by Anne Perry
This time the rising noise had a different note to it, pride and anger and curiosity. Several men stood a little straighter, shoulders square. Pitt shifted quickly out of Voisey’s line of sight.
Voisey shouted above them. “It isn’t just glory—it’s a roof over your heads and food on your table.”
“’Ow about a shorter working day?” a tall man with ginger hair called out.
“If we lose the Empire, who are you going to work for?” Voisey challenged him. “Who are you going to buy from, sell to?”
“Nobody’s going ter lose the Empire!” the ginger-haired man replied with scorn. “Even them Socialists in’t that daft!”
“Mr. Gladstone’s going to lose it,” Voisey replied. “A piece at a time! First Ireland, then maybe Scotland and Wales. Who knows what after that—India, perhaps? No more hemp and jute, no more mahogany and rubber from Burma. Then Africa, Egypt, a piece at a time. If he can lose Ireland on his own doorstep, why not everywhere?”
There was a sudden silence, then a loud laugh, but there was no humor in it, instead there was a sharp undercurrent of doubt, perhaps even fear.
Pitt glanced around at the men closest to him. Every one of them was facing Voisey.
“We have to have trade,” Voisey went on, but now he had no need to shout. He pitched his voice to the back of the crowd, and it was sufficient. “We need the rule of law, and we need mastery of the seas. In order to share our wealth more fairly, we must first assure that we have it!”
There was a murmur that sounded like agreement.
“Do what you do well, no one on earth better!” Voisey’s tone held a ring of praise, even triumph. “And choose freely to represent you men who know how to make and keep the laws at home, and deal honorably and profitably with the other nations of the earth to preserve and add to what you have. Don’t elect old men who think they speak for God, but in truth only speak for the past, men who carry out their own wishes and don’t listen to yours.”
Now there was another roar from the crowd, but in many quarters it actually sounded like a cheer to Pitt’s ears.
Voisey did not keep them much longer. He knew they were tired and hungry and tomorrow morning would come all too soon. He had enough sense to stop while they were still interested, and more than that, while there was still time to get a good dinner and a couple of hours at the public house to take a few pints of ale and talk it all over.
He told them a swift joke, and another, and left them laughing as he walked back to his hansom and rode away.
Pitt was stiff from standing still, and cold inside with bitter admiration for the way Voisey had turned a crowd from hostile strangers into men who would remember his name, remember that he had not betrayed them or made false promises, that he had not assumed they would like him, and that he had made them laugh. They would not forget what he had said about losing the Empire that provided their work. It might make their employers rich, but the truth was that if their employers were poor, then they were even poorer. It might or might not be unjust, but many men there were realist enough to know that it was the way things were.
Pitt waited until Voisey had been out of sight for several minutes, then he walked across the dusty cobbles into the shade of the factory walls and along a narrow alley back towards the main road. Voisey had shown at least some of his tactics, but he had revealed no vulnerability at all. Aubrey Serracold was going to have to be more than charming and honest to equal him.
It was early yet to go home, especially to an empty house. He had a good book to read, but the silence would disturb him. Even the thought of it held a loneliness. There must be something else he could do which might be useful, perhaps more he could learn from Jack Radley? Maybe Emily could tell him something about Serracold’s wife? She was acutely observant and a realist in the ploys of power far more than Charlotte. She might have seen a weakness in Voisey, where a man, with his mind more on political policies and less on the person, might have missed it.
He leaned forward and redirected the driver of his hansom.
But when he arrived the butler told him with profound apologies that Mr. and Mrs. Radley were out at a dinner party and could not reasonably be expected home before one in the morning at the earliest.
Pitt thanked him and declined the offer to wait, as the butler had known he would. He returned to the cab, and told the driver to take him instead to Cornwallis’s flat in Piccadilly.
A manservant answered the door and without question conducted him through to Cornwallis’s small sitting room. It was furnished in the elegant but spare style of a captain’s cabin at sea, full of books, polished brass and dark, gleaming wood. Above the mantel shelf there was a painting of a square-rigged brigantine running before a gale.
“Mr. Pitt, sir,” the manservant announced.
Cornwallis dropped his book and rose to his feet in surprise and some alarm. “Pitt? What is it? What’s happened? Why are you not on Dartmoor?”
Pitt did not answer.
Cornwallis glanced at the manservant, then back at Pitt. “Have you eaten?” he asked.
Pitt was startled to realize that he had had nothing since the pie in the tavern near the factory. “No . . . not for a while.” He sank down in the chair opposite Cornwallis’s. “Bread and cheese would be fine . . . or cake if you have it.” He missed Gracie’s baking already, and the tins at home were empty. She had made nothing, expecting them all to be away.
“Bring Mr. Pitt bread and cheese,” Cornwallis directed. “And cider, and a slice of cake.” He looked back at Pitt. “Or would you prefer tea?”
“Cider is excellent,” Pitt replied, easing himself into the softness of the chair.
The manservant departed, closing the door behind him.
“Well?” Cornwallis demanded, resuming his own seat and the frown returning to his face. He was not handsome but there was a strength and a symmetry in his features which pleased one the longer one looked at him. When he moved it was with the grace and balance of his long years at sea, when he had had only the quarterdeck in which to pace.
“Something has arisen in connection with one of the parliamentary seats which Narraway wishes me to . . . to watch.” He saw the flash of anger in Cornwallis’s face, and knew it was because he saw injustice in Narraway’s not honoring Bow Street’s commitment to Pitt’s leave. It added to the outrage of the entire dismissal of Pitt’s reposting to suit the vengeance of the Inner Circle. All the old presumptions and certainties were gone, for both of them.
But Cornwallis did not probe. He was accustomed to the solitary life of a captain at sea who must listen to his officers but share only practicalities with them, not explain himself or indulge in emotions. He must always remain apart, maintain as much as possible of the fiction that he was never afraid, never lonely, never in doubt. It was the discipline of a lifetime and he could not now breach it. It had become part of his personality and he was no longer aware of it as a separate decision.
The manservant returned with the bread, cheese, cider and cake, for which Pitt thanked him. “You are welcome, sir.” He bowed and withdrew.
“What do you know of Charles Voisey?” Pitt asked as he spread the crusty bread with butter and cut off a heavy slice of pale, rich Caerphilly cheese and felt it crumble beneath the knife. He bit into it hungrily. It was sharp and creamy in his mouth.
Cornwallis’s lips tightened, but he did not ask why Pitt wanted to know. “Only what is public information,” he replied. “Harrow and Oxford, then called to the bar. Was a brilliant lawyer who made a good deal of money, but of more value in the long run, a great many friends in the places that count, and I don’t doubt a few enemies as well. Elevated to the bench, and then very quickly to the Court of Appeal. He knows how to take chances and appear courageous, and yet never slip badly enough to fall.”
Pitt had heard all this before, but it still concentrated his mind to have it put so succinctly.
“He is a man of intense pride,” Cornwallis continued.
“But in day-to-day life he has the skill to conceal it, or at least make it appear as something less offensive.”
“Less vulnerable,” Pitt said instantly.
Cornwallis did not miss the meaning. “You are looking for a weakness?”
Pitt remembered with an effort that Cornwallis knew nothing of the Whitechapel affair, except Adinett’s trial in the beginning and Voisey’s knighthood at the end. He did not even know that Voisey was the head of the Inner Circle, and for his own safety it was better that he never learn it. Pitt owed him at least that much in loyalty for the past, and he would have wished it in friendship now.
“I’m looking for knowledge, and that includes both strengths and weaknesses,” he replied. “He is standing for Parliament as a Tory, in a strong Liberal seat. The question of Home Rule has already arisen!”
Cornwallis’s eyebrows rose. “And that means Narraway?”
Pitt did not answer.
Cornwallis accepted his silence.
“What do you want to know about Voisey?” he asked. “What kind of weakness?”
“Who does he care for?” Pitt said softly. “Who is he afraid of? What moves him to laughter, awe, pain, any emotion? What does he want, apart from power?”
Cornwallis smiled, his eyes steady on Pitt’s, unblinking. “It sounds as if you are deploying for battle,” he said with a very slight lift of question.
“I am searching to see if I have any weapons,” Pitt replied without looking away. “Have I?”
“I doubt it,” Cornwallis answered. “If he cares for anything apart from power, I’ve not heard of it, not enough that the loss of it would hurt him.” He was watching Pitt’s face, trying to read in it what he needed. “He likes to live well, but not ostentatiously. He enjoys being admired, which he is, but he’s not willing to curry favor to get it. I daresay he doesn’t need to. He takes pleasure in his home, good food, good wine, the theater, music, company, but he’d sacrifice any of them if he had to, to reach the office he wants. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Do you want me to ask more?”
“No! No . . . not yet.”
Cornwallis nodded.
“Anyone he fears?” Pitt asked without hope.
“None that I know,” Cornwallis said dryly. “Has he cause? Is that what Narraway is afraid of . . . an attempt on his life?”
Again, Pitt could not answer. The silence was worrying him, even though he knew Cornwallis understood.
“Anyone he cares about?” Pitt asked doggedly. He could not afford to give up.
Cornwallis thought for a moment or two. “Possibly,” he said at last. “Although how deeply I don’t know. But I think there are ways in which he needs her—as his hostess, if nothing else. But I think he does care for her, as much as a man of his nature can.”
“Her? Who is she?” Pitt demanded, hope quickening in him at last.
Cornwallis dismissed the matter with a tiny, rueful smile. “His sister is a widow of great charm and formidable social skills. She appears, at least on the surface, to possess a gentleness and moral sensitivity he has never shown, in spite of his recent knighthood, of which you know more than I.” It was not a question. He would never intrude where he knew he had no rights, and a refusal would hurt. He frowned very slightly; it was just a shadow between the brows. “But I have met her only twice, and I am no judge of women.” Now there was a slight self-consciousness in him. “Someone more skilled might tell you quite differently. Certainly she is one of his greatest political assets among those in the party with the power and the will to support him. With the voters he has little to rely on but his own oratory.” He sounded discouraged, as if he feared that would be sufficient.
Pitt feared it even more so. He had seen Voisey face the crowd. It was a blow to discover that he had a social ally of such ability. Pitt had been hoping that perhaps being unmarried would be Voisey’s one weakness.
“Thank you,” he said aloud.
Cornwallis smiled bleakly. “Have some more cider?”
Emily Radley enjoyed a good dinner party, most especially when there was an edge of danger and excitement in the air, struggles of power, of words, ambition hidden behind a mask of humor or of charm, public duty or a passion for reform. Parliament had not been dissolved, but it would be any day, and they all knew it; then the battle would be in the open. It would be swift and sharp, a matter of a week or so. There was no time to hesitate, reconsider a blow, or moderate a defense. It was all in hot blood.
She prepared as for a campaign of war. She was a beautiful woman, and she was very well aware of it. But now that she was in her thirties and had two children, it required a little more care than it used to in order to be her best. She set aside the youthful pastels she had once favored for her delicate coloring and selected from the latest fashions from Paris something bolder, more sophisticated. The basic skirt and bodice were midnight-blue silk, but with an overdress of light blue-gray slashed diagonally to swathe up over the bosom and be caught at the left shoulder, and again at the waist, with another deep slash and ties falling from her hip. It had the usual high rouched shoulders, and of course she wore kid gloves to the elbows. She chose diamonds rather than pearls.
The result was really very good. She felt ready to take on any woman who might be in the room, even her current closest friend, the dashing and superbly stylish Rose Serracold. She liked Rose enormously, and had since the day they met, and she sincerely hoped that Rose’s husband, Aubrey, would gain his seat in Parliament, but she had no intention of being outshone by anyone. Jack’s seat was pretty safe. He had served with distinction and made several valuable friends in power who would no doubt stand by him now, but nothing should be taken for granted. Political power was a highly fickle mistress and must be courted on every possible occasion.
Their carriage drew up outside the Trenchard’s magnificent house on Park Lane, and she and Jack alighted. They were welcomed by the footman at the door and crossed the hall and were announced. She entered the withdrawing room on his arm with her head high and an air of confidence. They were greeted by Colonel and Mrs. Trenchard at exactly quarter to nine, fifteen minutes after the hour stated on the invitation that in turn had been received five weeks earlier. It was precisely the correct moment to arrive; they had judged it to perfection. To be on time would be vulgarly eager, whereas it was rude to be late. And since dinner was announced approximately twenty minutes after the first guest arrived, long after that one might easily find oneself shown in when everyone else was already going into the dining room.
Etiquette, which was of immovable rigidity, dictated who should go in with whom, and in what order, or the whole procedure would be thrown into chaos. To be noticed for beauty was always admirable; for wit was usually so, although there were risks attached. To make a spectacle of oneself would be disastrous.
No drinks were served in the brief time before the butler announced dinner. It was customary merely to sit and exchange a few pleasantries with whomever one might know until the procession to the dining room commenced.
The host would lead the way, with the senior ranking lady on his arm, followed by the remainder of the guests, in order of the ladies’ rank, followed at the last by the hostess on the arm of the senior male guest.
Emily had time only to speak for a moment with Rose Serracold, easy to see with her ash-blond hair and sharp, straight profile even before she turned her pale aquamarine eyes to regard the latest arrivals. Her face lit with pleasure and she moved swiftly to Emily’s side, twitching her flesh-pink taffeta dress. The gown plunged to the waist at the front, over claret-red embroidered brocade, which was echoed in mid-hip panels and an underskirt. It made her slender hips look richly curved and her waist a mere handspan. Only a woman of supreme confidence could have looked so dazzling in such a gown.
“Emily, how delightful to see you!” she said with enthusiasm. Her glance swept up and down Emily’s dress in immediate appreciation, but with a flash of amusement she deliberately avoided saying an
ything about it. “What a pleasure you could come!”
Emily smiled back. “As if you had not known I should!” She raised her eyebrows. They both knew Rose would have been familiar with the guest list or she would not have accepted.
“Well, I did have just the slightest idea,” Rose admitted. She leaned a little closer. “It feels a trifle like the ball the night before Waterloo, doesn’t it?”
“Not an occasion I recall,” Emily murmured in mock spite.
Rose made a very slight face at her. “Tomorrow we ride into battle!” she responded with exaggerated patience.
“My dear, we have been at war for months,” Emily replied as Jack was drawn into a group of men close by. “If not years!” she added.
“Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes,” Rose warned. “Or in Lady Garson’s case, the yellow. That woman drinks enough to drown a horse.”
“You should have seen her mother!” Emily shrugged delicately. “She could have drowned a giraffe.”
Rose threw back her head and laughed, a rich, infectious sound that caused half a dozen of the men to look at her with pleasure, and their wives to stare with disapproval, before deliberately turning away.
The dining room was blazing with light from the chandeliers and reflected from a thousand facets of crystal on the table and the sheen of silver on snow-white linen. Roses spilled out of silver bowls and long vines of honeysuckle trailed down the center of the cloth, sending up a rich perfume.
At each place setting there was a menu card—written in French, naturally. The guest’s name was on the front to indicate where each person should sit. The footmen began to serve soup, according to each guest’s preference, the choice being oxtail or bisque. Emily was placed between a Liberal elder statesman on her left and a generous banker on her right. She declined the soup, knowing there were a further eight courses to come, but the banker took the oxtail and began to eat immediately, it being correct to do so.
