Life Mask (59 page)

Perhaps it would be easier to do this outdoors, she thought, watching the last yellow leaves quiver on their branches. It was wonderful to be out again, with the air rushing past her face; she'd been missing her rides.

When he slowed the horses to a walk, Anne thought she'd better get it over with. 'Mr Fawkener,' she said in a low voice, 'I've been considering whether a union—such as you've paid me the great compliment of proposing—would be likely to contribute to my future peace and happiness. And on the whole, I regret to tell you that I think ... not. Believe me, I'm sorry.'

Fawkener didn't say a word.

'Are you surprised?' she said at last.

'No. Irked, if anything.'

'Irked?' Anne repeated.

'You're making a mistake,' Fawkener told her. He had the reins bunched in one hand, like weeds, she noticed. 'We'd live handsomely, and with our joint means and connections we could be a highly successful couple. You might prove a good hostess, appealing to Whigs and Tories alike.'

He really doesn't understand me at all,
she thought, shaking her head.

'But instead, you'd rather live and die alone and eccentric,' he said, his voice hardening. 'And what do you think the World will say when it hears that you've turned down an eligible husband?'

First came nervousness—
there's going to he a scene, another scene
in the Park, why didn't I wait until we were back in my parlour?
Then anger slid into place. 'How should it hear it, sir, unless from you?'

He ignored the question. 'Really, Mrs Darner, how long d'you think you can drag on in your present style?'

'Drag on?'

'Swinging sledgehammers and parsing Greek, I mean. It's no life for a woman of your age, with a crippled leg.'

Anne pulled herself to the very edge of the seat. 'It's my life,' she said between her teeth, 'and I have dedicated it to the Muses.'

Fawkener snorted. 'For God's sake! Don't you think the art of sculpture will survive without more of your clay doggies or blank-faced marble belles?'

She was speechless. The man had lost his temper, or his mind. 'I've given you my answer, sir, and you can hardly hope to change my mind by such abuse.'

'Oh, you call this abuse? I've read a lot worse of you. When it comes to the fair sex,' Fawkener added sneeringly, 'scandal haunts you and you'll never outrun it as long as you defy the World.'

Anne couldn't breathe under her tight striped riding habit. 'This is outrageous,' was all she managed before she was interrupted.

'I could have saved you from all that, by the way. I don't happen to care what truth there may be in the stories; you'd have found me a most tolerant husband,' Fawkener added with a half-smile of peculiar nastiness. 'So long as you fulfilled all the duties of a wife, I wouldn't enquire further into your business, or burst in on you and a lady friend—the actress, say—'

Anne found her voice. 'Silence!'

His eyes refused to drop. 'Does the thought of a husband appal you, is that it? Can't you stand my sex at all?'

'There are men in this world whom I esteem greatly, men of whom I'm very fond,' she snarled, 'but by your behaviour these last five minutes you've barred yourself from their company. Now stop the horses and let me down.'

Fawkener rode on, wordless; he made no attempt to rein in.

'Please'—and her voice broke in a way that made her ashamed.

'I'll leave you to your door,' he said. After a long minute he added, 'I know I spoke in heat, but really, you drive a man to it.
Dedicated to the Muses
indeed!'

Anne was peering over her shoulder to see if she knew anyone in the passing carriages whom she could hail. 'I asked to be set down.'

'Don't be silly, you can barely walk and I'd hardly be so uncivil as to watch a lady foot it home.'

She narrowed her eyes. 'Apparently your incivility knows no bounds. Set me down!'

With a theatrical sigh Fawkener reined in the horses. He came round and opened the low door for her with a mocking bow. If she could have avoided leaning on his arm as she got down she would have.

Anne set off along the path. Her right leg was beginning to cramp and she knew she was limping jerkily. From behind came the sound of the horses walking and a leisurely voice. 'This is a poor farce, Mrs Damer. Why don't you let me drive you home where you can sulk in peace?'

She turned off the path and went across the uneven grass where Fawkener's phaeton couldn't follow. These shoes weren't made for walking; she could feel every pebble or old acorn. She could tell her beaver hat was askew and there was a damp curl dangling in her face.

F
EBRUARY 1794

Derby sat in the coffee room at Westminster Palace, which lay in the maze of passages and chambers between the Lords and the Commons. He was drawing up a list of technicalities on which the Duke of Bedford could denounce the transportation of the leaders of the Reform Convention. It would do no good, of course; the poor men were already lying in the hulk at Greenwich and the next fair wind would take them across the world to Botany Bay. Little that Derby undertook these days came to much, whether he was calling the handful of remaining Foxite peers to strategy meetings or trying to persuade 'Citizen' Stanhope to sound less like the bloodstained zealot Robespierre.

'Derby, my dear fellow.' The Duke of Richmond sat down in the next chair and motioned to the waiter for coffee.

The greeting was unusually effusive, Derby thought. 'How's the Duchess?' he responded. 'And Mrs Damer?'

'The first is only so-so, I'm afraid, and the second is much improved; she's been convalescing with us at Goodwood and at the sea nearby in Felpham.' The Duke covered a yawn with the back of his hand. 'As for me, this war will be the death of me!'

As the only military man in Pitt's wartime Cabinet, Richmond was known to be worked off his feet. Derby probed warily. 'Any news of Lord Moira's expedition to aid the royalists in Brittany?'

The Duke waved his hand. 'Complete disaster, I'm afraid. It'll be in the papers tomorrow.'

'What a shame,' said Derby, careful to keep his tone grave.

Richmond sipped at his coffee, then blew on it. He leaned on his knees so he was nearer Derby. 'My wife's very perspicacious; she said from the start that this war would be an unpopular measure,' he said in a low voice. 'And it doesn't help that some of the highest gentleman in the land like playing at soldiers.'

Derby grinned. Richmond meant Prinny—who'd squeezed his bulk into the magnificent blue and gold of the 10th Light Dragoons and was loudly whining to be promoted to major-general—and also Prinny's brother the Duke of York, whose campaign in the Low Countries was proving so disastrous.

'But the thing is, and forgive me if I come straight to the point—'

'Please do,' said Derby, curious.

'It's a necessary war.' Richmond spoke flatly. 'I suspect you know that, deep down, beneath all your talk of the
rights of the people
and your loyalty to Fox. This is our civilisation's stand against an enemy of a kind we've never encountered before. The French revolutionaries have an infinite thirst for blood. Our sources tell us that they're massing at Brest with a view to invading England or Ireland, by the way,' he added quietly. 'They want to extinguish religion, erase not just monarchy and aristocracy but all tradition; they aim to spread their infection of anarchy till all Europe is one howling furnace.'

Derby's back was as stiff as a poker. 'Your Grace, if I want to hear speeches—' He gestured in the direction of the House of Lords.

'I don't mean to speechify; bear with me.' Richmond scratched his eyebrow and spoke so low that no one in the coffee room could possibly hear him. 'My point is that you're wasted in Opposition, Derby. Your intellectual abilities, your powers of conciliation, your influence—'

Meaning your voting bloc.
Derby stared into his cooling coffee, almost embarrassed for the Duke. He wished for a moment that Sheridan were here to hear this. Were the Pittites approaching every one of Fox's apostles, to tempt them one by one, or should Derby consider himself particularly honoured?

'You and I are rather alike, it seems to me,' murmured Richmond, crossing his legs. 'We're not intransigent factionalists, are we? As aristocrats with ancient names, our deepest loyalties are to the land and to England, not to any Party. The real crusade of our time is the war against the mob, Derby, and I don't believe an earl in his right mind can be a true democrat.'

Derby stared back at him.

'Don't you see that the rolling acres of Knowsley are a downright insult to a landless man who reads Paine? Come a British revolution, you'd lose your tide one day, your houses the next and finally your head. Why, a Jacobin aristocrat's like an ox fawning on the butcher who's sharpening the knife!'

'I am not a Jacobin,' said Derby in a controlled voice, 'just a lover of liberty. And there won't be a revolution in this country.'

'Why, we had one a mere century and a half ago, and the regicides killed King Charles,' Richmond pointed out. 'Aren't you afraid it might happen again?'

Sometimes, yes,
thought Derby with a twinge of shame. He leaned in, till he and the Duke were eye to eye. 'I'll tell you this: I'm more afraid that Pitt and the King, on the pretext of
national security,
will destroy everything I love about England.'

Richmond let out an impatient sigh. 'What I wanted to say was that I've been authorised to extend the hand of friendship.'

Derby's eyebrow sailed up. 'It looks suspiciously like the claw of conspiracy. For the last two years your master Pitt's been driving a wedge into our Party, and now he's managed to split it in two he's poaching many of our best men.'

'It's hardly poaching when the creatures come willingly.'

'To the bait! The Prime Minister has so many places and pensions in his gift, after all.'

'Such men as the Duke of Portland haven't been bribed; they're as independent and principled as yourself, Derby,' Richmond scolded. What I'm talking about is a possible coalition, a union of the greatest talents of both Houses—'

'Led by one William Pitt?'

'It's not about Whigs and Tories any more, it's revolutionaries versus the rest of us,' said Richmond wearily. 'Pitt has to remain PM, because you know the King will never consider Fox.'

Derby spoke very clearly, 'I'll never betray him.'

'You're on history's losing side.'

He shrugged. 'I've picked my cock and I'll back him to the end.'

Richmond got to his feet and made a curt bow. Left behind in the coffee room, Derby saw that his hands were shaking.

A
PRIL 1794

'Yes, I did mean to send it in for the Exhibition at the Royal Academy as usual, before it takes up residence in the Scottish Register Office,' Anne was telling Agnes Berry, 'but then Walpole took it into his hoary head that this statue needed a showing all of its own.' She smiled sideways at Mary. The little party was gathered in the Leverian Museum on the Surrey side of Blackfriars Bridge. Anne had never been there before—she wasn't sure if it still counted as London—but it had a splendid rotunda and her
King,
polished to an angelic glow, with one hand ready on his sword hilt and the other brandishing his sceptre, looked magnificent on his plinth in the middle of the gallery.

'To think,' Agnes marvelled, 'that for the next three months crowds will flock into this building to pay homage!'

Anne felt a surge of pure sweetness—even though she'd never have admitted to caring what people in general thought of her work.

'Will there be an admission fee?' asked Mr Berry.

'Well, at first I thought not,' Anne told him. 'But then Sir Ashton—the museum's owner—pointed out that charging a shilling is really the only way to weed out undesirables and reduce the crowd to manageable proportions.'

'Child of my heart!' cried Walpole, limping back from his close contemplation of the statue. 'Your
King
is a triumph at the level of pure aesthetics and also as an act of patriotism.' He kissed her on both cheeks; his lips were chapped and warm. 'How proud I am to know you—to be your close relation, and your godfather too.
Fama semper vivat,'
he crowed, 'may her fame live for ever!'

'Oh, hush now,' said Anne.

'I won't, indeed it's very cruel of you to try to hush me at my time of life. When each sentence could be my last, my words should be treasured like rubies.'

Ah, but there are so many of them, sir,' Mary told him, 'and that always depresses the price of a commodity.'

He giggled, pink-cheeked, and rested his clamped hands on his cane.

Anne had welcomed a stream of visitors all morning, but there were two conspicuously missing faces: Derby and Eliza. She'd sent them invitations—after all, they'd both been to see her carve her
King
—but of course today's gala opening was different, a matter not merely of looking and admiring but of being seen to look at and admire an artwork that had already been hailed by one Pittite newspaper as
a grand rebuke to democratical sedition.
Sedition: that was one of those words that had changed its meaning in a handful of years. Anne used to think it signified terrible deeds, threats to the life of the monarch—but nowadays it seemed as if any song, any speech, any casual conversation in a tavern could land a man in the dock.

'My old friends will think me an out-and-out Pittite now,' she said to Mary grimly.

'Not those who really know you, surely.'

Anne's smile twisted. 'Well, there's little room for subtleties of opinion these days. The World seems divided into two camps, each shouting abuse at the other,
Tory warmonger
or
Jacobin anarchist.'

Mary nodded. 'It's like some strange light that turns all shades to black and white.'

'The other day at Mr Jerningham's,' Agnes chipped in, 'a young miss who looked about thirteen demanded to know whether I was a
democrate
or an
aristocrate.'