CHAPTER XXVI
The Thames was choppy and grey; the wind that gusted air up the river did flood the senses, but with smells of sewage and the waste of industry, rather than salt and spray. The sky threatened rain on the ferries and merchant ships bobbing against their moorings. It was not an ideal morning for a walk. Lady Matlock stood alone in the open, watching the traffic of the river start up again for the week, oblivious to the wigged and gowned occupants of the Inns of Court scurrying for shelter around her. She hoped she had not misunderstood.
A figure in a dark brown overcoat came to stand next to her; about her height, when she had her heeled shoes on. "I am glad to see you recovered."
She had resolved over the weekend that she would not entertain familiarities. The whole situation had become too complicated. She would deliver her message, and then all of her energy would go into planning their return home, where everything would be normal again. She kept her eyes on the river.
"I did try, I need you to know that. But there's no hope for your friend, not that I can offer anyway. My husband is more involved in all of this than I had understood. He agrees with Sidmouth's approach. In fact, I think he helped to plan it. I don't have it in my power to change his mind on this."
The figure next to her stood silent. She sensed he was looking out at the water too. "I am sorry to hear it. I had assumed – well, you seem to care for him. I had assumed that made him a good man."
"He is," she said with feeling. "He is. It is just, since his uncle's passing, everything has been more demanding. He feels the duty of this all heavily."
"And what duty is that?"
"A duty to serve the nation, as best he can."
They stood for a while longer in silence. It began spitting. She considered making her excuses, when Mr. Weir turned to face her. "If that is the duty he wishes to serve, then he would be best out of Liverpool's Cabinet." He turned quickly away from her again. "But there is little wonder to it; the aristocracy of this country have but one duty, and it is to their own interests and pockets."
"That is your opinion, sir."
"No, your ladyship, it is fact." Facing her again, his eyes caught hers and held them. "The Corn Laws, the Enclosures, the seizure of the commons. They take what is ours by right, from Culloden to Calcutta – riding roughshod over any poor wretch who stands in their way. They see us still as uppity serfs, good for nothing but cannon fodder and keeping their larders full while babes go hungry in the streets. Forgive me Lady Matlock; I do not include you in this assessment. I understand you had to marry prudently."
"I married for love, sir."
"If anyone ever succeeds where the Cato plot did not, I advise against telling them that."
She glared at him. "Is that what you want Mr. Weir? For someone to pick up the cause of Cato Street again?"
"Maybe," he said. "I do want change, need change. The country needs change; but Thistlewood's plan was short-sighted. They did not think about what would have happened, had they succeeded; the King and his new Whigish Cabinet would have thrown them in the Tower with even less ceremony than they currently enjoy."
She huffed. "And here I thought they were lured into it all, by that villainous Mr. Edwards."
"You are an intelligent woman, Lady Matlock. Surely you can see that both things can be true."
"And what of your friend, Mr. Davidson? What did he want?"
"William wanted what all men want; to leave the world a better place for their children."
She looked down at the river; it had grown busy. Carriages were making their way across Waterloo Bridge, and in the distance to the west, the gloomy towers of Westminster pierced the skyline. The noise of the river carried up from the east; sailors' and tradesmen's calls from Southwark, Wapping – even as far as Limehouse. The reminder of a city swelling, flooding the nearby towns and villages with its rising tide; some riding the crest, and others sinking down, struggling for air. Her aunt and uncle were out there, somewhere.
"That is not just a desire of men."
"Pardon?"
"To leave a better world, full of opportunity and hope. That is not just a desire of fathers. Mothers bleed and die for it, every day."
He looked across at her again. The kindness had returned to his eyes. "You are quite correct."
She held his stare. Not looking up or inclining her head. Just straight, on an equal footing. It was disconcerting. "How would you build a better world, Mr. Weir? You seem like a man who has given the matter a lot of thought. How does one leave the world a better place for their children?"
"You will not like it."
"I will like making my own mind up."
"Very well," he said. "It is simple; I would abolish private property. See, I knew you would not like it, but I assure you, it is the fairest and most peaceful way of doing it – providing those with property do not fight back. It would completely negate the forty-shilling freeholders, so then you must either make it so that no one can vote or everyone can vote. If there are no titled estates to inherit then you do away with the feudal hangover that is the unelected House of Lords; let every person campaign fairly for a seat in Parliament. But most crucially, if no man can have property, then no man – or woman – can be property. You abolish slavery absolutely, not the half-cut measures currently in place. And you allow a woman to remain her own self, and not just another thing of her husband's."
"And how exactly would you achieve that? It is fanciful."
"The upper circle are meant to be the best of any of us; the most educated, entertaining, enterprising. I am sure, with these credentials, they would not struggle to find a useful role for themselves, without it being one that is inherited."
"And you would expect the common man to go along with this too?" she said mockingly. "To give up his hard-earned possessions?"
"In all likelihood he is already relying on his neighbour, and his neighbour on him; the same principle applies. We need not take the common man's possessions, because he will already have what he needs – he just would not technically own them. But no one, Lady Matlock, needs two estates in the country, a house in town and an extra in Bath. Not when there are five families to a room in Manchester or Glasgow."
She had the good grace to blush. She had thought as much herself. "I did not have you down as such a Radical, Mr. Weir. It is a wonder you are not running for Parliament; and testing your ideas with the people."
"Lady Matlock, I do not even have the vote. And my arguments are not made to win over those who do."
She supposed it must be true. Her acquaintance was informed, education, but lacking a freehold, even one so apparently measly as forty-shillings a year.
"I can understand how that would be deeply frustrating. To have ideas and hopes for improvement, but no avenue to have them represented. To be informed and engaged, but to have no voice."
"I can well imagine you do understand," he said gently.
They stood again for a moment; rain clinging to the wool of his coat and the tight silk of hers. He turned away from the river, up to face the City. "Milton lived not too far from here, you know? He wrote Paradise Lost not a mile from where we stand now. Have you read it?"
"Yes, just after my sixteenth birthday. I used to walk up the hill behind our house with it, so my mother would not catch me."
He laughed. "I take it you read Blake then as well? He said of Milton – it always sticks in my mind – that he was–"
"Of the Devil's party without knowing it." He looked across at her. It was an unsettlingly look. "Thank you for your advice on taking the air here, Mr. Weir. But I believe it would be wise if we did not meet again. I can understand your position, but I cannot encourage it, being as it is so materially against the interests of my own children. Besides, the Tories are likely to lose this election; my husband and I will be back in Derbyshire by Whit. I doubt we will have occasion to cross paths again."
That surprised him. He looked first to the floor, then to the river, and finally, back to her. And with a small bow and easy smile he said: "Quite proper, Lady Matlock. I have no reason to doubt your judgement in such matters. It will be a loss to London; but the North's gain."
"Thank you Mr. Weir, that is most gracious. I had best return to my coach; they will be wondering where I have gotten to."
She held out her hand; he shook it. "One last question, Lady Matlock, if I may? Your manner on Thursday, when Lord Matlock asked about a certain, possibility–" He stopped, seeing the pallor grow on her face. She had spent the last four days waiting for a sign that did not come. She had not allowed herself to voice it yet. "You do not want him to know?" She gave a small nod. "Why?"
"It is a reminder that I am not my own self."
The rain started to fall harder. Neither noticed.
"I watched it happen to my parents," she said suddenly, looking past him back down to the river. "To go from the early years of fanciful love and attachment, till life brought out their truer selves. It is awful to say, but I sometimes think it is a blessing that while my parents can be stubborn neither are strong willed. They do not argue. I do not think they care enough to hate each other. They just tolerate each other."
"And that concerns you?"
"Easy indifference? I could not be happy with it; if I could, I would have married my cousin." At the puzzlement on his face, she quickly explained about her cousin Mr. Collins and what he would become once her father passed. Feudal hangovers indeed. "I think now that I judged my friend Charlotte too severely. But I still cannot see the sense in her approach. Better to know too much about the man to whom you would tie your life to – all their faults and follies – so you can enter into that state willingly."
"You knew all of Lord Matlock's then, I take it?"
"Knew them and named them," she laughed and – checking to make sure they were still quite alone – whispered, "I turned down his first proposal. Shocking, isn't it: I, a country miss with just fifty pounds a year to recommend me. But he was so arrogant and high-handed. Always thinking he knew best; making decisions about others' lives as he thinks they should be lived, with no regard for anyone else's own feelings or desires. He always has to be right. He always has to be the one do something, because he thinks too well of himself and his own abilities and too poorly of anyone else who could not possibly meet his standards. He has such a stilted idea of duty. He–" She stopped. She had slipped into the present tense.
"You had perhaps best say this to him, Lady Matlock," her companion said. "I am no expert in love making or matrimony, but I do know a sore left to fester only grows more painful. You should let it out, if you can."
With cheeks burning red, she dropped a short curtsy and excused herself. Striding back to the coach she wondered how she had managed to break so many rules of decorum all before lunch.
Author's note: Thank you to all who are still reading this – we're over the halfway point now! What are your theories on what's going to happen? Please do drop a review – authors really do like them ;)