The Slightest Provocation

Chapter Twenty-one

A good thing, Kit thought, that Wat had gotten a few additional words back this morning-enough vocabulary to inform Susanna that he’d had quite enough b-b-b… well, he couldn’t quite manage bloody, though Kit applauded him for trying. But he’d had enough gruel, and wanted an egg.

“Why not?” Susanna had replied. “Yes, why not indeed, love? An egg soft-boiled, Stephen, as quickly as you can. Tell Cook the marquess wants an egg soft-boiled.” Turning her head to speak to the footman, so quickly, almost girlishly, that Kit wasn’t sure whether he’d seen or only imagined a gleam of moisture sliding down her cheek from the corner of her eye.

Nice to have someone who’d stand by you during the difficult times.

In any case, he was grateful to find his brother and sister-in-law so distracted by the matter of breakfast-and by the weather, for although the rain had thinned to a fine mist, the freshened air was rather chilly, leading Susanna to wonder aloud if Wat ought to be kept inside this morning, and Wat to scowl in response.

There was still a bit of a wind blowing, though with nothing of the fierceness of last night: leaves and branches were strewn about the lawn out the window; the rhododendrons were nearly denuded of their blossoms. Kit watched the gardener cleaning them up, boots and wheelbarrow sinking into the sparkling, very wet and bright green grass.

The gardener disappeared behind the hedge. Kit’s eyes remained fixed upon the pristine vista the man had left behind him. He would have liked to lose his thoughts in that wide, blank green expanse. But Lord Sidmouth’s letter lay before him on the table, and would continue to lie there, until Kit decided what to do, or at least what to make of it.

He had to believe that it was good luck, the London mail coach coming so promptly through last night’s storm. Always best to receive a vexing communication as soon as possible; capable Major Stansell never procrastinated in the face of the inevitable. Urgencies existed to be managed, surprises and reversals a part of the life of the world.

Not that he’d necessarily expected the Home Secretary to agree to Kit’s suggestion that they try to arrest the London delegate, in the interest of squelching whatever dissension was brewing among the people.

But he’d expected rather more of an answer than a curt demand that I should wish that no Persons should be arrested at present… With no explanation whatsoever, followed by a request that you continue to procure all the Information in your Power, & that you will transmit it to me at this Office without Delay, under a Cover marked “Private.”

In response to which, one could only whisper b-b-bloody hell, and then turn one’s eyes back downward to the letter, perusing it yet again, in an attempt to extract the redeeming scrap of meaning that one had surely missed during the first nineteen readings.

“You were saying, Kit…” Susanna turned to him.

“No, nothing at all…”

“Ah and here’s the egg-just see, Wat, how nicely they’ve set it into one of those pretty silver eggcups, and snipped off the top exactly as you like them to… Yes, thank you, Stephen, a perfectly boiled egg. Yes, very good indeed, and all our thanks to Cook for her promptness…” Smiling at Kit, inviting him to share her joy at Wat’s evident pleasure in eating something he’d asked for by himself. And then turning her attention quickly to her husband and his breakfast.

Violence was certain if no one moved to arrest the London troublemakers. Couldn’t Sidmouth see that the situation would only build and worsen?

Kit needed to discuss it with someone.

Colonel Halsey? But after so many years of drilling, the militia commander would be thrilled by the prospect of real engagement. Which would hardly make him a dispassionate confidant. And not Sir Charles Benedict either. For Benedict enjoyed being told what to do, the less thought demanded of him the better, the sad fact of the matter being that Benedict wasn’t terribly bright.

At least when compared to… the only person he did trust to parse the logic of events and help him put his thoughts in order.

Which made it rather too bad, didn’t it, that he’d made such a hash of his chances of speaking to her about it? Or about anything at all.

Still, there was no point continuing to stare at the remains of his breakfast.

Nor was he improving matters by pacing around the room with the crumpled letter in his hand.

“I’m going to ride out to Grefford,” he called to his brother and sister-in-law, from the doorway where he seemed to have found himself. Good to get some air. He’d go down to the church, have a look at those records he’d been wanting to see. Cool his head. Maybe-who knew?-an idea would come to him about what to do next.

“And do take him outside, Susanna; the air will do him good,” he added, winking at the crooked but indisputable smile of appreciation the marquess summoned up in response.

The parish records told him pretty much what he thought they would. Lots of the names were familiar to him; he’d read them enough times in Traynor’s reports. Which confused his feelings even more thoroughly. Still, it was good to know. No illusions anyway.

A nice-looking round-faced girl was curtsying to him from the porch of the post office. Absently, he nodded in response and urged his horse along the street.

No. Wait. He wheeled the horse around.

“Peggy,” he called. “Peggy, I need to speak to you.”

He’d wait. The worst she could do was not show up.

“He didn’t say where to meet him, your ladyship. Like you’d know, I expect. And I didn’t like to ask.” The maid’s announcement coolly and demurely put.

“Yes, thank you, Peggy. Thank you, ah, very much indeed.” The mistress’s response rather less so.

“Oh, and Lady Christopher?” The girl had pursed her lips at the thought of the gentry and their inexplicable outlandish tastes. “His lordship said to be sure to bring your spectacles.”

An unbearably long luncheon, the young people unusually talkative. Fred had a thousand ideas about last night’s pyrotechnic experiments; Elizabeth was nearly as voluble about a new pair of earrings in moonstone and aquamarine. Each of them seemed to have an interminable list of things needing Mary’s or Jessica’s assistance in preparation for the assembly tonight. (And why, she wondered, was Fannie gazing at her so thoughtfully, her fine wide brow so deeply furrowed above those keen hazel eyes?)

When she finally did get out, the day had turned chilly, the sun, still fairly high in the sky, sporadically obscured by clouds that were still blowing in. Her cloak billowed about her in the brisk, wet wind.

The forest was quiet, muffled by wind and water. A few birds were calling, but one mostly heard dripping and rustling, the branches and undergrowth being too wet to crackle under someone’s feet as he approached.

For it seemed that she wasn’t late after all. They’d reached the stream at nearly the same time. She’d arrived a bit sooner; he was approaching briskly, appearing and disappearing behind tree trunks, his head bobbing up from behind wet tangles of blackberry, his hand carelessly batting branches and vines out of his way as he came.

Be careful what you wish for.

Had she wished for this?

He looked angry. Absurdly, his hat was in his hand rather than on his head, where it might have done him some good. His thick black hair was mussed, tightened into curls, and quite soaked in the misty air. She remembered-across how many years?-how he’d mimicked Jemima the gossipy nursery maid. Angel face on ’im below the mop of hair… mother’s dark secret…

And she remembered not only what she’d said to him, but what she’d been thinking, which was a good deal worse: Bitch. Cow. I hope you die, Jemima. For making Kit like you.

I’m not quite that bad now, she thought. She’d made some progress from the wild little pagan she’d been at fourteen. Thank heaven for small favors anyway.

Why was his face contorted by such anxiety? Had he also heard last night’s fireworks? Had he thought they might betoken violence? Was he-rather as she deserved-blaming her from keeping important and dangerous information from him?

Lovely. First she’d confess to Kit that she hadn’t reported the dangerous things Nick Merton had said. Then follow it up by telling him that he was still encumbered with her, there no longer being a lover waiting to take her off his hands.

Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t seem to speak now that he was here.

Which might have been just as well, because he’d begun speaking as soon as he’d broken through to the clearing where she stood.

“I must tell you something.” His voice was hoarse; his breath came sporadically. “And you must listen very carefully.”

Well, at least no one had been hurt last night. “Yes, of course I’ll listen,” she whispered. “And I’m so sorry,” she added.

But why was he staring? Was it really so inconceivable, she wondered, that she might apologize for something?

Her eyes were so limpid, he thought, her half-opened mouth so eager to help, the whole of her expression and posture so troubled and uncharacteristically sympathetic. But how could she possibly know about the letter he’d received?

No, she must be thinking of something else. Well, whatever it was, it could wait-and anyway, it was too wet and windy to speak seriously out here.

“I’ll tell you in the cottage,” he said.

“Of course.”

He led her by the hand, only vaguely aware that she was nearly running to keep up with his steps.

“Bloody hell.”

She gasped and he whistled at the damage last night’s storm had wrought. Of course, no roof lasts forever; but it’s still a shock to see one caved in, especially when you’ve taken such pleasure beneath it. There was no roof at all above the bed-which was soaked through and strewn with leaves and thatch. One wouldn’t want to use it for anything, perhaps ever again.

Ah yes, and they’d used up the firewood when last they’d met.

“It’ll be a brisk discussion,” she said. He didn’t laugh.

One of the chairs was reasonably dry. She mopped at it with the moist quilt, wrapped herself in her cloak, and sat down.

He remained standing. “I’ve had a letter.”

She looked relieved, and he wasn’t sure why. No matter: he hadn’t the energy to spare. Just let her be willing to help.

“First I’ll read it aloud,” he said, “and then you can look it over for yourself.” She nodded, her eyes very wide from inside her hood.

“Tell me what I’m not understanding in this message from Lord Sidmouth,” he said. “Help me see what I’m missing.”

Please, Mary, he almost added, before clearing his throat and beginning to read.

After he’d finished-and after she’d read it again for herself-they discussed it quietly.

Briskly, yes, and briefly too. For she couldn’t discern much more than he could. She could construe a complicated text, but there was little anyone could do with such a terse one.

“It’s almost as though the Home Office wishes there to be violence…” she began.

His eyes narrowed; she turned her face away.

They were silent. There were things one couldn’t speak of.

His neck and jaw were stiffening-in an effort, she thought, to think of an explanation other than the one his eyes had warned her not to give voice to.

“Perhaps he wants someone else to make the arrests,” he said, “for some important reason of his own.”

“Well,” she said, “he has a week in which to do it. The longer he waits, the more dangerous the situation will become. The people have pinned their hopes upon the London Committees.”

Kit raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m as concerned as you are about possible violence. I don’t want it breaking out in Grefford or in London either. I’m frightened for the people-well, I’m simply frightened.”

Odd, how difficult it was to admit that.

“I overheard a young man talking about it,” she said. “He’s been working in our house-temporarily, for the midsummer party. Nick Merton, the shoemaker’s grandson… yes, I should have told you about it before, I suppose, but one doesn’t like…”

“… To spy,” he said.

Was it a good or a bad thing that they could still finish each other’s sentences?

She shrugged before continuing. “I only heard a few words, but I caught his enthusiasm, and his strong belief that when he gets to London there will be someone there to tell him what to do next.”

He awarded her a curt nod.

“But if, as Richard says, the London Committees are truly moribund and powerless,” she continued, “if perhaps they have only sent one very energetic delegate down here-well, why would they promise the people so much more than they are capable of providing?”

He raised his hand to cut her off. “Yes, you like to ride this hobbyhorse.”

“And I shall continue to do so,” she replied, “until you explain to me why you won’t ask Richard Morrice for advice. Richard used to belong to the London Hampden Club, for mercy’s sake.”

“And why would I give away secret information, to a man who used to belong to a London Hampden Club?”

“Why would he be willing to tell you what he knows?” But she replied to her own question. “He’ll tell you what he’s willing to tell you, just as you’ll say what you’re willing to divulge. In the interest of the commonweal-because both of you are decent, fair- minded gentlemen, who don’t want to spill innocent blood.”

She sighed. “Forget about mercy, Kit. You should do it for the sake of duty. And… and honor.”

He turned his head away, as though he were addressing someone on the other side of the broken window.

“And so you think I should speak to the man who…”

She took up his words only when the silence had lasted long enough to make it evident that he wouldn’t be saying anything further. “The man who did something unspeakable, and who was punished for it, or perhaps you don’t know that his wounded arm and hand have never worked correctly since then. And yes, I do understand that you were also wounded, Kit, in… other ways-and I’m dreadfully sorry for it, and always have been. But Richard’s heartily sorry as well,” she concluded, “and you must believe me that he’s never stopped loving you either.”

“Honor, you said.” His voice was hoarse and very low. “In such a matter as this. When he cuckolded me. He has the advantage of me. He took my wife to bed. He’s probably still laughing at me.”

It must be very difficult to be a man, she thought.

“Yes, well,” she said, “that was clearly expressed, if badly reasoned. But I can’t say anything more about it. If you want to understand the situation among the radicals in London-if you want to understand more perhaps than the Home Office intends you to understand-you know whom to ask. And he’s only about fifty miles north of here, in Wakefield.”

She shrugged her shoulders, as though none of it was of much importance. “But you will have to be setting off soon enough for the assembly tonight. Your sister-in-law will be wondering where you are.”

“Cauthorn.” He grimaced. “Where Colonel Halsey will be wanting to discuss militia practice.”

She was surprised at how amusing she found this. “It’s a dance party, for Lord’s sake, not a postprandial hour with the gentlemen over port. Avoid the colonel. Dance with the ladies-dance with our young ladies from Beechwood Knolls; they’re quite wild to dance with you. Are you still as good a dancer as you once were?”

They hadn’t actually danced together a great many times, for they’d always seemed to gravitate to wilder diversions. Which seemed to her a very great shame now, there being something so pretty about the relatively innocent entertainment of country dancing. Moving down the line with your posture so straight and your shoulders well back (wonderful how visible you’d be, and how well you’d look doing the steps, as long as you had a good memory for what had gone before and a quick instinct for what would come next, and she did, she always had. Would she still?). Bowing, smiling, touching hands, and then (your smile deepening and your eyes warming), ending up with your original partner at the close of the figure.

Unfortunately, the pretty image called to mind what she’d originally planned to tell him this morning-that in order to divorce her, he’d have to wait until such time as she took another lover.

He was businesslike enough about it anyway. “You must do what you need to,” he told her. “I shan’t advise you.”

“No, I expect not. We must make our own decisions about these things.”

After which things became more formal as well as ambiguous. The air in the cottage felt fraught and unsettled, even if less dank, due to the large holes in the roof.

She straightened her cloak while he wandered about, idly inspecting the damage.

Perhaps, she thought, she needn’t have been so quick to urge him to dance with Fannie and Elizabeth.

But in truth it didn’t matter whom he danced with. In truth, she thought, what mattered was that she’d liked him today, in a new, different, and rather amazing way. He could still seem a bit stiffnecked and priggish about the government (whereas she, at least, was willing to countenance some more daring, even frightening, suppositions about the current situation). But she found she didn’t mind any of that-would gladly accept it, in fact, as an element of his stubborn refusal to take things for granted, his unwillingness to employ force unless force had reason and justice behind it. It was a quality, she thought, that one would want in a person one trusted to govern and to defend.

Which was a surprising thing to discover about someone you knew so well. Or thought you knew… most ungoverned personage. Oh, dear.

“You should go,” she said. “The young marchioness will be wondering where you are.” She put out her hand. “And I wish you luck in discharging your responsibilities. The district is lucky to have you.”

His eyes widened (rather, she thought, as though he feared he was leading troops into an ambush). After which he laughed and took her hand, shook it, and then seemed to forget to let it go.

“I shouldn’t have to give Morrice a very great deal of information,” he told her, “in order to find out a few things. One learned, at Vienna, what one might say, in such an encounter…”

She nodded.

“Well, I may make the journey to Wakefield,” he said finally. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” she said, “I’m very glad.”

He dropped his hand. “Well. As you say. Susanna will be wondering where I am.”

“Yes.”

He remained standing where he was.

“Mary, if I go to Wakefield… I mean, I’m not saying I shall; I’ve got to think about it. But if I do go to talk to Morrice…”

“Yes, Kit.”

“Mary, will you go there with me?”