Derby spoke with deceptive lightness. 'You've turned quite the royalist these days, haven't you, with your symbolical giant'—one finger flicked up at the armature—'and your fresh-minted Tory sentiments.'
Eliza winced. 'Derby,' she murmured, 'perhaps—'
Anne had drawn herself up. 'I've been a firm Whig as long as you, My Lord—longer, in fact—and I'm devoted to Charles Fox.'
'Oh, really? I hear Nollekens is sculpting a marble bust of our dear leader these days, while you're raising a monument to Old Satan!'
The door opened and they all jumped. It was only the maid with the tray of wine and cake. Derby knocked back half a glass of Madeira without a word and announced he was due at the Lords for a committee meeting.
Alone, the two women avoided each other's eyes. 'You were harsh with him,' said Eliza, putting down her cake, 'particularly when you threw in his face that he's never been to war.'
'Perhaps. But then he called me a Tory.'
'Don't take it personally. Under normal circumstances—'
'Circumstances haven't been normal for some years now,' said Anne bleakly.
'Yes, but at this very moment,' Eliza explained, 'the Party looks set to break up like an ice floe.'
Anne's head shot up. 'You really think Portland's anti-French faction would split away?'
'Not if, but when. If Fox ums and ers much longer, he'll lose the respect of both sides,' Eliza told her. 'Derby says it's time for him to show his true colours and lead all those, in Parliament and outside it, whore resisting Pitt.'
'Resisting Pitt,' Anne echoed mournfully. 'That's what we've talked of since '84, but I don't know what it means any more. Perhaps there are more important aims, like resisting anarchy?'
'Oh, my dear, don't be ridiculous,' Eliza snapped. 'Our poor aren't half as oppressed and starving as the French were; I know it, I was one of them myself! And even our radicals—take a man I know personally, Holcroft the playwright—they're high-minded, idealistic men with no taste for violence. The English hate to go to extremes; they'll never revolt.'
Anne's eyes were huge. 'I pray you're right.'
D
ECEMBER 1792
Derby stood in his hall. He had to decide whether to give orders for his trunks to be packed for Knowsley. His mind jumped around like a hare fleeing from the guns.
Tom Paine had been tried and found guilty of sedition
in
absentia
. Things were shaky in the City; the 3 per cent consols had fallen to ninety and a half. Pitt's spies were everywhere and there was a sinister new Loyalist organisation with hundreds of branches in London alone, whose main purpose was to watch their neighbours and servants for signs of
mutinousness
and send all reports to the Home Office. After months of being accused of weakness and procrastination by the hard-line Tories, the Prime Minister had struck hard. He'd just announced, via the King's Speech, that the country was at risk of riot and insurrection by Englishmen working in league with foreigners—but he hadn't given any hard proof. Pitt had called out the militia in ten counties to preserve order and summoned Parliament early, two things which were only legal in times of invasion or civil war. As Lord-Lieutenant of Lancashire, Derby should really have been at Knowsley already, ordering drills for his militia regiments. But the last thing he wanted to do was leave the capital.
A loud knock at the door startled him. On impulse he opened it himself; it was surprisingly heavy.
'Derby!' Fox's swarthy face goggled at him through the sleety rain. 'Don't tell me your servants have run away?'
'I just happened to be in the hall,' he explained with a little laugh and waved away the footman who was standing behind him, aghast at the sight of the Earl opening his own door. 'Come into my study, you must be freezing.'
Fox knocked back a glass of brandy in one. 'Pitt means to truss the country up in a straitjacket,' he began, like some breathless messenger out of Shakespeare. 'Troops are marching into London to guard the Tower and the Bank. There's going to be a bill to increase the army and navy, and another to round up and eject
undesirable aliens
,' he said witheringly.
'And Portland?'
'Oh, our putative leader appears to have lost his mind,' Fox reported. 'He dithers and nibbles his nails, and polishes his spectacles, and says perhaps we should maintain national unity by supporting the government's emergency measures at this time of crisis. I said to him, I said, "Portland, this
crisis
is Pitts invention and there's no bill the evil Eunuch could propose that I wouldn't feel honour bound to oppose!'"
Derby grinned and patted his friend's knee. 'Have you prepared your speech for the opening of Parliament?'
'Mm, it's very simple; I'm going to ask where this hypothetical
insurrection
is happening. It's a wicked falsehood, a libel on the British people,' growled Fox, 'and a French noose is too good for the man who invented it. Let it be on Pitt's conscience, if his crying wolf comes true and he brings on civil war!'
'Calm down, man.' Derby refilled their brandy glasses. Fox was the Members' Garrick, their eloquent conscience, he thought, and the speech would inspire them to tears and rapturous applause—before they gave their votes to Pitt.
'But it's a nonsensical charade; the kingdom's not in danger! No, I'm going to propose that we should formally acknowledge the French Republic instead of getting dragged by Continental tyrants into hounding it, and ease what tensions do exist in Britain and Ireland by bringing down the price of bread and coal.' Fox's voice dropped. 'What kills me, Derby, is the suspicion that Pitt's staging this whole tempest-in-a-teacup in order to split the Whig Party. And they call
me
irresponsible!'
All right, let's tally the names,' said Derby briskly, as if rousing an invalid. 'With Portland will go Fitzwilliam, Windham, Loughborough—' he was counting on his fingers—'Malmesbury, Porchester, Eliott, Sheffield...' He could think of dozens more.
The black bear's face cracked. 'These men are my friends. Or were.'
'We've seen this coming,' Derby said gently. 'It's not just France. Many of your most cherished views—on Catholics, Unitarians, blacks, free speech—are too strong for most of the Party. Your passion for liberty, which makes some of us love you, scares others off, especially now Pitt's spreading panic with his talk of bayonets and bombs.'
Fox had buried his cheeks in his hands. 'I wish Liz were here.
She doesn't like to be in London when I'm busy, but I miss her sorely.'
Derby was counting up devoted Foxites in his head. Sheridan, Grey, Whitbread, Francis, Lauderdale, Erskine, Fitzpatrick ... maybe Devonshire ... The young Duke of Bedford was made of sterling stuff. Last week he'd been invited to Portland's mansion on Piccadilly for what turned out to be a meeting of the cabal; on learning that Fox wasn't there, he'd picked up his hat and left. These loyal men had influence over a puny total of about sixty votes, perhaps, but they could also drum up protests among fellow Reformers outside Parliament.
Derby found he'd decided what instructions to send to Knowsley: the Lancashire militia would have to train without their leader. His place was by his friend's side.
VII. Écorché
From, the French, meaning
flayed
or
peeled.
A sculpture representing a human or
animal figure in which the skin has
been stripped off to reveal the
muscles, tendons, arteries
and veins.
S
INCE
February last, when the regicide French declared war on Britain, Spain and Holland, the letters of our Correspondents have taken on a not unsurprisingly military tone. We have received numerous communications from Loyalist Associations about the seditious symptoms displayed by their neighbours, such as the using of a Froggish word like
Enchanté,
or for that matter,
Beau Monde.
Some write seeking information on the Duke of R-ch—d's plan for Homeland Security, others to enquire how a Coalition of eight nations can be taking so long to subdue the ragtag Citizen Army of France, or how many Englishmen have been arrested under the Traitorous Correspondence Act for the crime of buying Burgundy wine. That the various new laws have not proved wholly successful in keeping down Discontent was evinced by the late riot at Bristol, where troops sent in to quell the crowd killed ten of them; whether this should be considered an example of the People attacking the Authorities, or vice versa, we leave to the discernment of our readers.
It is a curious fact that social relations of all kind have taken on a martial tenor. The Proprietor and Manager of the homeless troupe formerly resident on D^-y L—e are said to be at Battle Royal. And that same Sh—d-n is not the only gentleman who's obliged to change his lodgings from month to month to avoid a swarm of Creditors. Because of the war, the rate of Bankruptcies is now full twice as high as last year and a certain Foxy Politician who plays deep may soon be among the unfortunates. The outbreak of war has caused a Schism in his W—g Party, which is now two,
viz.
the Duke of P—t—d's followers, who have washed their hands of all Re-form, but cannot bring themselves to go over to their old Enemy P—t, and Mr F-x's stalwarts, who break out daily in more outrageous levelling and Jacobinical language.
Whether the war can be blamed for the startling increase in the number of Bills of Divorce is a moot point.
—B
EAU
M
ONDE
I
NQUIRER,
October 1793
SHE WAS TAKING HER DAILY RIDE IN HYDE PARK WHEN
William Fawkener came up. 'Good day, Mrs Damer. That's a handsome mount.'
'Oh, I only hire him, I'm afraid,' said Anne, trying to think of some excuse to prevent him from riding beside her. Her mind was still full of something that Mary had told her the other evening: that there was a comedy of Mrs Cowley's on at Covent Garden called
The Town Before You,
which featured an eccentric ageing sculptress who in the last act threw away her chisels and vowed to make the hero a good wife. As satire it sounded mild enough—it didn't touch on her dreadful subject, at least—but Anne was uneasy. Could the author possibly have been inspired by gossip about the regular appearances of a certain handsome diplomat in Mrs Damer's workshop?
'Exercise becomes you,' said Fawkener.
It was a trite compliment—didn't pink cheeks suit every woman?—but she threw him a sharp glance. 'Any news, sir?'
'Yes, there always is these days, I'm afraid. Marie Antoinette is on trial.' ,
Anne's horse slowed to a walk. Fawkener reined in to keep pace with her. Now there was another woman who'd been accused of the most unnatural behaviour with her own sex—and probably without any foundation but envy. It was said the widowed Queen was grey-haired and crippled already. Anne tried to picture her in a damp cell with stains on the floor. 'Why can't they just let her leave the country?'
He shrugged, his face suave as ever. 'They've kept her from her lawyers and accused her of every possible crime against the Republic and against morality. They even plan to claim she took indecent liberties with young Louis!'
Anne covered her face with her gloved hand. 'They must hate women. Her own son? He's eight years old!'
Her horse stopped; Fawkener was holding two sets of reins bunched in his fist and offering her his handkerchief with the other hand. 'My dear Mrs Damer, I do beg your pardon. I'm afraid wartime presents so many horrors that I take refuge in flippancy.'
'I knew Marie Antoinette, you see,' she said, drying her eyes on the handkerchief. 'At Versailles, in the '60s.'
'Ah. How very thoughtless of me.'
That'll remind him how old I am,
Anne thought vindictively, rubbing her eyes. She glanced around. It might be all over town by dinner:
Mrs Damer and Mr Fawkener riding together in Hyde Park, yes, and he made her cry—that's a sure sign!
'Thank you,' she said, almost grabbing her reins from him, and she rode on.
When he caught up, she felt obliged to clear her throat and make conversation. 'I suppose they might banish her.'
'Except that they're not banishing anyone,' said Fawkener. 'There's only one verdict these days and seven thousand prisoners awaiting it.'
'Seven thousand? That's mass murder. The whole French race has gone mad!'
'And they've banned Christianity, did you hear? Notre-Dame's become a Temple of Reason. They say Paris is silent these days, as if the plague's abroad; the loudest sound is the
chop, chop, chop
of the Guillotine.' Fawkener spoke as if telling a terrible fairy tale.
Anne blinked furiously, so she wouldn't have to use the borrowed handkerchief tucked into her cuff.
I
N
B
OND
S
TREET
, Eliza was staring into a window at a small clockwork device in shining brass. The blade was drawn up and then fell, over and over, a little more slowly every time. A shopman picked it up to wind the toy and gave Eliza a civil nod through the glass—then beamed and bowed properly.
'He recognises you,' said Mrs Farren with satisfaction.
Eliza reread the neatly printed sign in front of the machine:
To satisfy curiosity, an ingenious and perfect Model of Dr Guillotine's swift and humane Invention, £2.
She thought for a moment she might be sick. Was there nothing the World couldn't turn into a game?
But then, look at her: was she any better? In these strange times, foreign news was as involving—but ultimately unreal—as a play. Like everyone else, she read of horrors, then turned the page to learn whether the Prince of Wales had been seen in the latest mad fashion, pantaloons; while prisoners slipped in each other's blood in Paris, Eliza searched for the most elegant headband in London.
She'd adopted a policy of refusing to discuss France with Anne, since it always made them quarrel—but she could hear it, like a high-pitched hum, behind their and every other conversation these days. What she would have liked to say, if it wouldn't have plunged them into deep water, was that the daily litany of atrocities appalled her as much as anyone, but it couldn't change her mind. She had to trust that this Terror would end, and the French would remember who they were and what their Revolution was for. In the meantime she was still for liberty and against this damnable war.
The real reason Eliza was shopping today was boredom. Kemble had finally lost his temper and resigned as manager, so the company-in-exile had given up their lease of the King's Theatre. What could they do until the new colossus rising on Drury Lane was ready to house them? Drowning in debt, Sheridan had discharged more than forty second- and third-rate players to save on salaries—including Jack Palmer, who'd taken offence and sailed to America in hopes of founding a company there. Eliza missed her colleagues, and her work, more than she could have imagined. Is this what it would feel like, she wondered, to be a
former actress?
The Derby carriage was waiting at the corner and the driver jumped down to lower the steps. Eliza sometimes suspected Derby of riding his horse around town so that the carriage would be available for the Farrens all day. Well, never mind, it was good for his health; she'd been alarmed by his recent attack of gout.
On their way home, on impulse, she dropped into Mrs Darner's to see how the
King
was coming along. When Eliza and her mother came in, Anne looked down from her vast scaffold, her features lit up with a smile. She was looking unusually respectable today; she'd swapped her stained smock for a draped jacket pinned loosely on her bosom and a white apron, and tied up her hair with a Grecian-looking bandeau. Her guests were so numerous these days that it appeared she'd founded a sort of salon despite herself. 'Lady Ailesbury, Lady Mary, Field Marshal Conway, how nice to see you all,' said Eliza, making her curtsies. Anne's mother was knotting, just as Eliza's mother did but in finer silk, and her father was reading a newspaper. Eliza was always amused at how little interest the visitors took in the techniques of Anne's work. They liked the idea of watching art in the making, but they were incurious. It was the same with theatregoers, she supposed; they wanted to be dazzled by a performance, rather than learn about the dogged preparations that lay behind it.
Eliza accepted a glass of wine and Mrs Farren was persuaded to her usual half-glass of ratafia. (To Eliza's relief, her mother appeared to have got over her silent grudge against Mrs Damer, since the actress's reputation was clearly no longer in any danger from the connection.) 'Mr Fawkener,' murmured Eliza, nodding to the Clerk of the Privy Council. He was here so often, he really must be courting the sculptor, despite her denials. Eliza found the prospect of her friend making such a late second marriage rather incongruous.
'How His Majesty grows,' Fawkener remarked, walking round the gigantic scaffold. The face and upper robes of the slim young man were emerging from the creamy marble and Eliza recognised the faint pointing marks with which the sculptor was transferring the proportions from the plaster model.
The monkey-faced dandy Dick Cosway was bent over his sketch pad. (Eliza had let him paint her several times, before realising that he made all his fluffy-haired ladies look exactly the same; according to Derby, the fellow made his real money from obscene snuffboxes.) 'Mr Cosway, how's your delightful wife, and may I peek?'
'I'd be honoured, Miss Farren.'
So far he'd only done Anne's face, she saw; he'd shortened the nose and shrunk the cloud of curls in line with fashion. 'Mrs Damer,' he called now, 'I wonder could I trouble you—just to catch the pose—'
'Oh, yes, Mr Cosway, where do you want me?' Anne looked down, wiping some stone dust off her face.
'Hm, I usually like to have a lady leaning on something, but you can hardly put your elbow on our sovereign,' he said, raising a little laugh from the group. 'Chisel in one hand, I suppose, and hammer dangling from the other.'
'But this is a rasp; I'm smoothing the cheek.'
Her right arm must be hurting again if she's not chiselling today,
thought Eliza.
Cosway nodded eagerly. 'The thing is, the public understands hammers and chisels to be the insignia of your trade.'
Anne exchanged a tiny, impatient smile with Eliza. 'Sam,' she called to the footman standing against the wall, 'if you'd be so good as to hand me up the big hammer and a flat.'
If you'd be so good,
that amused Eliza. She'd noticed that people of liberal sympathies sometimes spoke more politely to their black servants than their white ones—though they didn't pay them more.
'My dear girl, it just strikes me, you've forgotten the crown,' said the Field Marshal, blinking in dismay.
'The crown and the sceptre can't be of marble,' she explained, 'cut that thin it would snap. I've found a Monsieur Vulliamy to forge them for me.'
'His workmanship is exquisite,' her mother commented, 'and it's good to give the pathetic émigrés some work when one can.'
Her husband snorted. 'We stumble over too many of them in Soho. Could be Jacobin spies for all we know.'
'Oh, Father,' protested Anne, holding her pose.
'Nonsense, Conway,' Lady Ailesbury told her husband, 'spies would look better fed.'
'My mother and I were just at Ackermann's Repository of Arts,' Eliza put in.
'Yes, we bought some card racks and a fire screen,' ventured Mrs Farren.
'Made up on the spot by several
vicomtesses
,' Eliza added. She didn't actually know the rank of the haggard red-eyed Frenchwomen she'd seen there, but she thought that would hit home. 'And Lord Derby has sent a former
abbesse
and a widowed
marquise
up to Knowsley to educate his wards.'
'Splendid,' said Lady Ailesbury, yawning behind her fan.
'Many think the French should all be deported, even the ones who arrived before the Revolution,' remarked William Fawkener.
Eliza stared at him.
He likes to stir things up.
'Oh, but how would we do without them?' protested Lady Mary, stirring. 'Think of the loss of lady's maids, milliners, hairdressers and pastry chefs. The Beau Monde would fall into chaos!'
The talk turned to some family friend called General O'Hara, who seemed to have been involved in the British claiming of Toulon in the name of the Dauphin. 'Or young Louis XVII, we should say,' Conway put in heavily.
Eliza said nothing. The execution of the last Louis had been indefensible—he should have been merely exiled—but she found it hard to weep for one bloodletting among so many tens of thousands. 'Is it true that the Duke of York has had to give up the siege of Dunkirk?' she asked, just to keep the conversational shuttlecock in the air.