Southampton Row (24 page)

The ladies took their seats, and then the gentlemen. The first course was served immediately and the business of the evening continued, the conversation, the weighing and judging, the bright chatter disguising the bargains made, the weaknesses tested and, when found, exploited. This was where future alliances were born, and future enmities.

Isadora only half listened. She had heard most of the arguments before: the economics, the moral issues, the finances, the religious difficulties and justifications, the political necessities.

She was startled and her attention was drawn, her mind suddenly clear, when she heard the Bishop mention Voisey’s name and his tone altered to one of enthusiasm. “Innocence does not protect us from the errors of well-meaning men whose knowledge of human nature is far less than their desire to do good,” he said earnestly. He did not look at Aubrey Serracold, but Isadora saw at least three others around the table who did. Rose stiffened, her hand on her wineglass motionless.

“I have begun to appreciate lately what a complex study it is to govern wisely,” the Bishop went on, his face set as if determined to follow his train of thought to the end. “It is not a job for the amateur gentleman, no matter how noble his intent. We simply cannot afford the cost of error. One unfortunate experiment with the forces of trade and finance, the abandonment of laws we have obeyed for centuries, and thousands will suffer before we can reverse the moment and regain the balance we have lost.” He shook his head sagely. “This is a far deeper issue than ever before in our history. For the sake of those we lead and serve, we cannot afford to be self-indulgent or sentimental.” His eyes flickered, and he glanced at Aubrey and away again. “That is our duty above all, or else we have nothing.”

Aubrey Serracold looked pale, his eyes glittering. He didn’t bother to argue. He realized the folly of it and remained silent, his hands clenched on his knife and fork.

For a moment no one answered, then half a dozen people spoke at once, apologized, and then started again. But looking at them one by one, Isadora could see that what Reginald had said had made a mark on them. Suddenly charm and ideals were less bright, less effective.

“A very unselfish vision, my lord,” Voisey said, turning to look at the Bishop. “If all spiritual leaders had your courage we should know where to turn for our moral leadership.”

The Bishop glanced at him, his face white, his chest rising and falling as if he found breathing unaccountably difficult.

He has indigestion again, Isadora thought. He has taken too much of the celery soup. He should have left it; he knows it does not agree with him. One would think from his speech it had been laced with wine!

The evening dragged on, promises were made, others abandoned. Shortly after midnight the first guests left. The Bishop and Isadora were among them.

Outside, as they stepped up into their carriage and drew away, she turned to him. “What on earth possessed you to speak against Mr. Serracold like that? And in front of the poor man! If his ideas are extreme, no one will accept them into law.”

“Are you suggesting I should wait until they are presented in Parliament before I speak against them?” he asked with a touch of asperity. “Perhaps you would like me to wait until the Commons have passed them and they are before the Lords, where I can debate the issue? I have no doubt the Lords Temporal will override most of them, but I have no such faith in my brother Lords Spiritual. They confuse the ideal with the practical.” He coughed. “Time is short, Isadora. No one can afford to put off the day of his actions. Tomorrow may not be given him in which to make amends.”

She was taken aback. It was a completely uncharacteristic remark. She had never known him so driven to leap to words, to committing himself to anything at all without leaving a way to extricate himself if circumstances should change.

“Are you feeling quite well, Reginald?” she asked, then instantly wished she had not. She did not want to hear a catalog of what was wrong with the dinner, the service, other people’s opinions or expressions of them. She wished she had bitten her tongue and simply made some unemotional murmur of agreement. Now it was too late.

“No,” he said rather loudly, his voice rising to a note of distress. “I do not feel well at all. They must have put me in a draft. My rheumatism is most powerful, and I have severe pain in my chest.”

“I think the celery soup was not a wise choice,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic and knowing she was failing. She heard the indifference in her own voice.

“I fear it is more serious than that.” Now there was definite panic in him, barely concealed. If she could have seen him in the darkness inside the carriage she was certain his face would have betrayed a real fear running close to losing control. She was glad she could not. She did not want to be drawn into his emotions. That had happened too many times before.

“Indigestion can be very unpleasant,” she said quietly. “Anyone who makes light of it has never suffered. But it does pass and leaves no harm behind but the tiredness of being unable to sleep. Please don’t worry.”

“Do you think so?” he asked. He did not turn his head towards her, but she heard the eagerness in him.

“Of course,” she responded soothingly.

They rode in silence the rest of the way home, but she was acutely aware of his discomfort. It sat like a third entity between them.

She woke in the night to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, his face ashen, his body bent forward, his left arm hanging loose as if he had no power in it. She closed her eyes again, willing herself to sink back into the dream. It had been something to do with wide seas and the gentle rush of water past the hull of a boat. She pictured John Cornwallis there, his face set towards the wind, a smile of pleasure on his lips. Every now and then he would turn to her and meet her eyes. Perhaps he would say something, but probably not. The silence between them was one of total peace, a joy shared too deeply to need the intrusion of words.

But her conscience would not allow her to remain with the sea and sky. She knew Reginald was sitting a few feet from her in pain. She opened her eyes again and sat up slowly. “I’ll get you a little boiled water,” she said, pushing back the covers and getting out of bed. Her fine linen nightgown came to the floor and in the summer night she needed no more for warmth, or for modesty. There would be no servants about at this hour.

“No!” The cry was almost strangled in his throat. “Don’t leave me!”

“If you sip the water it will help,” she said, sorry for him in spite of herself. He looked wretched, his skin pallid and beaded with sweat, his body locked in a huddle of pain. She knelt down in front of him. “Do you feel sick? Perhaps something in the meal was not fresh, or not well cooked.”

He said nothing, staring at the floor.

“It will pass, you know,” she said gently. “It is fearful for a while, but it always goes. Perhaps in future you should think less of your hostess’s feelings and decline all but the simplest dishes. Some people don’t realize how often you are obliged to eat as others’ guest, and it can become excessive after a while.”

He raised dark, frightened eyes to hers, pleading without words for some kind of help.

“Would you like me to send Harold for the doctor?” It was an offer simply for something to say. All the doctor would give him would be peppermint water, as he had in the past. It would be an indignity to send for him for a case of wind, no matter how fierce. The Bishop had always refused before, feeling it robbed him of the gravity of his high office. How can one look with awe up to a man who cannot control his digestive organs?

“I don’t want him!” he said with desperation. Then he caught his breath in a sob. “Do you think it is something in the dinner?” There was a wild note of hope in him, as if he were begging her to assure him that it was.

She realized he was terrified that it was not merely indigestion, that after all the years of petty complaints at last he really was ill. Was it pain he was so deeply frightened of? Or distress and the embarrassment of vomiting, losing control of his bodily functions and having to be cared for, cleaned up after? Suddenly she was truly sorry for him. Surely that was a secret dread of everyone, but especially a man to whom power and self-importance were everything. In his heart he must suspect how desperately fragile was his hold on respect. He did not really imagine she loved him, not with the passion and tenderness that would bind her to him through such a time. Duty would hold her, but that would almost be worse than the ministration of strangers, except to the outside world, who would see only a wife at her husband’s side, where she should be. What really passed between them, anything or nothing at all, would never be known to anyone else.

He was still staring at her, waiting for her to assure him that his fear was unnecessary, that it would all go away. She could not. Even had he been a child, not a man older than herself, she could not have given him that. Illness was real. It could not always be warded off.

“I’ll do all I can to help,” she whispered. Tentatively, she reached out her hand and put it over his where it lay gripping his knee. She felt the terror in him as if it had flooded through his skin and into hers. Then like fire she recognized what it was: he was afraid of dying. He had spent his life preaching the love of God, the obedience to commands that permitted no question or explanation, the acceptance of affliction on earth with the absolute trust in an eternity of heaven . . . and his own belief in it was only word deep. When he faced the abyss of death there was no light, no God at the end of it for him. He was as alone as a child in the night.

She heard herself with amazement, letting go of her own dreams. “I’ll be with you. Don’t worry.” Her grip tightened on his hand and she took hold of his other arm. “There is nothing to fear. It is the path of all mankind, only a gateway. This is the time for faith. You are not alone, Reginald. Every living thing is with you. This is just one step in eternity. You’ve seen so many people do it well, with courage and grace. You can too . . . you will.”

He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, but gradually his body eased. The pain must have subsided, because at last he allowed her to help him back into bed and within moments he fell asleep, leaving her to get up and go around to her own side and climb in also.

She was tired, but the blessing of oblivion escaped her until it was almost morning.

He rose as usual. He was a little pale, but otherwise apparently quite normal. He made no reference to the episode. He did not actually meet her eyes.

She was overwhelmingly angry with him. It was a meanness of heart not at least to have thanked her, acknowledged her, even if only by a smile. She did not have to have words. But he was furious that she had seen his abandonment of dignity, his naked fear. She understood that, but she still despised him for his poverty of spirit.

He was ill. She accepted that now. Even if he chose to forget it today, it was the reality. He needed her; whether it was affection, pity, respect, or simply duty that held her, she was imprisoned with him for as long as it lasted. And that might be years. She could see it like a road stretching to the horizon across a flat, gray plain. She would have to paint her own dreams on it, but never reach for them.

Perhaps they had never been more than dreams anyway. Nothing had changed except in her knowledge.

CHAPTER
NINE

“I don’t believe it!” Jack Radley exploded, holding the newspaper up at the breakfast table, his face pale, his hands shaking.

“What is it?” Emily demanded, her first thoughts flying to the murder of Maude Lamont, now just a week ago. Had Thomas found something damning that incriminated Rose? Only now did she realize how much she had been dreading it. Guilt overwhelmed her. “What have you seen?” Her voice was sharp with fear.

“Aubrey!” Jack said, laying the paper down so he could see her. “He’s written to the editor. I suppose it’s in rebuttal of what General Kingsley said about him, but it’s very ill thought.”

“Ill thought? You mean carelessly written? That’s not like Aubrey.” She could recall his beautiful voice, not just a matter of diction but his choice of words also. “What does he say?”

Jack drew in a deep breath and bit his lip, reluctant to answer, as if reading it aloud would give it a greater reality.

“Is it so very bad?” she asked with a chill of anxiety biting deep into her. “Will it matter?”

“I think it might.”

“Well, either read it to me or pass it!” she directed. “For heaven’s sake, don’t tell me it’s bad and then keep it!”

He looked down at the page and began, his voice low and almost expressionless.

“‘I have in this newspaper recently been accused by Major General Roland Kingsley of being an idealist with little grasp upon reality, a man who would discard the glories of our nation’s past, and with it the men who fought and died to protect us and extend the rule of law and liberty to other lands. Normally I would be content to allow time to prove him mistaken. I would trust my friends to know me better, and strangers to be honest in their judgment.

“‘However, I am standing for the seat of South Lambeth in the present parliamentary election, and the date of that does not permit me the luxury of time.

“’Our past has many glorious events I cannot and would not change. But the future is ours to mold as we will. Let us by all means write great poetry about military disasters like the Charge of the Light Brigade at Sebastopol, where brave men died uselessly at the command of incompetent generals. Let us pity the survivors of such desperate actions when they hobble past us in the streets, blind or maimed, or lie in hospital beds. Let us lay flowers on their graves!

“‘But let us also act to see that their sons and grandsons do not fall the same way. This we have not only the power but the obligation to change.’ ”

“That’s not ill thought!” Emily argued. “As far as I can see, it is true, a perfectly fair and honorable assessment.”

“I’m not finished yet,” Jack said grimly.

“Well, what else does he say?”

He looked down at the page again. “‘We need an army to fight in time of war, should we be threatened by a foreign nation. We do not need adventurers who are tarred with the brush of Imperialism, and believe that as Englishmen we have the right to attack and conquer any other land we choose to, either because we believe profoundly that our way of life is superior to theirs and they would benefit from our laws and our institutions imposed upon their own, by force of arms, or because they have land, minerals, or any other natural resources that we may exploit.’ ”

“Oh, Jack!” Emily was appalled.

“There’s more of the same,” he said bitterly. “He doesn’t exactly accuse Kingsley of being a self-interested glory seeker at the expense of the ordinary man, but the implication is clear enough.”

“Why?” she said with a sinking feeling deepening in her. “I thought he had more . . . more sense of reality. Even if that were all true, it won’t win any friends he needs! Those who agree will be on his side anyway, and those who don’t will hate him for it!” She put her hands up to her face. “How could he be so naive?”

“Because Kingsley must have rattled him,” Jack replied. “I think Aubrey’s always hated opportunism, the idea that the strongest have the right to take what they want, and he sees Imperialism that way.”

“That’s a little narrow, isn’t it?” she asked, not really as a question. She did not defer to Jack, or anyone else, in her beliefs. Actual knowledge was another thing, but this was emotion and the understanding of people. “I am coming to think more and more that political fighting is only a good understanding of human nature and the sense to keep your mouth closed when speaking would not help. Tell no lies in which you will be caught, and never ever lose your temper or promise something you may be seen not to have given.”

He smiled, but there was no pleasure in it at all. “I wish you had told Aubrey that a couple of days ago.”

“Do you think it will really make a difference?” She was clinging on to hope. “That is the
Times
, isn’t it? Yes. How many of the voters in Lambeth South will read it, do you suppose?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll wager you anything you like that Charles Voisey will!” he responded.

She thought for a moment of making the wager and asking for a new parasol if she won, then realized how futile it was. Of course Voisey would see it—and use it.

“Aubrey talks about the military as if the generals were fools,” Jack went on with a note of despair in his voice. “Heaven knows we’ve had enough of them who were, but planning the tactics of battle is harder than you think. You can have clever enemies, inadequate arms, supply lines cut, a change in the weather! Or just plain bad luck. When Napoleon got a new marshal he didn’t ask if he was clever, he asked if he was lucky!”

“What did Wellington ask?” she returned.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, rising to his feet. “But he wouldn’t have had Aubrey. This is not dishonesty or even bad politics at heart, but it is the most appalling tactic against a man like Charles Voisey!”

Emily went with Jack to listen to Voisey speak to a large crowd in the early afternoon. It was in Kennington, and the park was full of people walking in the hot sun, eating ice creams and peppermint sticks and toffee apples, drinking lemonade, and eager for a little heckling and entertainment. To begin with, nobody cared greatly what Voisey had come to say. It was a good way to spend an hour or so, and far more interesting than the halfhearted game of cricket a score of boys were playing at the farther end. If he wanted their attention he would have to say something to amuse them, and if he did not know that now, he would soon learn.

Of course, only some of the listeners had the right to vote, but everyone’s future was affected, so they crowded around the empty bandstand Voisey climbed onto with supreme confidence and began to talk to them.

Emily stood in the sun with her hat shading her face, looking first at the crowd, then at Voisey, then sideways at Jack. She was not really listening to the words. She knew it was about patriotism and pride. It was very subtle, but he was praising them in a very general sense, making them feel part of the accomplishment of Empire, although he never gave it that name. She watched as they stood a little straighter, unconsciously smiling, shoulders squared and chins a trifle higher. He was making them feel as if they belonged, they were part of the victory, among the elite.

She looked at Jack and saw the corners of his mouth pinch. His face was tight with dislike, but there was admiration in him also, no matter how reluctant; he could not hold it back.

Voisey went on. He never mentioned Serracold’s name. Serracold might not have existed. Voisey did not put the choice before them: vote for me or for the other candidate, vote Tory or Liberal; he just spoke to them as if the decision had already been made. They were of one mind because they were of one race, one people, one shared destiny.

Of course that would not persuade everyone. She saw stubbornness in the set of many faces, disagreement, anger, indifference. But then he did not need all of them, only enough to make a majority, along with those who were natural Tory voters anyway.

“He’s winning, isn’t he?” she said quietly, searching Jack’s face and seeing the answer in his expression. He was angry, helpless, frustrated, and yet acutely aware that if he spoke to defend Aubrey Serracold as he wished to, he would achieve nothing but demonstrate the loyalty of a friend, and he would jeopardize his own seat. Nothing was as certain as he had imagined it to be only a week ago.

She watched him as Voisey went on and the crowd listened. They were with him now, but she knew what a fickle thing popularity was. Give people laughter, praise, hope of benefit, a shared belief, and they were yours. A breath of fear, a perceived insult, even boredom, and they were lost again.

What would Jack do?

Part of her wanted him to honor friendship, say what he could to right the inequity between Aubrey and this man who was manipulating the situation with such skill. Aubrey’s letter to the editor had played right into Voisey’s hands. Why had Aubrey been so foolish? She felt a sinking weight inside her as the answer came unbidden to her mind. Because he was idealistic but naive. He was a good man with an honest dream, but he was no politician yet, and circumstances would give him no time to become one. There were no rehearsals, only reality.

She looked at Jack again, and saw the indecision still in him. She said nothing. She was not yet ready for the answer, whatever it was. He was right, there were some prices that were very high to pay for power. And yet without power one could achieve little, perhaps nothing. Battles were costly; that was the nature of fighting for any principle, any victory at all. And if you retreated from the struggle because it hurt, then the prize went to someone else, someone like Voisey. And what was the price of that? If good men did not take up the sword, literal and figurative, then the victory would go to whoever would. Where did the right lie?

If it were easy to see, maybe more people would find it, and fewer be beguiled along the way.

She moved a step closer to Jack and linked her arm in his. Then he turned to her, but she did not meet his eyes.

There was a reception that evening which Emily had considered earlier would promise a certain enjoyment. It was less formal than a dinner and offered much more opportunity to speak with a greater variety of people of one’s choice, simply because one was not seated around a table. As usual at such events there would be some form of entertainment, either a small orchestra, with a soloist to sing, or possibly a string quartet, or an exceptional pianist.

However, she already knew that Rose and Aubrey Serracold would also be there, and word of this afternoon’s speech would have reached at least some of the guests, so in a matter of an hour or so all would be aware not only of Aubrey’s extraordinary breach of sense in the newspapers but of the superb response to Voisey’s speech. The evening now promised to be awkward, even embarrassing. And whatever Jack was going to do about it, time would not allow him any more latitude in which to make up his mind.

It was unfair, but she was angry with Charlotte for not being here to discuss it with. There was no one else in whom she could have confided exactly the same feelings, the doubts and the questions.

As always, she dressed carefully. Impressions mattered a great deal, and she had long known that a pretty woman can charm a man’s attention when a plainer one cannot. She had also learned more recently that careful grooming, a shade and line of gown that flattered, a direct smile with an air of confidence, could make others believe one was far more beautiful than was the bare fact. Accordingly, she wore a tight-waisted, flaring gown of natural-colored sheer printed in green, a shade which had always become her. The effect was so dramatic that even Jack, in a wretched mood over Voisey, widened his eyes and was obliged to compliment her.

“Thank you,” she said with satisfaction. She was dressed for battle, but he was still the conquest which mattered the most.

They arrived sixty minutes after the hour stated on the invitation, which was about as early as was decently acceptable. A score of other people arrived either immediately before or after them, and for a few moments the hall was a crush of guests all exchanging greetings. The ladies divested themselves of capes. Though the evening was mild, they would not be leaving until after midnight, when it would be chilly.

Emily saw several social acquaintances and political wives it was wise to befriend, and a few she actually liked. She knew that Jack had his own duties for the evening which he could not afford to ignore. This was not an occasion purely for pleasure.

She set about listening with charm and attention, passing the appropriate, well-thought compliment, exchanging a word or two of gossip which if repeated would not come back to haunt her.

It was two hours later, after the musical entertainment had begun—the soloist was one of the plainest women Emily had ever seen, but had the effortless soaring voice of a true operatic diva—that Emily saw Rose Serracold. She must only just have arrived, since she was so strikingly dressed no one could possibly have missed her. Her gown was vermilion and black stripes, richly draped over the sleeves and bust in black lace, which flattered her extreme slenderness. There was a vermilion flower on the skirt to match the ones at bosom and shoulder. She was sitting on one of the chairs at the edge of the group, her back stiff, the light gleaming on her pale hair like the sun on corn silk. Emily looked for Aubrey beside her, or beyond, and did not see him.

The singer was so very excellent she commanded the mind and the senses, her voice so lovely it would have been vandalism of the ear to speak through her performance. But as soon as it was over Emily stood up and went to Rose. There was a small group already gathered around, and before anyone stood a little to one side to allow her to join, she heard the conversation. She knew instantly with a cold sinking in her stomach exactly what they were referring to, even though no names had been mentioned.

“He is far cleverer than I thought, I admit,” a woman in gold was saying ruefully. “I fear we have underestimated him.”

“I think you overestimate his morality,” Rose said sharply. “Perhaps that was our error.”

Emily opened her mouth to intervene, but someone else spoke first.