A Spectacle of Corruption (28 page)

“I have not inquired into your opinion of what is proper and what is not,” Dogmill told my victim. “A young lady of your age cannot always know when a man is using her ill. You need not worry, Grace. We will deal with him.”

“It is very brave of you to face me with only six men at your side,” I said. “A less stalwart man would have a full dozen.”

“You may quip as you like, but it is I who have the power here, and you have nothing. You ought to thank me for intending to only give you one quarter of the beating you deserve.”

“Are you mad?” I asked him, for he had pushed me too far. I knew that the person I pretended to be, Mr. Evans, could respond in only one way. “You may take issue with me if you like, but do so like a gentleman. I will not be treated like a serving boy only because you took the precaution of bringing a small army with you. If you wish to say something to me, say it like a man of honor, and if you wish to take up arms with me, let us do so in Hyde Park, where I will gladly duel with you on the day of your choosing, if you be but man enough to meet me.”

“What is this, Dogmill?” one of his friends asked him. “You told me some blackguard was troubling your sister. It looks to me like this gentleman is here at her invitation and should be treated with more respect.”

“Be silent,” Dogmill hissed at his companion, but such arguments failed to hold sway. There were murmurs of agreement from the others.

“I resent this, Dogmill,” the friend said again. “I was running a swimming hand at ombre when you dragged me from the card table. It’s a scurvy thing to lie to a man and say things about sisters in trouble when there are no sisters in trouble at all.”

Dogmill spat in the man’s face. This was no trickle of moisture either, but a massive and agglutinated catch of sputum. It landed with an almost comical slap. The friend wiped it away with the sleeve of his coat, turned a rich shade of plum, but said nothing more.

Miss Dogmill held herself straight and folded her arms across her chest. “Stop spitting on your friends like a schoolboy and apologize to Mr. Evans,” she said sternly, “and perhaps he will forgive this outrage.”

I looked over at Mr. Dogmill and showed him my most winsome smile. I did it, of course, to mock him. I knew he found himself in a bind. Any man of grit would challenge me to a duel now, but I already knew he would not risk anything so scandalous until after the election.

Dogmill looked like a cat cornered by a salivating hound. He turned this way and that. He tried to think his way out of his trouble, but nothing came to mind.

“Get out. I’ll settle our account once the election is resolved.”

I grinned once more. “Well, I should be a rascal to be unsatisfied with an apology so kindly rendered,” I told the room, “so I shall accept Mr. Dogmill’s words in the good spirit he intended them. Now, perhaps you gentlemen would leave so that Miss Dogmill and I can be alone once more.”

Only she, I should observe, laughed at my quip. All of Dogmill’s friends appeared mortified, and Mr. Dogmill’s muscles tightened so that he nearly collapsed on the floor with a seizure.

“Or,” I proposed, “it might be best if I were to come back some other time, for the hour is rather late.” I bowed to the lady and told her I hoped I should see her again soon. With that, I walked to the door and the crowd of men parted before me.

I had to make my own way from the parlor to the front door, and in doing so I passed a pretty little serving girl with sprightly green eyes. “Are you Molly?” I asked her.

She nodded dumbly.

I pressed a pair of shillings into her hand. “The same will be yours the next time you are supposed to inform Mr. Dogmill of my presence but neglect to do so.”

I
looked this way and that but saw no hackneys, and I could hardly expect Dogmill to volunteer his man to run one down for me, but I turned to reenter the house and request just that service. As I turned, however, I found myself facing Dogmill, who had followed me outside.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking me a coward,” he said. “I should have fought with you on any terms to let you defend what you have the impudence to call your honor, but I cannot risk any action that might reflect badly on Mr. Hertcomb, with whom I am so nearly associated. When this election is complete, you may depend upon my calling for you. In the meantime, I suggest you keep your distance from my sister.”

“And if I choose not to, how will you punish me? With another threat of a duel six weeks hence?” I cannot easily express the pleasure I took in making his outrage even more exquisite.

He took a step closer to me, no doubt with the intent of intimidating me with his great size. “Do you think to test me, sir? I may be shy of a public duel, but I will not be shy of putting my foot to your arse right here.”

“I like your sister, sir, and I shall call upon her for as long as she wishes me to. I will not hear your objections, and I will tolerate no more rudeness from you.”

I think perhaps I overplayed my part, because I next found myself at the foot of the stairs, in the wet street muck, looking up at Dogmill, who nearly smiled at my embarrassing position. An aching jaw and the coppery taste of blood in my mouth told me where I had been struck, and I ran my tongue along my teeth to satisfy myself that nothing had been knocked loose.

Here, at least, was some good news, for all remained properly affixed. Nevertheless, I was startled by the speed rather than the force of Dogmill’s blow. I knew him to be a strong man, and I could not but believe he had chosen to reserve some of the power he unleashed against me. I had taken many such blows during my days as a pugilist, and I knew a man who could deliver a punch so quickly—so quickly I had not even seen it coming—could have deployed far more force than Dogmill had put into his attack. He toyed with me. Or he dared not risk killing me, perhaps. He thought me a wealthy trader, and he could not so easily escape the law should he murder me the way he did beggars and paupers.

It was Dogmill’s strength that presented the greatest challenge to me. Were he a weaker man, a man whom I believed I could best easily, I would have had no difficulty in walking away from a fight. I would tell myself it was the right decision and think no more of it. It was the knowledge that he could, most likely, defeat me that made my decision more difficult, for more than anything I wished to return the blow, to challenge him like a man of grit. I knew I would hate myself for turning coward. I would lie awake at night and think of how I should have or might have or wished I could have answered his challenge. But I could not do it. I told myself I could not do it. I dared not risk revealing myself to Dogmill.

I sat up and stared at him for a moment. “You have taken liberties,” I said at last, through a stiff jaw.

“Chastise me if you will,” he answered

I damned him in silence, for he knew I would not stand up to him like a man. “My time will come,” I said, attempting to drown my shame in thoughts of vengeance.

“Your time has come and gone,” he told me. He turned his back and returned to his house.

CHAPTER 19

G
RACE KNEW
who I was. I cannot say if this revelation was more a distress or a relief, for I had at least the comfort of no longer having to lie to her. But how had she known me, and what did she intend to do now that she had discovered my true name? Fortunately, it was she who saved me from the torment of wonder, for I received from her the next morning a note inquiring if I would like to join her on the canvass. I knew nothing of how these things were ordered, and my innate curiosity would have compelled even if other circumstances had not. I wrote back at once, indicating my eager agreement.

My jaw was tender from Dogmill’s blow, but miraculously it was not swollen or discolored, so I saw no reason to decline the invitation. At nearly eleven, a coach arrived covered in the blue-and-orange streamers of Mr. Hertcomb’s campaign. If I thought, however, that I should find myself alone in that coach with Miss Dogmill, I was sadly mistaken, for it was that worthy, Mr. Hertcomb himself, who arose from the coach and met me with something less than good cheer. According to the letter of the law, he ought to be on the hustings each day for the duration of the polling, but in Westminster, where the election lasted for so long, no one insisted that the candidates endure such a hardship, and many men were known to make only brief appearances daily.

Inside the coach I found Miss Dogmill, adorned in a lovely gown of orange and blue colors. I sat across from her and offered her a thin smile. The grin she returned me was hearty and amused. She was possessed of my secrets, and I would have done anything to hear what she had to say, but I would have to wait—and she loved making me do so.

The equipage had only just begun to rumble along when Hertcomb, straining under the weight of his confusion, turned to me. “I must say, sir, I am startled to see you wish to join us.”

“And why should that surprise you?” I asked, somewhat startled by his tone.

“You do remain a Tory, do you not?”

“I have had no conversion,” I said.

“And a supporter of Mr. Melbury?”

“So long as he stands for the Tories.”

“Then why should you wish to join us? You don’t mean to do any mischief, I hope.”

“None,” I promised him. “I join you because I wish you well, Mr. Hertcomb, and because Miss Dogmill asked me to join your outing. You, yourself, have said that party is not all to a man. Besides which, when a lady as amiable as Miss Dogmill makes a request, it takes a foolish man to decline.”

Hertcomb was in no way satisfied with this answer, but as none other was forthcoming, he made do with it as best he could. I did not like his new spirit of confrontation, and I could only imagine that he was caught between conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he wished more than anything for me to continue defying Dogmill. On the other, he wished I would leave Dogmill’s sister to his own ineffectual attempts. Our coach, meanwhile, had turned onto Cockspur Street, and I observed that we were headed in the direction of Covent Garden.

“How do you determine the location of the canvass?” I asked.

“That is a good question,” Hertcomb said, his tone lighter now that his curiosity had been aroused. “How
do
they do that?”

Miss Dogmill smiled like a lady’s painting instructor. “My brother, as you know, is managing Mr. Hertcomb’s election, so he coordinates with his underlings the names and addresses of the voters in Westminster.”

“But there must be near ten thousand of them. Surely, each voter does not receive a visit.”

“Surely, each voter does,” she said. “Ten thousand visits are not so many when the election campaign lasts six weeks and there are dozens of canvassers willing to encourage each to do his bit for his country. Westminster is not a country borough where these things can simply be directed by the landowners. We require action here.”

I had long heard of such things, of the great men and squires of the counties telling their tenants how to vote. Renters who defied orders were often forced off their land and pauperized. Once or twice the suggestion of secret voting had been raised in Parliament, but this notion had always been shot down immediately. What did it say of British liberty, the men of the Commons demanded, if a man were afraid to say publicly whom he supports?

“It is hard to believe that so many are willing to give up their time to the cause,” I said.

“And why should that be so hard to be believe?” Hertcomb asked me, perhaps a little insulted.

“I only mean that politics is a very particular thing—in which people seem interested largely in their own gain.”

“You are a cynic, sir. Can it not be that they are interested in the Whig cause?”

“And what is the Whig cause, if I may ask?”

“I see no point in arguing this matter with you,” he said irritably.

“I do not seek a quarrel. I am most interested in hearing what constitutes the Whig cause. From my perspective, it appears to be little more than protecting the privileges of new men with new money and standing in the way of anything that would suggest there is more to seek than to enrich oneself at the cost of the world. If there is a more fundamental ideology that the party rests upon, I should very much like to know it.”

“Do you suggest,” Hertcomb asked, “that the Tory party is above seeking gain and advantage where it can?”

“I would never suggest anything of the sort about anyone involved in politics. I do not propose that there is no corruption among Tories. I am, however, asking about the philosophical foundation of your party, not the immoral practice of all parties, and I ask in earnestness.”

Hertcomb quite clearly had nothing to say. He neither knew nor cared what it meant, in principle, to be a Whig, only in practice. At last he muttered something about the Whig party being the king’s party.

“If association is of such importance,” I said, “I should rather you had observed that the Whig party is Miss Dogmill’s party, for that is reason enough for any sane man to follow its banners.”

“Mr. Evans attempts to flatter me, but I believe he has, in a way, answered his own question. I choose to support the Whigs because my family has always done so for as long as parties have mattered. The Whigs serve my family and my family serves the Whigs. I cannot say it is the most upstanding of the parties, but I know that none are above reproach; there is a certain pragmatic approach that must be followed. Nevertheless, if I could wish all of these politics and politicians away, I would do so in an instant.”

“So you mislike the very system you serve?” I asked.

“Oh, immensely. But these parties are like great savage lions, Mr. Evans. They stand over you and salivate and lick their lips, and if you don’t offer them a morsel of food now and again, they will eat you. You may stand upon principle and refuse to placate the beasts, but if you do so, all that will happen is that the lion will remain and you will be quite gone.”

W
hen we stepped out of the carriage at Covent Garden, I immediately pulled Hertcomb aside. “You and I are used to being on friendly terms,” I said. “Have I done something to change that, sir?”

He stared at me, his face slightly less blank than usual. “I am not obliged to be every man’s friend.”

“I should not think you are. But as you have been mine in the past, I should like to know why you are not now.”

“Is it not obvious?” he said. “I have a preference for Miss Dogmill, and you think nothing of trying to steal her affections away.”

“I cannot argue when it comes to affairs of the heart, but I believe my fondness for Miss Dogmill was evident last night, and while you may not have liked it, you continued to be civil to me.”

“I thought of it more, and I concluded I don’t much like it—nor you either, Evans.”

“If I believed you, I would respect your words. But I think you’re hiding something, sir. You may confide in me, you know.”

He bit his lip and looked away. “It is Dogmill,” he said at last. “He has instructed me that I must no longer be friendly with you, sir. I am sorry, but the matter is quite out of my hands. I have been told that you and I are not to be on good terms, but that we are to be on bad terms as often as possible, so if you will cooperate in this, you will make my task much easier.”

“Cooperate!” I nearly shouted. “You wish my assistance in cultivating you as my enemy? You will not have it, sir. I think it is time you learned that because Mr. Dogmill demands something of you, there is no need for you to provide it.”

Here a redness began to spread across his eyes, like the plague of blood in ancient Egypt. “He struck me,” Hertcomb whispered.

“What?”

“He struck me in the face. He slapped me as though I were a badly behaved child and told me he would serve me more of the same sauce if I did not recall that we meant to win a seat of the House of Commons, and that end is not generally achieved by being overly friendly with the enemy.”

“You mustn’t let him use you thus,” I said, in a harsh whisper.

“What choice have I? I cannot defy him. I cannot strike him back. I can do nothing but endure his abuse until I win this election, and then I shall make every effort to free myself of his grasp.”

I nodded. “I quite understand. You must let him have his way in this, but you and I need not allow his opinions to rule us. You may tell him you said the harshest things in the world to me, and I to you, and he will know no better. And, if we find ourselves in Mr. Dogmill’s company, you may be as unkind to me as you like, and I promise I shan’t hold it against you.”

For a moment I thought Hertcomb would hug me. Instead he smiled as broadly and as innocently as a baby and then grabbed my hand, which he shook heartily. “You are a true friend, Mr. Evans, a true friend. After this election, when I sever my connections with Dogmill, I shall show you what it means to be well liked by Albert Hertcomb.”

I could not but be touched by his affection, even though I was not his true friend. I would not have hesitated to ruin him if it would advance my cause, and, though I did not view the world as Dogmill did, under the proper circumstances I might strike Hertcomb in the face as well.

T
he canvass proved a strange and curious ritual. Miss Dogmill had a piece of foolscap on which the names of her voters had been written. There were indications if their political leanings were known to Mr. Dogmill, but most were not. I wondered why it was that so pretty a lady should be sent to so rough a part of the city to spread her message, but I found my answer soon enough. We visited the shop of one Mr. Blacksmith, an apothecary. He was in his fifties, perhaps, and had weathered his years not so well as he might have liked. When we walked into his shop, I thought perhaps he had never seen a creature so exquisite as Miss Dogmill in all his life.

“Sir,” said Mr. Hertcomb at once, “have you yet voted in the general election?”

“I haven’t,” he said. “No one’s been by yet.”

“We have come by now,” the Whig said. “I am Albert Hertcomb.”

The apothecary sucked on his gums so that his face, in an instant, went from plum to prune. “Hertcomb is one I ain’t heard of. Which one are you now?”

Miss Dogmill smiled sweetly at him and curtsied to show off the colors of her gown. “Mr. Hertford is the blue-and-orange candidate,” she said.

The apothecary returned her smile sheepishly. “Blue and orange, is he? Well, those are fine colors, I reckon. What do ye have to offer me for the vote?”

“Why, justice and liberty,” Mr. Hertcomb said. “Freedom from tyranny.”

“I got as much of them as I’m like to have right now, and that ain’t much, so try again.”

“Half a shilling,” proposed Miss Dogmill.

The apothecary scratched at the wispy bits of hair on his pate as he pondered the offer. “How do I know the other fellows won’t offer me a better price?”

“You don’t, but they may not offer you anything at all,” Miss Dogmill said sweetly. “Come then, sir. If you will vote for Mr. Hertcomb, I will stroll over to the polling place with you right this moment. I will wait with you, and I will place the money in your hand myself.” She took a step closer to him and placed her arm in his. “Do you not wish to accompany me?”

A great scarlet tide rose from the apothecary’s neck and spread to his face and skull. “Gilbert!” he cried mightily. A boy of ten or eleven years appeared from the back of the shop. “I go to exercise my English liberties,” the old man explained. “Watch the shop until my return. And know that I am familiar with every item in here. If there is one thing missing I’ll beat you bloody on my return.” He then looked up at Miss Dogmill. “I am ready for you to take me now, my dear.”

I
t was clear enough that there was little to be gained from continuing the canvass without Miss Dogmill, so Mr. Hertcomb and I accompanied the happy couple to the great plaza where the polls had been set up, and together we waited in line with the voters. Miss Dogmill brought the old fellow to the tally master, who controlled the approach to the polling booths and decided in what order men would vote. Although these men were meant to be incorruptible, in less than two minutes she had convinced him to add this voter to an upcoming tally. Meanwhile, she chatted amiably with the apothecary as though there were nothing more natural in the world than for her to converse freely with so odd a man. Hertcomb stood awkwardly, wanting to avoid my gaze all the while yet seeming to desire conversation as well. My efforts to speak of something neutral, however, fell flat.

At last the apothecary stepped up to the booth. Miss Dogmill joined him and waited just outside, and we joined her as well, so we could hear all that transpired within. There was no better way of ensuring that the half shilling would not go to waste.

The man inside the polling place asked for the apothecary’s name and place of residence, and then, when he had checked this information against the voter rolls, he asked for which candidate he chose to vote.

The old fellow cast a glance outside the tent to Miss Dogmill’s gown. “I vote for orange and blue,” he said.

The election official nodded impassively. “You cast your vote for Mr. Hertcomb?”