CHAPTER XXX
She missed her husband that night, and every night and morning hence until Saturday. It was only on his valet's word that she knew he had even been back to Matlock House, though arriving so late and leaving so early, it made her wonder why he did not simply have a room set up in Whitehall? Some part of her felt she ought to be angry, but in truth, she felt more of pity; regardless of their quarrelling, she did not like to think of Darcy being as exhausted as he surely must be. She reserved her anger for his silence. He had not sent any word, nor offered any explanation for his sudden absence, other than the hurried words to Mr. Weir on Tuesday night. She was left to piece together an explanation for his all-consuming business from the newsprints.
On Easter Saturday around two thousand armed men had marched on Huddersfield – just twenty miles from Bingley's estate – intending to take the town. They marched under banners for universal suffrage, annual elections, and an end to the Corn Laws. The papers speculated that the Radicals had meant to intercept the post coaches – their absence signalling to comrades in Scotland that the North of England had been won and a new, interim government of the people established, so the Scots could start a rebellion of their own. Glasgow though had needed no such signal. On Easter Sunday its inhabitants woke to find revolutionary proclamations plastered across the city; calling on the common folk of Scotland, Ireland, and England to rise up for a general strike. True to their words, the weavers, colliers, iron founders, wrights, masons, and machine makers of Clydeside all stayed away from work come Easter Monday. From Yorkshire to Ayrshire, the country held its breath – but no revolution materialised. In Huddersfield, the Radicals withdraw almost as quickly as they arrived; the whole fuss died down with just four arrests. In Glasgow, a skirmish broke out between fifty Radicals and the cavalry men. The 'Battle of Bonnymuir' was won by the military. The prisoners were set to be tried in the summer – the executioner's noose sure to succeed where the bayonet had not. Elizabeth had no doubt that behind all of this sat Sidmouth's silent army of spies. Sidmouth's and her husband's.
To distract herself from that unpleasant reflection, she spent the rest of the week practicing her dance steps and pianoforte, playing nice with the Almack's ladies, and suffering Annette's fussing over her dress for the ball at St. James's that would follow the State Opening of Parliament – and yet the whole time she wondered again at the change in her husband. Was it even such a change? She knew from their earliest acquaintance that he preferred order to uncertainty; that he was proud of his name and of his position in the world – and cared that other people should be conscious of that consequence too. That was the whole basis of that disastrous evening in Hunsford. He thought meanly of those with inferior breeding or understanding. And yet, that was not so much a consequence of rank; he had always been more than civil towards Jane (excepting, of course, removing Bingley from her), poor Charlotte, and her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. With them, if anything, there was obviously too much accord. She had always known what sort of man he was. Why then did she feel cheated? Had the last eight years simply been a pretence? She thought back to Mrs. Reynolds' early commendation: the one that softened her opinion of him. He was a good master and landlord and generous to the poor. He did give generously – but giving and doing were materially different. She could not recall one deed done, at least one done to his material disadvantage: he was too clever a strategist for that. He was a liberal master, but any man who did not beat or rape his servants was granted that description.
Those were his faults as a landlord. As for those as a husband, the proof came with the post. In the space of two days she received an excited note from Georgiana eagerly anticipating the arrival of a new nephew; and one from Miss De Bourgh, congratulating her on her potency – a quality that lady's mother was always sure Elizabeth would possess, owing to her own mother's productiveness. She even received one from her cousin, who had no doubt heard from his patroness, though to read it, it sounded very much like Mr. Collins was congratulating himself for having the good sense to be related to the noble Matlocks. His sign off, suggesting she might request that her esteemed husband remembers his connection to herself should a profitable living become available in the Earl's now very grand and vast estate, earned that letter a place in the fire.
At first, she berated herself on her own silliness: she should not feel hurt that her news had been shared without her consent. It was, Lydia's voice told her, not her news to share. That frustration lasted only as long as it took for Jane's note to arrive.
"Sandall Hall, _caster, Tues, Apr 4.
MY DEAREST LIZZY - We have just today received Dar (this, again, was scratched out) Lord Matlock's letter on your welcome news. Charles will be sending our formal well wishes but you know how long it takes him to write anything and I could not wait! You must be so delighted. What a wonderful addition to this year's good fortune!
I am sorry I have not yet replied to your letter about poor Lydia. I try to see her when I can, though it is difficult, as Charles has made me promise I will not take George and Fanny with me. I must own, I am glad that he did. As wicked as it may sound, I do not want to trouble George by reminding him of his former life, especially while he is progressing so well. Charles thinks he may be ready for a governess within the year! I know it must be hard for Lydia not seeing her children when they are so close, but I must be firm and remind myself that they are my children now too, and their needs must come first.
Mr. Harrison visited us just before Easter with news from Manchester. Wickham was caught handing out pamphlets of a scathing nature against the Government –in truth, Lizzy, against the ministers of the Home Office. He has not yet been given a trial date – apparently the courts are quite busy – and must remain in gaol until a date is set. Lydia's parish is making a collection for her; Mr. Harrison seemed to be under the impression that her neighbours felt a wrong had been done against Wickham, though he did not say how he came by this information. He was, in fact, weary that I should even write it to you – but I cannot see why. It would help a great deal if Lydia's neighbours – who sound the best of people – are able to help her, until such a time as Wickham is released, which, I am sure, if he shows he is contrite must be the outcome of this all.
You will certainly know by now of the activities in Huddersfield over the weekend! Charles was quite beside himself on Saturday; but it has all come to naught, thank goodness. I know it is a great comfort to him to have your husband in charge of such matters. He says the papers report that the King sees Lord Sidmouth as his Wellington in fighting revolt and unrest! We both feel it such an honour to have our brother-in-law as his second in command. It must be terribly exciting for you Lizzy. I can picture you and your husband, being at the heart of it all. Though I must own, I am glad it is you and not I!
Do remember to write to Mama and Papa.
You are, as ever, in my prayers. MRS. BINGLEY"
How dare he. Telling his family she could forgive, but her own was a different matter. It was as if she had been removed entirely from her own story. It was a weak excuse that it was a man's prerogative. Mr. Weir would not divulge her condition without consulting her first, she thought, with a certainty she could not credit but knew to be true. He would not seek to override her wishes or degrade her sister.
The letter dragged her mind back north; to poor, foolish, kind-hearted Mrs. Bingley; to Mrs. Harrison, who had grown into a woman of sense to be admired; and finally, to Lydia. What was to become of Lydia? She could not share in Jane's optimism. The Harrisons were taking a risk supporting her, she knew that as well as they did; a Wickham in Kympton would not be permitted for long. She was frustrated with her own powerlessness. She could not help Lydia, just as she could not help Sarah Davidson.
She had become so accustomed to her own thoughts that the sight of Lord Matlock at breakfast on Saturday morning almost made her leap. Both gave the other a perfunctory greeting. She buttered her toast. He read his briefs.
"What news from the North?"
At first she thought he had not heard her, but it became apparent he was waiting to read to the end of his page before responding.
"We understand that there will be another attempt at an uprising in Yorkshire this week, but likely only a hundred or so will rally. If Huddersfield had held it could have been a signal for revolt across the manufacturing districts. As it is, the whole charade has become an embarrassment. The country remains unsafe, but rebellion has been put down, again."
He looked across at her. It was a look she recognised; an invitation to challenge. But the usual flirtatiousness was absent. She swallowed down her retort; she would not give him the satisfaction.
"I've had a letter from Jane. And from Georgiana, and your cousin – all offering their well wishes on our family. I had planned to write to Longbourn today, unless that is, you have already done so?"
"I've no occasion to. If you are well enough, Castlereagh has invited us to use his box at Covent Garden tonight. It is Henry IV I believe. Part One, your favourite."
It irritated her that he was correct. "That sounds agreeable."
"And he is to hold a celebratory ball on Friday, for the election victory. You'll not receive a card; it is intended to look spontaneous."
"How affected."
"Hm." He seemed to nod in ascent. "Regardless, we could not be seen to declare victory before Friday. Not with the Cato trials about to begin. The North is agitated enough; the more time that passes between the events of Easter and the election result the better."
"Are you concerned the people will not like the representatives you have bought for them?"
"There it is." He stood, gathered his papers and left.
When the carriage was called that evening they sat facing away from each other. Eventually he ventured that as they were to stay in London, she may wish to redecorate some of the rooms, so they were more to their taste. She had no such desire but did not voice an objection. It was another reminder of the longevity of their stay.
Mercifully, they were separated for the performance. Lady Matlock endured Mrs. Goulburn's raptures over her news with stoic grace and then left that woman to her husband. She could tell the arrangement did little to improve Lord Matlock's mood. She found her place next to Lord Castlereagh, who at least had the good sense not to talk during the performance. She hoped for three hours to escape her thoughts, but there was no such relief in the tale of princes, kings, rebels, and fools. In the past she had always carried a flame for the roguish Prince Hal, but it was his rival, the rebel Lord Hotspur, who captured her heart that night. She watched him and his lady and wondered what it must have been like, when lords fought with swords not words.
The end came too quickly. The orchestra struck up the national anthem, and all stood to sing glory to the King – when, from the gallery, a different cry went up: "God Save the Queen!"
A flurry of papers flew into the air, raining down on the pit and boxes below. Mr. Goulburn snatched one as it fell.
"What do you all make of this then?" He read aloud:
"God save Queen Caroline!
May our great power divine,
Bless our good Queen!
Confound her enemies,
Make her fame pure to rise,
Hail'd by a nation's cries,
God save the Queen!"
"You'd have thought Hotspur would have served as a lesson," said Lord Matlock.
Lord Castlereagh chuckled. "You know, after they buried Hotspur so many rumours flew about claiming he was still alive that Henry IV had the corpse exhumed and displayed in the marketplace at Shrewsbury. Then he sent the head to York and the four-quarters sent to London, Newcastle, Bristol, and Chester, before they were finally delivered to his wife." He turned to her and Mrs. Goulburn. "There's great power, you see, in having absolute proof. With a man like Hotspur, it is so often the case that if you kill the man, you kill the idea. Who would dare to try again, when the best of their leaders is literally in pieces, scattered across the land?"
"What happened to Lady Hotspur?" Elizabeth asked.
"You know, I'm not certain. With her husband declared a traitor, his lands would have been forfeited to the Crown. I suspect she was made a ward of the King, until he could find someone trustworthy to marry her off to. It was by no means uncommon for the victorious king to take in the wives and children of traitors. Did the Fitzwilliams not take in some such wards for Elizabeth I?"
"It was the Hardwicks," her husband corrected, "though our families were joined in marriage around that time."
"It must be exciting," Mrs. Goulburn sighed, "to be part of a family so connected to the history of our great isle!"
She caught her husband's eye; they shared a look. It was their first in almost a month.
"Come now, Mrs. Goulburn," she began. "Every family living here can claim such a connection; the only real difference is whether their names are written down."
But Mrs. Goulburn would not be deterred, and she and Lady Castlereagh remained on the subject of how pleasing it was to have such grand connections until the carriages were drawn.
Any hope that the new week would bring better relations was dashed on Sunday; they had barely left church before he was called back to Whitehall. She spent her day with the children; the wet grass of Hyde Park staining their stockings and chilling their feet. The evening was spent composing silly songs to a tune Lady Matlock had had stuck in her head since Tuesday.
The week leading up to the election result was a storm of thoughts and feelings. Elizabeth tried to do all of the things a lady of her standing was supposed to, including ordering several new gowns that could be let out in the coming months (the modiste ensured gossip quickly spread that the Earl and Countess of Matlock were expecting, and so soon after his elevation too; truly, a blessed family). She even wrote back to her parents in good time. Her mother was so excited she sent not one, but two letters in quick succession, full of advice on what to eat to ensure a boy – advice, Elizabeth could only assume, Mrs. Bennet had never followed.
It did not escape her notice that in her elevation to countess, and now to expectant mother, the crude remarks and petty asides about her position before her marriage had all but ceased. More than that, it was as if any time before she was Lady Matlock – and him Lord Matlock – had been collectively forgotten by all around them. Jane Goulburn fawned over the Matlock family history as if Elizabeth had always been a part of it. The rest of the Almack's ladies despaired of cheating tradesmen and impertinent country misses, without pointed looks in her direction. And all the while, she silently raged.
How could the Tories have won? Never was a government more unpopular. She thought back to Mr. Brougham's easy confidence in March. How foolish he seemed now.
By Thursday news had arrived in London that a second, smaller uprising in Yorkshire had been quashed. That night thoughts and what-ifs swirled inside her head. If the rebels had just waited another week, if news of the election was more widely known, would more have joined them?
Unable to sleep, she found her way to the library and pulled down a portfolio of the Bard. She read again the first adventure of Prince Hal, but the characters would not look the way she willed them. For the silver-tongued prince she saw her imprisoned brother-in-law, and for his disappointed father, the ghost of her husband's face in years to come. And for Hotspur, that great disgraced rebel, she saw only a thoughtful man with kind eyes.
Historical note: Henry IV was actually playing in Covent Garden at this time; I found a programme of performances for the 1820 season, and it worked so well with the story I couldn't leave it out! Also, it honestly did rain this much in 1820, for anyone who thinks the weather is simply pathetic fallacy…
'God Save the Queen' was sung – seditiously – after performances. The reference for that is Jane Robins' Rebel Queen: The Trial of Queen Caroline.