The Hyde Park Headsman (46 page)

Pitt’s mouth twitched and his eyes were very bright, but after a moment of total silence when her blazing expression dared him to be amused, he composed himself to suitable sympathy.

“I’m sorry. Let me take the cushions.” He held out his hand. She thrust them at him. “Where are the men now? I don’t see them.”

“Gone ’round the corner to the public house to have lunch. They’ll be back in half an hour or so to unpack the rest. Gracie is in the kitchen.” He gazed around the drawing room where they were standing. “This really is very nice indeed. You’ve done a magnificent work here.”

“Don’t humor me,” she said tartly. But she was longing to smile and she sniffed and stared around also. He was right, it was looking very good indeed. “Where are the children?”

“In the garden. The last I saw of them, Daniel was up the apple tree and Jemima had found a hedgehog and was talking to it.”

“Good.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Do you think they’ll like it?”

His expression answered her question without the necessity of words.

“Have you seen the green room upstairs? That’s going to be our bedroom. Here, let me show you.” He considered saying he really had not time, and changed
his mind. And as soon as they were upstairs he was glad he had changed his mind. The room had a peace about it, a sense of apartness from the haste and the bustle of the streets. The wind was rustling the leaves and the light flickered in bright patterns over the walls. There was no other sound. He found himself smiling, and looking across at Charlotte. Her face was full of expectancy. “Yes,” he said with complete honesty. “I’ve never been in a better room in my life.”

The day of the by-election was gusty with sudden showers and bars of brilliant sun. Jack was out as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and Emily could not remain in the house alone on tenterhooks, even though she knew she was of little assistance, and now even moral support was not enough to still the nerves.

Nigel Uttley was also out early. He was smiling confidently, chatting with friends and supporters, but watching him closely one might see that something of his former swagger was gone and there was an edge of anxiety visible in him now and again.

A few at a time those men entitled to vote went to the polling station and cast their ballots. They emerged looking at no one and hurried away.

The morning passed slowly. Emily moved from one place to another with Jack, trying to think of something to say that was encouraging without building his confidence when he could so easily lose. And yet as she watched the men coming and going, overheard snatches of their conversation, she could not help the surge of hope inside her that he would win.

And there was only winning and losing. Tomorrow either he would be a member of Parliament, with all the opportunity and responsibility, the work, the chance of fame which it afforded, or else he would be the loser, with no position, no profession. Uttley would be there smiling, confident, the winner. She would have to try to comfort Jack, to help him believe in himself, find something to look forward to, some other cause to build and care about and labor towards.

By a little after two o’clock she was emotionally drained, and the whole length of the afternoon still stretched ahead of her. By five she was beginning to believe that Jack really could win. Her spirits soared with hope, then plummeted with despair.

By the time the polls closed she was exhausted, untidy, and generally more footsore than she could ever remember. She
and Jack went home in silence, sitting close together in a hansom. They did not speak. Neither of them knew what to say, now that the battle was over and only the news of victory or defeat lay ahead.

At home they had a late supper, too tense to enjoy it. Emily could not have said afterwards what it had been, except she thought she recalled the pink of salmon on the plate, but whether it had been poached or smoked she could not say. She kept glancing at the clock on the mantel, wondering when they would be finished counting and they would know.

“Do you think …?” she began, just as Jack spoke also.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing! It was of no importance. You?”

“Nothing much, just that it could be a long time. You don’t have to …”

She froze him with a look.

“All right,” he said apologetically. “I just thought …”

“Well don’t. It’s ridiculous. Of course I’m going to wait until the last vote is counted and we know.”

He rose from the table. It was quarter past nine.

“Well let us at least do it in the withdrawing room, where we can be as comfortable as possible.”

She accepted with a smile and followed him into the hall. Almost as soon as they were out of the dining room door Harry, the youngest footman, appeared from the archway under the stairs, his fair hair untidy, his face flushed.

“They’re still counting, sir!” he said breathlessly. “I just came back from the ’all, but I reckon as they done most of ’em, an both piles looks about the same to me. You could win, sir! Mr. Jenkins says as you will!”

“Thank you, Harry,” Jack said with a voice very nearly level. “But I think perhaps Jenkins is speaking more from loyalty than knowledge.”

“Oh no, sir,” Harry said with unaccustomed assurance. “Everyone in the servants’ ’all reckons as yer goin’ ter win. That Mr. Uttley’s not near as clever as ’e thinks. Cook says as ’e’s overdone ’isself this time. An’ ’e’s not married neither, which Mrs. ’Edges says as makes ’im socially much sought after by rich ladies wif daughters, but they don’t trust ’im the same as a man wot’s got a family, like.” His cheeks were pink with exertion and excitement, and he stood very straight, his shoulders back.

“Thank you,” Jack said gravely. “I hope you are not going to be too disappointed if I don’t win?”

“Oh no, sir,” Harry said cheerfully. “But you will!” And with that he turned and went back through the green baize door to the servants’ quarters.

“Oh dear,” Jack sighed, resuming his way to the withdrawing room. “They are going to take it very hard.”

“We all will,” Emily agreed, going through the door as he opened it for her. “But it is hardly worth fighting for something if you don’t want it enough to care if you win or lose.”

He closed the door and they both sat down, close to each other, and tried to think of something else to talk about while the minutes ticked away and the hour hand on the gold-faced clock crept towards ten, and then eleven.

It was growing very late. There should have been a result. Both of them were acutely aware of it, and trying not to say anything. Their conversation grew more and more stilted and sporadic.

Finally at twenty past eleven the door burst open and Jenkins stood there, his face flushed, his tongue stumbling over his words in wildly uncharacteristic emotion.

“S-sir—Mr. Radley. There is a recount, sir! They are nearly finished. The carriage is ready, and James will t-take you to the hall now. Ma’am …”

Jack shot to his feet and took a step forward before even thinking of reaching back for Emily, but she had also risen. Her legs weak with tension, she was only a yard behind him.

“Thank you,” Jack said a great deal less calmly than he had intended. “Yes, thank you. We’ll go.” He held out his hand towards Emily, then hurried to the front door without bothering to take his coat.

They rode in silence in the carriage, each craning forward as if they might see something, although there was nothing but the sweep of street lamps ahead of them and the moving lights of carriages as others hastened on this most tumultuous of nights.

At the hall where the ballots were being counted they alighted and with thumping hearts mounted the steps and went in the doors. Immediately a hush fell over at least half the assembled people. Faces turned, there was a buzz of excitement. Only the counters remained, heads bent, fingers flying through the sheaves of paper, stacks growing before them.

“Third time!” a little man hissed with unbearable tension in his voice.

Emily gripped Jack’s arm so tightly he winced, but she did not let go.

Over at the far end of the hall Nigel Uttley stood glowering, his face pale and strained. He still expected to win, but he had not foreseen that it would be close. He had thought to have an easy victory. His supporters were standing in anxious groups, huddled together, shooting occasional glances at the tables and the piles of papers.

Jack’s supporters also stood close, but they had not in honesty thought to win, and now the possibility was there and real. The die was cast, and they would know the verdict any moment.

Emily looked around to see how many people were here, and as her gaze passed from one group to another, she saw the light on coifs of gleaming silver hair on a proud head.

“Aunt Vespasia,” she burst out with astonishment and pleasure. “Look, Jack!” She pulled violently at his sleeve. “Great-Aunt Vespasia is here!”

He turned in surprise, and then his face broke into a smile of intense delight. He made his way over to her, pushing through the crowd.

“Aunt Vespasia! How very nice of you to have come!”

She turned and surveyed him with calm, amused eyes, but there was a flush of excitement in her cheeks.

“Of course I came,” she exclaimed. “Surely you did not think I would miss such an occasion?”

“Well it is … late,” he said in sudden embarrassment. “And I may well … not win.”

“Of course you may,” she agreed. “But either way, you have given him an excellent battle. He will know he has seen a fight.” She lifted her chin a little and there was a gleam of belligerence in her eyes.

Jack was about to add something when there was a sudden hush over the hall and everyone swung around to see the returning officer rise to his feet.

There followed a heart-lurching space while he went through all the formal preamble, waiting a moment, savoring all the drama and the power. Then he announced that by a margin of twelve votes, the member of Parliament for the constituency would be John Henry Augustus Radley.

Emily let out a squeal of sheer relief.

Jack gasped and then let out his breath in a long sigh.

Nigel Uttley stood stiff-lipped and unbelieving.

“Congratulations, my dear.” Aunt Vespasia turned to Jack and, reaching forward very gently, kissed him on the cheek. “You will do excellently.”

He blushed with self-conscious happiness and was too full of emotion to speak.

The party to celebrate the victory was held the following evening. It was a somewhat hasty affair since Emily had not prepared it with her usual care. She had not dared to believe it would be called for. Of course all those who had helped in the campaign were invited, with their wives, and those who had offered their support in his cause. Naturally his family were included, which was actually Emily’s family. Charlotte and Pitt accepted immediately. There was a charming note of congratulation from Caroline, but no word as to whether she would attend or not.

It began early as people arrived breathless with the thrill of victory. Voices were raised, faces flushed, and everyone talked at once, full of ideas and hopes of change.

“It’s only one new member,” Jack said, trying to appear modest and keep some sort of perspective to things. “It doesn’t change the government.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Emily agreed, standing very close to him and quite unable to take the enormous smile from her face. “But it is a beginning. It is a turning of the tide. Uttley is furious.”

“He most certainly is,” a large woman agreed cheerfully, balancing her glass of champagne in one hand, the enormous lace ruffles on her shoulders and sleeves endangering passersby. “Bertie says in spite of what the newspapers have been saying, he was taken completely by surprise. He really believed he was going to win.”

Bertie, who had only been paying half attention, now turned towards Jack with a serious expression on his benign face.

“Actually, old boy, he really was very put out indeed.” He bit into a petit four. “You have a nasty enemy there. I should be very careful of him if I were you.”

For a moment their conversation was obliterated by the sound of chatter, clinking glasses, a swish of fabric and slither of leather soles upon the floor.

“Oh really, my dear,” his wife responded as soon as she
could make herself heard. “He must have considered the possibility of losing, surely? No one enters any competition without knowing someone has to lose.”

“Uttley did not believe it would be he.” Bertie leaned towards them, growing even graver. “And it is not merely losing a seat he believed was his in all but name. He has lost a great deal more, so I hear.”

His wife was confused. “What more? What are you talking about? Do explain yourself, my dear. You are not making sense.”

Bertie disregarded her and kept his eyes on Jack.

“There’s a great deal about it I don’t understand, powerful forces at work, if you know what I mean.” Bertie for once ignored his sparkling glass. “One hears whispers, if one is in the right place at the right time. There are people …” He hesitated, glancing at Emily, then back to Jack. “People behind the people one knows …”

Jack said nothing.

“Powerful forces?” Emily asked, then wished she had not. As a woman, she was not supposed to know about such things, still less at least half understand what he meant.

“Nonsense,” Bertie’s wife said briskly. “He lost because people preferred Jack. It’s as simple as that. Really, you are making a secret where there is none.”

“The people who voted obviously preferred Jack,” Bertie said patiently, sipping at his glass again. “But they were not the ones who blackballed Uttley from his club.” He looked at Jack meaningfully over his wife’s head. “Be careful, old fellow, that’s all. There’s something going on a great deal more than meets the eye. And those with the real power are not always whom one supposes.”

Jack nodded, his face grave, but the smile did not fade from his lips. “Now do have some more champagne. You surely deserve it as much as anyone.”

When everyone had been welcomed, thanked and congratulated and the toasts drunk, Emily at last made her way over to Charlotte.