Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (23 page)

Flanking the hustings, carts festooned in buntings of the sponsoring party kept the populace in a steady flow of beer and port, and thirsty Fleckers bounced back and forth between them, showing no loyalty in regard to whose ale they drank up.

Norman peered at all of these goings-on from the relative quiet of behind the hustings’ corner post. At the far end of the hustings, Oliver Fay, in his orange hat and gloves, paced and gesticulated, practicing his speech. It was like the backstage area of a theater, with the players waiting for the curtain to rise.

A hand slipped into Norman’s and squeezed. He looked down at Elsa and lost his breath, as happened all too frequently when he saw this woman. Today she was splendidly turned out in buff and blue, a public declaration of her shift in loyalties, both political and personal. Her indigo eyes were serene, providing the steady confidence he sorely needed. She tilted her head. “All right?”

He nodded. “Just anxious for it to be over.”

“This is just the beginning! Once you take your seat, that’s when the hard part starts.”

Norman groaned. Elsa laughed.

A villager approached to shake Elsa’s hand, not Norman’s, congratulating her on her brave speech yesterday. Their joint declaration had caused quite the stir, but it was Elsa’s disclosure of her battle with drunkenness that had everyone rapt. Norman was furious to his core that the late Lord Fay had abused Elsa, robbing her of the confidence her vibrant character so rightly deserved. And yet she had persevered, surmounting the insecurities he’d planted in her mind and besting the habit that had undoubtedly been the result of the scoundrel’s mistreatment. Incredible woman. He was once more overcome by his absolute love for this indomitable creature. “Elsa.”

She turned at the sound of her name, smiled at him over her shoulder. “What is it?” she asked, her brows drawing together. “You’ve the oddest look on your face. Are you going to be sick?”

There was a loud trumpeting from the hustings, a signal repeated three times. The roar of the great gathering on the green gradually subsided.

“It’s time,” she whispered, pulling his cheek down for a kiss. “Best of luck, Norman. I know you’ll be spectacular.”

After one last squeeze of his hand, she nudged him forward. Both Norman and Oliver Fay came to stand at the base of the hustings stairs while, on the platform, the village clerk called for order. Elsa slipped into the crowd. Though Norman tried to keep her in sight, she was quickly swallowed in a sea of blue and orange.

“We shall hear from each candidate standing for our borough’s vacant seat in the House of Commons. First, Mr. Oliver Fay.”

The Tory candidate once again leaned heavily on his position as a native of the community, renewing his assertion that “an outsider” could not possibly have the best interests of Fleck at heart. His speech earned a roar of approval from the crowd.

“And now,” said the clerk, “we shall be addressed by Mr. Norman Wynford-Scott.”

Polite applause accompanied his ascent to the platform. Norman shook the hand of the clerk, then looked out over the audience. In the back third of the throng, a banner fluttered wildly.

His friends were here? He raised his hand in salute, though he could not make out their faces, and heard a single voice bellow “
Nooooooorm!
” Henry. Chuckling to himself, Norman began his brief remarks.

“Good people of the borough of Fleck, thank you for coming to participate in today’s polling. This past month, it has been an honor and a privilege to meet so many of you and to come to know and love this wonderful community. My esteemed opponent would remind you that I am not a native to this district, and though this is true, your warmth and generous hospitality have ensured that Fleck will always be in my heart, regardless of the outcome of today’s vote.”

Cheers and whistles greeted this statement.

“Throughout this contest,” he went on, “I have spoken with many of you about the challenges and difficulties facing your borough, and I hope you have a better understanding of what is possible when the government and the people work together for the greater good. This past week—and the last few days, in particular—have been difficult. Someone very dear to me was the target of a vicious political attack, but instead of lashing out with anger or malice, she saw that challenge as an opportunity to reach out and create a greater understanding with members of this community. From her example, I have learned a valuable lesson, one I think we all would do well to mark: Courage and honesty are necessary to effect positive change. That is how an individual can change, and that is how a village can change, too. Whatever comes, it is my prayer for Fleck that her people will have the courage and honesty necessary to be the strong community I know it is capable of being. It would be my great honor to work at your side to help Fleck meet its challenges and fulfill its tremendous potential. Thank you.”

A hearty round of applause followed his remarks. Then the clerk once again called for quiet.

“By a show of approbation, please indicate your preferred candidate. Mr. Fay.” To Norman’s ears, the Tory’s share of applause and cheers was deafening, with men and women alike hooting their approval and stomping their feet. “Mr. Wynford-Scott.” Norman received a fair portion of support, as well, plus one banner enthusiastically waving back and forth.

“There is no clear winner,” announced the clerk.

Norman stepped forward. “I request a polling of electors.”

The clerk nodded. “The polling will proceed in an orderly fashion. Electors, please approach the hustings.”

A surge of men pressed through the crowd to climb the hustings stairs. The clerk took his place at a table with the borough registry. As each man approached, he swore an oath of loyalty to the Crown, and swore that he was an inhabitant of the borough of Fleck before stating for which candidate he cast his vote. The first elector voted Fay.

Norman’s nerves would not permit him to remain on the hustings. He descended the stairs and made his way into the thick press of bodies. “Excuse me,” he said, “I beg your pardon. Please watch your toes.” Slowly and carefully, he made his way to the banner his friends held aloft.

“
Noooooorm
,” Henry yelled again as he approached, and then Norman was surrounded by their smiling faces, receiving manful hugs from Brandon and Sheri and Henry. Elsa was there, as well, though she stood apart while the men greeted Norman and offered their congratulations.

A few moments of his friends monopolizing his attention was about all Norman could take before he had to give them his shoulder and turn to the one person whose opinion mattered more than all the rest put together.

Seemingly without thought for their audience, Elsa flung herself at Norman. Her arms came around his neck as he hauled her off the ground in a fierce embrace.

“You were wonderful,” she said into his ear. “Did you mean what you said?”

“That and more.” His emotions were beating their way through his chest, demanding to be given voice.

He gently set her feet on the damp earth and pulled back so she could see his face when he spoke to her.

“Well, I must say,” Sheridan interrupted, sauntering over to clap a hand on Norman’s arm and another on Elsa’s shoulder, “it’s a relief to know two of my closest friends have not killed one another. There was some concern over the possibility, and some speculation after you left London, Norm, but it seems my worry was for naught.” The smile he gave the large man was a little too stiff to be entirely benevolent. “Delightful to see you getting along so ... peaceably.”

Norman held Sheri’s appraising gaze, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Elsa blush.

Sheri then offered the pink-faced woman his arm. “Elsa, my dear, I think I spotted a little cobbler’s shop just up the way. Tell me whether it’s worth my coin to invest in the provincial economy via a new pair of shoes.”

No sooner had he led Elsa away than they were replaced at Norman’s side by Brandon and Henry.

“Exciting stuff.” Henry bobbed his head to the hustings. The line of electors wrapped around the base of the platform and across the green. While they waited, volunteers for each campaign hoping to earn a last-minute pledge delivered voters mugs of ale and port. “Never thought I’d see one of us standing for Parliament,” Henry went on. His green eyes crinkled on a smile. “This has been good for you, Norm. You seem more ... oh, I don’t know, at ease, I suppose, than you were before.”

Biting back a laugh, Norman shook his head. “This has been one of the most fraught months of my life. At the moment, my innards are knitting themselves into a scarf.”

“Still ...” Henry eyed him thoughtfully. “There’s something.”

Brandon slapped Norman’s back. “Lady Fay.” Norman startled, thinking the surgeon was naming the source of the change Henry claimed to have noticed. “It was her to whom you referred in your speech, was it not?” At his nod, Brandon grunted. “How does she fare?”

“Remarkably well.” Norman rocked back on his heels, unconsciously scanning the crowd for a glimpse of her. “She’s maintained her sobriety for 116 days.”

Brandon lifted a brow. “That’s a very precise accounting.”

“She keeps a tally in her journal.” When Brandon’s other brow raised to join the first at his hairline, he rushed to explain, “I saw it day before yesterday. There was a near thing, you see, when that horrible illustration was distributed around town. Did you hear about that? Anyway, Elsa—Lady Fay, I mean—was terribly hurt and came close to surrendering to her compulsion. I offered my aid, but she had already mastered the impulse. Just astonishing fortitude she has. I played only the smallest part.”

Henry and Brandon exchanged amused looks.

A man passing by shook Norman’s hand, complimented his speech, and said he’d just cast his vote for a Whig for the first time in his life.

“The journal?” Henry pressed after the elector went on his way.

“The, um ... oh, the journal.” Norman cleared his throat and tipped his hat in greeting to an imaginary acquaintance to buy himself time. In admitting knowledge of the contents of Elsa’s private journal, he had perhaps betrayed the degree of intimacy they shared—a fact she may not want to become known. “After the crisis passed, we discussed how well she’d been doing. She showed me the count she keeps as a way of motivating her to abstain each day. It was something you said that inspired her, Brandon,” he said to deflect attention.

“Oh!” Brandon tilted his head. “I’m delighted to have been useful, but Lady Fay deserves all the credit for doing the hard work.”

Time ticked by slowly. Norman asked after his friends’ wives and businesses. Brandon reported a surprising uptick in goat-related injuries in Middlesex, while Henry bemoaned a cargo detained in port by a harbor official Henry was convinced was under the pay of the East India Company to stifle the shipping behemoth’s competition.

“Any word from Harrison?” Norman inquired.

Henry shook his head. “Last I heard, the ship had docked in Cape Town. That letter came weeks ago, and of course the news was months old, at that point.”

Norman sent up well wishes for their absent comrade, wherever he might be. Then he returned his attention to the green, which had been churned up by thousands of feet milling about on the wet grass. The line for polling had diminished to the point that it only wrapped halfway around the hustings. It wouldn’t be much longer.

His stomach flipped at the thought. He wished Elsa was here to tease him or distract him with conversation, or one of her erotic kisses that made him forget his own name, much less any other concerns.

“Where the devil is Zouche?” he blurted at last.

“Probably found some widow whose wood needs chopping,” Brandon mused. Not too long ago, Norman would have thought Brandon was employing a creative euphemism, but since marrying, the attentions the former rake gave to other women were now strictly social or charitable.

“I hope he’s not roped Lady Fay into stacking kindling,” Norman groused.

“What of the future?” Henry’s question seemed to come from nowhere; Norman cocked his head. “If you win the seat, I mean,” Henry clarified. “Will you resign it again in two years to resume your place at Gray’s Inn?”

“I don’t know.” Norman’s wide shoulders rolled on a sigh. More and more, the only certainty he saw in his future was Elsa.

Brandon posed the reverse of Henry’s question. “And what if Mr. Fay claims the victory? What will you do in the interim before you may be considered for the bar?”

“I don’t ...” Norman lifted his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, replaced his topper. “I don’t know, all right?”

“Fine, fine.” Henry lifted his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Settle down, big man. No need for agitation. We’ll learn shortly whether we need to help you devise a plan.” Only ten men remained in line at the hustings.

His friends’ questions brought to a head the unease that had been building inside him over these past weeks. At last, he spotted Sheri and Elsa heading in their direction. Their progress was as ponderous as one of Mr. Yelverton’s suppertime lectures back in the great hall at Gray’s Inn. Impatient, Norman struck out from the opposite direction to meet them in the middle. “Excuse me. Madam, would you please ...? Thank you.” After a small eternity, Norman looked up and found there were still fifteen feet separating him from Elsa. With a huff of frustration, he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Clear the way!”

His voice carried farther than he’d intended, for all across the green, people scrambled like startled hens, uncertain of the source of the command. Those directly before Norman quickly fell back, opening a corridor, at the end of which stood the most heartbreakingly beautiful woman he’d ever beheld. With a smile of welcome for Norman, she dropped Sheri’s arm.

Three strides carried him the rest of the way. He took her hands. “Elsa.”

“Look, Norman, the electors have finished.” Sheri pointed to the hustings. “The clerk seems to be tabulating the results.”

Norman did not look away from Elsa when he issued his threat. “I swear to God, Zouche, if you interrupt me again, I will tie your tongue in a knot.”