Love & Folly (14 page)

* * * *

The election had not gone well. That much was clear from Clanross's letters. The Liverpool
ministry, with its repressions and its hired informers, would remain in power.

Clanross meant to escort them to London, and Maggie thought Elizabeth was cheered by the fact.
Elizabeth wanted cheering, for the weather was obstinately overcast. Though she felt some guilt that her
debut in society should rob Elizabeth of time with the new telescope, Maggie had begun to feel considerable
excitement.

Her sniffles confined her to her room for only a few days. Then she was back in the book room,
cheerfully retrieving dusty volumes for the catalogue or helping Johnny with his work. She liked to be
useful, and she knew that she had eased the tension between Johnny and Owen on more than one
occasion.

Johnny and Owen did not agree. At first Maggie believed that Johnny was jealous of the poet's
ascendancy with her twin, but the longer she listened to the two of them brangling, the more convinced she
was that their differences were philosophical, too.

Jean was so deeply in love that the poet's sentiments seemed right to her, but Maggie could not
help seeing some inconsistency in his calls for revolution and his simultaneous dependence on the patronage
of a nobleman. She wondered if Clanross had ever read Owen's verse. Perhaps he had.

Her brother-in-law was firmly opposed to the strictures on freedom of the press the government
had enacted in the wake of Peterloo. The earl was an even-tempered man but he had looked quite fierce
when he condemned suspension of habeas corpus, and he disliked the sedition laws even more. The political
events of the past months were all very interesting to Maggie--like watching a history lesson come to
life--and since Johnny had confided in her his political ambitions her interest had grown. Dreamily she wondered
what her life would be like if she married a member of Parliament. She resolved to ask her sister
Anne.

Clanross favoured reform of Parliament. That placed him among the Radicals, but he had never
spoken in favour of violent action--by advocates of change
or
by the government. That Johnny
agreed with Clanross's views was confirmation enough for Maggie. She did not like the thought of
bloodletting, though many of Owen's causes did cry out for remedy. So, though she sympathised with
Owen and her twin, her convictions placed her in the moderate camp, Johnny's camp, where her feelings
also led her.

But most of the time Maggie eschewed politicks in favour of
La Belle Assemblée
whose fascinating gowns and delectable bonnets stirred her imagination. Elizabeth meant to open the town
house and give a ball, unless Anne thought such an entertainment would seem disrespectful. But by May, by
the twins' eighteenth birthday, the three months of deep mourning for George III would be over. Unless
rioting broke out in London as it had in Glasgow, Anne would probably give her consent.

"Will they hang Thistlewood?"

Tom nodded. "The other poor devils, too, I daresay." The trial of the Cato Street conspirators
was now in its fourth day. Tom swirled his brandy. "I wonder whether they'd have planned so extreme a
course if the spy, what's his name--"

"Edwards." Richard Falk leaned back in the wing- backed chair, eyes half-lidded.

"Would they have planned a mass assassination if Edwards hadn't been with them from the first,
egging them on? Disclosure of the plot was timely for the government. Gave 'em an excuse to crack down
on journalists and stir up the voters just before the election."

"Aren't you over-suspicious, Tom?"

"I don't think so," Tom said soberly "That Cabinet dinner at Harrowby's house, the one at which
the conspirators planned to assassinate the ministers, never existed."

Richard stared.

"It was a sham. Sidmouth was feeding the plotters false information for months, before the
attempt was scheduled."

"I thought
I
had a Byzantine imagination," Richard murmured. "Cheer up, Tom.
There'll be other elections."

Tom tossed off the last of the brandy. "No doubt, unless the ministers in their wisdom decided to
suspend the whole government."

"I've never voted," Richard offered.

"You could have."

"True, but I didn't know the men or the issues."

Tom meditated. Richard's want of interest in the electoral process was common enough among
army men, unless they had family connexions in office. After a moment Tom said, apropos of issues, "I
don't like this business of Queen Caroline."

Richard grinned. "
I
think it's damned amusing."

A reluctant smile touched Tom's mouth.
I consort too much with politicians,
he thought.
"The devil of it is, no one believes the queen is innocent, but the Whigs have decided to champion her
cause. That diverts energy from more important matters."

Richard cocked his head. "Besides, the king is notorious for his
affaires de coeur
and has
been these thirty years. 'A little touch of Hypocrisy in the night...'"

"Go to it." Tom rose and walked to the Adam fireplace. "Write up your satire," he shot over his
shoulder, "print it, circulate it, and I'll call on you from time to time at Newgate." He kicked at the coals,
not a wise action in patent pumps.

They had dined
à deux
and were now recovering from the chef's excesses over a
decanter of brandy. Richard had been in Town several days, but Tom had only just bumped into him that
morning in the street.

"Where are you staying this time--not Chelsea?"

"No. It's too far from Albermarle Street."

"Albermarle Street? Oh--Murray. You're still working on the history, I take it."

Richard set his brandy down on the occasional table. "I do not make a habit of breaking
contracts," he said through his teeth. "And I
agreed
to deliver three volumes to Murray."

Tom stopped in mid-stride, surprised by the heat in his friend's voice. "I just asked."

Richard leaned back. "Sorry. Everyone seems to think I should forget about my writing."

"That be damned, but I thought you wanted to give up the history. 'Tripe,'" he quoted.
"'Hackwork.'"

Richard flushed. "That was mostly croaking. It's dreadful stuff, to be sure--two shillings the
yard--but Murray wants the book and I agreed to supply it. I don't like unfinished business."

"I see." Tom resumed his seat and eyed his friend thoughtfully. "I wish you will finish it
soon."

"So do I," Richard shot back. "It's plodding work, every syllable."

"Well, plod faster. Now that you're as rich as Golden Ball."

"I am not as rich as Golden Ball and never will be," Richard rejoined, "and if I wind up in
chancery I'll be as bankrupt as old Sheridan."

Tom turned that unpleasant possibility over in his mind.

"Besides, after I finish the history, I must settle a few small domestic concerns," Richard went
on.

Tom frowned. "Such as?"

"Such as where to set up my household." He explained Emily's remove to Mayne Hall. "It's a
temporary expedient. Sir Henry and Emily go on more comfortably at a distance."

"He must be a terror."

"I like Sir Henry," Richard said unexpectedly. "Beneath the rugged exterior beats a heart of pure
marzipan. He doats on his grandchildren, and would happily take the burden of domestic decision from
Emily's shoulders. Unfortunately, Emily thrives on decision making, domestic and otherwise. Therein lies
the rub."

"Emily
looks
like marzipan," Tom offered. He was fond of Richard's second wife.

"An illusion. Emily could have run the regiment with a hand tied behind her back," said her
doating spouse. "She managed young Matt's estate for years..."

Tom reached into his memory. "And increased the revenues."

"She has a head for figures and a way with Matt's tenants. Do you think I ought to purchase an
estate?"

"For Emily?"

"God knows, not for me. I add on my fingers and I can't tell oats, peas, and beans from
barley."

Tom poured more brandy. "Don't you object to rural living?"

"Not if Emily's there," Richard said simply. "The thing is, my mother's properties are urban, or
suburban. I rode out today to St. John's Wood to see a villa she owned. The house is large enough, the air's
clean, and the prospect is pleasant, but there's no land attached. It won't do."

"So you mean to sell off some of the houses and buy land?"

"When... If...the will is proved."

Tom brooded over his brandy.

After a pause, Richard said, "I have been trying to reach a settlement with Newsham and the
other heirs, to avert a suit in chancery."

Tom sat up. "I hope you're not going to give the legacy up to that lot. They don't deserve it of
you, Richard."

"Deserve'?" Richard's mouth twisted on the word as if he had tasted lemon. "It's not a question of
deserving. If it comes to that, I don't deserve that much wealth either. No one does." He added,
defensively, "You needn't look at me like that. I've turned the matter over to the lawyers. They'll drive a
stiff bargain--it's in their interest to do so. I'm not a complete fool, Tom."

"No more than half." Tom was sure the wealth Richard had inherited was still a vague
hypothetical figure in his friend's mind. Giving away imaginary sums was probably no more painful to
Richard than discarding a botched chapter in a novel. The question was why he was ready to accommodate
his half brothers and sisters. The Ffouke family, Newsham and Lord George in particular, had treated
Richard abominably. The thought of Newsham profiting from Richard's scruples made Tom's blood
boil.

"If you're bent on throwing the duchess's estate to the winds, give it to Eddystone lifeboat," he
burst out. "Or to our Canadian scheme. Your loving brothers and sisters won't starve."

Richard smiled. "Lord John is under the hatches, or so I've heard. Let be, Tom. Do you expect
Lady Clanross and her sisters soon?"

"Next week," Tom growled. He would have pursued the matter of his friend's quixotic
generosity, but Richard had given him a clear signal to sheer off and Tom was too old a Falk hand to press
farther.
He's more accommodating to old enemies than old friends,
Tom reflected, but without
resentment. The dowager's will was, after all, Richard's business. "Elizabeth and Johnny will escort the
twins to Town next Wednesday. Heyday for the mantua makers."

"Does Lady Clanross mean to present the girls in May?"

Tom described Elizabeth's plans briefly, but he knew Richard's interest in the fashionable world
was at best tepid, so he turned--or returned--the conversation to his earlier question.

It transpired that Richard was staying at an inn in Holborn convenient to the City and his
publisher.

"You ought to come here," Tom said.

Richard laughed. "You've a large contingent arriving from Brecon. I appreciate the offer,
however."

"But an inn cannot be an ideal place for writing."

"There is no ideal place for writing."

"Grosvenor Square is quieter than High Holborn," Tom shot back. "I'm not short of room." He
cleared his throat. "And I'd like you to know Elizabeth."

Richard was frowning at him. "I've met Lady Clanross."

"For ten minutes before the christening." That rankled. Richard had stopped at Brecon precisely
one night to discharge his godfatherly duties, and Elizabeth had been too weak still for social intercourse.
"Come, or Elizabeth will be thinking you've taken her in dislike."

After an uncomfortable pause Richard agreed. Tom wondered if the invitation had been wise, but
he had come upon a brilliant idea as Richard spoke of buying an estate, and the brilliance of the idea was
beside the point if Elizabeth and Richard disliked each other. No time like the present to test the
waters.

* * * *

As it happened, Elizabeth's mind was on her sons. She had never been separated from them, and
she had felt a jolt of something surprisingly like grief as she parted from them. They were well attended, of
course, and enjoyed vigourous good health. They had even taken their inoculation with the cowpox in
stride. It was foolish in the extreme to feel the separation so acutely.

Perhaps if Elizabeth had liked town life, thrived on it as her stepmother had, as her sister Anne
did, the prospect of some weeks in society would have turned her mind sooner from the loss of her sons'
company. As it was, she missed her boys and her new telescope, in that order.

When Elizabeth and entourage finally arrived in Grosvenor Square on a rainy April afternoon, she
was not best pleased to discover that Clanross had installed his old army friend in the green guest chamber.
Indeed, she and Tom almost came to cuffs.

"I meant that room for Johnny Dyott."

Tom said callously, "Johnny may sleep in the attics. He's a young sprout after all."

"You sound like his grandfather."

"When it comes to uncomfortable billets I
am
his grandfather. Richard needs room for
thought."

Elizabeth had been lying on the chaise in her dressing room, reading an article on dark nebulae
and recruiting her energies for dinner at her sister Anne's. She sat up, laying the journal aside. "Will
Colonel Falk stay through the Season?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Do you object to welcoming my friend?"

"Not at all. I'm glad to see Colonel Falk. But I thought he lived in Hampshire."

"He's finished his history and the publisher apparently awaits each day's output with bated breath.
I thought Richard might find it quieter here than in Holborn." He leaned on the mantle.

"Quieter? With Jean and Maggie in residence?"

Tom's mouth eased in a grin. "Are they aflame with social scheming?"

"I'm not sure," Elizabeth said gloomily. "Maggie is, Jean isn't."

"I thought the plan to storm London was Jean's idea."

"It was. That's what has me worried. When I suggested we visit Mme. Thérèse
tomorrow to select designs for the presentation gowns, Jean turned downright snappish."