The Matter of the Secret Bride

“. . . the throne totters, and the country which has hitherto supported it is not steady.”

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

As Adam spoke, Rosalind became aware of a rumbling in the distance. The carriage slowed and stopped. Rain pounded on the roof, but it was not loud enough to cover over how the rumble was getting closer.

Rosalind felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

She lifted the window curtain and peered through the blurry pane to try to see where they were. She recognized none of the buildings and could hear no church bells.

But that distant rumbling grew louder.

Adam let the window glass down. “What do you see?” he shouted up at the coachman.

“Torches,” Nicholson called back to them. “Coming this way. I’ll try to turn us!”

Adam swore again. Now Rosalind realized that rising swell of sound was a mix of men’s voices and booted feet pounding the cobblestones.

A mob. Fear closed her throat.

All the haut ton excoriated “the London mob.” It was referred to the same way as a wild beast might be—mad, inexplicable, and likely to leap out of the shadows at any moment. No one spared much thought as to why the people of London (or Manchester or Lancaster or Yorkshire) might become so angry that they would spill into the streets to break windows or accost passersby. In the drawing rooms there was no talk of the right to vote, the right to be governed by men of moral quality, the right to a living wage so that families would not starve. All that was said was that persons who rose up in protest of their lot must be tracked down, arrested, hanged.

Rosalind barely had time to think all this before the mob was upon them.

“God save the queen!” bellowed a dozen voices.

Flickering light engulfed them. The carriage rocked. Rosalind bit her tongue and grabbed at the squabs. Overhead, Nicholson shouted—at the horses to calm them, at the boys to order them up onto the box, at the horses again. His whip cracked. Curses rose, and the carriage rocked again.

“Take your hat off!” bawled somebody. “Take your hat off and give us, ‘God save the queen!’”

“Or we’ll give you what for!” bellowed someone else.

“Who’s in there!” shouted yet another. Fists hammered against the carriage door. “Show your faces!”

Adam stared at Rosalind, and Rosalind stared back. The voices rose; the carriage rocked; the coachman’s whip cracked. The horses whickered, the noise high and tinged with panic.

“Get the horses! Hold ’em here! You in there! Come out where we can see ye!” The doors rattled on their hinges. Fists hammered on the window glass. “Come out and show loyalty to the queen!”

An idea, desperate and possibly foolish, flashed through Rosalind’s mind. She mouthed silently to Adam, Queen’s business.

Adam, of course, understood. He tossed his hat aside, shoved back the curtain, and let down the glass.

A wave of heat rolled into the carriage, along with the acrid stench of burning wood and turpentine. Raindrops sizzled where they met the torch fire, making it flicker crazily across a shifting sea of men’s faces. The torchlight gave them all masks of orange and black as they pressed forward, shouting and jeering. One of them had leapt onto the boards and looked ready to climb in through the window.

“Good evening,” said Adam calmly. “What’s the to-do, good man?”

If Rosalind thought Adam suddenly sounded more like Sanderson Faulks than his usual self, she remained silent.

The face that leered back at them was ruddy and unshaven. Broken teeth reflected the torchlight, and dirt-stained hands gripped the carriage door.

“Well, well, look at you! Got us a pretty couple of toffs here, lads!” he hollered over his shoulder. “Now, you listen to us!” The man shook his fist in Adam’s face. “We’re the people’s committee! We won’t ’ave no whores in the palace, robbing the country blind! We won’t ’ave no drunken, layabout king what takes our taxes and buys diamonds for ’is women and can’t follow the law nor treat our queen as ’e should!”

“God save the queen!” roared the mob. “God save the queen!” The carriage rocked hard, pushed by a dozen hands.

It would be easy enough to say the words, but would they be enough? What else might these men demand from Adam?

From her?

Rosalind tried not to think of the carriage tipping over, of the men pulling Adam out, pulling her out, the bite of cobblestones against elbows and knees, the shouts and the hands pinching and bruising. Blood on their hands, blood on Adam’s face, blood on her . . .

“If you’re the queen’s man, you’ll let this lady pass,” Adam was saying. Rosalind focused on his voice and willed herself to calm. “She’s on the queen’s business.”

“A likely story!” the man growled. One of the horses whickered again, and the carriage lurched. “’Old ’im, Jeffries!”

With an act of will, Rosalind drew on all the deportment she had so carefully practiced across the years. She held her head and shoulders straight. She made sure that her expression was bland, distant, and entirely disinterested.

“It is no story, good sir,” she said coldly, as if she could not even think of being afraid. “I am possessed of urgent news and cannot keep Her Majesty waiting.”

The man looked her right in the eye. When the carriage was stopped, Rosalind assumed that the men were the worse for drink, but he gave no sign of that. Even in the uncertain torchlight, she could see his eyes were clear and shrewd. Rosalind did not let herself blink as his gaze traveled over her. She did not allow her expression to shift.

I have a right to proceed. I will proceed. Birth and bearing are my passport. The world will step aside.

Outside the crowd rumbled and hands rocked the carriage hard. “Come down! Come out! Hats off for the queen!”

“You hear her,” said Adam. “We are asking that you let the lady through, in the queen’s name.”

The man’s jaw worked back and forth.

Rosalind’s heart contracted. It won’t be enough. It won’t . . .

He turned back to the mob. “It’s all right, lads! She’s on the queen’s business! Let ’er through. Let ’er through!”

The fear bubbling inside Rosalind said this could not possibly work, and yet it did. The men surrounding them backed away; the shouts grew jubilant.

“God save the queen! God save the queen!” The torches waved. The man on the step jumped down. Nicholson wasted no time. He cracked his whip, and the horses bolted forward. The carriage lurched, and Rosalind slammed back against the seat so hard, her head banged and she bounced. The cheers grew fainter as they rattled pell-mell over the cobbles.

Adam righted her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“That was well thought and well played,” he told her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes.” She squeezed his hand where it held her shoulder. “I’ve seen far worse than those men.”

“Have you?” Adam’s tone was dubious.

“You’ve never seen Lady Jersey on one of her crusades,” said Rosalind, relieved that her voice was light and steady. Rosalind smiled, even though Adam probably could not see it in the darkness. But she also shivered, which was ridiculous and also made a lie out of her attempt at levity.

Adam said nothing. He just wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. Rosalind leaned against him. She felt a dozen things at once. She was embarrassed at how much she needed his reassuring touch, and aware there was no need to be ashamed. She was still stunned that her ruse had worked. She was grateful for the skills and daily drilling that gave her a mask to wear when she needed it.

But she was also grateful beyond words to have Adam with her now, so she could put the mask aside to simply be tired, be worried, and be held for a quiet space by the one she loved.

The carriage turned a corner, and Rosalind peered out from the curtains. They had arrived at Orchard Street. The rain had eased, becoming nothing more than a fitful drizzle. Adam helped Rosalind down and told Nicholson he need not wait. Arm in arm, Rosalind and Adam walked to the door. Through the drawn curtains, Rosalind could see that a light burned in the front parlor.

“Alice is still awake,” she remarked.

Alice still officially lived with Rosalind, although she generally spent her nights with Amelia. They shared a small flat above the shop front that Amelia was busily turning into Miss McGowan’s School for the Improvement of Working Women. Despite this, Alice spent most of her days writing in Rosalind’s back parlor, just as she always had. The arrangement provided a fig leaf of propriety that allowed Rosalind to receive male visitors without eyebrows being raised among her more genteel acquaintance. It also allowed Alice and Amelia to continue their relationship while lessening the chances of starting rumors about its true nature.

“Did you expect anything less?” asked Adam. “Alice would never leave while you were off answering Mrs. Fitzherbert’s express invitation.”

Rosalind chuckled softly. “Perhaps I hoped this once.”

Adam smiled. “I need to go rouse the men to guard Mrs. Fitzherbert’s door, and yours, by the by. Should I come back afterward?” he inquired lightly.

A bolt of warmth shot through her, along with a very cold river of regret.

“I would like that,” she said. “But I expect things are about to become very busy, and I expect it to start quite early.” She frowned. “But will you be all right walking . . . ?”

She did not need to finish. “I’ll be fine,” said Adam. “It would be good to get a sense of how things stand in the streets, and I might even overhear something useful. I bid you good night, my dear.” Adam raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I will be back tomorrow.” He kissed her mouth then, long, warm, and lingering.

At last, they were able to let each other go. Rosalind hesitated on the doorstep, watching Adam walk down their (thankfully) quiet street until he rounded the corner and was gone.