Island of the Swans (66 page)

Even children Louisa’s age knew that the House of Lords was made up of the first-born sons of aristocratic families—such as the fabulously wealthy Duke of Devonshire. The House of Commons was reserved mostly for those
other
sons of the ruling classes unlucky enough to have made their appearance in the world
after
their elder siblings. These men had to stand for election, all right, but bribes and inducements and tradition nearly guaranteed certain powerful families their accustomed places as supposedly “elected” officials of Great Britain.

But this election year was different, Jane mused, as the carriage rolled to a stop in the teeming street. Many of the members of the prospering middle class whom she could see from her coach window were mightily sick of aristocrats—whatever their birth order—lining their pockets with money from the Treasury. The hardworking milliners and mantua makers and wigmakers and apothecaries whose shops lined the city streets of Westminster admired their straitlaced king and queen, and had become deeply distressed by rumors of licentiousness among Fox and his circle, including the flamboyant Duchess of Devonshire and the disaffected Prince of Wales.

The twenty-two-year-old heir to the throne had long been estranged from his father. Thanks to his gambling binges, his mistresses, and his highly expensive tastes, he was gravely in need of capital with which to pay his enormous debts. Therefore the Prince, too, supported Fox’s vision of an aristocratic monopoly with supremacy over his father, King George III—in return for the promise of more money deposited in his personal account.

Young Pitt, on the other hand, was untainted by the sort of financial and sexual excess associated with the Prince, Charles Fox, Georgiana Cavendish, and their set. He called for reform of this stranglehold enjoyed by a few of the country’s most powerful families. In ringing tones, he backed the constitutionally ordained
balance
between King and Parliament—or at least, he
said
that he did in brilliant speeches made to the benches.

Jane wrinkled her nose in disdain as she spied the olive-skinned, heavy-set figure of Charles Fox himself, holding forth from a platform near the front of the church. It was the Duchess of Devonshire who had been the first to call Fox the Eyebrow. Her nickname was certainly apt, Jane thought, noting how the man’s brows knit in a single line of thick black hair across the broad expanse of his forehead. In stentorian tones, Fox accused King George III of obstructing Parliament’s ability to act in the country’s best interest.

“What absolute
twaddle
!” Jane exclaimed to her companions in the carriage. “That man grows worse each day of this contest! A
true
aristocrat supports King
and
Country—not just the interests of a narrow minority, bent solely on feathering its own nest! Where’s Mr. Pitt? He should answer the scoundrel forthwith!”

“I’m sure he or somebody else will,” Eglantine soothed, craning her neck to survey the burgeoning crowds clustered near the speaking platform.

Jane’s lips set in a determined line as she cast a professional eye toward the crowd, which was listening inattentively to the caustic comments tossed off by Charles Fox. Votes would actually be cast today and throughout the month in the open air, first by a show of hands, and then every male householder would commit his choice to paper. Westminster was one of the few boroughs where Fox could not depend on patronage and intimidation alone to retain his seat.

Supporters of Fox and Pitt were yelling slogans at each other as another grand carriage, pulled by six horses bedecked with blue ribbons, careened around the corner. As soon as it halted in the square, an army of grand ladies spilled out into the grimy streets that peeled off from Covent Garden, London’s great market for fresh produce.

“’Tis the Duchess of Devonshire, to be sure!” Charlotte cried, pointing at the magnificently dressed woman.

“Why are they all wearing buff and blue, Mama?” Louisa asked curiously, as several other women descended from Georgiana Cavendish’s grand equipage. “Are they in the army?”

“No, dearheart.” She smiled fondly at her seven-year-old daughter. “Those are the colors associated with Charles Fox and his party.”

Pitt had felt the handling of the American War by previous ministers fraught with folly, but he remained a loyal supporter of the King. Fox and the Whigs showed their disrespect to the Crown by adopting the colors associated with the uniforms worn by the rebellious George Washington and his troops.

The Duchess of Devonshire was cheered by the crowd as she waved a friendly greeting to the throng. Jane was forced to admit that her rival was, indeed, exquisite: her face was a perfect oval; her alabaster skin, sparkling blue eyes, and even her teeth were arresting. Her glorious reddish blond hair was capped fetchingly by an enormous blue ruched bonnet. The duchess—reputed to have wagered and lost thousands of pounds recently in a single all-night game of faro—marched gaily up to the establishment of a registered voter and pounded on the door.

“I’ll be bound if that’s not her sister, Lady Duncannon, with her,” Eglantine added in awe.

“
And
the Duchess of Portland,” Jane murmured, staring at yet another fabulously adorned woman of fashion. She was also dressed in buff and blue. She shook hands with the enthusiastic throng crowding near her, who were delighted to have a brace of real, live duchesses in their midst.

“You don’t suppose the Prince himself will appear today in behalf of Fox?” Eglantine said worriedly.

“’Tis a cool reception he’d get, to be sure, and he knows it, I’ll warrant,” Jane replied.

“Aye…” Eglantine mused thoughtfully. “’Tis a pity he and the king are at such loggerheads. After all, they are father and son.”

Through her open carriage window, Jane resumed surveying the progress of Georgiana Cavendish, who daintily trod up several steps of another shop and rapped sharply on a sagging front door.

“This kiss will seal your vote, kind sir!” Georgiana cried gaily, curtsying prettily to the burgher who, under normal circumstances, would be constrained to use the trade entrance at the fabulous Devonshire House in Picadilly.

“All right, lasses!” Jane announced with determination to the others in her carriage. “We have work to do. Out with you and march directly into that food shop there!”

Jane emerged from her carriage and purposefully stood on its running step a moment, to give the crowd time to admire her white and gold gown and to recognize the fact that yet another duchess graced the neighborhood.

The Duchess of Devonshire glared at her when she spied Jane’s entourage wading into the crowd and greeting the local constituents.

“Ho, worthy sir!” Jane hailed a chimney sweep passing by with several filthy brooms balanced against his stooped shoulders. “How fortunate that Westminster grants votes to all honest working men. I ask for your vote for Mr. Hood, the candidate supporting William Pitt. Will you give it?” she asked, boldly offering her gloved hand, and placing it in the sweep’s paw, which was sprinkled with soot.

“A-aye, m’lady…” he stammered, nearly overcome by the shock of shaking hands with such a dazzling vision.

Cheers resounded as Jane and her party moved quickly to a shop where vegetables were displayed on low stalls outside the store. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Duchess of Devonshire pause on the opposite side of the street, clearly annoyed that Jane had dared to challenge her so directly in the pursuit of votes for Mr. Pitt.

“Good day to you, sir,” Jane called warmly to the vegetable vendor. “Have you any fresh broccoli today?”

“Broccoli?” repeated the astonished shopkeeper, alternately eyeing Jane’s and Georgiana’s magnificent finery.

“Yes, broccoli,” Jane repeated calmly to the merchant. “Have you any today?”

“Why, yes, mum, I have some very fine broccoli,” the wizened greengrocer said timidly. “If you’d be so kind as to inspect it to your satisfaction.”

“’Tis lovely, sir,” Jane said, hardly glancing at the wilted vegetables. “Would five guineas be sufficient?”

Before the astonished shopkeeper could respond to such an outrageously high sum for a pound of tired produce, Jane had paid the man and moved on to the tailor shop next door and was canvassing the wide-eyed owner who stood outside with a pincushion clamped on his arm.

“Be sure to give Mr. Pitt’s man your vote, won’t you, kind sir?” she called back quickly to the greengrocer before extending her hand to her next prey with a friendly “How d’you do!” for Mr. Snickworth, Tailor and Mender, Ltd.

Across the street, the Duchess of Devonshire glanced at Jane sharply and squared her shoulders. She proceeded to march to the bakeshop directly opposite the tailor’s establishment. Within minutes, the beautiful Georgiana emerged bearing a basketful of sugar buns, which were quickly passed out to the worshipful crowd. As the throng eagerly accepted her offering, she cast a look of triumph in Jane’s direction.

“I’ll wager she paid a pretty pence for those!” Jane grumbled, and directed her own feminine army to head for the soapmaker’s shop on the corner.

From morning till the sun set along the back streets and alleyways of Westminster, the dazzling ladies of fashion personally petitioned the electorate, using every wile and trick they could conjure to procure votes for Fox, or the candidates who supported the popular William Pitt. Jane was pleased when, impulsively kissing a blacksmith on the cheek for the promise of his vote, she soon heard from the Cockney elector in the next arcade that her rival had immediately begun to mimic Jane’s singular vote-getting technique by bussing a butcher.

“Lord, mum, ’twas a fine sight to see a grand lady come right up and smack us hardworking mortals with her cherry lips,” the laborer chortled.

“And if I kiss you, as well, which one will get your vote? Fox, or Pitt’s man, Mr. Hood?” she inquired mischievously.

“Why, the man what’s supported by the last great lady to give an old sot like me such a lift in me old age,” he answered slyly, lifting his cheek toward her for the expected peck.

Jane planted a chaste kiss on the old codger’s weathered skin and grandly continued on her rounds of the Covent Garden neighborhood. She was more determined than ever to help defeat—or at least diminish the vote count—of the odious Fox in his own ward.

Moonlight was reflecting off the rooftops of the city by the time Jane’s carriage returned to Pall Mall. Inside the coach, Madelina and Susan leaned against the plush upholstery, quietly reviewing the day’s exciting events. It was long after the normal supper hour and Louisa had fallen asleep in the corner. Her dark red locks spread like fingers of fire across her sister Charlotte’s shoulder. Charlotte herself was barely awake.

“We’re home, darlings,” Jane said, gently shaking them.

“Zooks! I’m exhausted,” sighed Eglantine.

“Before we left this morning, I ordered a light meal to be sent up to your rooms in three-quarters of an hour,” Jane said, as they trudged up to the short flight of stone stairs to the front landing. “You’ll all have lovely baths, then off to sleep!”

Marshall, the butler, opened the door, his face impassive, as always.

“His Grace waited dinner an hour for you, m’lady,” he said stiffly, “then departed to eat at his club.”

“I distinctly left instructions with Mrs. Christie this morning that you should inform the duke we would return by eight o’clock, so that he and I might sup together.” she replied with annoyance. “Didn’t you say as much to the duke, Marshall?”

“Those instructions never reached me, your ladyship,” Marshall said with an innocence that made Jane immediately suspicious. During her almost seventeen years of marriage to Alex, his butler and his housekeeper had persisted in their absurd rivalry for Alex’s time and attention. Such petty acts of sabotage as witholding her messages to her husband were commonplace.

“Well, then, thank you, Marshall,” she said evenly. “I trust our baths are ready. Or did Mrs. Christie not pass on those instructions, either?”

“Aye, of course, Your Grace,” Marshall replied, with a hint of the disdain the commonfolk and many aristocrats held toward those who practiced the self-indulgent, and probably dangerous, habit of bathing more than once every six weeks.

“That will be all,” Jane retorted shortly, sweeping past him toward the stairs.

“Really,” Eglantine agreed under her breath as Jane and her daughters reached the second-story landing. “That pair are the height of insolence!”

“That they are,” Jane agreed with resignation. “Pay them no mind. But, blessings to all of you,” she added fondly, “and thank you for lending your support.”

“You were truly a marvel today, sister mine,” Eglantine said, brushing her lips against her Jane’s cheek.

“’Twas exciting to be part of it all, wasn’t it?” Jane smiled tiredly. “Sleep well.”

Eglantine waited while her nieces trooped down the hallway to their rooms.

“Will you wait up for Alex?” Eglantine said in as diplomatic a voice as she could muster.

“I imagine… for a while,” Jane replied evasively.