CHAPTER XXVIII

"And then they saw the King himself – a man on a donkey, the King of Glory, coming in peace. And the children ran alongside him, waving their victory branches, and the priests in the temple asked 'who is this King?' And the people said it was Jesus."

The Dean of Carlisle let his words hang, filling the air inside St. George's. His prestigious flock looked suitably solemn – all except young Master Darcy, who was pulling the thread from his pew cushion. Lady Matlock grabbed his hand and held it tight, earning her a stern look from the rector.

"And yet, not five days later, that very same crowd sent our Lord to his death. They turned on a man whose only crime was to offer them peace everlasting. What a parable for our times. We must pray for those lords who seek to maintain peace – and be ever mindful of the serpent of dissent. Satan was the first to fan the flames of disorder and rebellion; and mankind has suffered ever since. Now his Radicals disdain all of our most sacred Prince's teachings and seek to make his sacrifice a vain one. The Radicals preach that all men are equal, but the Bible tells us that is not so. Matthew tells us that God created for each man a role, and he is to be judged by how well he performs in that role, and that role alone."

Elizabeth wondered how long it would take for the gossip to reach London; that Lady Matlock's wayward brother-in-law was now languishing at His Majesty's pleasure in the Manchester gaol, for raving against the very government his childhood friend now served in. What – or who – had he been raving about?

"The Radicals preach that republicanism and secularism are man's destiny, but the Bible tells us that is not so. God commands that there are kings and rulers of the earth to do His will, with the King of kings and Lord of lords alone set above them."

She thought back to young George Renner and wondered whether he had ever made his way back from Sheffield? She thought about Sarah Davidson's husband; wanting to leave the world a better place. And to the King, God's chosen vessel, again threatening to divorce his wife.

"And lastly, most despicably, the Radicals preach that women should throw off their God-ordained role as wife and mother and see themselves as equal to man. But the Bible tells us that is not so. 'Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body. Therefore, as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything.'"

She supposed that was her. Of the Devil's party.

Fortunately for Lady Matlock and her spare the good rector did not rattle on much longer. Elizabeth stepped out into Hanover Square with one boy at the end of each arm, defiant of the disparaging look from the other ladies with their better-behaved broods and nannies. Did they know already, she wondered, would news of her youngest sister and brother-in-law's activities be whispered, again, behind the ton's closed doors? Would gossip spread so quickly? There was no Catherine De Bourgh to fan the flames this time. And she was in much less of a mood to care.

Mr. Wardlaw and Miss Hindmarsh arrived the next day. The latter lost no time in setting the young viscount and his brother to work on their primers, while the former settled in with his heavy tomes of Greek and Latin. It was while they were unpacking that Lady Matlock accosted each one and instructed them to make plans for including Lady Catherine in their lessons. Neither was in any position to deny her.

Her husband returned on the Tuesday. A rider came down from Kilburn just after lunch, alerting her to ready the household. Miss Hindmarsh saw to making the boys presentable, Jenny to Catherine, and Mrs. Janssens to the servants, leaving Elizabeth to Annette. She swapped her yellow gown for green; he always liked her in green.

In little time Lady Matlock, the Viscount of Kirkdale, Master Darcy and Lady Catherine, and their assorted senior servants, were lined up in the hall as the Matlock carriage pulled up. Mr. Wardlaw fidgeted excitedly.

She caught her breath as her husband walked in. He looked worn. She waited for Mr. Janssens to divest him over his overcoat and then swept a curtsy, with the others following in suit. It felt strangely like one of the boys' stories, of knights and lords and ladies – though here was no gallant outlaw. She rose and held out her hand. He took it, bowed over it and then brought it to his lips. His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than propriety allowed. She was back in his good graces.

He stepped back to observe the gathered host. "Mr. Wardlaw, Miss Hindmarsh; welcome. I have asked my secretary, Mr. Bell, to find time later today for an audience with you both. Lady Matlock, I will need to freshen up, but will you see to it that we can take tea within the hour."

"Of course, my lord. Mr. Bell will find your correspondence in your study. There has been a lot since yesterday."

He found her in the music room sometime later. She intended to demonstrate she had, indeed, been practicing, by making her way competently enough through a particularly tricky étude. He paused at the door for a moment to take the scene in before clearing his throat, breaking her concentration. She looked up. His refreshment had only stretched so far as a change of clothes. He still looked troubled.

"Fitzwilliam, what is it?"

"The majority of seats have now declared. We have won."

"What?" She stood. "But that is impossible! The people are against the Government! This is not the mood of the nation."

"No," he replied, walking to pour a brandy. "But it is of the electorate. The Six Acts have proved to be more popular than we could have imagined. And the Whigs have shown themselves to be disreputable: they are too allied with the Radicals. The remaining contests will run for another fortnight or so, but they are formalities at this point. The Tories have it."

She bit her lip. A flurry of questions ran through her mind, but one stood out. "How does this affect us?"

He sipped his drink. "I promised to serve under Liverpool. This does not alter the present danger; you said so yourself, this is not the will of the country. It is as likely to aid the Radical cause as harm it. I am sorry Elizabeth, but I fear we must remain here for some time yet."

"I had hoped we would be home soon."

"I miss Derbyshire too, but we both have a duty to stay. Come, I've had nothing but politics for ten days straight: I'm at my wit's end and poorer for it. Tell me what you have been doing."

She set about pouring herself some tea, trying to disguise the fact every muscle in her body had tensed. It did not help that he was staring at her again, in that intractable manner he had, when he might be furious or completely enticed. "Mr. Wardlaw and Miss Hindmarsh have started, as you'll have seen. I've also instructed a Signore Bonacci in for piano and dancing; Lady Castlereagh recommended him. Why poorer, Fitzwilliam? You said the poorer for your travels. Why?"

"We needed to secure the Derbyshire and Yorkshire seats; and a few others. The Whig's pockets run deeper. It was just something to help maintain the balance. Don't worry, between the Matlock and Pemberley estates, we can well afford it."

"Buying votes?"

"Securing. Everyone does it."

"I thought the point was the Whigs would win, and we could go home."

"I can hardly campaign against my own party."

"I suppose not."

She downed her tea and returned to the instrument. She was too angry for conversation. Every hope, every consolation of the past month disappeared in an instance. And that not even the worst of it. How could she help Lydia now? If he was still to be in government, how could they help the wife of a prisoner?

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. Instead, she played. She played and played and played until her fingers were numb. He must have left at some point – to see the children, governess and tutor – and returned, all without her noticing. Whatever the state of his emotions were, she could not tell. He looked as composed as ever. She trained her face likewise. It would not do to argue so soon into his return.

They were called through for dinner. Their joint composure did not allow for much conversation. Halfway through the first course she decided they must say something, if only for the sake of appearances. She asked about his interviews.

"Wardlaw is bright, if a bit self-satisfied. His Greek is better than his Latin, but I will make up any shortcomings with the boys. Miss Hindmarsh is an apt appointment; where did she come from?"

"A Mrs. Goodward's school down in Surrey."

"They both said a curious thing. They were under the impression Catherine should be instructed to the same curriculum as the boys. I've assured them that they must have misunderstood your wishes."

Her shoulders tensed. "And why would you assume that?"

She waited for a response. None came. The second course was plated up.

"There was a note from Sidmouth," he began, "in yesterday's letters. He's dining with your friend Mr. Latham at the Royal College next week; a nod to his father's memory. We're invited to join him."

She nodded: it was not an invitation that could be turned down, though the idea of an evening in Lord Sidmouth's company hardly put her in a better mood – even if the affable Mr. Latham would be there too.

They stalled again. There was no subject she wanted to broach; other than the ones she knew she could not. The election, and the subsequent consequences, was too raw. It would only end in an argument. She was in no mood to mention her condition. She realised for the first time she might have to stay in London; that this child could be born in Park Lane, not Pemberley. She took a gulp of wine and banished the thought away. There were more pressing concerns. There was a real danger they would pass the rest of dinner with no conversation. Her mind flew her back to autumn afternoons in Netherfield. She would not settle for that. She steeled her voice to sound soft.

"I had word from Kitty, after you left Pemberley. She wrote – she wrote that Wickham has been arrested, for sedition, from what she understands. I only received her note on Saturday, and it felt wiser to tell you so in person. I believe he is in Manchester gaol. Mr. Harrison has gone to discover what evidence they have against him. I realise that if this gets out, it could look poorly."

"How so?" He asked, remarkably nonchalant. "It sounds like the King's justice has been done. It was always bound to catch him in the end. It is just a pity it did not come sooner."

"But if he is found guilty," she began, "if he is hung for sedition – are you not worried about that connection?"

"He won't hang; I expect the Manchester magistrates will settle for transportation. An opportunity for him finally to do something of use."

She bit her tongue so hard she was sure she would draw blood. Why was he so calm? He hated Wickham. How could this news not be distressing, unless–

"You knew all this already."

"I had word while I was in York."

Her eyes flashed to the footmen. It was too obvious to dismiss them, but she could not call him out in front of the staff. "There is more. I must do something for Lydia."

That caught his attention. "What do you mean?"

"She is with Kitty at the moment. She lost a babe, a girl, I think from the misery of it all. If anything should happen to Wickham, she'll be quite alone. I can't in good conscience leave her unaided. She is my sister. And I cannot very well ask the parishes to look after her, not when we have eighty thousand a year."

"More than enough has been done for Mrs. Wickham. She has one hundred pounds a year from your father, which is more than most. Plus, whatever pin money you and Jane squirrel away to her, which has not gone unnoticed."

She blushed, more from anger than shame. "You know as well as I that Wickham will not have left her a ha'penny of that."

"She knew what sort of man he was when she threw in with him," he shot back. "She was given ample opportunity to quit that disgraceful situation when she was found, believe me. And she would not have it."

"She did not know what sort of man he was, though I sorely wish now I had not kept my peace on the true nature of hischaracter. She thought he loved her. I do not understand why you are being so cruel. Would you act so if it was Georgiana–"

Her hand flew to her mouth. Matlock's eye twitched. He took a large swig of wine and cleared his throat: "We will have the room."

The footmen hurried out. Elizabeth did not need to look to know they had left. She had a heightened sense of everything. The wax dripping from the chandeliers; the dying embers of the fire; the warmth of the pearls against her chest. She braced herself.

"The difference," her husband began, his voice ominously low, "is that there has never been cause to doubt my sister's virtue. Now you will drop this. It is entirely inappropriate for my wife to be supporting a woman of loose morals, even if she is, by misfortune, a sister. If you will not mind my words, then mind your aunt's. She at least had the sense to spare you undesirable relations."

"Is that how you see the Gardiners then? Truly, after all this time? Is that why I may not see them? If you have told them–"

"No, no I do not include them in that assessment." He looked at her for a moment: it was a pitiful look, but she couldn't tell whom the pity was directed at, her or him. "I suppose in the circumstance it is better if you know. Yes, I wrote to your uncle to express my concerns about your gift – especially in light of our change in situation. Both he and your aunt agreed with those concerns. It was their offer to cut ties, not mine."

"I do not believe you."

"Your uncle will not have told you, but his business is faltering. His customers are not spending as they once did. We spoke about it at Christmas and I made the offer of a significant investment, one he readily accepted. I won't see any return on it, but it will keep him afloat, while he rebuilds–"

"And it is not in his interests to displease an investor." She said bluntly. "Why did you not think to tell me?"

"It was just business Elizabeth, there was no need."

She considered him for a moment, this man she had married. "Where is my book, Fitzwilliam? My gift from my aunt."

He looked at her, face inscrutable, as always. "It is in Whitehall, which is the only place I can think to keep it where you will not be in danger of being found to harbour seditious texts."

"So, you admit, it is Sidmouth who is dangerous?"

"No, madam. You are perfectly capable of endangering yourself. And the rest of us with you."

"The only danger I see here is from you, my lord, and your total disregard for my feelings in any of this. Who is all this in aid of, because it is most certainly not our family? We could have been going home. Instead, you buy a victory to keep us trapped here. To what end?"

"For duty, Elizabeth!" He cried.

"'Duty! Pish!" She raged back. "This is not Waterloo. More's the better, for it seems anyone who was useful there is to be found dead on the orders of the Manchester magistrates!"

"It comes as no surprise right now that you would have so little consideration for duty. I am not sure how it began, but it ends tonight. You can cast me as the villain here all you want, but I will not see the sacrifice my cousin made sullied by a band of zealots and delusionists – even if one of them is my own wife."

"So that is what this is all about? Playing at war and duty in some misguided attempt to make up for the fact that Richard is dead? Fitzwilliam died fighting against tyranny. Do you really think this is the country for heroes he had in mind? Where a man can languish away in gaol for years without a trial? Where the Government actively insights its own people, so it may arrest them afterwards? Where a boy can fight for king and country, and then starve in its streets?"

"At least my cousin died with honour! Which is a great deal more than will be said of your damnable sister's husband!"

"Then you should not have forced him on her!" she cried. Leaping from her chair, she stormed out of the room and ran up the stairs – slamming her chamber door shut behind her; Annette jumped at the sound of it. She leant against the hard wood and bit back a sob. There was a furious knock.

"Elizabeth, open this door. You are acting like a child."

"We have nothing to discuss husband."

"Mademoiselle Mouisset, you will let me in."

She watched Annette turn white. She could not disobey.

Her maid left through the dressing room door and she heard the door onto the corridor click open. Annette stepped aside as the master stalked past her, into her lady's room.

"I will not have you behaving in such a manner–"

The maid hovered at the door. She knew how the scene playing out in front of her would end. The master would step closer to her mistress, all of his height looming over her small figure. She would square her shoulders ready to meet the challenge. There would be fireworks; there would be tears; it would not do–

"Veuillez arrêter mon seigneur! Madame est enceinte!"

Elizabeth was not sure what her maid had said, but it stopped Lord Matlock in his tracks. He turned to her. His eyes dropped to her middle, then back to her face.

"How long have you known?"

All the breath went from her. She waved the maid away, before turning back to him. "For certain, a week. I wanted to wait till you were back to say."

"Why did you not mention anything sooner?"

"There hardly seemed a good moment."

"I suppose not," he said quietly. He leant down and kissed her head, told her to rest, and then left.

End of Vol. II

Author's note: Thank you again and again for the reviews. It is always so interesting to see what other people's takes on a story and characters are. Please do keep them coming, I'm certainly not above begging.

With travel and visiting family I may not be able to update next week, at least not at the weekend. But there will be more again soon, I promise!