancestral jewels in the direction of the class not born to fur and pearls and expect them to scurry back to their corners.” At the bewildered look on his nieces face, Lord Glastonburg took a deep breath and changed the subject.
“Speaking of fur and pearls . . . the Duchess of Tenley has invited us to a ball.”
Phoebe sighed and then pouted. “Must we?”
“I suppose so. Your mother will wonder how you are spending your time if I don’t provide evidence, every now and again, of some social event. You must go and I must take you. We shall endure our fates and absolve ourselves of mandatory attendance for the fortnight to follow.” Lord Glastonburg replied and winked at his niece. “It will give us the time we need to plot our overthrow of the government.”
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No 11: Rescuing the Marquise (WINTER STORIES)
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No 13: A Bartered Bride for Christmas (WINTER STORIES)
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