CHAPTER XXXVII

She found Matlock back in the upper rooms with Goulburn and some others. He looked down at her. "You look flushed. Where have you been?"

"Outside. These rooms are far too stuffy."

"You were not with–" The insinuation hung in the air.

"No, of course not." She shot back, insulted. His features eased.

Neither being in any mood for festivities the Matlock carriage was soon called. The emotional strain of it all hit her as the door closed. She shut her eyes and huddled against the window, away from the warmth of her husband's body. She felt, rather than saw, the carriage draw to halt. Hovering somewhere on the edge of sleep, she had a sense of being lifted, cradled up against something firm and warm. The smell of her own room hit her; and her husband's voice dismissing Annette. She was placed gently on the bed. Behind her closed eyes she could feel the room spinning, until it stopped.

The morning bells woke her, thundering in her ears. As she blinked her eyes open against the blinding light, Elizabeth realised she was still fully dressed. The soft snore behind her explained why. Lord Matlock lay there, still in his shirt and breeches. Scrambling out of the bed, she felt something trickle down her legs. She went to find Annette and call for a bath. She sat thoughtless as it was drawn up, then slipped in and sent her maid away. Picking up the sponge she began scrubbing at her legs, her hands, her arms, all over till she felt raw. If she could just scrub hard enough, perhaps she could wash the shame away.

She did not bother dressing for breakfast: she just pulled on her dressing gown and went in search of some toast. Her husband was similarly minded. He sat at the table looking completely spent, hair unkempt, morning stubble not yet cleared. She could not stand the sight of him.

There was nothing to be said between them, so they sat in silence until Mr. Janssens brought through a note for his master. Matlock glanced at the page: his face somehow managed to look even pastier.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Sir Charles has passed his sentence. Thistlewood and his crew are to be hung, drawn and quartered."

"Castlereagh said as much last night."

"I need to get to Whitehall, to help with the arrangements. You should rest. You look tired."

He stood and left. She looked over at the clock. It was not yet ten. Finishing her toast, she forced herself to write to her mother. She could not be so poor a daughter as to leave her reliant on Lady Lucas for all the news from St. James's – especially given the report she suspected that lady was likely to give of her. She detailed the gowns and the rooms, gave her dance partners and described the kind attention His Majesty paid to herself and her husband. It was a good line: one she repeated for Kitty, Jane and Georgiana. To Lydia, she wanted to write a different letter, but how could she? She had no right to demand her little sister's sympathy, or to ask for her forgiveness. Besides, it would not do, to be found to be writing to her. Even if she wished to tell her that she did understand now, about the misery and the wretchedness of which Lydia had spoken. The sense of powerlessness and forlorn hope. She had not seen it in that shabby house in Manchester, but she saw it now, in amongst the grand rooms of Mayfair.

He returned late. She left her door ajar, so she would hear him coming to bed. She walked through to his chambers and entered without knocking. Rattled, he sent his valet away. Steeling herself, she began: "We need to discuss all this."

"Discuss what, exactly?"

"The danger is passed. You have done your duty. We need to go home. We are not happy here."

"No one is. It would be obscene to be happy at times like this. And the danger certainly has not passed."

"But can we not–"

"No, Elizabeth," he snapped. "Please, I cannot deal with this tonight. I need to sleep. Tomorrow I need to advise the King on what best way to execute five men. For Christ's sake, show some compassion!"

She nodded and left, making sure to lock her chamber door.