Life Mask (74 page)

'But now to business, my lads,' said Fox, pulling a bundle of papers out of his pocketbook. 'These Gagging Acts of Pitt's, to preserve what they're calling homeland security—I've obtained the gory details. The Seditious Meetings Bill will be introduced in the Commons and what it boils down to is that if you hold a meeting of more than fifty, a magistrate can send in the troops to shut it down, and it specifies that he'll bear no responsibility for
any deaths that may result!'

'That's a licence to kill,' said Sheridan, wild-eyed.

'Then, Derby, in the Lords it'll be up to you and Bedford and the others to tackle the Treasonable Practices Bill, which allows transportation or execution for anyone who publishes anything that possibly
could
incite discontent against King or government. I want you to start by proposing a rake of amendments—and meanwhile we'll be organising a national campaign of petitions—'

'I don't think so,' said Derby quietly.

Fox blinked at him. 'You're dubious about our strategy?'

'I'm dubious about letting traitors go free.'

The silence in the study was thick, like smoke.

'Uh-oh,' murmured Sheridan. 'How's that scratch, Derby? Stinging, is it?'

Derby stared at him. 'You weren't there.'

A comical shrug. 'What can I say? Young wives are demanding.'

'Neither of you was there.'

'The King wasn't hurt,' Fox put in gently.

Derby swatted that away like a wasp. 'You didn't see the anarchy, the utter rabid madness of that crowd. It was—what's that new word?—
terrorism.
We've always boasted that there couldn't be an English revolution. Well, let me tell you, we've been fools!'

'For a famous cocker your stomach's not so strong after all,' said Sheridan mildly. 'One little riot and you're Torified overnight. I've attended operas where more blood was shed!'

Fox held up his hands to keep the peace. 'Sherry, no need for insults. My dear Derby, I respect your views, now as always.'

A snort from Sheridan.

'But we can't let Pitt take advantage of this distressing incident to turn the country into one great prison. He's the true
terrorist,
he rules by the politics of threat and panic.'

Derby looked into his glass, exhausted.

'I need every man I've got, especially in the Lords. All I ask,' said Fox with a trembling lip, 'all I entreat is that you consider—'

The footman announced Mrs and Miss Farren. The men jumped up to take their leave and Derby didn't stop them.

He tried to rouse himself enough to make chit-chat with Eliza and her mother; they discussed the new comedy she was starring in, opposite Mrs Jordan (quite harmoniously, to her surprise), and his daughter Charlotte's protracted courting by a cousin in Westmoreland. (If the wedding went ahead, Miss Farren was to be bridesmaid; the girl had made the suggestion herself.) He thought he was doing rather well when Eliza broke a brief silence to ask, 'Did we interrupt a quarrel? Fox and Sheridan were scowling on their way out.'

Derby sighed. Her bright eyes waited.

'My dear,' murmured her mother, 'perhaps you shouldn't interfere with the gentlemen's business.'

'Alas, Mrs Farren,' he said, 'politics has become everyone's business.' As briefly as he could he explained what the matter was.

'Your injury's changed you,' observed Eliza.

'Oh, it's only a bruise,' he said, feeling foolish as he scratched his cheek.

'I meant the blow to your pride.'

Derby wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. 'To be caught up in that frenzied attack on the King's carriage,' he said unsteadily, 'was one of the most ghastly experiences of my life.'

'Oh, I believe you,' said the actress. 'That's my point. It seems to have done what all the French horrors never managed: scared you out of your love of liberty.'

Sometimes,
he thought,
this woman could do with a good smack.

'Eliza,' said Mrs Farren, getting to her feet, 'His Lordship must be tired...' Her daughter ignored her.

'What I love,' he said hoarsely, leaning his elbows on his knees, 'I don't cease to love. No matter what.'

She nodded gravely.

'I'm Fox's man and I'll fight these damned Gagging Acts, but I don't know. I don't know what'll become of us all.'

She was still nodding as she rose to her feet. 'You'll do what's right. Good night, My Lord.'

'Good night, ladies.'

A
NNE AND
M
ARY
were walking in the orchard at Strawberry Hill, the last fallen leaves like splashes of bright paint on the brown layers beneath. 'These are such uncertain times, what can one trust but one's own heart?' asked Anne. 'Yes, there are obstacles, but such a deserving love will sweep them all aside.'

'Oh, my dear, you've been such a help to me and to the General—Charles—as well,' said Mary. 'Letting us correspond discreedy via your house, and kéeping my spirits up and soothing all my worries about the future...'

'Well,' said Anne, tasting the bile of sacrifice, 'O'Hara's very dear to me.' She felt like a traitor, though God knew she had no treacherous intentions. She'd stamped down the secret, greedy part of herself and to punish it—and as a silent sacrifice to Mary—she was watching over this engagement like a stern guardian angel.

'When those I love, love each other, I feel wrapped in a sort of blissful cocoon,' Mary assured her.

Anne suddenly thought of their first real conversation, in this garden more than five years ago. How tough-minded, how austere the young Mary had seemed. Now she was a tremulous fiancée. Still herself—but declining inevitably towards ordinary womanhood.

'I still don't know how I'll bear to go to Gibraltar when the time comes,' said Mary, shiny-eyed. 'Quite apart from my family—you've been my constant companion for so long, Anne, it'll be very strange and hard to bear.'

'Many authors call correspondence the meat of friendship,' said Anne, looking hard at a wizened apple on a branch. 'We've done it before.'

'But that was only for a year. We knew we'd see each other again,' said Mary miserably.

'Gibraltar's not Timbuktu,' Anne said crisply.

A
WEEK
later she learned that the protection of the fleet had been arranged, and General O'Hara was to sail for his new post at once.

Oh, my dearest M.,
has the parting lacerated your heart ? Don't despair; it won't be too long before your reunion. I'm sure O'H. is not really angry, only disappointed that you won't go with him directly. But he can hardly expect you to take the most serious step of your life with so little notice. I know he was moved that you managed to
come to town (on the excuse of meeting me) to let him press you to him one last time. After you'd left Grosvenor Square he spoke of you with a soldier's tenderest passion. Console yourself that this enforced separation will keenly impress upon O'H. how superior you are to every other woman in the World!

I do agree that you should endeavour to put your father's business affairs on a better footing before you go & also that Ag. requires your care at this difficult juncture. May I ask, do you think the gentleman in question sincere, or is he toying with her affections ? It seems strange to me that neither Ag. nor your father has formed the least suspicion of your engagement—but none are so blind as those who won't see. The same could be said for W., who behaves as if you've nothing better to do with your life than polish
iff
label his cabinet of curiosities! Remember what you owe yourself, Mary, after so many years—decades!—of taking care of others. Is it not time to be free?

I'm endeavouring to pack up my parents' possessions here at Park Place, with my best
esprit d'ordre.
I fear I spent too long on my knees arranging my father's papers, for this morning I found my leg (on which I'd omitted to put the poultice) so bad that I had difficulty getting downstairs. Today I am taking care to sit well wrapped up as I go through the accounts of the Lavender Distillery.

Such a dismal east wind, cutting through the evergreens & pressing against the windows! I won't regret P. P. much. There's something of eternal storm about it in the winter. But it was my dear father's pride. The trees, all planted & improved under his hands, will now perhaps be mangled or felled...

'Do try to eat some beef, Mother,' Anne said at dinner.

'I've no appetite,' said Lady Ailesbury, averting her head. 'How can I eat in such a melancholy situation, when my whole life is being packed into boxes?'

Anne thought of a sharp answer, but swallowed it.

Mary's letter came from Twickenham the next day.

I wake every morning after three or four hours of broken slumber, to the melancholy knowledge of an uncertain & painful absence from O'H. Perhaps I could be ready to go to him in the spring, or join him at his next home leave?

I think I've done right to delay, for the sake of the peace and happiness of my near ones, notfor my own. I hope he'll hereafter love me better for knowing me capable of such sacrifice. But in the meantime I am here & he (who's already suffered so much for our country, so bravely) is far away on a dangerous sea. I begged him in case of illness or attack by the French to send me some token that he thought of me to the last.

When I had to rush away from my last meeting with O'H., I knew that you could explain my feelings better than I could. He calls you the Dear Stick, because you're so tall & such a prop—& he wishes there were some way to repay all you've done for us.

A long engagement at least will give us time to test our affection & to plan our future life. I enclose an estimate of our household expenses, as if we were to set up in London, though I hope Gibraltar will be considerably cheaper. Will you cast your eye over it?

I've tried to be modest but not shabby. I must confess I have no idea whether O'H. (aided by the meagre amount my father will be able to offer) can afford this.

O'H. fears that W. will look unfavourably on the match for O'H.'s lack of birth & wealth; do you agree? I thought of asking you to break the awful news to W. for me, but O'H. says that would be childish, I must do it (but with you to lean on, Dear Stick!).

If only we were not to be parted by this marriage—you
&
I. I believe I can steel myself to bear anything but that.

Reading the letter for the third time, Anne wondered if she was imagining a sort of message between the lines.
He wishes there were some way to repay you.
For years, now, the war had kept her confined to England; Doctor Fordyce had said only the other day that she'd never be quite well in this damp climate. What about Gibraltar?
If only we were not to be parted by this marriage—you and I.
As Governor, O'Hara would be given a handsome residence; surely there'd be plenty of room for three? It wouldn't be the first time that a married couple had invited a female friend to stay with them, perhaps to make a permanent home with them.
Not to be parted.
There were the Devonshires. Such an arrangement happened in some novels, like Rousseau's
Julie.
The thing was unusual, but not impossible, surely?

For a moment, Anne imagined a paragraph in the newspapers. She was too familiar with that leering language.

We have received intelligence that a certain Sculptress has taken flight to Southern shores. Her most intimate friend, lately Miss B., now wife to the G———r of G———r, has flung wide her Doors...

Anne shoved the thought away. Some time this year she'd come to the conclusion that she'd drive herself mad if she let herself worry about how others saw her.

***

A
NNE PROCEEDED
very cautiously. She still had no idea whether O'Hara had ever heard the rumours about herself and Mary. Perhaps he'd laughed them off, or discounted them out of loyalty; she knew how much he liked her and he'd believe nothing bad of his beloved Mary. She reread his letters to her.