Love & Folly (28 page)

"Whereas I am known for my outrageous opinions. I thought they called you Radical
Tom?"

"That may be, but no one has ever accused me of poetry." He met his friend's amused eyes over
the rim of the snifter.

"Is there such an establishment? I rather fancy masquerading as a Radical poet. Mind you, I've not
writ so much as an iamb since I was eighteen and in love with the colonel's daughter."

"Coffeehouse in Rose Street."

"I'll test the waters."

"Emily will be wishing me in Hades."

"For dragging me from Mayne Hall? Nonsense, she's being spared nightly skirmishes in the
drawing room between Sir Henry and his freakish son-in-law. Besides she's packing for Brecon. She says all
three boys need new shirts. I left her to it."

"Well, I'm glad you've come."

"Er, speaking of wives, Lady Clanross--"

Tom groaned. "She's wonderfully restrained in her letters."

"But she wants your guts for garters?"

"Lord, you're vulgar."

Richard grinned.

"Something along those lines," Tom admitted. "Richard, what the devil shall I do with this
poet?"

They discussed Tom's choices, which were limited, and Tom began to feel less harrassed, though
he knew Owen Davies was going to be a knotty problem to solve. The mood in London was strange. On
the one hand, the Mob continued its noisy support of the queen. On the other, the government were
perplexed by the king's insistence on a divorce and well-nigh hysterical with fear of the Mob. The servants
of Tory MPs set up makeshift barricades of chiffoniers and ironing boards nightly in elegant town houses.
The Tories expected the revolution at any moment. The Duke of Wellington had been jeered in Hyde
Park.

From Tom's viewpoint their terror was foolish. So far the Mob were good-natured enough.
Caricaturists were enjoying a heyday. The queen's cause was a publick entertainment, no more. Still, it
could not be pleasant to have one's windows broken every time the Mob wished to express itself. Tom had
some sympathy for his neighbor, Lord Harrowby, but if Harrowby and his friends insisted on stifling lawful
dissent, what more could they expect? The people, in Tom's opinion, would always find a way to be
heard.

The trouble was, the penalties attached to publishing material the government considered
seditious were extreme. If the men in Westminster were frightened enough to pursue a caricaturist for
portraying the king as a grossly fat man--which was true--God knew what they might do to a poet whose
figures of speech were a little intemperate. Tom did not want to see Owen Davies languishing in custody.
Boiling in oil, perhaps, but not stewing in prison.

* * * *

Whilst Clanross and Colonel Falk were attempting to find out how far the damage had gone, the
party at Brecon held its collective breath.

Jean's devotion to Owen burned with a fierce flame. He was by turns defiant and melancholy. If
Elizabeth had chained him in a dungeon--there were no dungeons at Brecon but it did boast extensive wine
cellars--Jean would have moved mountains to rescue him.

Apart from maintaining an icy civility toward Owen at dinner, however, Elizabeth did nothing
untoward. It was true that Jean and Owen were never left alone together, but they had not been before
Johnny's revelations either. Nothing had changed but the climate.

Jean had begun to look on Maggie as her gaoler, too, though she knew the feeling was unfair.
Maggie had not betrayed her and swore she would not, but Jean knew there had been a shift of allegiance. It
galled her that Maggie's attachment to Johnny was acceptable whilst hers for Owen was not. She wanted to
attribute the persecution of Owen to his comparative poverty, but neither Elizabeth nor Clanross was
mercenary. They objected, she thought with resentment, because Johnny was dull and conformable and
Owen was colourful.

That Maggie didn't find Johnny dull Jean knew very well. The sonnet he had writ for Maggie
shook Jean's conviction when she finally read it, and she had to admit Johnny was well-looking and knew
how to make himself agreeable, but he was not romantic. If Maggie had spurned Johnny he would have
been unhappy, perhaps even taken to drink, but he would not have died for love.

Owen's more sensitive nature led him into an observable decline. His eyes grew heavy, shadowed
with sleeplessness. He took long solitary walks. Jean saw him brooding by the waters of the lake. Several
times he was so unwell he could not come down to dinner. She worried that he might be
consumptive.

She smuggled notes to him to cheer him. It was no easy matter to do so unobserved, but she
didn't grudge the effort. She had to wake herself at three in the morning to slip out into the hall with her
letters, and then she ran the risk of bumping into Elizabeth, who was working at her telescope again and apt
to be up at strange hours. Owen's first note to Jean--a tragic epode called "Frost in Spring"--came by the
way of Polly, the chambermaid who served all the bedrooms in that wing. Thereafter Polly was their
courier.

Twice Owen suggested meetings, and twice Jean attempted the tryst but was foiled by the
vigilance of her wardens. Miss Bluestone on the first occasion and Elizabeth herself on the second appeared
as if by magick as Jean tried to make her way outdoors unnoticed. "Going for a walk? I'll join you." How
could they be so unfeeling?

She was balked, stymied, frustrated at every turn. Finally her frustration led her to confront her
twin.

"I want to see Owen alone."

"But Elizabeth--"

"Does Elizabeth put an armed guard on your visits with Johnny?"

"Well, no, but--"

"How would
you
feel, Maggie?"

Maggie was neck-deep in soapsuds. She flapped one hand delicately and made a small wave of
soapy water. "I shouldn't like it."

"Then help me meet him."

Maggie submerged, sloshing water on the rug, and surfaced. She mopped her eyes with a cloth
and began soaping her hair. "No. It wouldn't be right. Rinse, please."

After her own bath, Jean had sent Lisette, whom she trusted not an inch, from the room. So she
hefted the can and poured warm water over her twin's head.

Maggie spluttered.

"What did you say?"

"I like my cropped hair. It's much quicker to wash. And I needn't brush it forever."

Exasperated, Jean watched as her twin climbed from the tub, towelled dry, and slipped into
nightrail and robe. "You meet Johnny alone."

"I've only met him alone twice." Pink spots burned on Maggie's cheeks. "On our birthday and
when he rode up from Hampshire last week. The second time was an accident. Otherwise we've been
chaperoned by you or Elizabeth or one of the maids. Besides, you know Johnny wouldn't do anything
improper."

"And Owen would?"

Maggie sat at the dressing table and brushed her damp curls. "His language makes me
blush."

"He says what his heart tells him to say." Maggie couldn't have heard Owen's avowal of love.
She'd been too far off.

Maggie daubed lotion on her nose. The twins were subject to freckles. The lotion was supposed
to bleach them, but Jean had never noticed dramatic results and had given it up.

At last Maggie said, with an air of grave deliberation, "I think you ought to wait until Clanross
comes before you try to meet with Owen."

"Why?"

"Because, if you see Owen alone now and you're found out, Clanross will be twice as angry with
all three of us. He's probably very angry already."

"We won't be found out unless you peach."

Maggie went white. She turned. "I've never broken your confidence, not even to Johnny, and I
don't think it's fair of you to suggest I may."

Jean's eyes fell. She was rather ashamed of the impetuous remark, but she had thought Maggie
would be easier to persuade. "I'm sorry."

Maggie rose. "All right." She walked to the window and looked out at the starry night. "I won't
help you meet Owen, because it's underhand dealing. I don't like sneaking about deceiving people. It made
me sick in London." Maggie turned to face her. "And I won't deceive Johnny again. That's flat."

Jean gaped.

"Don't bully me."

"I don't bully."

"Yes, you do. You poke and poke and I give way because it's easier. Well, I won't this
time."

Jean's eyes welled with tears. If Maggie was against her the whole world was.

They made up the quarrel after a fashion. Their quarrels never lasted long. But Maggie would not
be swayed. When Jean raised the subject again, Maggie gave her a long, unsmiling look. "You're bullying
again," she said, and Jean had to give it up.

* * * *

When Tom finally came from London, Elizabeth had gone from outrage through gloom to honest
anxiety. Why didn't the man come?

She was with the babies in the nursery and hadn't heard the carriage, so he startled her when he
came into the sun-filled room at the top of the house. "Tom! Thank God!" She thrust Dickon at the
nursemaid and ran to her husband.

He kissed her cheek. "Are you all right?"

"Am I well, do you mean? Of course, though I'm near distraction." She touched his face. "Why
didn't you come sooner?"

"I had to find out the consequences of that poem's being published." He looked grim. "I've
summoned Johnny and the three conspirators to the bookroom in half an hour. I should like you to be
present, Elizabeth."

"What is it?"

He glanced at the head nurse and her assistant. "It will keep."

"All right."

He went to the boys who had recognised him and were making importunate noises.

Elizabeth wondered if Tom had chosen the library for its air of courtroom gloom. The
withdrawing room would have been a friendlier arena, but it did not take long to see that Tom was in an
unfriendly frame of mind.

When the brief courtesies were done and everyone but Tom was seated, he said, without
preamble, "The Runners have identified you as the author of that poem, Davies."

Jean gasped.

Elizabeth stared at the poet. He had been unusually pale when he entered the room. Now his eyes
darkened.

"There's little doubt that you'll be charged," Clanross continued. "They're building a dossier. The
only question is when the warrant will be issued."

Johnny shifted in his chair. "Do they know of the girls' role?"

"Not yet, according to my sources."

Maggie raised her clasped hands to her mouth, and Jean set her jaw.

Elizabeth said quietly, "How good is your information, Tom?"

He frowned. "It's not official, if that's what you mean. I was constrained to ask through friends,
and friends of friends." He turned back to Owen. "I understand you'd already published a piece calling for
revolution under your own name."

"It was published privately." Colour returned to Owen's cheeks. He sat straighter on the stiff
chair. "How did they connect the 'Anthem' with me? Carrington wouldn't betray me."

"I've no idea. The point is you'll have to leave the country or stand your trial."

Owen's lip curled. "Let them charge me. I shall not be the first martyr!"

"Save your oratory for the dock, you poetaster." Johnny clenched his fists on his breeches-clad
knees. He had come in from riding and not had time to change. "Have you no thought for Lady Jean and
Lady Margaret? If you're tried, the Runners will make every effort to identify the young women who
brought the poem to London."

Owen blinked.

"Johnny's right," Tom said heavily. "I've booked passage for you on the
Urania
packet
bound for Halifax at the beginning of September."

Jean made a noise.

"He ought to leave at once!" Elizabeth protested. Her heart was thumping.

"He may have to make a run for it yet." Tom paced to the cold hearth. "I'm gambling that they
won't act so soon, and that his departure will appear to be a mission I've sent him on. I meant to send
Barney Greene. Owen will take his place." He raised his head and looked at Owen directly. "Once the
river freezes, you may travel by sledge to Montreal and Kingston. My agent there will employ you."

"I prefer to stand trial."

"I can't allow it."

Owen threw back his head, flipping the fair hair from his eyes. "You can't stop it."

Tom said coolly, "I've no doubt you'd enjoy the notoriety. The Radical press would make a hero
of you and you'd swank it in prison like Leigh Hunt, receiving callers and sending out your latest incendiary
thoughts to the journals. You'd probably get two years or less and you'd leave gaol a famous man. I daresay
that's what you were aiming for when you suborned Lady Jean to run your risks for you."

"He did not s-suborn me. It was my idea!"

Tom's face softened. "My dear, he could have prevented you easily enough by withholding the
poem. And how should you have heard of his friend in Soho if he hadn't told you?"

Jean's eyes dropped but her jaw set in a mutinous line.

"I won't go into exile," Owen exclaimed. "I've done nothing wrong. It's the laws that are unjust.
You said so yourself, my lord."

"I did." Tom leaned against the long table, arms folded. "I believe they are wrong. If you'd acted
openly and honestly, on your own, I'd swallow the embarrassment of your being in my employ when the
Runners came for you. As it is, I'm afraid you'll have to forego the pleasure." He spoke almost mildly but
Elizabeth perceived he was very angry indeed.

"Pleasure!"

"Sensation, if you prefer."

The two men stared at one another and Owen's eyes dropped first.

Jean said hysterically, "You cannot exile Owen, Clanross! I love him!"

Oh, Jean,
Elizabeth thought.
Don't be a fool.

A long silence ensued, broken only by Jean's sobs. At last Tom said carefully, "If your feelings are
engaged, Jean, I'm very sorry for you."

"They are, they are!"

"Elizabeth."

Elizabeth started.

"Will you and Maggie take Jean from the room and see to her comfort? I'll come to you
later."