“Agreed.”
“Then we are done here.” Without a good-bye, the Marchioness stood up, turned her back on me, and walked away.
I would have breathed a sigh of relief, except the reason for my presence at Carlton House had not changed. There was still my audience with the King.
Lady Pamela led me back the way we came, but this time when we reached the anteroom we turned the opposite way. I walked behind her, the way a diligent schoolgirl follows her instructor.
Had this been any other sort of visit, I would have enjoyed George IV’s collection of artwork immensely, especially the extensive Dutch and Flemish landscapes. These depictions of rural life enchanted me, and I moved slowly to better appreciate a scene of peasants in the midst of haymaking, and another of a shipbuilder and his wife.
Lady Pamela coughed, a polite signal that I was taking too long. “His Majesty’s private apartments,” she said, sotto voce.
Chapter 49
Two guards eyed me cautiously, while a footman announced me. When I was invited to enter, I found King George IV sitting in a huge chair by the fireplace with his feet propped up on cushioned ottomans. Two courtiers waited to do his bidding, dozing while seated on hard chairs against the wall on either side of the door.
The King did not look well. No amount of costuming could disguise his extravagant bulk. The grotesque nature of his elephantine feet suggested he was in great pain, for surely they were swollen with fluid. His eyes seemed unfocused, so I walked to where he could see me without turning his head, and then I curtsied and dropped my gaze to the floor. Behind me, the sound of rustling silk told me that Lady Pamela had also curtsied. Light footsteps suggested that she had left me.
George IV did not invite me to take a seat. Instead, he stared at me warily, barely acknowledging my curtsy. Without pleasantries, he demanded, “Lady Elizabeth wants the letter, doesn’t she?” His wig sat crookedly on his head, and his diction suggested that he was not wearing his false teeth.
“Yes.”
“Did she ask you for it? Just now?”
“Yes.”
“I thought she might. She is crafty. I have always recognized that in her. Have you met Mrs. Fitzherbert?”
“As a matter of fact, I did meet her and her daughter just yesterday. Although our meeting was brief, both women impressed me greatly.”
“I am not surprised.” Lifting a hand, King George IV gestured around him. “See all of this splendor? Magnificent, isn’t it? I can own anything I want. I can commission artists to make whatever I desire. I can change out the fabrics as often as the whim strikes me. I am master of all I survey, sovereign and ruler. But I am also a captive slave to my birthright. Yes, I can have anything a man can buy, but I cannot have the one thing a man cannot buy: his one true love. What profit does all this confer on me if I am doomed to loneliness?”
A pain crumpled his face and he moaned.
I turned around, looking for help. Neither of the two gentlemen of the chamber noticed their patron’s whimper of pain. Remembering Lucy’s admonition not to touch the sovereign, I said, “Your Majesty, is there anyone I should summon or anything that I might do for you?”
“The only thing you can do for me, young lady, is to keep me in your prayers,” said the King, with slurred pronunciation.
“I will do that. You have my promise.”
“As I was saying, my position is one of supreme irony. I can command an army, but I cannot command fate. I can protect this green island, but I can’t protect my own daughters. Poor Charlotte married at my command, and now she is gone.”
He rummaged deep in his waistcoat and withdrew a silk handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “Would her fate have been different if she had married the man she wanted? I cannot say. Now poor Minney wants to marry a sailor. Her mother and I are against the match, but it weighs upon me heavily, because I think about Charlotte and wonder, ‘Was she happy? Did I do right by her?’ I know I did right by the Kingdom, but what of my child?”
I could imagine a day when Ned wanted a wife. What would I want for him? Was it right to have one’s own desires and preferences? Surely all parents wanted the same thing: a happy child. But did we truly know what was best for our children?
“That must weigh heavily on you, Sire.”
“It does, and so do the futures of Mrs. Fitzherbert and her daughter.”
Groaning, the King attempted to make himself more comfortable in the chair, but he was wedged tight. In fact, in various places the architecture of the chair cut into his mounds of flesh. The effort of rearranging his bulk caused beads of sweat to form along his hairline, and under the rice powder on his face, his pallor increased.
His suffering was clear. By all outward signs, the man was incredibly ill, so much so that I wondered if he would live long enough to ascend the throne. The irony was inescapable. Despite his position and vast inheritance, George IV was nothing more than a man struggling to grasp what none of us can have: a respite from our own demise. Suddenly, his passion for collecting art, for having his portrait painted, for planning an unforgettable coronation—an event that all said would be remembered throughout the decades—made sense to me. He was aiming for some sort of immortality. Not by deeds or descendants, but by the sheer drama of his existence.
“Lady Elizabeth wants the letter you have. Of all I have ever written, it is both the most heartful and the most damning. If you give it to her, she will hand over the letter to my brother Prince Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland. He will whip up the population in such an anti-Catholic fervor that Minney and Maria will be hunted down and killed. Of that I am quite sure. Imagine! At my coronation, I am to be the Supreme Governor of the Anglican Church, but I had the audacity to love—and secretly marry—a Roman Catholic woman! That taken with the never-ending tides of Roman Catholic Irish immigrants who come to England, hoping to flee the ongoing problems with potato crops, and instead take jobs away from the common man, and I would be viewed . . . harshly. Very harshly, indeed. All because I had the temerity to love—rather than scorn—a woman of another faith. Is that such a misdeed? I ask you! But I would suffer. The attempts on my life would increase. Of course, I am well-protected, but Maria? Minney? The objects of my affection? They would be lambs to the slaughter, Mrs. Rochester.”
He added, “Their deaths will be on your head.”
A clock chimed down the hallway.
“You may go.”
One of the sleeping courtiers stood up and stuck his head out the door, and Lady Pamela reappeared. Once outside his chamber door, Lady Pamela led me down the hallway. When we arrived at the entry hall, she sent a footman to hail a hackney for me. From my dry place inside Carlton House, I watched the rain come down in heavy sheets.
The jarvey who drove the carriage-for-hire did not offer to escort me to his conveyance with an umbrella. Neither did the footman lounging at the door of Carlton House. Now that I was no longer of interest to His Majesty and his paramour, I was on my own, so I picked up my skirts and hurried as fast as I could. When I got to the coach, I struggled with the door. The driver paid me no heed. By the time I was safe inside and out of the rain, I was soaked to the skin and shivering. My mind was whirling, turning all this over, concentrating on these ideas, when the carriage door flew open—and in jumped Pansy Biltmore.
Chapter 50
“Do not shout or I shall be forced to stab you,” she said as she poked the tip of a knife against my waist.
A small gasp escaped my lips before I could restrain myself. Then the recriminations began. Why hadn’t I been more prudent? I had been so busy turning over in my mind the problem of keeping Maria and Minney safe, that I had walked headlong into danger. “I tried to persuade you with reason, but you paid no attention to me. I want that letter. I need it! I lost my daughter over it. I am not going to lose my home,” she whispered, leaning close, her hot breath tickling my ear.
“If you think you can overpower me,” she said, “think again. I hired the man who is driving this coach. You can’t get away. Now tell me where the letter is.”
I shivered, not from the rain that soaked my clothes, but with fear. I thought quickly about my position. Here on the streets, I did not have a chance. But I might back at Lucy’s house. “I have it in a strongbox at Lucy Brayton’s home.”
“Exactly where in the house is it?” she demanded.
“Behind a painting in the library.”
Then with a start, I realized my mistake: Ned and Adèle were likely to be home! Since it was raining, Amelia would not have taken them for a walk in the park. I clenched my fists in irritation. This would never do. I had to think quickly, review what options were left to me. I thought back to Lucy’s sermon on how to defend oneself. I needed to plot my course. Lucy had said I should catch my opponent off guard. I had to take advantage of the fact that Mrs. Biltmore was convinced that I had bowed to her wishes. I wanted her to think me too meek and mild to put up a fight.
“There will be children in the house.” Lucy, I hoped fervently, would still be away visiting with Maria Fitzherbert. Perhaps my husband and Mr. Douglas would take their time at Hatchards. That would leave me only the staff to contend with, and they would do my bidding. So presumably they could stay safe, if I could manage to issue orders that they leave us alone.
“Well then, if you do not want the children to be at risk, you must follow my directions carefully. I don’t want to cause them harm, but of course, what happens is entirely up to you.”
On that score she was right: Their fate and mine was in my hands. I would do anything—anything!—to make sure my family and friends were unharmed. And I would begin by encouraging the woman to underestimate me, to think me too timid and frightened to rise up against her.
“M-m-m-my husband is blind. P-p-p-lease don’t mistake his actions for aggression. If he comes too close to us, it’s because he must . . . to make us out.” I sounded appropriately scared, but I had a plan behind my disclosure. I needed to protect my husband, and I could best do that by emphasizing his deficiencies. This was my most pressing worry. Edward and I had always enjoyed a connection, some sort of understanding between us that alerted us to each other’s needs. It now occurred to me that if he sensed I were in danger, he might rush to my aid—and the consequence could be deadly.
“He’s blind? What a pity, although that might make a man more . . . amenable. Is that why he married you? Someone every bit as small as a child and just as plain?” She sighed. “Because he could not see what he was doing? What a shame.
Mrs. Biltmore leaned close, in a menacing way. “When the coach stops, you and I will exit together. I have a firm grip on your waistband. If you try to jerk away from me, if you lunge or scream, I shall draw back my arm and jab you.”
For effect, I whimpered. “Please, please don’t!”
“Do you want to feel the edge of this blade?” She sounded almost triumphant. “No, I thought not. Know that I had it sharpened this morning by a butcher, and it is exceedingly sharp. Together you and I will make our way up the stairs to the front door. You will ring the bell and greet the butler as if nothing is amiss. You will quickly dispatch him, telling him we need privacy, and thus the two of us will go together into the drawing room.”
“The library,” I corrected her. “It’s in the library.”
“Good, you see? It is so much easier to be cooperative. So we will go to where the strongbox is hidden behind the painting. If anyone interrupts us, you will tell them we need to discuss a sensitive matter—a very private matter—and that we wish to be alone.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course.” Rivulets of sweat ran down between my shoulder blades. I nodded briskly, concentrating on playing the part of a tame little mouse.
I thought it best to preempt any problems. “What if someone approaches us? What should I do?”
“You will greet them and say we have reconciled our differences. That you realize now you were wrong about me. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Of-of course.” I stuttered so as to maintain the illusion that I was scared witless.
“Good, because I would hate to have to hurt one of the servants, but such things happen. As for your high-and-
mighty friend Mrs. Brayton . . .” Her face broke into an ugly smile. “Let’s just say I have no use for her.”
I came to a swift and unequivocal decision: If I had to give over the letter to Mrs. Biltmore, I would. While I regretted any problems it might cause Minney and Maria, I could not risk having my family harmed.
The carriage rolled to a stop. “Remember, I have a knife. You cannot run from me. Do as I have told you and all will be well.”
“I understand. I shall move slowly so that you can stay near me,” I said. The jarvey did not jump from his perch to help us. Realizing this, I twisted the handle, put my shoulder into the door, opened it, and stepped out on the carriage block. Mrs. Biltmore moved with me; soon we were on the paving stones leading to Lucy’s front door.
After I rapped the door knocker, Higgins opened the house to us. “Ah, Mrs. Rochester. Welcome home. Young Master has been keeping us all entertained. I believe he is learning to walk. Been pulling up on furniture and such.”
“How delightful! I want to see his progress. But first, Mrs. Biltmore and I are going to the library and I need privacy. Please make sure that we aren’t disturbed. Oh, and we shall keep our outer garments.” I knew this would seem curious to him; however, I could not chance him reaching for Mrs. Biltmore’s wrap and getting stabbed by her knife.
“No tea?” His face was as bland as usual.
“Thank you, but no. However, I might ring for coffee later.” I smiled at him.
I never drank coffee—and I counted on Higgins to realize that.
“Indeed? Oh yes, quite right.” There was a flare of understanding in his eyes and a slight change in his gaze, so subtle that Mrs. Biltmore could not have detected it, but I did.
What he would do next, I did not know and could not guess. However, if he made any attempt to interfere, I would surely feel the tip of Mrs. Biltmore’s knife. I needed him to give me time, so I added, “But the coffee can wait. I have business to attend to first. I want privacy.”
“I understand. Yes, ma’am.” Although Higgins did not betray anything, I could tell that he realized there was a problem.
“I assume Mrs. Brayton is still out on her morning calls?” I wanted to be sure that Lucy did not walk in on us, lest it endanger her.
“Yes, ma’am. Quite right. The gentlemen are still out on their errands as well.”
“Well, go on then,” I said, in a brusque tone. I gave him a brisk nod of dismissal, something else out of keeping with my behavior.
“I think we’ll dry ourselves in front of the fire in the library,” I said to Mrs. Biltmore as we resumed our slow climb of the stairs. But one look over my shoulder told me that Higgins knew something was amiss from the slow way he started toward the back stairs. Otherwise, why hadn’t I requested that Polly come and assist us? Mrs. Biltmore and I were both soaked, with water dripping off our skirts and onto the floor.
“You’ve done well,” Mrs. Biltmore whispered as we gained the top of the landing. “Just keep it up, and I shall be gone from here with the letter in no time.”
Chapter 51
As we walked into the library, I thought back again to Lucy’s lecture that day in Lady Grainger’s room. What I needed was a weapon. Something within reach. Something unexpected. I surreptitiously glanced around. Immediately my eyes went to the hearth, as I remembered Lucy’s story about having thrown cinders at an attacker. But when I glanced toward the bucket of ashes, my heart sank. Lucy’s maid of all work, Sadie, had already removed all the leftover grime and grit from the night before.
I would have to come up with someth
ing else to press into service.
“That is the painting I told you about.” I tipped my head toward the landscape. “First I must lift it down. Then I must retrieve the key.”
“Where is it?”
“Mrs. Brayton has told me it’s in the desk, but I don’t know which drawer.”
“Move that way slowly,” Mrs. Biltmore said. “I shall stay at your side—and don’t forget this blade is very sharp. I only need to stab you once and you won’t live to see another day.”
You must prevail! I told myself. And you can only prevail by thinking clearly and calmly.
To further put Mrs. Biltmore at ease, I began to narrate my actions. “First I shall unhook the painting.”
The seascape was on a wall perpendicular to the desk. With both hands, I struggled to lift the heavy painting, freeing the wire on the back from its hook.
“Now I shall set it down.” Moving slightly past Mrs. Biltmore and facing the piece of furniture, I rested the painting at one end of the blotter. From the vantage point of someone behind the desk, the Turner now occupied the upper left hand quadrant, while in the right hand quadrant sat all the necessary writing accoutrements: inkwell, box of blotting sand, and slotted letter holder filled with fresh stationery.
I turned back to face the bare wall. “As you can see, the box is exposed, but it is locked. I must remove the container from its hidey-hole to gain access.”
The oak strongbox was securely wrapped with brass straps. A heavy lock dangled from a D-shaped ring on the front, where all the straps met. To set the heavy object in the middle of the desktop, I needed to maneuver around Mrs. Biltmore.
My goal was to force the woman to become accustomed to my movements. Lucy had counseled me to put distance between myself and the knifepoint. To do so, I needed Mrs. Biltmore to let down her guard.
During all my machinations, she had remained right with me, glued to my side. Now, to get a better look at the strongbox, she stepped back a foot or two. But the distance between us worried her.
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