Life Mask (53 page)

'I'm still his best friend,' Sheridan said cockily.

'A friend can be betrayed as easily as a mistress,' Derby pointed out.

'Yes,' Fox agreed, 'I fear we're losing our grip on the Great Whale. If Old George popped his clogs in the night, I very much doubt Prinny would call us in to make up a Reformist government. Pitt might even manage to change masters and rule on.'

'What a hideous thought,' said Sheridan.

'O
put not your trust in princes, nor in any child of man,'
Derby quoted from the psalm.

Sheridan's voice was steely. 'So. You won't lend the Friends of the People the support of your name?'

'I'd have to think about it,' said Derby. He knew he was one of the last Whig peers whose appetite for change was still sharp, but ... Then he realised that the question hadn't included him.

Fox shook his heavy head. 'I mustn't, dear fellow. It'll drive a wedge into the Party.'

'Fuck the Party,' said Sheridan with glittering eyes.

When their friend had cantered away Fox murmured, 'He's not himself, of course. His wife's coughing up blood.'

What everyone knew and no one said was that the new baby wasn't Sheridan's but Lord Edward Fitzgerald's—the most handsome and spirited of Fox's Irish cousins and an outright republican, despite his tide and the fact that he was the great-great-grandson of Charles I. 'Isn't it strange that Sherry doesn't blame either of them—his wife or his friend?' muttered Derby.

Fox shrugged. 'Unusual, perhaps; not strange in itself.'

'But look at Devonshire, say. The minute he heard about Georgiana and Grey, he banished her to the most dangerous region in Europe.'

'Ha! For all his famous
ménage à trois,'
said Fox, 'Devonshire's a conventional man—the sultan of a small harem. Whereas our Sherry is a genuine original. He reasons that it's entirely due to his flagrant neglect of his lovely wife, in favour of Harriet Duncannon and other females, that Mrs S. finally succumbed to a more ardent lover.'

'You'd probably behave just as generously,' Derby teased.

'I hope I would, since I've never suffered from the disease of jealousy. Not carnally, that is,' Fox corrected himself, 'only in politics!'

Not even much there, Derby thought. Apart from the occasional storm, such as the regency crisis, Fox was as warm-spirited to his colleagues as to his
woman of no reputation.

Derby knew himself to be a much more ordinary man—as stern as the Duke of Devonshire when it came to being cuckolded. When he'd learned of Lady Derby's affair with Dorset, after all, he hadn't split any hairs or examined his conscience; he'd simply ordered her abroad for several years, and refused to see her face again. It wasn't that Derby had been convinced it was the right thing to do, but he hadn't been capable of anything else. He wondered now whether Devonshire would really be rigid enough to banish Georgiana and Bess from him—and England—for ever. It was said that the assorted progeny had been dumped at Devonshire House for half a year, now, and the Duke never went to see them.
At least I didn't abandon my children,
Derby reminded himself, uneasy.

A
UGUST 1792

On the way to Strawberry Hill, rain rang like spears on the roof of the carriage. It had barely stopped in six weeks. Anne spared a thought for the driver up top—like a Roman fountain with water bouncing off his shoulders and knees. She shivered a little; she still felt half naked with nothing but a cotton tube under the straight muslin dress to replace her stays. Mary had assured her that this wasn't too young a costume for her;
timelessly classical, rather.
But the fact was that the new French look had made a chasm between those Englishwomen brave enough to embrace such novelty and freedom, and stuffy matrons who preferred to cling to their heavy silks, hoops and pads—and Anne knew which side she belonged to, even if she was forty-three. She and Mary had first tried out the look together this summer, to give each other courage, and had walked along the Mall giggling like schoolgirls, avoiding the glares of the dowagers.

She had her portable writing desk on her knees.

I'm so very pleased that you've been showing your comedy to selected friends. You're so perversely modest, dear M., you seem to be looking for the one person who won't like the play, so you can pin your faith on them, I suppose, and burn the manuscript!

I imagine the date hasn't escaped your notice. I won't attempt to put down on paper all I feel on the second anniversary of our meeting, but may I just say thank you?

She lay back against the cushioned seat and thought of something Mary had hinted the other day, about
never having had the pleasure of making Miss Farren's acquaintance.
Somehow Anne still felt an awkward sort of disinclination to introduce them. She knew that Eliza was no shallow fashion plate and Mary was no earnest bluestocking—but each could seem so, just a little, in company at first, so she feared that was the conclusion each would jump to about the other. But even if she was wrong, Anne somehow couldn't quite imagine sitting between the two women, talking to them at the same time.

In his star chamber—all green with gold mosaic stars—Walpole was bent over a folio of engravings with a stranger. Ah, my dear Anne,' he said, straightening up. 'I didn't expect the pleasure of your arrival so soon; were the roads turgid with mud? Allow me to present Mr Fawkener, my nephew and neighbour in Berkeley Square.'

'You do me too much honour,' said the stranger amusedly.

'Well, your poor mother was half-sister to my brother-in-law, so I reckon you as a quarter-nephew at least.'

William Fawkener kissed Anne's hand. His name made her think of a hawk, somehow, or perhaps it was the face—that sharp curve of the nose. She guessed the diplomat was about her own age; his black jacket was very tight about the shoulders. Hadn't he been through a noisy divorce many years ago? Terrible how scandal clung to a name. That's right, the runaway wife was a cousin of Georgiana's called—of all Newmarket appellations—Jockey Poyntz. Anne tried to think of something else to ask Fawkener about and the word
Russia
floated into her mind just in time. 'We heard much about you during your trip to Catherine's Court, sir.'

'For all it achieved!'

They talked a little about St Petersburg, where the ladies still rouged very high, he told her, but at least they didn't dye their teeth black as their grandmothers had.

'It must be difficult to represent one's superiors at such a remove,' she hazarded.

'You've hit it.' He laughed. 'I've never yet received a dispatch from home that was up to date enough to be worth reading.'

The man seemed clever and oddly veiled; he spoke smoothly, but lacked that frankness she found so attractive in men and women. At one point she used the phrase
Pittites like yourself
and Fawkener gave a little shrug. 'Well, I'm a servant of the present government and Clerk in Ordinary to His Majesty's Privy Council; that much is true.'

'But your own beliefs?'

Fawkener's neat eyebrows shot up at the word. 'I'm a Christian,' he said, deadpan.

Was he not willing to argue politics with a woman? Walpole let out a yelp of laughter. 'You must know my godchild is an out-and-out Foxite.'

'Oh, I do. At Mrs Sheridan's funeral in June, when the topic turned to exceptional women,' he told her, 'Fox was boasting of your friendship.'

She blushed slightly. So Fawkener was on good terms with Fox; perhaps he wasn't such an out-and-out Pittite after all. Then she realised he'd suavely turned the conversation away from politics to personalities.

The old man excused himself so he could fetch some rather rare engravings from his library; they were too precious to trust to the servants.

'Since I've had the great good fortune of meeting you here, Mrs Damer,' Fawkener began, 'I must confess that on this occasion too I'm an emissary on a sort of diplomatic mission.'

'How so?' she asked, startled.

'You may be familiar with a certain Mr Combe.'

No one had spoken that name in her hearing in a dozen years. So this meeting wasn't an accident; Fawkener had come to Strawberry Hill in the hopes of an introduction. She felt slightly sick. 'To my cost, I am.'

'I know I risk offending you by mentioning him,' Fawkener apologised. 'I should begin by explaining that Combe's not what he was. He's a real recluse these days and lives under the rules of the King's Bench gaol, because of his debts; he drinks nothing stronger than water. He's given up all scurrilous scandalmongering and he only writes on serious matters.'

'Such as?'

'He's been very valuable to the government.'

Anne's mouth twisted. 'You mean he's one of Pitt's pamphleteers?'

Fawkener didn't wince. 'Well, call it what you like. The point is I've been asked—by a person I'm not at liberty to name—to intercede with you on Combe's behalf.'

Could he mean that Pitt himself had asked it? She swallowed. 'But what does Combe want with me? Didn't he get his pound of flesh from me long years ago and turn it to gold?' she said, almost spitting.

'He wants to bring out a purified version of his previous works, with the nasty passages excised and a properly apologetic preface.'

'But that's ridiculous,' said Anne shrilly. 'Clean up a cesspit and what's left but a hole?' She knew the analogy was coarse, but she didn't care. That was the worst thing about vulgarity; it dragged you in, even as you fought it.

'You see, Combe bitterly regrets that back in the late '70s he repeated a libel about you, with no foundation—'

Her cheeks scalded. 'Invented it, you mean.'

'No, no, he merely heard and took up idle slurs on your reputation—'

'Heard from whom?' she interrupted.

'Combe can't recall, now,' said Fawkener. 'At the time he was incensed with your whole family because of how shabbily your cousin Viscount Beauchamp had treated him—so he foolishly believed the exotic impossibilities he heard of you, Mrs Damer. His conscience pangs him on your account; he assures me he'd give a limb to redress the injury he did you.'

She sniffed.

'So, now,' he went on more cheerfully, 'Combe wants nothing more than to put this calumny to rest for once and for all in this new edition.'

Anne took a long breath. 'These matters are already at rest,' she told him. 'How can they be put to rest by being dug up again? And his repentance would be more touching if this new edition weren't intended to make him money.'

'Well, that's the life of a writer for you,' said Fawkener with a smile, 'whatever they do, for evil or good, must pay their rent.'

She found herself half smiling back in spite of herself. She'd been rather enjoying the battle. 'I'll be sure to consider the matter when I have some time, Mr Fawkener,' she told him, a little sweetness mixed with the hauteur. 'Now shall I play hostess in my cousin's absence and ring for tea?'

She couldn't bear to raise the matter with Walpole and she knew she mustn't dream of confiding in Eliza, who'd only consented to be her friend again on the understanding that the old scandal was quite extinguished. No, there was only one person she could ask, so she wrote to Mary that evening.

My stomach's unsettled\ as it always is when this dreadful subject of my being abused in the press arises. Could Combe be sincere in wishing to make up for his persecution of me? For all my Oppositional sensibilities, I wouldn't wish to offend the PM, if it is he who's commissioned F-r. Of course my heart revolts from the idea of stooping to any negotiation with Combe, but perhaps through this skilful intermediary the thing could be done decently enough? The prospect of being acquitted in the court of public opinion is a tempting one...

I confess my whirling head isn't competent to judge in this case. What say you?

Mary's answer came back before bedtime, the ink smeared with haste.

Oh, my dear, beware! I know I've urged you to combat these libels, but how can this Combe be trusted now, when he proved so malign before & how can the delicate fabric of a lady's reputation be mended with such crude tools? F—r I'm sure (as a relation of Mr W.'s) is sincere in his attempts to make peace—but as for Combe, what good can it do you to have such a man (monster, rather) say anything further about you in print?

Believe me, dearest, I only regret that a friendship as rational & affectionate as mine for you can do so little to make up for the vile injustice of an ungenerous World.

When, after a week, she hadn't seen anything of Fawkener she sent a note inviting him to call at Grosvenor Square. They sat sipping Madeira at eleven in the morning in her parlour and argued about politics with a guarded civility. 'Doesn't it seem,' Anne suggested, 'as if they were
provoked
into dethroning Louis by the Duke of Brunswick's rash manifesto, urging the French to topple their own Assembly and threatening to destroy Paris if any harm came to the royal family?'

Fawkener shrugged. 'Brunswick's a firm commander of the Austrian and Prussian forces in their war with France; he knows what he's doing.'

'But mightn't he have done better to appeal to the love of the French for their King?'

'What love would that be?' asked Fawkener.

Anne subsided.

'Mrs Damer,' he went on in a flirtatious drawl, 'I confess I don't know whether to hope that you've an answer for me on the Combe matter or that you invited me here for the pleasure of my conversation alone.'

Anne gave him a sharp look. 'The former,' she said. 'Please tell Combe that I'm glad he's changed his opinion of me on the evidence of my irreproachable conduct over the last dozen years, but that I have less reason to change mine of him. Also, were he to fawn on me in print, ten to one it would be said that I'd bought the man. Therefore, I'd prefer him simply to omit my name or initials from his publications.'