A Song Twice Over (79 page)

It would be the salvation of the world.

Ernest Jones, the Chartist poet and a godson of the Duke of Cumberland, thundered out the message from the hustings at Halifax, winning a show of thousands of eager, voteless hands and, from an electorate – in that thriving town of several hundred thousands – of little more than a thousand men, an actual and decidedly disturbing vote of 279. The Chartist candidate polled 220 at Derby. Daniel Carey, despite everything Ben Braithwaite and Christie Goldsborough could do to prevent it, walked away from Frizingley's hustings with a defiant vote of 205. Feargus O'Connor, the Chartist leader, was
elected
at Nottingham.

Elected
. Had the world gone mad? Both Lady Lark, that ancestral Tory, and Lizzie Braithwaite, ardent champion of the Whigs, wondered both together over a pot of china tea and the summer fashion plates so obligingly offered by Miss Adeane.

Nottingham
, wondered Miss Adeane herself? Had Luke Thackray been there at the hustings, raising his hand for Feargus O'Connor, letting the whole world see where he stood, and why? She supposed so. She had not heard from him. Nor had she enquired. Although the absence of news took nothing away from the vividness with which she remembered him, the sense of warmth and comfort his distant presence still gave her. She could not think or act as he did, could not conduct her life even remotely as he conducted his own. But that did not stop her from being proud of him. Yes –
proud
. So long as Luke was there, in Nottingham – which might just as well have been Timbuctoo – she knew
something
was right with the world.

‘May I give you another cup of tea, Lady Lark? Mrs Braithwaite?' she murmured, thinking, beneath her smiling sweetness, that if it should choke them and they fell dead at her feet she would not turn a hair. Provided they had first settled their bills.

The Charter, then. A bad joke in some quarters. A golden promise in others. A growing menace, perhaps – wondered Larks and Braithwaites? – not serious enough to lose sleep over but which one might be well advised to nip in the bud. After all, in Frizingley alone two hundred and five men with enough money in the bank to place them on the electoral register had voted for it. Misguided souls, of course. Intellectuals and journalists, a doctor or two, a renegade clergyman, a few wild young men who had probably done it to annoy their fathers.

Not Mr Ephraim Cook, need it be said, the Dallam mill manager who, whatever the persuasion of that odd creature the Dallam daughter, had remained firmly within the Whig fold. Although he had had no objection to attending the dinner-party given to celebrate those shocking 205 votes, by Mrs Gemma Gage who, since she became a widow, seemed thoroughly to be losing her always somewhat peculiar head.

A very lavish dinner too, one heard.
Not
, as the victorious Whig candidate had suggested, a variation on the good lady's Irish soup-tureens, but quite a gala occasion with the Chartist candidate dressed up like a gentleman and making a damned impudent speech about how – considering that show of hands in his favour at the hustings – he believed himself to be Frizingley's true representative and meant to act accordingly. An easy enough matter nowadays with those trains steaming into Frizingley morning, noon and night, so that he could spend as much time in his ‘constituency' – the sheer audacity of the man! – as he liked.

If he could raise the money for the fare, that is; which, when one thought of Gemma Gage's weak head, seemed far more than likely.

John-William Dallam would turn over in his grave if he got the slightest whiff of it. No one had the least doubt of that. And one of the subjects much discussed that summer, in the comfortable elegance of Miss Adeane's pale blue salon, over the tea and biscuits and magazines, was the unfortunate position of Miss Linnet Gage. The poor, dear creature. One felt so sorry for her. And losing her looks too, thought Mrs Magda Braithwaite although her husband, Benjamin – it was shrewdly observed – did not exactly rush to agree with her. Thin nowadays – dear Linnet – rather than ‘spiritual' and delicate. Her profile still quite appealing as she knelt by the mellow stained-glass window of the parish church where she went every morning to pray, but gaunt in full sunlight. Magda, despite her ‘great fondness'for Linnet, could think of no kinder word for it. And with no gentleman hovering around her now that Frizingley's marriage market had acquired
two
rich widows to play for. Fickle Mrs Moon and foolish Mrs Gage leaving no one for Linnet but the vicar and Captain Goldsborough who would usually come to her rescue at the few social occasions she now attended.

And while nothing could be expected of the vicar – a natural celibate said Mrs Marie Moon whose judgement could be trusted on such matters – Captain Goldsborough
had
become outwardly more respectable since moving into that splendid suite of rooms at the station hotel, the preferential treatment he received there surely reflecting the number and value of his railway shares. A woman of Linnet's high pedigree and excellent breeding might be just what he needed to get back into decent society again. Although Marie Moon did not think so.

‘Why do you bother with that Gage woman?' Cara asked him, irritated by the gossip which had been aired, rather deliberately she thought, in her hearing, not a few of her customers having caught glimpses of her by now with Christie in theatres and hotel lounges and reserved compartments on the London train.

‘Could this be jealousy?' he enquired.

‘Should it be?'

‘Cara, you have developed a most annoying habit of answering one question with another. I can't think where you have learned it.'

‘From you, Christie. Where else. But what about Linnet Gage?'

‘She interests me.'

Another living chess piece? Another specimen?

‘The woman is as tart as a green lemon,' Cara said flatly.

‘So she is.' He sounded perfectly pleased to agree with her. ‘But that is only an excess of virginity, you know. Quite enough to turn any woman sour.'

‘And are you thinking of relieving her of it?'

‘Oh – hardly. Ben Braithwaite seems more inclined to do that. Which is why his wife so positively dislikes her.'

‘Yes, I do know that, Christie.'

‘Then you may also know that Linnet Gage is only interested in marriage? In her view it is the only career open to a woman of her birth and breeding. It follows, therefore, that successful women must, first and foremost, be married women. And since she is clever and ambitious – as you are – she does not enjoy regarding herself as a failure. Perhaps she would have done better to open a shop.'

‘I hope you are encouraging her to do no such thing.'

‘My dear – she would be scandalized at the very suggestion.' He appeared somewhat shocked, although much amused, by it himself. ‘A lady does not involve herself in
trade
– you should know that. She may serve soup for charity but she certainly does not
sell
it. A lady exists to adorn her husband's home and provide him with a social life designed to promote his interests. Something Linnet Gage would do with the skill and ruthlessness of a cabinet minister. As it is – without a husband – all she can do, without losing caste, is to arrange flowers in the church. And as for the gossip linking her with me, one should discount it. Only think of the scandalous things they are saying about Mrs Gage and your Chartist friend. Do you think it can be true?'

That Daniel and Gemma were lovers again? She was by no means certain. But … ‘I expect so,' she said. It seemed safer.

‘Have you seen anything of him yourself, Cara?' And although his voice seemed pleasant enough, making no more than a
chance
remark in passing, her nerves drew themselves smoothly to attention nevertheless, warning her that he would already know the answer.

‘Yes. He comes collecting for the famine every now and then.'

‘What do you give him?'

‘Money, Christie.'

‘Yes?'

‘Yes – what?' Very much against her will, and having, in fact, done nothing to which he could really object, she was suddenly defending herself. ‘He visits all the Irish – Father Francis sends him –'

‘
All
the Irish?'

A simple question spoken without heat or anger, yet transformed by the black art of his mockery into a challenge. But a challenge to what? It did not really matter. He had not even troubled to accuse her. Her guilt was assumed. He had already tumbled her into hot water and was concerned now only to watch her sink or swim. It was a game they often played.

‘Yes. O'Halloran at the livery stables. The widow Cunningham. Myself. Ned O'Mara at the Fleece …'

‘Alas no. Poor Ned is no longer with us at the Fleece.'

‘Oh –?' Could she use this to distract him. ‘Why not? Where has he gone?'

‘My dear –' he gave her the familiar look of surprise she often saw in Lady Lark when presented with her millinery bills. ‘Where
is
it that ageing and very drunken prize-fighters go when they have quite outlived their usefulness and lose what one is bound to consider their very last chance of employment? Do tell me if you know, for I have not the least idea?'

‘You turned him off, then?'

‘I? No – no. I simply bowed to Oliver Rattrie's judgement in the matter.'

‘You did
what
?'

‘Of course. If one places a man in a managerial position one must allow him to manage. And poor Ned could not meet Oliver's standards, it seems …'

‘You mean he couldn't work with the little rat from St Jude's you'd set up to lord it over him …'

He clicked his tongue. ‘Cara – my dear – must you speak so scathingly of Oliver? I find him enormously improved. And you and he have much in common. Considering his background one could even call him as great a success in his way as you are in yours. And I have a marked partiality, I confess, for hungry fighters.'

‘Because you've never been hungry yourself.'

‘There is hunger,' he said, reaching out for her, ‘and hunger – my dear.'

And in most ways, on most occasions, she believed she satisfied his appetite. Only a pawn in the games he played, she knew that, although it pleased him to dress her as a queen for his own pleasure and the pleasure of seeing other men dazzled and tempted when he chose to display her like a collector's item of sculpture, it seemed to her, or a thoroughbred horse. He had polished and faceted her like a diamond so that in the hotels and restaurants and the luxurious houses of friends – like Marie Moon – where he spent his life, she could be brilliant, could sparkle, entertain, decorate, could arouse desire which he – when it had amused him long enough – would cynically frustrate.

She was his woman. He was not her man. He took what he desired from her as and when he wanted it. She made no claims on him whatsoever, asked him no questions – knowing full well she would get no answers even if she did – took what he gave her and watched his moods carefully to assess the right moment for obtaining more. When he wanted her to be happy then she smiled. It was much easier. When he wanted the thunder and lightning of her temper then he would stimulate it. That was easy too. When he wanted her desire he had only, these days, to put his hands upon her, sometimes only to look at her with a certain narrowing of his eyes, to set the pulses of her sensuality obediently pounding.

And whenever it happened that she, herself, experienced a moment of personal triumph or exhilaration, whenever her heart was full – if only briefly – of the mischief that came from some score being settled, some customer won or wooed back into her fold, some stray beam of sunlight crossing her life, she had learned to curb her natural instinct to throw her arms around him – if he happened to be nearby – or make any other gesture of spontaneous warmth or camaraderie. She had learned, in fact – except in his bed – not to be familiar.

Yet the dinners and receptions to which he escorted her, the parties held almost continuously by Marie Moon to celebrate the miracle of her husband's demise, the trips to London and the country homes of rackety, racing peers who were his friends, were by no means distasteful to her. She had spent too much of her life enviously watching other women stepping down from their carriages not to enjoy the landau she herself now kept at O'Halloran's livery stable, not to glory in the elaborate satin dresses she now had the leisure to design for herself, in the gold bracelets on her arms, the pearls in her ears, the lace gloves on her manicured hands. A certain dryness, a well-hidden but rather hollow space somewhere inside her giving her no more trouble, she supposed, than it gave to Magda Braithwaite. Considerably less than to Linnet Gage.

She did not care to dwell too deeply on Gemma Dallam.

‘So he comes collecting for the famine,' murmured Christie. ‘Very commendable. Although it is almost over, they tell me. This year's potato has decided not to blacken, I hear, and one expects it will be adequate. Particularly now that the landlords have so obligingly thinned out the population by shipping it off – well – wherever it could manage to land. One might succeed in feeding the rest with the Indian Corn they are suddenly sending in. I have some land in Ireland myself. Did you know that? An inheritance from my grandfather, General Covington-Pym.'

She was not surprised.

‘And what have you done with your tenants, Christie?'

‘My dear –' once again the blank look of surprise. ‘I have not the least notion. My agent there does very much as he pleases. And who am I to complain, so long as he sends me the agreed amount of rent. I have never set foot on the place myself.'

She did not ask him if he had taken his rents for this year, and last. She did not want to know.

‘So your Chartist friend will not be coming to see you again, will he, Cara, with the famine officially over and the Queen planning a state visit to Dublin to tell them so?'