The Duchess of Gordon did not have a town house but when in London lived at the famous Pulteney Hotel, and it was here she was to give her reception. The Beautiful Duchess, as she was known, had been a Monteith and was almost as much admired for her wit as for her good looks, but by 1811 she was in her early sixties which perhaps explained why the Duke lived separately in New Norfolk Street.
All the same she was impeccably and inextricably linked with the higher reaches of the British aristocracy and everyone who was anyone would be there – which, Ross said, meant the place would be insufferably crowded and unthinkably hot. Besides, although he kept some clothes permanently at his old lodgings in George Street, he had no smart new elegant suit available and appropriate for such an occasion. George Canning said it was all the more correct that, recently returned from active service in Portugal, he should wear something sober and restrained – perhaps even battle-stained! That way he would be distinguishable from the fashionable gentlemen of Westminster and the court. He was himself, he said, making no effort to dress in the latest fashion. Women – ah, women, that was different. If his beloved wife were here …
It was Friday, the first of February. The bitter cold had quite relented and some of the mud and slush had dried off the cobbles. Straw had been laid across Piccadilly outside the hotel, and a carpet and an awning put out. Lanterns flickered on decorated poles, and menservants in white wigs and scarlet coats kept back the people pressing in to see. There was already a big crowd when the two men arrived. In the street there was the strange mixed smell of cold unwashed humanity, horses, horse dung, damp straw and smoking lamps; one passed into the foyer already warm with candles and heavily scented with perfumes; servants took cloaks, women touched hair hastily in the long gilt mirrors, one by one joined in the procession crocodiling towards the salon where the Duke and Duchess waited for them to be announced.
Splendid blue Scottish eyes but rather cold met Ross’s momentarily as he unbent from her glove; the tiara and the necklaces glittered, these latter on skin now best covered; a fixed gracious smile dimpled the still rounded cheeks; his name was murmured and he was past, a drink offered him which he accepted before he realized it was sweet white wine. ‘Come,’ said Canning, ‘I know this place, it will be cooler and less noisy in the music room.’
An hour passed in idle talk. Canning excused himself and then rejoined him. Three men had spoken to Ross about his report and congratulated him on it. No one, it seemed, knew anything of his visit to the Prince – which was as well since the meeting had accomplished nothing.
When he returned Canning said: ‘There’s few enough of the Opposition here. Indeed there’s a rumour they’ve at last been given leave to form the new Administration and are at work on it tonight. An unfortunate thing for the Duchess’s soirée, and I’ve no doubt it will be an unfortunate thing for the country at large.’
Ross was only half attending for he had spotted a familiar figure in the doorway whom he had no desire to see either here or elsewhere: Sir George Warleggan. He was with an elegant woman of about forty Ross had never seen before. He inquired of the other and altogether more admirable George now standing beside him.
Canning said: ‘That’s Lady Grenville. Agreeable creature – much less needlessly austere than her husband. But this is what I mean: they are here without their men; Lady Grey is in scarlet by the piano; Mrs Whitbread is with Plumer Ward; Lady Northumberland is on your extreme right.’
Ross was peering to his extreme right but not at the woman Canning indicated. There was a tall fair girl in white with braided hair. The frock was low cut across the bust, had gathered sleeves to just above the elbow, and a silk bow under the bust with long flowing ends. She had grey eyes, and a fringe fell lightly on her forehead. She was talking to, or, more properly, being talked to, by a burly young man in a silver coat of irreproachable quality and cut. The young man Ross had seen before somewhere. The young woman, by the strangest chance, bore a strong resemblance to his elder daughter. He stared and blinked and looked away and then stared again. His eyes went across the rest of the group and he saw two people he really did know.
‘By the Lord God!’ he exclaimed, swallowed, and smiled at Canning’s surprise. ‘Forgive me, George! There are old friends here whom I must greet.’
He slid among the talking chattering groups, avoided a waiter with a tray of wine, excused himself when Sir Unwin Trevaunance tried to stop him, and came presently up against the fair girl in white.
‘Miss Poldark,’ he said.
She turned, half smiling at something the young man had said, then her face after a moment’s hesitated surprise became suddenly radiant.
‘Papa!’
He took her by both elbows but with tact resisted the desire to crush her in his arms. Instead, he held her quite firmly at a three-inch distance and kissed her first on one cheek, then on the other and then rather selectively on the mouth.
‘Papa, Papa! We didn’t know you were home! When did you come? Why didn’t you tell us! Are you well? You look well! But how are you? Does Mama know? How lovely! I never expected this…’
‘And could I expect this?’ he said. ‘You, here, in London. Is your mother here? How did it come about? Dwight! Caroline!’
So the greetings went, questions half asked, answers half listened to. In all this the young man in the silver coat seemed about to withdraw, when Caroline said:
‘Ross, have you met Lord Edward Fitzmaurice?’
They bowed to each other. Ross said: ‘I know your brother, sir. Henry Lansdowne.’
‘Yes, sir. And I think we’ve met in the House.’
‘You spoke last year on Catholic Emancipation.’
The young man had a craggy face.
‘Among other things! My brother tells me I am on my feet altogether too much. I believe now he has inherited he is not altogether sorry to be out of the hurly-burly.’
‘Is he here tonight?’
‘No. He was to have come but is involved in some political discussions which I believe are going on.’
‘Indeed,’ Ross said drily.
‘And you, sir,’ said Lord Edward. ‘I have just had the great pleasure of meeting your daughter.’
‘So have I,’ said Ross.
‘Ah yes, but not quite for the first time!’
They talked for a few moments more, liking each other, and then Caroline took Ross’s arm and led him gently away, telling him of things in Cornwall, asking him of things in Portugal. They were returning to Cornwall next Thursday, she said, perhaps they could all go together? But Clowance, Ross said, to find her here, and at such a gathering. Clowance, who liked nothing better than to be barefoot and ride her big horse and to act the tomboy! Had Demelza agreed? Had Clowance wanted? Was it her, Caroline’s, suggestion? And what, for God’s sake, was Dwight doing here in February?
‘Peace,’ said Caroline, and Dwight smiled and shook his head. ‘Peace,’ said Caroline, ‘when we are home Demelza will explain how it came about; there is nothing to worry about, everyone is well, and if you will now come home with us and tend to your broad acres—’
‘Narrow acres,’ said Ross.
‘And see to your family and your mine and leave these sporting expeditions to other men, we shall all be happier.’
‘Fitzmaurice,’ said Ross, looking round.
‘Yes, Fitzmaurice,’ said Caroline, ‘who clearly has taken a fancy to your charming daughter. It will do no harm.’
‘But Clowance,’ Ross said and frowned. ‘Isn’t it Petty-Fitzmaurice?’
‘Well, it’s an old family, and no doubt they can choose for themselves. His brother was simply known as Henry Petty until he succeeded last year. Lord Edward is twentyseven. And not bad-looking and clean-living like his brother and of good repute. What more could you ask?’
‘For what?’ Ross asked, startled.
‘For a friend for your daughter. Is it so surprising? Let the attraction run.’
‘So long as it runs in the right direction.’
‘Ross, are you being parental? Not surprising – we shall all be in due course! But Clowance is, I believe, far too clear-headed to be influenced in any way by the claims of eminence or title.’
At that moment the clear-headed Clowance was discussing foxes.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Fitzmaurice, laughing. ‘How is it possible?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Perhaps I live closer to the ground than you.’
‘At the moment, Miss Poldark, you look far too astral to be anywhere near the ground! And please, I beg of you, do not call me sir.’
‘What may I call you then – sir?’
‘Lansdowne is my brother’s new name, and he says he can scarcely get used to it yet. But I was born Fitzmaurice and am likely to die the same, since luckily my brother is married and already has issue. The names my parents gave me at holy baptism were Edward John Charles, and if I dare not ask you to call me by any of these, since it would presume an intimacy on my part towards you, I trust our acquaintance may soon become of sufficient depth to permit it.’
Clowance opened her eyes wider at this Westminster eloquence.
‘Mine is Clowance,’ she said. ‘I believe I have only the one name.’
‘Clarence,’ said Fitzmaurice. ‘Is that not a surname?’
‘No, Clowance. C-L-O-W…’ She smiled. ‘There is one old … very old man who lives near us in Cornwall who insists on calling me Clarence, but I assure you it is not.’ Into her mind as she spoke, making her smile broader than it would have been, came the thought of Jud Paynter – almost immobile now – sitting like a partly squashed beetle outside his dirty cottage in Sawle, chewing tobacco and spitting and refusing to accept the fact that he had not heard her baptized as Clarence. The contrast with this brilliant, elegant society was almost too much for her.
Fitzmaurice said: ‘Well, this old man, Miss Poldark, will make no such mistake in future! Even so, if I may venture to say so, it’s an unusual name to me. Is it common in your county?’
‘No. There are no others I know of.’
‘Has it a meaning? I mean in your Cornish language.’
‘Yes, I believe so. I believe my mother told me it meant “Echo in the Valley”.’
‘Echo in the Valley,’ said Lord Edward, looking at her. ‘That is indeed an appropriate name.’
‘Dear Ross,’ Caroline said, ‘on these occasions you do not so much took like a fish out of water as a cat in water. What may I do to entertain you?’
Ross dabbed his face and laughed. ‘Explain to me why my dearest woman friend should have such different tastes from my own.’
‘Oh … that’s difficult, isn’t it. But let us say that of course I know we see here a selection of men and women who are vain, self-seeking, arrogant, over-dressed, avaricious and shallow. But they are little different in this respect from other people, except that they have more possessions, and perhaps possessions are a corrupting influence.’
‘Stop there, stop there!’ said Ross; ‘for the first time in my life I’ve heard you utter a radical statement!’
‘Of course I’ll not stop there! My lecture’s not half done. It’s true you may also come across a greater simplicity, even a greater generosity among some of the poor. But among most of the poor and the base you will also find a greater brutishness, an ignorance, a lower level of understanding of so very much that is important in life. Many are poor because they have had no chance to be anything else, but most are poor because they are of a lower order of intellect, feeling, taste, comprehension. It’s an inescapable fact!’
Ross smiled at her. ‘I think you’ve been sharpening your arguments on Dwight.’
‘And blunting them on you, my dear. I know.’
‘Tell me,’Ross said, ‘Demelza suggested Clowance should come with you? Is that it?’
‘Let her explain herself; you’ll be seeing her soon, I trust. And stop looking over my shoulder. Clowance is perfectly safe with that distinguished young man. He’s unmarried, I believe. Who are you to say no if he wishes to make her a titled lady?’
‘There’s small risk of that. I am more concerned that she will be…’ He stopped.
‘Unsettled by moving in such high company? D’you wish her, then, to keep only the company of miners who are shaved once a week and can’t sign their own names?’
‘Sometimes, Caroline, I could strike you.’
‘I know. I would rather like it. But seriously…’ She too paused.
‘Can you be serious?’
‘Seldom with you. But girls – all girls – need a broadening of experience which is so often denied them. Clowance deserves it. If she doesn’t have a good and steady head on her shoulders she wouldn’t be Demelza’s daughter, or yours.’
Another man who was just then looking over someone’s shoulder at Clowance was Sir George Warleggan. He had caught sight of Ross, safe back, one unhappily presumed, from his damned Portuguese adventure. Now he saw the daughter.
‘My dear Lady Banks, this is the night of decision. I have it from Lady Grenville that her husband, the Baron, in company with Earl Grey and others close to them, are in process of making history! The new government will be announced tomorrow.’
‘Well, the delays have been interminable already,’ said Lady Banks, patting her crimped hair. ‘Sir William has been fumin’ and frettin’ to get home to his estate. I don’t care what you say, things are never the same without the master there – but he is being chained here, virtually chained, by a quite excessive sense of duty! And we’re missin’ all the best weather for huntin’!’
George, who knew that Sir William was remaining in London hoping for a sinecure, and had seen him being uncharacteristically polite to Samuel Whitbread only yesterday, inclined his head.
‘Like me,’ he said, ‘your estates are far from London and this compounds the aggravation. One cannot go home in a couple of days and then return. What is your normal travelling time to Yorkshire?’
As he spoke Clowance happened to turn and their eyes met. Clowance smiled at him. George looked away; then he changed his mind and looked back and nodded in acknowledgment. He assessed whom she was with, recognized his importance, his youth, his interest in her; his mind flickered with sudden sick jealousy over all the possibilities. So Ross, for all his hypercritical disclaimers of position and property for himself, was not above dragging his eldest brat up from Cornwall, dressing her in a revealing frock so that her wares should not go unnoticed, and introducing her to one of the most eligible bachelors in Great Britain. If Demelza’s daughter by any chance should marry into such a family there would be no containing the arrogance of the Poldarks now or for ever after. All the same, George thought spitefully, Edward Fitzmaurice was not born yesterday. Far more likely if, in spite of his high reputation, he should try to sample the goods without buying. In that case, good luck to him.
‘My dear Lady Banks,’ he said, hastily shutting out from his mind a thought of the goods Fitzmaurice would be sampling, ‘modern methods of making up the turnpike roads are ever advancing. These two Scotsmen – what are they called? – have laid roads like no one before; perhaps in a few years our journeys will not be so tedious.’
Something tapped him familiarly on the shoulder. It was a fan – a woman’s fan. Over the years of his success George had developed a high sense of dignity, of decorum, and he turned in some displeasure, though careful to show nothing in his expression lest the person who tapped should be of an eminence to excuse her licence.
‘Sir George, isn’t it? I thought I couldn’t mistake my benefactor…’
A tall young woman with hair so black that in the winking candlelight it had a bluish sheen. It was not in George’s nature to flush easily – but he felt colour come to his neck as he bent over her glove.
‘Lady Harriet! What a pleasure! What a delight! And what a surprise! I had thought you in Cornwall!’
‘Where I wish I still could be. Or Devon, preferably, where the hunting is better. But business to do with my late husband’s estate – or lack of estate – has called me here.’
George stammered and then remembered his manners, introduced the stout middle-aged Lady Banks. While polite conversation was made his eyes moved over the company to see if her brother was there – a relief that he was not at least immediately apparent – then back to Harriet Carter. Two months had passed since they had met; he took in what he saw greedily but assessingly. This was the young woman about whom he had already made the provisional moves and approaches to take her to his bed. Already he had plunged half his fortune in speculative but wise ventures in the north so that he should be in a stronger position financially to gain her. To gain her. To possess her. To have her lying naked beside him, the sister of a duke. It was extraordinary! His eyes went over her. She would be heavier in the leg than Elizabeth, rather thick of ankle, he suspected, though it was hard to be sure. Sturdier than Elizabeth, stronger of breast and thigh; good shoulders, visible tonight, splendid shoulders, not broad but strong, alluringly rounded and shadowed; delicious.
He took a grip of himself, became himself again, smiling at her, talking respectfully; where had this strange sexual urge come from? It was not like him: he should be measured, careful; was it again that tempting damned Poldark girl who had set him off?
Could it be also – did he not detect – that Lady Harriet’s attitude towards him tonight was more forthcoming – or at least less reserved – than it had been in Cornwall? This was the first time they had met, of course, since he had made her the gift of her horse, since the exchange of the letters. It was not only by this act, but also by his looks earlier, that he had made his intentions plain to her. So she had had time – plenty of time – to think, to reflect on the prospect of what he appeared to be offering her, and the prospect, it seemed, was not altogether unpleasant. The thought of an alliance with the grandson of a blacksmith could not, if that tap on the shoulder meant anything, be altogether repugnant to her. Nor could he, George Warleggan, personally be totally without appeal. The thought warmed him. But what of the Duke?
‘Is your brother, the Duke, with you tonight, Lady Harriet?’
‘He was to have come but there is much to-ing and froing behind the scenes and he is caught up in it. Not that it is quite in his nature to be the political animal my father was, but he seems to have become a little entangled. So I came with my sister-in-law. This party is grossly short of men.’ Another woman spoke to her then and conversation became general. Harriet was wearing a full-skirted frock of turquoise silk, very much off the shoulders, and the necklace and ear-rings she wore to match were quite clearly an heirloom. That was one of the most curious characteristics of the aristocracy, George reflected. They were ‘poor’ or ‘bankrupt’ or had ‘fallen on hard times’, but there was always something coming to hand from an aunt or an entailment or a precatory trust. George had never been poor, for his father had begun to accumulate money soon after he was born, but he knew of a different sort of poverty than that at present being endured by Lady Harriet. It made her no less attractive.
Suddenly the other woman had turned away with Lady Banks and Harriet was speaking to him again.
‘What? What was that?’ he said.
‘Sir George, you are being absent-minded with me. To a woman that is one of the unforgivable sins.’
‘I ask your pardon. But you were not absent from my thoughts. What was it you said?’
‘I said that I understood you called to see my brother last month.’
‘That is so, Lady Harriet.’
‘And my name was mentioned?’
‘Since I had had the great favour of meeting you last year in Cornwall I could not fail to bring to his notice such a pleasurable occurrence.’
‘Did you have other business with my brother?’
‘Business, ma’am? None at all.’
Her eyes left his for a few moments, seemed to wander round the room. But they were not concerned with what they saw.
‘Sir George, my father is dead. So is my husband. I am a widow of a sufficient age. I do not look on my brother as being in loco parentis.’
‘I am happy to know that.’
A faint cynical smile played around her mouth. ‘But that being said, Sir George, that is all.’
‘All?’
‘For the time being. Let us meet again in Cornwall.’ George licked his lips. ‘But that may be weeks. Pray let me attend you while you are in London.’
She thought for a moment. ‘That could be so.’
Clowance said: ‘No, I live on a farm – a small estate, if you care to give it so grand a name – with my father and my mother and my brother and sister. We derive our living – or most of it – from a tin mine called Wheal Grace – which was named after my grandmother. My father is also in banking and in shipbuilding, all of which should make us rich, except for the fact that my father is so often away that nothing is quite attended to in time and our way of life is quite comfortable but never opulent.’
‘Your father,’ said Lord Edward, ‘is, I suspect, that rare type of radical who practises what he preaches. I know that he and my brother see eye to eye on most of the home issues of the day. As it happens, birth has given me a certain amount of position at an early age, and my brother, of course, a great deal more. Well, position brings responsibilities and I do not think he intends to abdicate any of them. In so far as any fall to me as his younger brother, nor shall I. Miss Poldark…’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you come to tea tomorrow? I should like you to meet my aunt, Lady Isabel Fitzmaurice. My mother died when I was nine, so Aunt Isabel has for long taken her place. She entertains a few picked guests on Saturdays about six. I should be there, of course.’
‘You’re very kind, Lord Edward,’ Clowance said, ‘but I fear I cannot come. I have promised to go with Mrs Enys to the theatre. We are to see—’
‘Perhaps Sunday, then? That would be rather a different event, because of the day, but it could be arranged in very much the same manner.’
Clowance nervously fingered the shoulder of her frock. ‘Lord Edward, I have just met my father after three months, when he has been away and in some danger. He would think it strange if I absented myself in this way. You do appreciate, of course, that I am not accustomed to this social life in London…’
‘Of course,’ said Edward Fitzmaurice, a little stiffly. ‘I do understand that.’
Dr Dwight Enys had been in earnest conversation with a clear-eyed good-looking small man, and when the opportunity arose he beckoned to Ross and introduced him as Humphry Davy. A Cornishman and a Fellow of the Royal Society, discoverer of nitrous oxide and first isolator of the elements of potassium and sodium, he was the brightest light in the scientific world of the day. Dwight had begun a correspondence with him ten years ago, and they had met three or four times. Davy was a little dandified for Ross, the voice without a trace of West Country accent, and drawling. Then Davy excused himself and the two friends were temporarily alone. Ross and Dwight had no secrets from each other (or Dwight only one from Ross and that long buried in the dark December of 1799) and complete trust in the other’s discretion, so their talk was frank and open. After discussing Portugal, Ross told his friend of his visit to the Prince of Wales and Dwight explained the reason for his being in London.
‘He’s a man of great vigour for his age – great physical vigour. But the brain that controls that vigour is sadly deteriorated. It shows too in his near blindness. I believe his insanity to be in the line of his royal descent.’
‘How so?’
‘Probably some hereditary weakness – even perhaps going as far back as the Stuarts. It has emerged every so often through the generations: the pain in the limbs, the wild excitability, the delusions, the intense depressions. The symptoms are much the same, though of varying severity. Of course, not many of his forebears have lived as long as he has … In this one reads history as much as medicine.’
‘And you do not expect recovery?’
‘No…’
‘Well … there we are … But it is a sad day for England now this fat fop is to become Regent.’
‘With such a life of self-indulgence, he seems unlikely to make old bones,’ said Dwight. ‘And then what?’
‘Queen Charlotte? They say she’s a warm, impulsive creature. A lot will depend on whom she marries.’
Someone was playing a piece on the Broadwood pianoforte, but only those closest to the instrument were attending. Caroline came swiftly across the room, her auburn hair lifting from her shoulders as she moved. With drink the company had become more animated, and she slid with great elegance among the glasses held aloft, the multi-coloured suits, the bare shoulders, the sweating footmen with balanced trays.
She said: ‘Can you hear it? Amid all this noise. Dear Alexander, though rather aged now, always insists someone shall play his great composition at every one of his wife’s soirées. What do they call it? “Cauld Kail in Aberdeen”. It’s said it’s still all the rage in Scotland.’
They tried to listen.
Caroline said: ‘So you see, Ross, Clowance and Lord Edward Fitzmaurice have now separated. You had nothing to fear; she is in no danger of being contaminated.’
‘Who is she talking to now?’
‘Ah, more aristocracy, I fear! That is Susan Manchester, one of the Duchess of Gordon’s daughters. But possibly with her there is less risk?’
‘A pretty woman,’ said Ross, refusing to be provoked.
‘All her daughters are, and she’s married ’em off spectacularly. Charlotte, the eldest, is Duchess of Richmond, Susan is Duchess of Manchester, Louisa is the Marchioness Cornwallis and Georgiana is Duchess of Bedford. Her only failure was Madelina who could find no one better than a baronet.’
‘And doesn’t she have a son for Clowance?’ Ross asked.
‘There is one knocking about, and unwed, but unfortunately I don’t see him here tonight.’
Ross broke off these sardonic pleasantries, his eyes catching sight of a movement by the door.
‘Sorry, Caroline … What I do see here tonight … quite suddenly…’ He stopped and frowned.
‘What is it?’
Ross nodded his head towards a stout man talking to the Duchess of Gordon. ‘Whitbread. Just arrived. And Northumberland with him … Does that mean the new Administration is formed?’
‘Where is your Mr Canning? He’s likely to know.’
‘I don’t think anyone knows – yet, except those two gentlemen.’
Clowance came to her father’s side and took his hand in hers. He smiled at her.
‘I shall come home with you on Thursday,’ he said.
‘I’m glad.’
‘And race you across the beach.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And I promise to stay at home for at least a week telling stories to Isabella-Rose.’
‘I would not mind one for myself.’
‘I thought you were too old for that.’
‘It depends on the story.’
He said: ‘Perhaps you’ve stories to tell me instead?’
She looked up at him. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Seeing you here was a great surprise. I wondered what had occasioned it.’
‘One day I’ll tell you.’
‘One day?’
‘Soon…’
‘How did you find Lord Edward?’
‘Very – agreeable. He asked me to tea.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said no. Was that correct, Papa?’
‘If that was what you wished, that was correct.’
‘Yes … I think that was what I wished.’
George Canning came quietly up behind them, and Ross introduced him to Clowance.
Canning drew Ross a little aside and said: ‘This is the end. Spencer Perceval is to be dismissed in the morning. There is nothing more we can do. You may resort to your beloved Cornwall; Perceval can no doubt return to his legal practice – where he was a much richer man than as leader of the government. Ah well … for my part, since I was not in office before, I shall miss very little – except that in harrying the new administration I shall do it with a greater sense of mission … I am in essence a political animal, Ross, as you are not. You will be happier out of it all.’
‘Not happier,’ said Ross, ‘with a solution that gives everything away.’
‘It’s an ill wind: our spinners and weavers will be less hungry. Perhaps somehow we shall learn to exist with the Corsican brigand. Poor Wellington!’
‘Poor Nelson,’ said Ross. ‘Not to mention John Moore and ten thousand others.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Canning bitterly. ‘Perhaps their death is their glory. It shouldn’t matter to them that they fought for a lost cause.’
They were standing in the wide double doorway of the music room and could see into the great salon. Some just perceptible change was coming over the company. A few minutes ago, such was the babel it was impossible to make oneself heard at anything below a subdued shout. Now it was different. There was news. News had been brought by Whitbread and Northumberland. People were still talking, but with less animation. Glances were being exchanged, the most important people were being watched – behind fans, over the tops of glasses. Whitbread was talking animatedly to two Whig friends, emphasizing something repeatedly with his hand. Was this news of government or of battle? Lady Grenville had been listening to Lord Northumberland. Abruptly she gave him her hand. He bowed. She swept across the room – not towards the music room but towards the entrance of the hotel. It seemed that she was leaving. The Speaker of the Commons, Mr Abbott, was accompanying her. Lord Holland hurried after them.
Loud conversation died away altogether. Murmuring took its place. Lord Fitzwilliam had gone across to Whitbread, who immediately turned to him and repeated his story. Whitbread’s face, pale when he entered the salon, was now flushed – and not, it seemed, altogether with the heat. The Duchess of Gordon, concerned lest her soirée should be still more put out of joint, turned to ask a question of the burly, blustering Lord Kensington, who had been laying heavy bets on the outcome at Brooks’s. Kensington laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
‘They’re out!’ he said in a loud voice. ‘By God, they’re out!’
His bellow seemed to relieve the tension; more people crowded round Whitbread to hear his tale. Whitbread angrily shook his head and made to leave. Whatever else he had come to this soirée for, it was not to satisfy the gossips.
Presently Robert Plumer Ward detached himself from the group around Northumberland and strolled towards Canning. Plumer Ward was an easy-going fellow, on friendly terms with everyone, a man who greatly enjoyed being in the know.
‘Well?’ said Canning testily, as he came up. ‘What did that mean? What is surprising about it? Perceval must know his fate by now.’
‘They’re out, George,’ drawled Plumer Ward. ‘They’re out. Can you believe it? After all this fuss. According to the story – and it comes direct so there can be little chance of mistake – according to Northumberland, he and Grey and Grenville and Whitbread and the rest were deep in conclave in Park Street when who should come to call on them but William Adam, with a message, he said. Lords Grey and Grenville, in that godly-minded way they have, sent out to Adam that they could not at present see him. Adam replied that the message he brought was from the Prince of Wales. Lords Grey and Grenville replied that they still could not be disturbed for it was for the Prince of Wales they laboured, forming the new Government which was to be the first government of his Regency. Adam thereupon sent in word that they should spare themselves all the trouble, for the Prince had decided that no new administration was to be formed and that he had decided to continue with his father’s ministers! What d’you think of that, eh? What d’you think of that?’
There was silence.
Ross said: ‘Does that mean…’
‘It must be false!’ whispered Canning. ‘It is a lie spread about to deceive us!’
‘For what purpose? Who would benefit?’
‘But the Prince has been an ardent and committed Whig for thirty years…’
Plumer Ward said: ‘The Prince is no fool, for all his excesses. He must have been having private thoughts these last few weeks. Who knows what he has been thinking? Is it perhaps – has he come to the conclusion that there is a vast difference between being virtually on the throne and being the discontented eldest son?’
‘I shall not believe it,’ said Canning, ‘unless – until…’
Plumer Ward said: ‘I’m told Grey and Grenville have now gone to seek an audience. But if Prinny has made up his mind it will not avail.’
‘That means…’ said Ross again; and got no further.
‘It means,’ said Canning, ‘it may mean that our cause is not altogether lost.’
Lady Harriet Carter said: ‘There is a white lion in the Tower, brought back by Sir Edward Pellew. I wonder if he feels at all out of place in a building which has housed half the about-to-be-beheaded lions of England. I suppose it is a symbol of progress that neither Lord Grenville nor Mr Perceval run any risk of languishing there while the other is First Lord of the Treasury…’
‘Yes,’ said George, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his hands.
‘Are you quite well? You have gone pale.’
‘Yes, I am quite well. It is very hot in here.’
‘If this story is true,’ Harriet said: ‘if what they say is true it will blight more than one high hope of office. Did you have any?’
‘What? What was that?’
‘Any hope of office? You’re a Whig more than anything, ain’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said George.
‘And did you?’
‘No. I expected no office.’
‘Then you have little to lose or gain. For my part I should not relish any occupation which would keep me in this rowdy metropolis when there are so many broad and unspoiled acres to enjoy in the shires. Cornwall depresses me; it is so harsh and grey and windswept; but my aunt makes great play of the fact that there are several fine days a year.’
‘Lady Harriet,’ said George, and swallowed.
She looked at him with her great dark eyes. ‘Don’t say it, Sir George … yet.’
‘What I have to say, Lady Harriet, is something quite different from what I had intended. Unexpectedly I find it will be necessary to leave London almost immediately. Indeed, I think, if you will excuse me, I will go now.’
‘Go? Where?’
‘Business matters.’
‘So important?’
‘Unfortunately for me there are other considerations besides politics involved in the Prince’s decision. I – I fear I must attend to them.’
They looked at each other for a long moment.
‘Then,’ she said coldly, ‘I must return to my sister-inlaw in the other room unescorted, must I not. Good night, Sir George.’
‘Good night, Lady Harriet. Perhaps…’
She smiled. He bent over her hand. His own hand was hot and unsteady, but it was not love of woman that shook him.
He turned and pushed his way unceremoniously towards the door.