Love's Harbinger

by Joan Smith

  “Why don’t we have dinner sent up here instead?” Faith suggested.

  “Dull! The inn is alive with patrons due to the election. We shall go below. Who knows, we might run into some acquaintance. Sir John had any number of relatives and friends in this area. Come along, child, scramble into your gown. There is no need to worry over your curls. Delamar will not see you tonight.” Sliding a surreptitious glance at her niece, she noticed the self-conscious look that took possession of her face. “I wonder what he is up to,” she added.

  “Meeting with Mr. Fletcher, I expect, and preparing his article on the election here.”

  “Perhaps we’ll bump into them downstairs,” the dame said hopefully.

  They went below and spoke to the proprietor. A private parlor was not immediately available, which suited Lady Lynne down to the heels since it gave her an excellent excuse to loiter about the lobby and peruse the gentlemen there. A carefully arranged accident with her shawl, catching it on the elbow of a handsome squire as she whisked past him, brought about her first new acquaintance.

  The gentleman picked up the fallen shawl and handed it to her, but was soon made to realize he was expected to help with its placement over her shoulders. While he performed this office, she smiled and said, “I have never seen a small inn so busy. What can be going on here?”

  Her niece was aware, after six weeks’ residence with her aunt, that she was not expected to blurt out the answer, which was equally well known to them both.

  “Why, we are in the middle of a by-election, ma’am,” the man told her.

  “Oh, politics!” Lady Lynne exclaimed, and quickly pondered whether to display a maidenly ignorance, which would permit the man to enlighten her, or a worldly knowledge, to put them on an equal footing. A provincial, she decided, would prefer his women ignorant. “Are they electing a new cabinet minister? I heard nothing of it in London.”

  A pair of bright country eyes danced gleefully at her stupidity. “Nothing so grand, madam. Only a simple M.P.”

  He appeared to be on the verge of continuing on his way, and she hastily threw in a remark to detain him. “That would be why my niece and I have to wait for a vacant parlor, then,” she said. “I assure you we are not accustomed to standing around in inn lobbies, chatting to strangers. But at least we may overcome the latter impropriety. I am Lady Lynne and this is my niece, Lady Faith Mordain.”

  “Squire Brody, at your service, melady,” he said, and bowed deeply.

  “So kind of you,” she crooned. “Do you have something to do with the election, Mr. Brody? I don’t want to keep you from your duties.”

  “Nothing official, though I am a very interested constituent. You will see half the town collected here, waiting to hear the results.”

  Faith, hoping to hear something of use to Mr. Delamar, intruded herself into the conversation. “Who do you think will win, Mr. Brody?”

  “Oh, Young Shaft, for a certainty. It is only the confirmation we are waiting to hear, and then we shall begin celebrating in earnest. We expect to see Shaft come, smiling, through the door at any moment now.”

  Lady Lynne heard the name Shaft for the first time and it sounded familiar to her. “Not George Shaft?” she asked.

  “No, old George’s passing away is what brought on the by-election. It is his son Willie who took up the standard for him. Are you acquainted with the family, then?”

  “Connected slightly on my late husband’s side. My husband, Sir John Lynne, was an M.P. before he passed away.”

  “Then you will want to meet young Willie,” Mr. Brody said.

  A country member young enough to be her son was of little interest to Lady Lynne, so she did not press this issue. It was again Faith who thought it might be put to Delamar’s advantage. “We should very much like to offer him our congratulations,” she said.

  The proprietor came forward and told them their parlor was now available. Lady Lynne invited Mr. Brody to take a glass of wine with them, but he was more interested in talking to his friends and declined. They were led to a small parlor a little out of the way. By leaving the door open, they had a view of new arrivals at least. A good meal was always enough to divert Lady Lynne, but Faith was preoccupied.

  The wind howled wildly past the windows, and the slash of rain against the panes was upsetting. Though she still had Thomas to worry about, it was Mr. Delamar who was at the top of her thoughts. She wondered what he was doing out on such a stormy night. But then he was accustomed to hardship—what would he care for a mere storm when he was used to being shot at? It must have been the war that gave him that hardened appearance she found so disagreeable. Yet he could be tender, too, at times. Was he tender with that other woman, the one he had loved in vain? She pictured a señorita with flashing black eyes. That would be the sort of woman to appeal to Mr. Delamar.

  Their dinner was eaten and removed. While Lady Lynne sipped her wine and considered the advantage of apple tart versus gingerbread and gooseberry preserves for dessert, a commotion in the hall beyond alerted them to a new arrival at the inn. She leaned forward to see who had entered, then pushed back her chair. “It’s Guy!” she exclaimed happily. “Soaked to the skin. He looks as though he’s just been fished out of the sea. Someone’s with him.” She ran to the door and called him in.

  He was, indeed, thoroughly drenched. His black hair was plastered against his head and water dripped from his shoulders. He stopped at the door and bowed. “Good evening, ladies. I’m happy to see you managed to get a parlor. I was afraid you might be consigned to your chamber for the entire evening.”

  “Come in, come in,” Lady Lynne urged. “Join us, if you haven’t eaten. You’ll never get a parlor. We had to wait an age.”

  Behind him in the doorway lurked another soaking-wet man. “We’re in no condition to join you,” Guy said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, but his eyes turned to Faith to read her mood.

  “Mr. Delamar must change, Auntie. He’ll catch his death of cold if he doesn’t.”

  “It’s only our outer coats that are soaked,” he pointed out, and removed his to show a dry jacket, though the bottom of his trousers was a shade darker than the top and Faith was convinced his boots were soaked through.

  “Why, you’re dry as a desert,” Lady Lynne declared. “Come and join us and tell us what you’ve been up to. There is plenty of room for you both.”

  “If you’re sure we won’t crowd you . . .” he said, again looking to Faith. She smiled a small welcome, and it was settled but for the gentlemen to run up to Fletcher’s room to towel-dry their hair. Even Lady Lynne’s eagerness for company allowed them that small vanity.

  When they returned, they were wearing clean shirts and cravats and a scent of some spicy cologne hovered around them. Guy introduced the ladies to his employee, Dick Fletcher. His skin was the same heathenish color as his companion’s, though his blond hair and blue eyes proclaimed him an Englishman even before he spoke. His accent proclaimed him a gentleman.

  “Dick and I were together in Spain,” Guy said briefly. He never said more than the minimum on that subject. “Dick does some of my best pieces for the Harbinger, especially on politics.”

  “What have you learned about the election here?” Faith asked, aiming her question between the two men.

  “We’ve learned plenty,” Fletcher said, “but proving it is something else again. The election was certainly rigged—it began at the polling booth, before the returns were taken for counting. The usual preelection tricks were carried out as well, of course. Bribery, treating, perhaps a little coercion here and there.”

  “Treating?” Lady Lynne asked. “I never heard Sir John speak of that. Is it something new?”

  “As old as Adam,” Mr. Fletcher replied. “The non-Tory voters are wined and dined to such excess before the election that they aren’t in shape to stumble to the polls. But even with that help, the Tories weren’t sure of taking it. Guy and I hung around outside the returning officers’ window, trying
to see what went on. Graveston kicked up such a fuss that the Whig was allowed a representative in on the counting.”

  “I’m by no means sure the scrutineers weren’t stuffing a few votes into their pockets or up their sleeves,” Guy added. “It was hard to see through the window with the rain pouring down. We’re interested to see the final count. Dick’s taken his own unofficial poll and he figures it should be a close call. If the Tories come in with some inordinate majority, we’ll know they juggled the count.”

  “And we won’t be able to print it because we have no proof,” Dick added, shaking his head in frustration.

  Faith listened with the keenest interest, and when a silence fell, she said, “My aunt is slightly acquainted with the Shaft family. Sir John was a Tory M.P., as you know, Guy.” The name slid out unawares, but Mr. Delamar noticed and smiled. She thought his pleasure was in her news and continued eagerly. “If she could talk to him privately—well, I don’t suppose he’d crop out into a confession, but he might speak fairly freely with another Tory.”

  “But would a Tory lady relay her findings to the Harbinger?” he asked, leveling a conning smile at the chaperone, who cared no more for politics than she cared for higher mathematics.

  Her inane laughter cheered the gentlemen immensely. “Lud, it’s the least I can do after all your help the past few days.” And, with luck, his continued help. The bill for dinner had not been presented yet.

  A waiter appeared and the men ordered their dinner. While Guy and Fletcher attacked beefsteaks, the ladies enjoyed their apple tart and coffee, and they all laid plans to con Mr. Willie Shaft into indiscretion.

  “It’s a pity old George upped and died. Him I could have handled,” Lady Lynne said. “It is his son we’re dealing with now, and I’ve never even met the man, though I can reasonably present myself to him as a friend of his papa. What is Willie like?”

  It was Dick Fletcher who had been busy learning about the candidate. “A bumptious, ignorant farmer who’ll go up to London and vote as he’s told so long as the local patronage is given to him.”

  “Yes, but what is he like?” Lady Lynne repeated. “Is he married? Is he a toper, a womanizer? Is he handsome?” she added, from habit.

  Guy grinned. “Single, not overly abstemious or misogynistic, not a bad-looking gent. About twenty-six or seven,” he added. Such was his opinion of Lady Lynne that he looked to see if she was ready to tackle him.

  “Then it will be for Faith to take him on,” the dame said.

  “Me?” Faith objected. Her protest was hardly louder than Mr. Delamar’s, though it was voiced in a higher tone.

  “It won’t be necessary to involve Lady Faith in anything of the sort,” he said firmly. “A postelection party is no place for a lady like Faith.”

  She noticed the angry flush on his cheeks and the hot glance he shot at her. He thought she’d make a botch of it—that’s what was bothering him. He didn’t think she was capable of enchanting a man just because he didn’t like her. She knew she wasn’t outgoing, but with a provincial like Willie Shaft, she would be able to flirt.

  “There’s hardly a sober soul in the inn already and the results aren’t even in yet,” Mr. Fletcher added.

  “That’s true,” Guy agreed. “In fact, I strongly recommend you ladies go to your room. I’ll accompany you up.”

  “Good gracious,” Lady Lynne said with a laugh, “the provincials of Fareham can hardly be so wicked that you must interrupt your dinner to take us up now.” She regarded the two young bucks and had no desire whatsoever to leave the table. “In fact, I mean to have another sliver of that apple tart.”

  She ladled a five-inch sliver onto her plate and proceeded to gobble it up, before offering at least to make Guy and Mr. Fletcher known to Willie Shaft as soon as she had met him herself.

  “If we happen to meet him on the way to your room,” Guy agreed. “But for God’s sake, don’t tell him who we are.”

  “I’m Dick Fletcher, a shipping magnate in a very small way,” Fletcher informed her.

  “I’m a colleague, Mr. Charles by name.”

  A judicious dawdling till the candidate was heard entering the inn made the introduction possible. By this time, the taproom had flowed over into the lobby and the crowd—all male except for Faith and her chaperone and a few members of the muslin company—was becoming rowdy but not so out of hand that they failed to make a path for the ladies.

  In the distance, Faith could see that there were women in the throng and said to Guy, “We aren’t the only ladies here after all.”

  “Yes, you are,” he answered firmly.

  “If those persons in skirts are not ladies, pray what are they?” she asked.

  He looked down and smiled quizzically. “How old are you, Lady Faith?”

  “I’m eighteen. Why?”

  “Eighteen? Then the persons in skirts are actresses,” he said, and laughed when the truth dawned on her.

  Guy pointed out Mr. Shaft, a tall, gangly country fellow with brown hair and a sallow complexion.

  Lady Lynne strode boldy up to him. “Mr. Shaft, allow me to introduce myself and to congratulate you on your coming victory.” She smiled brightly. “My husband and I were close friends of your dear late papa. Sir John knew George forever—from the egg. I am the widow of Sir John Lynne.” She went on to qualify herself as a staunch Tory lady. The obvious conclusion was that her companions were also true blue. There was not such a surfeit of “ladies” in Fareham that Mr. Shaft resented her support. His chest swelled in pleasure to be so flattered in front of his friends.

  Guy and Fletcher edged up beside her and were presented as friends. “You’ve heard of the Fletcher-Charles shipping line, of course,” she added. “Mr. Charles is thinking of switching some of his cargo to your port here at Fareham. Perhaps you can do a little something to help him, eh, Mr. Shaft?” she added.

  Shaft’s shifty eyes slid to examine the pair for possible mutual benefit and shook their hands. He next spotted Lady Faith, who stood smiling demurely at him. “You haven’t made me acquainted with this young lass,” he said to Lady Lynne.

  “My niece, Lady Faith Mordain,” she said.

  Shaft stepped forward and made a stiff bow. Faith curtsied and cast a coquettish glance at him. “It’s such a thrill to meet a real M.P., Mr. Shaft,” she cooed.

  “I’m not confirmed yet,” he pointed out, but the goatish gleam in his eyes told her he didn’t object to her assuming him victorious.

  “I’m sure you will be. The voters of Fareham couldn’t vote for anyone else when they have you to lead them.”

  His chest swelled perceptibly, and he placed her hand on his arm to cut her off from the others. “That’s very kind of you to say so, my dear. Do you come to this part of the country often?”

  “I haven’t . . . till now. I never had any reason to.”

  “Perhaps we can find a reason, then,” he said.

  The crowd was closing in on them, which gave him an excuse to put an arm around her waist and help her through. She felt his fingers tighten noticeably and quelled the instinct to call him to order. Instead she smiled sweetly.

  “How long are you staying, Lady Faith? Perhaps we could get together later for a good cose.”

  “And you can tell me all about how you got elected,” she agreed.

  He gave a cynical laugh. “Aye, there’s a story there, right enough.”

  “I bet you did something wickedly clever!” she approved. “Papa says one Tory know more tricks than all the Whigs combined.”

  “There’s something in that.”

  She looked a question at him, but before more could be said, Mr. Delamar was there, physically removing Shaft’s hand from her arm and saying “Your aunt is waiting for you” in a rather imperative voice.

  “Good night, Mr. Shaft. Perhaps we can talk again soon,” Faith said.

  “That we will, milady.” He performed a rustic bow and was soon engulfed by his well-wishers.

  Faith tur
ned a quizzing eye on Delamar. “That was an untimely intrusion, sir. I had him in the palm of my hand.”

  She received no compliment, only an angry glower. “It wasn’t the palm of your hand that concerned me. It was his, the mushroom. Why did you do it?”

  Heady with her small success, she shrugged her shoulders and said airily, “Perhaps to show you that I could bring a man around my finger as well as the next lady if I wanted to.”

  He blinked in surprise. “To show me a lesson, in fact?”

  “It's time someone did, Mr. Delamar,” she bantered. A reluctant smile entered his eyes. “That particular one was redundant. I’m already aware of your powers.”

  “I saw the look on your face when Auntie suggested it. You didn’t think I could do it.”

  “I didn’t think you should do it—there’s a difference. You ladies must remove yourselves from this melee before it turns rough. Fletcher and I are known now and can return later.”

  With the utmost reluctance, Lady Lynne allowed herself and Faith to be shepherded through the throng and taken to their room. She attached herself to Guy, which left Faith to follow with Mr. Fletcher.

  “This is very kind of you,” Fletcher said. “From the way Guy’s been talking, I didn’t expect you ladies to take any active part in this job.”

  “My family are Tories,” she admitted, “but since reading the Harbinger . . . It is very shocking, that business of whole families having to go out to work in the north of England. And the corn laws, too! I want to learn more about politics.”

  “Wanting is the beginning of getting, Guy says. Only look how he has proven the axiom. He has worked his way up from nothing to become one of the most influential men in England. Politicians come begging for his help. I shouldn’t be too surprised to see him prime minister one day. He’d make a fine one, don’t you think?”

  She gave the question serious consideration before answering. His broad back proceeded up the stairs in front of her. “Yes, I think he would,” she admitted slowly.

  Fletcher smiled down at her. “He’ll be happy to hear you think so, Lady Faith. He’s taken the unaccountable notion that you despise him because he is a self-made man.”