Authors: Madeleine E. Robins
Petty Treason (12 page)
Or someone, Miss Tolerance thought.
She drew back from the crowd and made her way back to the refreshment table, where she took a cup of lemonade and a plate of pretty, flavorless iced cakes. Armed and disguised by these items, Miss Tolerance took a seat and observed all who came and went from the circle around Madame Touvois. The hostess liked to hold court, and that suited Miss Tolerance exactly. Tonight she wanted to observe rather than act, and was grateful that the press of guests made this possible. But in the course of an hour she observed little more than she had in the first five minutes: Madame
Touvois was a lively, informed speaker who preferred her own opinions to those of the majority of men around her. What fascinated Miss Tolerance was that each man hung on her acerbic utterance, apparently convinced that Madame Touvois’s darts were directed at some other fellow, not at himself.
Touvois was a lively, informed speaker who preferred her own opinions to those of the majority of men around her. What fascinated Miss Tolerance was that each man hung on her acerbic utterance, apparently convinced that Madame Touvois’s darts were directed at some other fellow, not at himself.
Miss Tolerance grew restless. She rose and began a circuit of the rooms again. While the conversation was lively, she did not find it compelling. What was the use of arguing over the wisdom of the government doing this or that when the government plainly meant to prosecute the war and govern the nation without recourse to the opinions of Madame Touvois’ guests? And how seriously could one take a poet after hearing him argue the merits of sonnet forms and bootblacking in almost the same sentence?
“You have enjoyed yourself this evening?”
Miss Tolerance turned to find Madame Touvois herself examining her with an expression in which amusement seemed to take the greater part, but the tone of her question had been all solicitousness. Although she was known to be an emigre it was her manner of speech, rather than an accent, which suggested that English had not been Camille Touvois’ first language.
“Indeed, ma’am,” Miss Tolerance said. “I have never heard so many deep thinkers speaking with such authority!”
“Authority, yes.” She leaned forward confidingly. “Between us, mademoiselle, my guests come for the table, and the drink, and most of all to hear themselves speak. There are a few who are clever, but the rest—” She shook her head.
It was so exactly what Miss Tolerance had been thinking that it took her a moment to respond. “Then why invite them, madame?”
“Why, to hear
myself
speak!” Madame Touvois looked delighted with herself. “At least I have the consolation that someone is speaking sense.”
myself
speak!” Madame Touvois looked delighted with herself. “At least I have the consolation that someone is speaking sense.”
Miss Tolerance put on an expression of mild shock.
“Surely, ma’am, Mr. Southey and Mr. Cobbett—”
“Poets?” The woman shrugged. “No poet should be permitted to have ideas beyond meter and rhyme. Now I have shocked you. How very bad of me.”
“Oh, no, certainly not.” Miss Tolerance’s tone suggested otherwise.
“Mademoiselle, you have me at an advantage, for you have guessed that I am Camille Touvois, and I do not know you. But wait—” She put her hand out in a theatrical gesture. “I do know you!”
“I do not think so, ma’am.”
“I do,” Madame Touvois said positively. For a moment she said nothing more; Miss Tolerance suspected she would wait until she saw some disquiet on the part of her guest. It became her own goal to show no such emotion. After an awkward moment of silence Madame Touvois repeated, “I know you. But not from my evenings. Shall I tell you how?”
Miss Tolerance smiled politely.
“I saw you speak at the trial of the earl. Versellion. Edward Folle.”
“You were in the gallery, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance strove to keep strong dislike from coloring her voice. She had testified against Versellion with outward composure, but she had come to loathe the audience that crowded the gallery. They treated the trial as a gala or a pantomime, bursting often into laughter, cheers, or catcalls.
“Indeed I was, every day! ’Twas your evidence convicted him. It’s a clever thing to bring a peer down, my dear. I commend you.”
“I did not bring him down, ma’am. He did that himself.”
Madame Touvois’ smile broadened; the disquieting quality increased. It was as if the woman felt she had the upper hand in the conversation and was waiting for Miss Tolerance to acknowledge it.
“Did he so?” she asked. “So, what brings you to us tonight, Miss—I regret that I cannot recall your name.” She moved, Miss Tolerance thought, from one manner to another; from polite disbelief to polite inquiry, each attitude a little more theatrical than real.
“Did I not give my name, ma’am? It is Sarah Tolerance.”
“Tolerance? What a curious name.” It seemed Madame Touvois’s habit to leave something unstated—in this case, the fact that her name marked Miss Tolerance as a Fallen Woman—to unsettle her guest.
“‘Tis a good old English word,” Miss Tolerance replied evenly,
“and a quality I aspire to.” She was conscious of a pang of excitement, as though at the beginning of a fencing match. She must be entirely upon her guard with this woman.
“and a quality I aspire to.” She was conscious of a pang of excitement, as though at the beginning of a fencing match. She must be entirely upon her guard with this woman.
“Whatever your name, I am delighted that you have come. But why should a—what are you? A thief-taker? What does a thief-taker in my
salon
?”
salon
?”
“Even a thief-taker may read poetry, madame, or have an interest in the arts or politics. I was curious about these parties, to which so many interesting people come.”
Madame Touvois sketched an ironic curtsy. “I am delighted that the company entertains you. Then I need not fear that a woman who has brought down one criminal is on the prowl for more?”
A cat with a mouse, Miss Tolerance thought. Her jaw set; she was no mouse.
“Oh, I seek no criminals unless I am hired to do so, ma’am. Merely enlightenment. Why? Do you suspect your guests of villainy?”
“These?” Camille Touvois scanned the room, her eyebrows raised as if to invite Miss Tolerance in on the joke. “Villainous verse perhaps? Malicious government? Criminal arrogance? I doubt it. Most of these gentlemen could not summon up a backbone shared between them.” She turned back to Miss Tolerance, observing her through narrowed eyes. “But with one of my regular
habitués
so recently dead, I cannot help but wonder when a woman such as yourself turns up upon my doorstep.”
habitués
so recently dead, I cannot help but wonder when a woman such as yourself turns up upon my doorstep.”
“A guest, dead? What, this evening?”
For a moment some strong emotion was evident in Madame Touvois’s expression. As quickly as it had come it was gone, and the bland, slightly predatory smile was in its place. “Is he so soon forgotten? What a sad thing is mortality! But surely your
profession
requires you to be a little more
au courant,
my dear—”
profession
requires you to be a little more
au courant,
my dear—”
“The requirements of my profession are necessarily elastic, madame. But you were speaking of the dead?”
“Etienne d’Aubigny. He used to come and listen to the poets hold forth. Much as you have done this evening.”
Madame Touvois was watching Miss Tolerance closely.
Miss Tolerance impersonated bemused incomprehension. “Take
me with you, madame. Are you saying that attendance here was the cause of his death?”
me with you, madame. Are you saying that attendance here was the cause of his death?”
“What, talked to death?” Camille Touvois laughed. “No, rather, bludgeoned, if the newspapers are right. As M. d’Aubigny was known to visit me, I wondered if you had not been sent by Bow Street.”
“I do not work for Bow Street, ma’am.”
“Do you not?” Madame Touvois’ smile became acute. “I should like to know for whom you do work.”
“When I am working, my client’s identity is confidential.”
“So you are not working tonight, mademoiselle?”
“I am enjoying myself this evening,” Miss Tolerance said, and realized that it was not untrue.
“I am happy to hear it,” Madame Touvois said. “I wonder—” she trailed off provocatively.
“Yes, madame?”
“I wonder how one becomes
what you are.
” The emphasis, and the thinly disguised insult behind it, did not elude Miss Tolerance.
what you are.
” The emphasis, and the thinly disguised insult behind it, did not elude Miss Tolerance.
“An agent of inquiry?”
“Yes, I should like very much to know how an Englishwoman of good birth becomes an agent of inquiry.”
Miss Tolerance recognized a bolt meant to draw her into some indiscreet comment. She only smiled. “Oh, I am sure someone could tell you that story. I make no secret of my past, madame.”
“But you have some questions about mine, I think, Miss Tolerance. You must come some afternoon and I shall give you tea. Perhaps we may exchange confidences.”
To what advantage Miss Tolerance might have turned this invitation she could not know. At that moment Camille Touvois was interrupted by a manservant who murmured urgently into her ear. She nodded and turned back to Miss Tolerance.
“A special guest has arrived and I must greet him. You must remember: tea and confidences, Miss Tolerance.”
Before Miss Tolerance had risen from her curtsy Madame Touvois was gone, leaving Miss Tolerance with a sense of breathlessness, as if she had just completed a brisk fencing match. She had no idea whether she had won, lost, or drawn, but she was left with
a lively curiosity about the identity of the special guest. It was not kept a secret. Within a moment the manservant stepped to the doorway and cleared his throat.
a lively curiosity about the identity of the special guest. It was not kept a secret. Within a moment the manservant stepped to the doorway and cleared his throat.
“His Royal Highness, the Duke of Cumberland!”
Cumberland
? Was it possible the announcement was a jest? Of all the royal dukes, why would the violently conservative Cumberland show himself in this hotbed of talky radicalism?
? Was it possible the announcement was a jest? Of all the royal dukes, why would the violently conservative Cumberland show himself in this hotbed of talky radicalism?
Miss Tolerance, like all the other women in the room, dropped into curtsy at Cumberland’s entrance, all a-maze.
She had once met Cumberland’s eldest brother, the Prince of Wales. Her impression of Wales had been of a good-natured man, quite possibly a clever one, who disguised his wit with a manner both informal and friendly. Watching from behind lowered lashes, she noted that Cumberland had neither of those qualities: his eye was sharp and intelligent, but there was a malicious light in it. His air was disdainful and condescending; he appeared to view his fellow man, or at least that sample gathered at Madame Touvois’, as he might a collection for curiosities from the Antipodes. In looks, too, he was unlike his brother: he had his brother’s height, but was thin where Wales was corpulent, handsome in a cold way, but marked with several still-livid scars. From the attempt upon his life in August, Miss Tolerance thought.
Cumberland let the room remain in obeisance for a full minute before he motioned the guests to rise again. From the appearance of his manner to Camille Touvois, and hers to him, he was on cordial terms with the hostess.
What had Sir Walter said? D’Aubigny’s murder had come hard on the heels of the attack upon Cumberland. It had been the similarity of it, that both men had been attacked in their beds, which brought the two together in his mind, a similarity he had then dismissed. But it appeared that Cumberland and d’Aubigny were connected by the common thread of Madame Touvois. What would Sir Walter say to that?
Miss Tolerance meditated upon these questions for some time, until she grew restless. Cumberland held court in the first room, with Madame Touvois at his elbow. The hostess had ceded her position at the center of the evening to the duke, and made herself his faithful audience. The rest of the party seemed inhibited by
his presence: many of the guests Miss Tolerance had marked as government men departed, and a good number of the poets as well. Where earlier the party had seemed largely male, now the balance had changed. Many of the women who were left appeared to be parading themselves before Cumberland, quite as if … The women were indeed parading, Miss Tolerance realized, hoping to catch the duke’s eye. He looked at each one but appeared in no hurry to make his selection. Madame Touvois stood at his elbow, apparently commenting upon each woman who went by.
his presence: many of the guests Miss Tolerance had marked as government men departed, and a good number of the poets as well. Where earlier the party had seemed largely male, now the balance had changed. Many of the women who were left appeared to be parading themselves before Cumberland, quite as if … The women were indeed parading, Miss Tolerance realized, hoping to catch the duke’s eye. He looked at each one but appeared in no hurry to make his selection. Madame Touvois stood at his elbow, apparently commenting upon each woman who went by.
The
salon
had suddenly taken on the character of a market, and Miss Tolerance had no interest in being mistaken for part of the commerce. She was just about to take her leave when she saw Madame Touvois smile encouragingly at one of the women, who advanced to join her at Cumberland’s side. Miss Tolerance had met the woman, but on that occasion she had been dressed in a stuff gown with her hair pulled tightly back. Now she wore a dress of rosy silk, banded with gold embroidery, and her hair fell in pomaded curls from a Grecian knot. There was nothing about her to suggest the courtesan except, perhaps, her bearing and a knowing smile. Her look appeared to please Cumberland, who returned her smile and nodded.
salon
had suddenly taken on the character of a market, and Miss Tolerance had no interest in being mistaken for part of the commerce. She was just about to take her leave when she saw Madame Touvois smile encouragingly at one of the women, who advanced to join her at Cumberland’s side. Miss Tolerance had met the woman, but on that occasion she had been dressed in a stuff gown with her hair pulled tightly back. Now she wore a dress of rosy silk, banded with gold embroidery, and her hair fell in pomaded curls from a Grecian knot. There was nothing about her to suggest the courtesan except, perhaps, her bearing and a knowing smile. Her look appeared to please Cumberland, who returned her smile and nodded.
Mrs. Vose, whom Miss Tolerance had met in Half Moon Street the first time she had called there, seemed as much at ease in Camille Touvois’ drawing room as she had in the d’Aubigny parlor.
As Cumberland had evidently made a choice, the conversation in the room started up again. Miss Tolerance had had enough, and more than enough to think about. She collected her cloak and requested that the porter fetch her a chair. The noise was as loud behind her as it had been when she arrived, and she found herself thankful of the chance to think in the icy night air.
M
iss Tolerance hoped for nothing more than to go home, have a cup of soup or a dram of whiskey, and fall into her bed. She had the chairmen deliver her to Manchester Square and Mrs. Brereton’s house, the better to wheedle supper from Cook, but was greeted there with trouble. Cole opened the door, saw her, and turned his head to summon someone else forward.
iss Tolerance hoped for nothing more than to go home, have a cup of soup or a dram of whiskey, and fall into her bed. She had the chairmen deliver her to Manchester Square and Mrs. Brereton’s house, the better to wheedle supper from Cook, but was greeted there with trouble. Cole opened the door, saw her, and turned his head to summon someone else forward.
“I was hopeful you’d come through the house tonight!” Her friend Marianne Touchwell, in a plain gown and apron which made her look more like a worried farmer’s wife than a popular
fille de joie,
came forward and took Miss Tolerance’s arm. “Give me your cloak, please. I wish you will come see your aunt; she’s not well at all.” Miss Tolerance was less alarmed by the words than by the uncharacteristic anxiety which she saw in her friend’s light eyes, and the crease of a frown between her brows.
fille de joie,
came forward and took Miss Tolerance’s arm. “Give me your cloak, please. I wish you will come see your aunt; she’s not well at all.” Miss Tolerance was less alarmed by the words than by the uncharacteristic anxiety which she saw in her friend’s light eyes, and the crease of a frown between her brows.
Miss Tolerance did her best to shrug off her exhaustion. She followed Marianne up the stairs, noting that while the business of the house went on as usual, Cole admitted gentlemen to the house with an expression of gravity not unlike Marianne’s. Miss Tolerance, who had never known her aunt to fall prey to more than a head cold, grew apprehensive.
Mrs. Brereton’s room was hot and close; the windows were
tightly shut and curtained, and the bed hangings were drawn. Mrs. Brereton slept in the center of the large bed, lost in a tumble of sheets and blankets. Her cheeks were flushed. She frowned deeply in her sleep and, as Miss Tolerance watched, made a feeble motion with one hand as if to pull the covers off. Her maid, Frost, pushed the hand away, pulled the covers back into place, and returned to sponging Mrs. Brereton’s forehead with a damp cloth.
tightly shut and curtained, and the bed hangings were drawn. Mrs. Brereton slept in the center of the large bed, lost in a tumble of sheets and blankets. Her cheeks were flushed. She frowned deeply in her sleep and, as Miss Tolerance watched, made a feeble motion with one hand as if to pull the covers off. Her maid, Frost, pushed the hand away, pulled the covers back into place, and returned to sponging Mrs. Brereton’s forehead with a damp cloth.
“Aunt Thea?” Miss Tolerance said quietly. “Aunt?” She went to the bed and bent to kiss her aunt gently on the forehead. Her skin was damp, warm but not frighteningly so: she smelled of rosewater.
“The fever is not high,” she said to Marianne.
“But she don’t rouse, not even to piss. Twice we’ve changed the sheets. I’ve never seen her like this.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“She doesn’t want the doctor.” Frost, on the far side of the bed, put up her hand and the cloth as if signaling
Halt
! Her lips were as pursed as her patient’s. “I’m taking fine care of her.”
Halt
! Her lips were as pursed as her patient’s. “I’m taking fine care of her.”
“Of course you are,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “But I really think—”
“We don’t need a doctor,” Frost said again. She glared at Miss Tolerance and Marianne.
Lord, it needs only this,
Miss Tolerance thought. Her aunt’s appearance worried her more than the maid’s jealousy.
Lord, it needs only this,
Miss Tolerance thought. Her aunt’s appearance worried her more than the maid’s jealousy.
“How long has my aunt been like this?”
Marianne answered. “Since early this evening. A matter of five or six hours. We have twice given her powders, but nothing seems to help. Frost has been with her constantly.”
“I am sure she has.” Miss Tolerance smiled at Frost. The maid scowled. “Does my aunt have a doctor she prefers?”
“She’s consulted with Sir George Hammond once or twice, I know.”
“Have Cole send for him,” Miss Tolerance ordered.
“We don’t want the doctor,” Frost insisted. She wadded the cloth in her hand and dropped it into the basin as if throwing down a gauntlet.
“Perhaps you don’t,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “But I shall feel very much better if Sir George looks in. At very least he will praise
your excellent care—and tell us if there’s anything else we should be doing.”
your excellent care—and tell us if there’s anything else we should be doing.”
“Madam won’t want—”
“Perhaps not, and she may scold me when she recovers. In the meantime, Marianne, please ask Cole to send for Sir George.”
Marianne left with a look of gratitude. Miss Tolerance sat down to wait at her aunt’s side, and Frost fixed her with a look so arctic it should have returned Mrs. Brereton’s temperature to its normal state. Miss Tolerance closed her eyes.
M
iss? Doctor’s come.”
iss? Doctor’s come.”
She wakened from her doze. Looking at the clock upon the mantel, Miss Tolerance discovered the hour was well advanced—it was almost eight in the morning. At what time she had fallen asleep she did not know, but Miss Tolerance rose now to greet Sir George Hammond. He was tall, lean, and younger than his title suggested, but he wore an expression of professional compassion which Miss Tolerance found comforting. After an exchange of courtesies, Sir George advanced upon the bed and stood for several minutes, holding Mrs. Brereton’s hand and observing her face. He turned back to Miss Tolerance.
“Have you a sample for me?”
It had not occurred to her to have a sample of urine ready, but Frost had evidently expected it. Still scowling, she took a glass jar from the table and passed it to the doctor.
“Thank you,” both he and Miss Tolerance said at the same moment. Sir George went to the window and pulled a curtain back a little to examine the color of the urine in the light; he smelt it, dabbed a finger in and licked it thoughtfully, swirled the jar around for a moment and examined it again.
“The influenza,” he pronounced. “The fever is not dangerously high, but her unresponsiveness does inspire concern. However, as there is no rash, I don’t think we need fear that her earlier condition has returned. What have you given her?” He asked the question equally of Miss Tolerance, Frost and Marianne, who had followed him into the room.
“Two doses of Dr. James’ powders,” Marianne said.
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. “Fever does not appear to be the chiefest concern, but if that excellent remedy has not brought some relief we must try another. Well.” He sat at Mrs. Brereton’s writing table and took up pen and paper. “I shall prescribe a draught which should do the trick. But you must open these windows and give the poor woman a little fresh air. Bathe her with rosewater every hour until the fever breaks. She may have barley water—all she will take—and gruel, if she wakes hungry. As for the rest, when she is quite recovered from the influenza I want her to see a surgeon; I shall leave you the name of a fellow with some experience with her old ailment.” He wrote a name on another piece of paper.
“She seen someone for it,” Frost said flatly.
“Fine, fine. But it never hurts to take extra care.” Sir George did not appear ruffled by Frost’s rudeness. “Well, then. Take this to the apothecary. Every four hours, one spoonful in wine. I shall look in again tomorrow.” He bowed toward a space between Miss Tolerance and Marianne and started for the door. Miss Tolerance went after him.
“Sir George, you said something of my aunt’s condition?”
The doctor nodded. “A common enough one in this profession, my dear.”
She could not mistake his meaning.
“When I last saw Mrs. Brereton I gave her Mr. Warringe’s name, but never heard that she had seen him. If she has been physicking herself, or going to quacks, it is possible the affliction is still with her.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “But you think Mr. Warringe can cure her?”
The doctor shrugged. “No cure is certain, but I will tell you that your aunt is more likely to be cured with proper care than by some of the peculiar remedies advertised for the pox. If I could but persuade the ladies of your profession of that—”
Miss Tolerance straightened her shoulders. “My aunt’s profession is not mine, sir.” She forced a smile and offered her hand. “I shall see to it she calls upon your surgeon. Thank you for your call.”
He paused before he took her hand. “If you are not—what your aunt is, how is it you are here?”
“She is my aunt, sir,” Miss Tolerance said.
“Your family-feeling is to be commended,” he said drily. He shook her hand briefly, then left.
K
eefe was dispatched to the apothecary. Frost, frowning, permitted the windows to be opened a few inches, as the doctor had ordered it, but refused to leave her post for refreshment. Marianne and Miss Tolerance went downstairs to break their fast. Miss Tolerance was shortly aware that the servants—from Keefe to the girl who brought their coffee—were looking to her for their orders. Mrs. Brereton kept no housekeeper; she was accustomed to making virtually all domestic decisions herself, and did not take the staff into her confidence.
eefe was dispatched to the apothecary. Frost, frowning, permitted the windows to be opened a few inches, as the doctor had ordered it, but refused to leave her post for refreshment. Marianne and Miss Tolerance went downstairs to break their fast. Miss Tolerance was shortly aware that the servants—from Keefe to the girl who brought their coffee—were looking to her for their orders. Mrs. Brereton kept no housekeeper; she was accustomed to making virtually all domestic decisions herself, and did not take the staff into her confidence.
“I cannot think what to tell anyone, other than that they should carry on,” she said to Marianne. “If I were not here, who would give the cook her orders or—do whatever must be done?”
“No one,” Marianne said flatly. “We’d cobble along best we could.”
“But surely you know more than I do—”
Marianne nodded. “But Mrs. B wouldn’t want me to take it upon myself.”
“Well, I will take that upon
myself.
If I ask you to manage things here while my aunt is ill, the order comes from family, and must therefore be unexceptionable.” Miss Tolerance added with humor, “And I do not ask, I implore it. Think how much better everyone will feel, knowing someone is in charge!”
myself.
If I ask you to manage things here while my aunt is ill, the order comes from family, and must therefore be unexceptionable.” Miss Tolerance added with humor, “And I do not ask, I implore it. Think how much better everyone will feel, knowing someone is in charge!”
“But you—”
“Not I. I have other matters to attend to. Keefe!”
The footman, returned from the apothecary, presented himself.
“Miss Marianne will have the ordering of the household until Mrs. Brereton is able to take matters back into her hands,” Miss Tolerance said. “Will you let the others know?”
“But Miss Sarah, oughtn’t you—”
“No,” Miss Tolerance was firm. “And no one with a jot of sense would think I should. But I’ll look in again this afternoon to see how my aunt goes on.”
“Very good, Miss Sarah,” Keefe said.
Marianne looked regretfully at her coffee. “I suppose I had best talk with Cook,” she said. “And I suppose that for the next few days I shall have to say
adieu
to most of my followers. If Lord Marton should call, Keefe, or Mr. Waxworth—” she went from the room, instructing the footman on which of her clients she would accept while Mrs. Brereton was ill. Miss Tolerance finished her coffee before she could be joined by any of the brothel’s clients or employees, and fled to her cottage.
adieu
to most of my followers. If Lord Marton should call, Keefe, or Mr. Waxworth—” she went from the room, instructing the footman on which of her clients she would accept while Mrs. Brereton was ill. Miss Tolerance finished her coffee before she could be joined by any of the brothel’s clients or employees, and fled to her cottage.
M
iss Tolerance washed and dressed herself in breeches and coat for riding and took up her hat and Gunnard greatcoat. When the stables had sent round her favorite hack she started off for the Liberty of Savoy again to hear what Mr. Glebb had been able to learn. As if to atone for the last week’s dreary skies, the sun shone strongly, piercing the perpetual coal haze and taking an edge from the cold. Miss Tolerance arrived at the Wheat Sheaf before Joshua Glebb, and again took refuge and coffee with the tapster, Mr. Boddick.
iss Tolerance washed and dressed herself in breeches and coat for riding and took up her hat and Gunnard greatcoat. When the stables had sent round her favorite hack she started off for the Liberty of Savoy again to hear what Mr. Glebb had been able to learn. As if to atone for the last week’s dreary skies, the sun shone strongly, piercing the perpetual coal haze and taking an edge from the cold. Miss Tolerance arrived at the Wheat Sheaf before Joshua Glebb, and again took refuge and coffee with the tapster, Mr. Boddick.
As the Wheat Sheaf received the London papers, Mr. Boddick followed the progress of the Peninsular War closely. A veteran himself, he was energetic in denouncing Bonaparte and his generals, but just as vociferous regarding the stupidities of England’s recent conduct of the war. As Miss Tolerance drank her coffee, Boddick reviled all parties—the government, the military, and God—about equally. He was particularly bitter about Wellington’s apparent refusal to chase the French forces out of Portugal after his victory at Busaco.
“Only one victory since summer! That’s not much for man nor nation to ‘ang ’is heart on! Specially not when them in Parliament’s looking to bleed a starvin’ nation in Wellington’s support”
“The troops must be provisioned,” Miss Tolerance said mildly, curious to see upon which side of this issue Boddick came down.
“Aye, and indeed they do. Nothin’ takes the heart out of a soldier more than being hungry, miss. But this War Support Bill? Three bad harvests, with the common folk starvin’ in the countryside, and still His Royal Grace of bloody Cumberland’s made damned sure that him and his noble pals won’t pay a groat toward keepin’ thesselves safe.”
“Mr. Boddick, you sound positively Republican,” Miss Tolerance said, smiling.
“Heaven forfend, miss. But that War Support Bill’s a grand way to stir up sympathy for Bonaparte, if you ask me. Folk who ain’t been abroad and don’t know is likely to think they’d be in no worse case did Boney win. Well, miss, I marched through Holland with Cornwallis; I know what the French done to the countryside.”
“I, too,” Miss Tolerance agreed. She and her lover Charles Connell had been in Belgium in 1800 when Brune’s armies had taken the country. She was under no illusion that the French force was the army of liberation Bonaparte styled it.
“Britain never fails in a clinch, miss. We’ll pull through and put Bonaparte down; who else is there to do it?”
Miss Tolerance sipped her coffee as Boddick disposed, one by one, of each of the nations of Europe, suggesting their fates if the war were lost, and again if it should be won. His predictions were fascinating and lurid. Finally his opinions ran down and, apparently abashed at his own vehemence, the barman apologized if he had spoken too strong, and began to polish his taps. Miss Tolerance finished her coffee and pleased herself by imagining the effect Boddick would have had upon the political theorists at Camille Touvois’ salon.
Joshua Glebb arrived shortly thereafter. Established in his accustomed place, Mr. Glebb informed Miss Tolerance that he had made her inquiries.
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