CHAPTER XXIX

She awoke the next morning more despondent than irate. She had not the energy left for anger. Annette offered a sheepish apology. She knew she had crossed a boundary, but such distress could be dangerous in her Ladyship's condition. And given what had happened the last time the Darcys had spent the Season in London–

Lady Matlock assured her it did not matter. Her maid's intervention had at least saved Elizabeth the anguish of deciding when to reveal the news herself. It was a strange sensation; she felt none of the joy she had experienced when she was certain she bore William (and, it turned out, Bennet), nor the anxiousness of Catherine. She thought of Charlotte, but felt no fear. She thought of Jane, but felt no relief. She simply felt nothing – no more excitement nor concern than discovering she had a slight cold. She supposed that made her unnatural.

The remembrance of her sister brought her back to more pressing concerns. They were to remain in London, so she would have no Jane to speak to, nor Kitty. Nor even Darcy – the comfort and ease of their relationship seemed a distant memory. Instead, she found herself in a sort of truce with Matlock. No more strong words were spoken that week: he was too concerned with her welfare to risk agitation, and she was inclined to let him fuss. At least that way they could be civil to each other – focusing on something outside of politics, or rank, or families. None of that seemed worth the anguish anymore. She was fighting the tide, and try as she might, she could not change it. She had lost – though what exactly, she was not sure.

Easter passed like a bad dream. She sat through sermon after sermon about rebirth and new beginnings, but found no hope. Instead, she thought about her own reincarnation; a perfect lord's wife – pretty, obedient, blooming. In her mind weeks stretched to months, stretched to years; playing hostess to his friends, smiling as if she did not hate each one; ripe with child after child, each one blurring into the next; indulged, idle, insipid. Losing all connection and memory of her own life before, of her own family: losing all sense of herself, her own thoughts and will. What had changed, to make it all so? Was it her? Him? Or perhaps nothing. Perhaps it was always bound to end this way. And all the while, it rained.

It began with dinner with Lord Sidmouth at the Royal College. She sat quietly as Annette fixed her hair and clipped in her birthday earrings. She was more done up than she needed to be; she would doubtless be the only woman there. But if she was not going to say anything of worth, she would at least look remarkable. It was a small form of payback. Between his fussing she had advised her husband that she thought it best, for the babe's sake, if they did not share a bed. Medical opinion, she reminded him, warned against such activities. He assented. She did not intend to make it easy for him. She knew enough of his mind to know that she still held that card at least.

She was correct, on all counts. Sitting silently at the top table in the Fellow's dining hall, she was content in the knowledge that every pair of eyes in the hall were straining not to look at her – except perhaps old Sidmouth's and Latham's. They were too caught up in discussion on the upcoming Cato trials, and the Home Secretary's despair that counsel had actually been found for Thistlewood and his crew's defence. Her husband was saying something about Magna Carta.

"Magna Carta, my lady, means Great Charter. It is as close as we have to a codified constitution," Mr. Latham called over to her.

Her jaw locked, but she simply smiled sweetly. "I am aware, Mr. President. In fact, I have been teaching my boys about King John and his barons."

"Lady Matlock is a prodigiously attentive mother," Lord Sidmouth remarked, though on what authority she could not tell. "And I forget that on that matter, congratulations are in order. There is surely nothing more pleasing to the feminine mind than the knowledge of new life. You must be delighted with such a blessing. I expect you intend to leave London soon? As I'm sure Mr. Latham here will agree, the air in the country is much more conducive to breeding."

She froze. He had told Sidmouth. Of course, he had, she thought foolishly, it was his news to share. But it was her news also, and she did not want that man to know. She did not want any man to know. Or woman. Not unless she had told them herself. Tears pricked her eyes. She was being wholly foolish, but if she could not even control this news, what did she have that was hers? The story of her life to be flashed before her eyes again. Her stomach turned. She needed air.

Making her excuses, she assured her husband he need not follow: she was well, just in need of refreshment. She fought to keep her legs from running out of the hall, counting each step slowly until she was outside.

The evening air hit her like a splash of cold water to a fevered face. She closed her eyes and drank it in, letting her ill thoughts float away. It was quiet outside; the noise of the hall reduced to a low rumble. The smell of a thousand wood fires warmed her senses. She wandered towards the fountain in the middle of the courtyard and cast her gaze upwards, picking out the first pricks of light in the night sky.

"They lose their brilliance in the city."

Startled, she turned – and grinned. "Why are you not at dinner?"

"Ah, that is just for Fellows," Mr. Weir replied, walking up to her from across the courtyard. "And Fellows have to have gone to Oxford or Cambridge."

"You did not?"

"No. No, I was making use of Mr. Latham's library, while he was otherwise entertained. I spotted you come out."

She looked back up at the sky. "I followed your advice on lancing wounds."

"How did that go?"

"Not well. How is Mrs. Davidson?"

"She has the support of the other wives. They have all become quite close. I think she is doing better, in her spirit."

"I am glad to hear it." She paused. "My brother-in-law has been arrested for sedition in Manchester."

"Wickham?"

"Yes. Lydia lost her babe. She is with my sister Kitty, our parson's wife. You'd like him, actually, John Harrison. I am fairly certain he is of the Devil's party."

He smiled. "She is cared for then?"

"Yes. Though I am not permitted to help."

She sensed his eyes on her. "Do you know how to find north, Lady Matlock?" She shook her head. He stepped closer to her and pointed up. "You need to find the plough first. You see it starting to come out?" She followed his figure and nodded. "Follow the edge of it in a line, to the seven sisters. That first star is Polaris, the north star. No matter where you are in London, if you find that star, you'll be facing home."

She followed the path again with her own hand. The plough; the sisters; home. They stood for a while in a comfortable silence, both looking up to the sky.

"It is strange how life plays out," she said after a time. "I never intended to be a countess – as you have probably gathered – or even a gentleman's wife. I never really thought much about marriage. It was Jane who was going to marry well, being the beauty. But I think when I did, I supposed it would be to some acquaintance of one of my uncles. A man with a profession. If life had gone differently, I could very well have still looked up at this London sky."

"And if you hadn't married?"

"I thought I could be a governess. But now I look at our Miss Hindmarsh and wonder if I even had enough education for that. What about you, Mr. Weir? What would you have done, if you were not a physician?"

"I suppose I would have been a carpenter, like my father. Or stayed in the Navy and been a surgeon. I do find myself thinking about that, sometimes, being on the open water. The smell of the sea; there is really nothing else like it."

She glanced over at him. "I cannot piece your life together. I have tried with the scraps you've given away, but I cannot make it fit a practical timeline. We cannot be that dissimilar in age."

"I don't tend to confess to it all; it betrays just how far beyond my circle I have come. If it was known–"

"I can assure you Mr. Weir, I of all people am not going to expose anyone for rising above their station."

"I suppose you are right." He looked back up to the sky and sighed. "My father's father came down to Manchester with the Bonnie Prince; he was little more than a boy. Fortunately for me, he took a fancy to a Lancashire lass, so stayed behind in England, saving him from the purges in the Highlands. My father was their youngest, but I his eldest. I grew up by the docks near Lancaster; it was my mother's priest who taught me to read and write. I was the only one of the seven of us to have that chance." He paused for a moment. A dark look fell over his face. "My father was not a kind man. He wore my mother down. I don't know what demons he had, but he took them out on her first, and then on me. She died in childbirth when I had just turned twelve. I can only ever remember her as a frightened woman. We moved to Glasgow not long after that. The war was starting up again, and Nelson needed ships. I was down at the shipyard with my father most days. I hated it. They send children to do the most dangerous jobs; we could fit where grown men could not. I saw a boy crushed under rigging; I can still hear the crunch his bone made, like a tree being felled. And all the time, I was standing between my father and my siblings. So, I ran. I worked those yards with him for two years before I could take it no more. My mother bore his anger her whole married life. I could not even manage a quarter of that time. That is when I joined the Navy."

"But you could only have been fourteen?"

"I was, thereabouts. They tend to care a great deal less about the age of landsman and servant boys than they do officers. I certainly wasn't the youngest on that first ship. The HMS Defiance. She was what set me on this course. I would write letters for the other seamen, those who couldn't do so themselves. That caught the eye of the ship's surgeon, Mr. Gambier. Once he learnt I could also use a saw and had a stomach for blood my role as loblolly boy was settled."

"And he promoted you?"

"After a fashion. He was my advocate to our Captain, Forbes. Now there was a leader to inspire confidence. He had worked his way up from boatswain; the other officers hated him. He knew strategy and, more importantly, he knew his men. I was with him at Basque Roads, effectively apprenticed to Mr. Gambier as his mate. I fished shot from the Captain's shoulder, and as a reward, he sent me off to Edinburgh, for a proper physician's education. He even wrote me a letter of introduction to Brougham when I said I intended to travel down to London – so I could have a well-paying patient. The Scots tend to band together, when in England.

"What happened to him? Captain Forbes?"

"He died, some years back. A slaver ship got the better of the battered old frig they gave him. He should have been an admiral now by rights, but they sent him off to turn a blind eye down on the Gold Coast – probably knowing full well he wouldn't, and it would cost him his life. That was his reward, for being better than his betters."

There was such emotion in his voice, she instinctively stepped forwards, meaning to take his hand, to squeeze it.

She remembered herself. Straightening her shoulders, she said: "Basque Roads. I remember my father telling me about it. It was just before my coming out. We must be of an age then, Mr. Weir. It seems that neither of us was meant to end up here. A country upstart and a shipyard runaway."

Her eyes caught his; there was a gentle warmth in them.

Men's voices cut through their silence. She spun round to see Lord Sidmouth storming out of the hall, his cloak billowing behind him as he called for his carriage. Hot on his heels was the tall figure of her husband, his head bent in hurried conversation with the older man. A bolt of energy flashed through her. She stepped away from her companion. Matlock looked up, spotted her and started towards them.

"Elizabeth," he called over. "There is trouble in Yorkshire. Fetch your cloak, I'll drop you back at Matlock House, then I'll need to head to Whitehall with Sidmouth."

"What trouble, sir?" Her companion asked. Matlock noticed Mr. Weir for first time.

"Husband, you will remember Mr. Weir, who attended me last month?"

"Of course," he gave a slight nod. "I cannot go into detail, but we have had word down from Sheffield of a revolt. Some three thousand armed Radicals. And reason to suspect a coordinated action in Glasgow. You will keep that to yourself." He turned back to her. "We need to ready the yeomanry and magistrates. Come, time is against us."

"So close to home: it is fortunate the children are with us," she could not help herself. "There is no reason for me to delay you. This is urgent. Jack Renner can see me back to Matlock House safety. You must go with Lord Sidmouth."

Her husband considered the shorter man for a moment then agreed. He took her hand, held it to his lips briefly, and then stalked back to follow Sidmouth into his carriage. They watched it pull away.

"Who will you tell?" He looked at her blankly. "I am not a simpleton, Mr. Weir. I may not know all your secrets, and probably better I do not, but I can piece together enough. I'm sure there are plenty in London who would be interested to hear what you've just learnt."

"Perhaps once you have left I might visit an alehouse or two on Fleet Street. Some there would be interested in such news."

"I've not been to a proper alehouse in an age. My Grandmama Bessie worked in one, before she met my Grandfather. My mother likes to keep that fact very quiet. I'm named for her actually, though I've never told my husband." A sad smile fixed itself across her face. "I will save you half a journey and drop you off at Fleet Street."

"That is kind but unwise."

"That might as well be my epitaph."

He escorted her in to collect her cloak while the Matlock carriage was made ready. The roads were quiet: within five minutes they found themselves pulling up in front of The Old Boars Head. He stepped out, and with a grin that suggested he already knew the answer, asked if he could not tempt her to join him?

Part of her wanted to, more dearly than anything. Music was drifting out through the thin window panes. Someone in there would ask her to dance. In there she would not be Lady Matlock, or Mrs. Darcy or even Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Maybe in there, she could just be Bessie Gardiner.

No, she said. He nodded, bowed, and bade her goodnight. She watched him enter and allowed herself a moment before calling for Jack to move the carriage on. The music was louder now, and she could hear singing, muffled at first, but growing louder:

"Nor longer blind, and proud to lie,
In slavery profound;
But for redress aloud we cry!
And tyrants hear the sound.

The pomp of courts no more engage;
The magic spell is broke,
We hail the bright reforming age!
And cast away the yoke.

Our substance and our blood no more,
So tamely shall we yield,
Nor quit like slaves our native shore,
To deck the monster's field.

The landed villain, as he roll
In luxury and lust,
He blinds and robs the silly souls
Committed to his trust.

No longer lost in shades of night,
Where late in chains we lay;
The sun arises, and his light
Dispels our gloom away!

Demanding freedom all,
Demanding freedom all!"

She shut the door and returned to Mayfair.

Historical note: Britain has a long tradition of 'seditious' folk music. 'Demanding Freedom All' was printed by R. Lane, Printer, Bridewell-Alley, Norwich on 10 July 1820. You can find the original on the National Archives website, Catalogue reference HO 33/2/52 f167. (And yes, the HO is for Home Office.)

The Battle of the Basque Roads, was a major naval battle of the Napoleonic Wars, fought between 11-24 April 1809, in the narrow Basque Roads at the mouth of the Charente River, on the Biscay coast of France. A hastily-assembled squadron of small and unorthodox British Royal Navy warships fought against the main strength of the French Atlantic Fleet – and won.

A loblolly boy was a non-professional assistant to the surgeon on a warship.

Author's note: Thank you for bearing with me an extra week. There was a scene in this chapter that no long really worked, but had a lot of implications for the rest of the story. I needed to redraft in a way that kept the threads through to future chapters. We should be back to the normal weekly schedule now, I promise!