CHAPTER XXXIV

From the outside Sessions House was a great, ugly, flat-roofed building. Inside, it was a circus. The day Lady Matlock attended a Mr. John Brunt was facing justice. Looking down from her seat at the judge's bench, Elizabeth thought there was nothing remarkable, let alone revolutionary, about the small, soberly dressed man. The prosecution did not share this assessment. Giddy after a week of successful convictions, prosecuting counsel seemed now positively blasé. At one point, a juror actually stood and pointed out that there was no evidence that Mr. Brunt had ever had any ammunition in his house, which they were forced to concede was true – despite it being the main case against him.

When Mr. Brunt spoke, he denied any knowledge of the plot. "Is it upon such evidence as this that you will deprive a son of a father and a wife of a husband? Should I die, by this case, I have been seduced by a villain, who, I have no doubt, has been employed by the Government. That damnable Edwards."

The jury took all of half an hour to find him guilty. Mr. Brunt's composure never slipped. He simply bowed to the court and was led back down to the cells of Newgate gaol.

"And what is your sense?" Her husband asked, as they sat together in the library that evening. "Does the gallery believe Edwards is a villain?"

She sipped at her wine and watched the rain pelt against the glass panes of the windows. "It is an easy truth to believe. There would be less of a rush to credit the idea if he were tried too. The absence of any charges is the strongest evidence against him."

"I agree," he replied, "but Sidmouth will not have it."

"Why not?"

"He has made that mistake before. With Thistlewood no less. You recall the riots at Spa Fields, back in 1816? The Government's man then was called to give evidence in the treason trial, which he did. The defence painted him as an agent provocateur, and the jury agreed. If Thistlewood had not gotten off then we would not be in this mess now. Sidmouth is loath to let history repeat itself. But you're right; Edwards' silence is damning."

It was the first time they had agreed on anything for months. "Surely justice demands he be tried too? He was part of the conspiracy, was he not?"

"No, we cannot risk him giving evidence. If he speaks, his role in it all becomes clear. It would be a spark to a tinder box. We need to keep the peace."

"But he incited them–"

"Thistlewood needed no incitement. And any one of the rest of those men could have said no at any time; could have alerted us to what was planned. No, Edwards' role in this makes them no less guilty. The defence are canny Elizabeth, but remember, it is their job to say whatever will paint their client in the best light; it is how they make their bread. You are doing well though; and it is useful to hear how persuasive the other side are being. What else caught your attention?"

His tone irked her, but she swallowed her anger. There was too much at stake over what she had to say next. "There is great sympathy for the wives, especially given the general belief that their husbands were put up to it. Mrs. Thistlewood cuts a very distinguished figure. Mr. Davidson, I understand, will leave a widow and six children; the youngest only a babe."

"They would have done well to think of that before attempting to mutilate His Majesty's Government."

"I cannot believe you would be so harsh."

"It is not a matter of harshness," he replied. "A man, all men, have a duty to their wives and children, to provide for and protect them. These men decided to abdicate that duty. And now they expect the very state they riled against to relieve them of the responsibility. It is a nonsense. No man of honour would leave his wife and children so unprotected. Wickham's situation attests to that."

"But does the state not also have a responsibility to those whose protection it removes – whatever the reasons?"

He drained his port. "I have said no, Elizabeth. Besides, if we were to permit such support in this instance where does it end? It could only increase criminality, if every desperate husband knew he simply had to get arrested for his wife and child to be provided for. The parishes already provide support for those in genuine need and of good character. You are an intelligent woman. Do not allow yourself to be led on in this manner."

"If you think me so suspectable to being led on it's a wonder you trusted me to report back at all."

"You are prone to believing tales of woe."

Her jaw tightened. "Is that to be forever held against me?"

He stood, stacking his papers into a neat pile. "I'm due at White's. You should rest ahead of St. James's. I have what I need. You've no need to attend the trial tomorrow."

Taking her hand, he kissed it and left.

"But I should like to," she said to herself.

For weeks a spectre had haunted Elizabeth's thoughts; in her mind's eye he shifted, sometimes looking like George Wickham, sometimes her friend, Mr. Weir – though she knew neither could be the case. There was only one forum where she would get to see Mr. Davidson in the living flesh and she did not intend to pass it up.

Lord Matlock was gone before her in the morning so there was no need to argue the point. Annette had all the preparations in hand for her court attire – and all she would be doing if resting in Matlock House was sit. At least this way, she could sit and satisfy her curiosity. But as the carriage drew up on Newgate Street she wondered if that was the force that drew her to Old Bailey? She was keen to see Mr. Davidson, yes, but as her mind turned to Sarah and Mr. Weir, it no longer felt like a spectacle. Mrs. Davidson could not be considered a friend, but she was someone Elizabeth had begun to feel a type of affection for. Her fate, as much as her husband's, hung in the balance. Against all rational thought, a flicker of hope beat in her chest. Perhaps this time it would be different.

As had been her practice the last two days, Lady Matlock took her seat on the judge's bench, as befitted her station, to the left-hand side of the Lord Chief Justice. Sir Charles Abbot was not a quick-witted man, but she had developed a degree of esteem for him having learnt he was the son of a humble barber and owed his education to a scholarship. Elizabeth wondered, but dared not ask, how he felt now, sitting in judgment over men so similar to his own self.

From her seat on the bench she could view the whole courtroom. The dark oak and soot-laden windows gave it a forbidding presence, even when the sun shone. That day, like so many that spring, was wet and grey. Candles were lit, even though it was almost ten in the morning. Through the dim light, she thought she could make out two familiar figures in the gallery. A woman whose curl had fallen out of her blonde her; and a man stood next to her, whose presence was not striking, but who drew her eyes all the same. His head seemed to turn towards her own, mirroring her gentle nod. She was suddenly acutely aware of where she was sat, not with them and the public, but with the judges and the power. A wave of discomfort washed over her – the same sensation as when she was little and caught in a fib. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, and determined not to look at the public gallery again.

As the bells of Sessions House struck ten, the prisoner was brought up from the cells. Training her face to be neutral Lady Matlock looked down on the man in the dock. He had a handsome face – younger than she had expected; he may have only been ages with her husband. His eyes fell to where hers had just been and softened on seeing his wife. It was such a look of love that she remembered being the object of once. A hollowness came over her, thinking of what Mrs. Davidson could lose.

The jury was sworn in; prosecution counsel rose to open the case. "William Davidson is indicted for being a subject of our said Lord the King, not having the fear of God in his heart, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the Devil, as false traitor against our said Lord the King, and wholly withdrawing the love, obedience, fidelity and allegiance which every true and faithful subject of our said Lord the King should and of right ought to bear towards our said Lord the King. On the twenty-third day of February, in the first year of the reign aforesaid, at the said parish of Saint Marylebone, he maliciously and traitorously, did imagine, devise, and intend to levy war against our said Lord the King, by overt acts and deeds hereinafter mentioned; conspiring to devise plans, by force and constraint, to compel the King to change his ministers and counsels. Conspiring to levy war. Conspiring to murder the Privy Council. Providing arms to murder the Privy Council. Providing arms and ammunition in order to levy war. Assembling with arms, with intent to murder the Privy Council and to levy war."

It was a shocking list of deeds. The idea that anyone could be capable of such acts should strike fear in the heart of any right-minded person. And yet, as Elizabeth's gaze fell on Mr. Davidson she tried to detect, as she presumed the jury must, if there was any appearance of such wickedness in his looks or movements. She found none.

The witnesses were called. The first to appear was a Mr. Aldous, a pawnbroker who had known Mr. Davidson some three years. He alleged that the prisoner had left a blunderbuss at his shop, and "redeemed it on February 23". Then, a Mr. Hiden, a debtor, who had been approached by another of the Cato prisoners and "asked me to be one of a party to assassinate his Majesty's ministers at a cabinet dinner. And, after that, to set fire to the houses of Lords Harrowby, Castlereagh, Sidmouth and the Duke of Wellington". This Mr. Hiden had passed a letter of warning to Lord Harrowby, who he chanced upon in Hyde Park.

"And did you go to Cato Street that evening?" The prosecution pressed.

"I did," Mr. Hiden replied, "I think it was near seven. I saw Davidson, the man of colour, whom I had known a long time before. He said at about eight o'clock I was to follow them into Grosvenor Square. He said: 'Come, you dog, come! It will be the best thing you ever do in your life.' These were his very words."

By the time the court rose for lunch, the weight of evidence appeared to be against Mr. Davidson. For the first time Elizabeth started to doubt the story she had heard; Mrs. Davidson could hardly be an impartial witness and she could detect no inconsistency in the evidence provided. Perhaps she had been too quick to believe a tale of woe. This concern lasted only as long as the second course of her lunch with the judges, precisely when Lord Harrowby walked in to join them. Notwithstanding her lack of legal training, she strongly suspected that it was unusual for judges to dine with witnesses just before they entered the witness box. He greeted her as cordially as ever, sang her husband's praises as they dined, and remarked on how fortunate Lord Matlock was to have a wife on whose discretion he could rely.

As the court returned from lunch, the right honourable Earl of Harrowby took to the witness box.

"I am one of His Majesty's Privy Council, and one of His Majesty's ministers. Cards were issued for a cabinet dinner on the twenty-third of February, by my order; they were issued on the preceding week. This was the first dinner after the death of the late King. In consequence of his late Majesty's passing our dinners were suspended for some time."

Lady Matlock stared at the honourable gentleman; this was not true. She had hosted this man herself: he had been at Almack's! Should she say something? Would it even count for anything if she did? Her husband would never forgive her.

The accused spent the day taking careful notes, and spoke only at the end, to ask if his wife may visit him that night. The Lord Chief Justice, ever correct, said the court had no power to grant such a request.

"You suspect his intention is to pass her these notes then?" Her husband asked that evening, stoking fire back to life.

Elizabeth had decided there was little point in hiding her whereabouts; he would have found out sooner or later through some other means. Once he was done berating her on her lack of care, she thought him quite pleased to have the report back.

"I suspect his intention was a desire to see his wife the night before he is possibly condemned," she replied. "Would you not do the same?"

He focused on his glass. "I would never be in such a ridiculous situation."

There was no Almack's that night; too many of the great and good where required at the King's speech for the opening of Parliament the next morning: all that pomp and ceremony required a clear head. That week's dancing and gossip would come during the ball at St. James's. Elizabeth did not relish the prospect, and she supposed her husband felt the same. They sat in silence in one of the smaller sitting rooms, both staring into the fire, lost in their own thoughts. What his were, she could not guess.

Her own turned back to her afternoon in Sessions House, not to the trial, but to the corridors of the courthouse, to an alcove, and a snatched conversation. A question of why she was there, and her response – that something compelled her to witness this all with her own eyes. Her quick whisper that Harrowby was lying, that his evidence was wrong; his low reply that they knew, but that nothing could be done. Her righteousness: she could speak out, contradict the Earl's evidence, cast doubt on it all. His insistence she should not; it was too dangerous, when this was all just for show anyway. His thanking her for her gift to Mrs. Davidson; how it was risky, but kind. The flush on her face when she realised she did not care if it was risky, because he thought it was kind. A commendation of her writing and thoughts. He had enjoyed the eloquence of her phrasing so much – 'it being a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single woman, in possession of no fortune, must be in want of security' – could he share her work with one of his patients? Her thanks for the translations of Aristotle he had tucked away in Keats. A joke shared over Mr. Keats' eloquence compared to other physicians. A sense of closeness: his smell – sage and something like sea salt–

She pulled her thoughts away. Lord Matlock was still lost in his own. The fire was almost dead. She moved to stand and leave, when he suddenly began: "When I was about nine my father called me into his study – no, no that's not right. We went to Scarcliffe. It was my uncle's study. Kirkdale and Fitzwilliam were there too, back from Eton, I think. They sat us down and told us about Robespierre and his Revolutionary Tribunal. The French had already killed their king, but my father and uncle had been convinced, I think, that the National Convention would stop there – as Cromwell had with Charles. I had never seen either of them frightened before, but when they spoke about that man and the terror he was raining down on the great families of France, distant cousins and bloodlines – the show trials. Sixteen thousand dead. It is peculiar, I remember trying to explain it to George later. He did not understand the danger – I suppose because there was none to him. I think that is when I first understood the distance between us. You will have been too young to remember. Perhaps your father would have sent you and Jane off to your uncle's, had it spread; you would not have been in any danger with him." He stood. "It is late, and tomorrow will be long. We should both rest. Goodnight Elizabeth."

"Goodnight Fitzwilliam," she replied, unsure of what else to say.

Historical note: The court proceedings are all taken from the Old Bailey transcripts. I've done some editing for readability, and cut down for length, but I've tried to keep the essence of the evidence.