Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

The girl had drawn herself away from Mary and was smoothing out the papers. “Here, my lady, lucky nothing you been writing got too wrinkled. But what’s odd is that there was just a few sounds here, and fireworks, you know, they go on forever-it’s the fun of ’em. Could such a thing be, ma’am?”

Of course it could. In clear fact, it was nothing else.

She’d been too abstracted to attend to Fred’s dinner-table chatter, but she could recall now that he’d wondered whether it would be worth doing fireworks on a night like this one. For they’d had so few clear nights lately… What if Midsummer Night were cloudy and overcast? “Well, then we’ll simply have to go without,” Elizabeth had answered, and the other young people had agreed with her. But Fred, always the optimist, had thought it might be worth a try, just to see what would happen…

For all Mary had been attending, he and Lord Ayres might well have agreed to try it tonight. It might be only she, among the household, who’d been taken by surprise.

Which was apt, she supposed, since it was only she, among the family and their guests, who knew about the danger of insurrection.

And only she who’d overheard Nick Merton. And who was, in truth, more concerned about the dangers Kit had warned her about than she’d liked to admit to herself until now.

“Lady Christopher?” Peggy’s timid voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. “Lady Christopher, are you quite all right?”

“I beg your pardon, Peggy. I’m fine. And yes, you’re absolutely correct. It’s fireworks. Mr. Fred Grandin and Lord Ayres performing a late-night experiment. I… I completely forgot about their project. You don’t suppose I woke the household, with my silly screaming?”

Peggy peeked outside the door to the hallway where the family had their bedchambers. No one seemed to have been disturbed, and Peggy hastened to assure her mistress that she hadn’t screamed so awfully loudly-more like a squeak, you know, or perhaps a yelp, as though she’d had a bad dream.

“Would you like a glass of water, my lady, or me to go down to the kitchen and make you some tea? Or, um, something else, to help you sleep?”

“Water, thanks. Don’t bother with the tea. And no…” She laughed, rather dryly at first and then with a bit of pleasure. “Just water; I won’t be dosing myself tonight. Because listen, Peggy, the wind’s blowing in the trees, and I think those are raindrops.”

The girl laughed too as she poured water into a glass. She handed it to Mary, straightened the coverlet and-at Mary’s nod-took away the writing desk, implements, and papers, putting them neatly in their places.

“Yes, well. The russet cloak is in the press-please take it. And take this letter, to post tomorrow, and those coins to pay for it. But perhaps you needn’t begin turning up the hem tonight.” Mary waved her hand at the windowpane, where fat raindrops were beginning to make their quick paths down the surface of the glass. “Perhaps you’ll be able to get a good sleep now, and even to have some happy dreams.

“Yes, leave the window open-I shall want air, even if it makes a bit of a puddle. Yes, thank you, I think I shall also sleep well.”

And with a clearer conscience, at least about Matthew. Even if happy dreams might be a bit too much to ask for.

Agood 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.