CHAPTER XXXII

The anxiety was exhausting. At night her brain swirled and her shoulders tensed, robbing her of any rest. A tightness gripped her chest the rare times they were alone; would he finally say something? Would he say anything? But no words came. In many ways, that was worse.

He left early on the Saturday morning for Whitehall; the trial of Mr. Thistlewood had begun, with all the pomp and ceremony of the English legal system. There was still a risk the people would rally, in London or elsewhere. Sunday, he spent at White's, while she returned from church with the children to rest and to steel herself for the week ahead. It was then she came to a resolution. There was, at least, one person in London who wished to speak with her.

So it was that Lady Matlock found her way back to the Foundlings infirmary, having promised herself she would not. Rapping on a familiar office door, a gruff, unfamiliar voice beckoned her in. The surprise on Senhor Romeiro's face suggested he was expecting a nurse, not a countess – his clumsy bow and welcome suggested he hazarded a good guess at who she was. He hurried off to fetch her quarry. She distracted herself by neatening stacks of papers. The door moved again and in walked a clearly flustered Mr. Weir.

"I'm sorry to arrive with no notice," she began. "I thought perhaps I might be able to be of some help here? I'm going slowly mad in Mayfair. That is, if it is not too much trouble?"

He smiled and nodded. They made their way to the girls' ward where Lady Matlock could not help but delight; her fashionable appearance and open manner were a very welcome distraction for the patients and nurses while he set about prescribing treatments, and when she sang the Italian cantata she had been practicing (and confessed to not knowing what any of it meant) she was met with such cries of wonder and gratitude that, for the first time since arriving in London, she thought the hours spent practicing not such a frivolous waste after all. Having exhausted all her limited Italian, she spent the rest of the afternoon teaching the young girls her favourite airs and – with his patients' help – teased him into singing his favourite song from childhood, one his mother used to sing. Johnny Farr, of a traveler king who ran off with a laird's lady.

No afternoon could have been better designed to lift Elizabeth's spirits. She needed just her own children there, and her happiness would have been complete. As the day and her mind brightened, she sent her coach back without her, resolving to walk back to Mayfair. That Mr. Weir had business at that end of town and so offered to escort her only increased her pleasure. As they set off, the fresh spring sunlight glistened off the rain-washed stones and trees, making the whole city sparkle. They fell into an easy pace.

"How did Senhor Romeiro come to be at Foundlings?" She asked after a time. "He cannot also be a runaway?"

"You are not far off. We met in Spain and kept up a correspondence. He was a field surgeon for the Portuguese. Bonaparte's forces made quick work of his hometown. Once the peace was won, he set off for London for a new life. You did not say, the other week, why your blood-letting had not gone well?"

"I've no wish to dwell on it. Besides, it is a private matter, I really should not speak of such things."

"I take it Lord Matlock is aware of your condition now?"

"Most attentively so, yes. There is to be no discord between us, while I am so indisposed." She could taste her own bitterness on her tongue. Not wishing to dwell on it, she changed tack. "Next time will you teach me how to set a bone? Bennet has far too much pent-up energy: I can see it is only going to be a matter of time until such a skill is useful."

He laughed. "It can take a great deal of strength, but I will certainly show you how to tend to a break until a suitable surgeon can be found. I'm glad to hear there will be a next time."

They moved through the parish of St. Pancras into Marylebone in a companionable silence, stopping briefly outside a print shop to take in the satirical offerings. The latest on display was freshly off the press. It showed a maypole, with a group of revelers dancing around it. Set atop the maypole were the heads of five men – four pale, one dark – while in the distance, a fiddler sang:

"Dance away my Friends, I – Edwards the Instigator! – have been the cause of all this fun by your help and money."

She made herself look again at the dancers. Sidmouth she spotted easily, holding the hand of the executioner. She thought she could make out Castlereagh to his left, along with Eldon and the Attorney General decked out in their court robes. And there, holding the executioner's other hand was a tall, dark gentleman; his features handsome even under the satirist's pen. She stood for several minutes before the print in wretched contemplation. In that moment, she felt herself harden towards the original.

"I take it you were not pleased with the election outcome?" Her companion asked.

"I'd wager about as pleased as you were. Selfishly, I thought we would get to go home, so there is that. As for the country – I don't really know what it means."

"To own a truth, I was more disappointed that events in the North did not come to fruition, but that is all I will say on that here. Whigs, Tories; it makes little difference really. Neither are committed to reform – the Whigs just like to agonise over it more. At least your set are honest in their disdain."

"They are not my set."

She was minded to be affronted but there was a tease in his smile. As they set off towards the park, she asked: "How do you do it?"

"Do what, precisely?"

"I'm not sure, but I know it is something. When we first met, you had a note for Brougham, that said something important. And those men in the alehouse seemed to know well enough what you were telling them. How do you come to be associated with such a wide range of people?"

"There is no great mystery to it. They are all patients of mine."

"And this Alderman Wood, is he a patient of yours too?"

"He is, as a matter of fact. It's his house in Mayfair I have business at this afternoon."

"Such illustrious patients. I'm surprised you keep to such modest rooms yourself, if you are used to visiting our grand houses. Do Wood and Brougham not pay well for your services?"

"They do, but I would rather use the proceeds to cover the costs for those patients who cannot afford to pay, rather than spend it on pretty rooms of which I have no need."

"Yes, that does seem rather in character. You may claim a moral high ground, but yours is a ghoulish business, Mr. Weir. Your whole livelihood seems to depend on the decline of liveliness in others."

He grinned. "Yes, I suppose you are right."

They crossed the road into Mayfair and came to Speakers' Corner, at the entrance to Hyde Park. A large crowd had gathered, which was invitation enough to walk over and listen to what was said.

"An appeal to the British nation!" The speaker cried out. "The wives and families of the unfortunate persons now imprisoned for an alleged conspiracy against the present government, venture to intrude their helpless and unprotected situation on the immediate attention of their countrymen, and to offer this imperfect, but they trust not unsuccessful, appeal. Into the truth or falsehood of the charges, by virtue of which their husbands and parents are suffering under the double weight of public disgrace and rigorous confinement, they do not now presume to enter; they merely put in their claims on behalf of their unhappy relatives, that they may not be deprived of the benefits common to every Briton: that of being at least not condemned until legally proven guilty, not excluded from all possibility of a fair and unbiased trail, before a jury of their peers."

She turned to him. "You know, I think this is the first time I have heard anyone use the term alleged."

"It would not surprise me; Edwards has made sure they were all of them condemned before the activity even took place."

The speaker continued: "It is earnestly hoped that whatever opinion or prejudice may be entertained respecting the guilt or innocence of the accused, a generous and humane public will not confound the innocent with the guilty, or suffer the defenceless and unprotected women and children, who have no share or concern in these melancholy transactions, to perish for want of timely relief, while their husbands and parents are lingering in solitary confinement. They are at this moment actually destitute of the means of subsistence and dying for want of food. It is hoped that this imperfect but faithful statement of their real situation and circumstance, will induce the benevolent to step forward and contribute their liberal aid, to rescue those distressed objects from famine and despair."

The speaker finished by describing where the benevolent could make such donations, while a group of young boys wondered the crowd shaking their buckets. Elizabeth fished about her reticule sheepishly as they approached. "I'm not in the habit of carrying coin. Did you recognise him, the speaker?"

"You know, funnily enough I did."

"A patient of yours?"

"A good physician would never reveal so." He dropped some change into an offered bucket.

"You have changed your tune." She sobered as the young boy walked off. "You know they mean to make an example of them. Castlereagh said so just the other evening. If – when they are found guilty. Do you know the story of Henry Hotspur?"

"I cannot say that I do."

"He was a northern lord who rose up against Henry IV. He was sent back to his wife in pieces, after a part of him was sent to every corner of England to deter any others who might think to challenge the Crown."

"I've no love for Sidmouth, but do you really think they would be that barbaric?"

"Fear makes barbarians of us all."

They stood for a moment in silence. She could guess where his thoughts must have turned, to his friends, comrades; to Sarah Davison and what fear she must be feeling. She did not want to name her own fear; she had a sense that if she did, she would only give it more power. She pushed it aside. Her courage would rise.

"Tell me, Mr. Weir, do you have any patients in Manchester? I am sure you can say that much, without revealing who they may be."

He looked at her cautiously. "Why do you ask?"

"My sister's husband is still being held in that city's gaol. My other brother-in-law, Harrison, has been trying to establish what evidence there is against him, perhaps even find counsel for him, but has had no luck."

"I thought you did not much like this Wickham."

"I do not, but without him my sister is much the same position as Mrs. Davidson and the other wives. She is staying with Mrs. Harrison for the time being, but that cannot last forever. I cannot picture her beholden to a parish council, though I suppose that is the best we can hope for, if Wickham is convicted. As to where else she might end up–"

"It may not be my place, but why can you and your sisters not provide her support?"

She sighed. "I am not allowed. And, if I am not, then Kitty cannot either, while her husband has his living from mine. Bingley – that is Jane's husband – will not go against my husband on any matter. There is more – history there with Wickham, that I cannot reveal, beyond Lydia's elopement. I will say this at least, for the barbarians; if a king cut down a man for treason, he took responsibility for his widow and children; they acknowledged there was a duty to those left behind."

"I had not considered that before. You are right, of course."

"I told you, you ought to, as part of your social insurance. If a woman's only means of support is removed, then there should be some safeguard against the ensuing poverty, which simply breeds more resentment and malice."

"I ought not claim any ideas of yours. You could make a good case with that line of thought. Have you put it to Lord Matlock? Many a reformer would give an arm for such access."

"I will not. I need to be – dutiful."

"I can't believe anyone would expect that of you."

She gave him a sad smile. She found it difficult to believe too; and yet here she was. Any such approach could only lead to more confrontation. She was not sure if she welcomed that possibility or dreaded it. Until she was certain on that front, she could not risk it.

"Well, I for one would be interested in more of your thoughts on the matter. Perhaps you could write them down?"

"What, author my own seditious texts?"

"What on earth are you planning to put in them, that would make them seditious!" He joked, then leaned in closer and whispered: "The trick is to say everything is the idea of some Greek philosopher or another, don't mention the French or Americans. The Greeks were the greatest Radicals of us all."

She laughed and promised to bear that in mind as they parted. Rushing home, she picked up her pen, poured herself some wine, and began to write.

It was around six when by the time she was satisfied with what she had written. She flexed her aching hand and sealed the papers shut. The door to the library clicked open. Disconcerted, she whirled around – to face the unexpected figure of her husband.

"I did not think you would be back so early," she said.

"No," he looked surprised by the fact himself. "No, it has been a long day. I didn't fancy White's. Have you plans this evening?"

"No, why should I?"

"The opera is supposed to be very good. We could attend, if you would like?"

This was an unexpected, if not an appealing, offer. "I am tired. I went for a long walk today."

His face dropped. "You really should not, Elizabeth. Not in your condition. The air is no good here."

"I'm not made for sitting idle."

"Please just, take care. The last time we had a full season–"

"I know. You need not remind me."

For the first time since Easter week they took dinner together. The conversation did not flow, but they found their way through enough discussion of her plans for redecoration to keep the evening civil. There could be no laughter or ease, but he deferred to her opinions, admired her taste and agreed to her request to interview the list of decorators Lady Jersey had provided, so that by the end of the final course she felt set to extend an olive branch – and hoped she might receive one in return.

"The other week," she began as they moved up to her sitting room, "I should not have spoken the way I did, about Fitzwilliam. I used his memory cruelly and I am sorry for it."

He moved to sit next to her, placing his hand on her stomach. There was little there yet, other than the meal they had just shared – but it was a tender gesture. "The behaviour of neither one of us was exemplary that night. I have not been my best self of late. I know that, and am sorry for it. This has all happened so suddenly. I never thought – I did not expect we would ever be in a situation like this."

"No, it is a strange sort of luck, that leaves one feeling–" What was the word? Numb? Empty? Caged? "Stilted. We neither of us do well, when we are at odds."

"No. Let us forget these last few weeks and move on."

He brushed a curl from her face, gliding his other hand down her thigh as he gently pressed a kiss to her cheek. She stiffened. The image of the maypole was too fresh in her mind's eye. He must have sensed her withdrawal for he nodded, stood, and left.

Historical note: You can view the 'A May day garland for 1820' print on the British Museum website (Museum number, 1948,0214.837).

The speaker's speech is taken from 'An authentic history of the Cato-street conspiracy; with the trials of the conspirators' (1820) by George Theodore Wilkinson, which you can download for free from Google Books.