“At least she’s doing something with it for the common good.” Agatha’s throat was dry and aching from yearning; she had to take a long swallow of tea before she could speak. “And it isn’t like they’re asking you to do field chores, Flood. It’s a procession. A spectacle.”
“Papa always said people went to London to make a spectacle of themselves,” Flood said with a small laugh. “I guess he was right.”
“You look absolutely splendid.”
Flood’s head whipped up, a blush rising in her cheeks.
Agatha’s fingers curled tight around the china teacup. She kept her tone brisk, pointed. “And spectacle can be an advantage: I should have no trouble spotting the Melliton ladies when you arrive at Brandenburg House today.”
Penelope’s blush bloomed further, so lovely that Agatha had to drop her eyes and struggle to keep her breathing even.
Lady Summerville had settled upon a meeting spot and arranged for a number of open carriages, to transport the women of Melliton in style along the roads to the Queen’s residence. They would all be wearing unrelieved white, with no ornament other than the green rosettes. Already Agatha’s fingers itched to draw such a scene, and she had to admit Mrs. Koskinen’s idea had been rather a good one. It was going to be impossible to miss their group, no matter how large the crowds.
Flood gulped down a hasty breakfast and took her leave. Agatha checked on Sydney and Eliza—who were adamant that everything had gone just fine yesterday evening, no problems at all, no surprises, no matter how many times Agatha asked them about it in new, more cunning ways.
The young folk were demonstrating competence. She was secretly, suspiciously proud, and trusted it not at all. Today would be another test for them.
Agatha left them her list of instructions and set out east to see the Queen.
Brandenburg House sat like a temple at the top of a small hill fronting the river. Its pale stone facade rose lordly over the teeming, colorful mass of humanity gathered in the cleared space around it.
Agatha had expected the crowds, and the noise, but she had not expected things to feel so... festive. Yes, there were banners being waved and political slogans being chanted—but there were also food stalls and peddlers and ballad sellers wandering the throng, making a fairly solid profit, from what Agatha could see at a glance. A clutch of boats on the river were bringing an address from the assembled watermen of London: their boats were decked out with ribbons and garlands and all manner of bunting, and surrounded by smaller rowboats and skiffs holding lords and ladies and society folk who’d come out this fine afternoon for a bit of excitement. Beaver hats alternated with summer bonnets and liberty caps; imported silks brushed up against printed calico and homespun.
There were so many women. More than at any election or procession or celebration Agatha had seen. White rosettes and handkerchiefs fluttered everywhere.
Agatha pulled out her sketchbook and made a few hasty impressions of the event for later refinement into proper etchings. Such a crowd meant it would be an hour at least for the Melliton coaches to make the journey by road. She sketched a few scenes to pass the time. One of the watermen disembarked and made his way through the crowd with an escort, holding a document in front of him. Agatha followed in their wake, until they reached the doors of the house and turned.
The man with the address read it out in a carrying voice, then offered it to a soberly dressed gentleman at the door, who made a courteous reply on behalf of the Queen. Vows of mutual support were made in staunch, patriotic terms.
It had all clearly been arranged in advance, but like a play well acted, it was stirring not in spite of, butbecauseit was all so deliberate. It was as formal as a funeral—or a wedding.
She was high enough on the hill by now that she was able to catch the first appearance of the Melliton procession as they rounded the bend in the road. The coaches trundled through the crowd, white-clad occupants waving, proud and lovely as a bevy of swans in flight. The coaches wound slowly up the hill as the masses of people parted, and the Melliton women stepped out and spread out before the Queen’s residence like a wreath of lilies.
Agatha peered at them, trying to distinguish Flood’s figure in that sea of white, when a woman in a Caroline-green cloak took a position at the head of the group. She whirled the cloak off her shoulders—and the extra-bright glow of her gown showed off precisely how much dust the other women’s white frocks had picked up on their journey.
This, of course, had to be Lady Summerville.
She handed the cloak to a companion, received in return a piece of paper, folio size, and began to read: “We, the ladies of Melliton and surrounding environs, approach your Majesty with that reverential feeling due from the Subject to the Sovereign...”
Agatha pulled out her sketchbook and began doodling, as the flattering Address went on and on.
Lady Summerville was on the thin side, with skin like cool marble and deep gold hair. Her dress was perfectly neat and perfectly tailored—silk, Agatha judged from the drape, not the muslin or linen the other Melliton women wore. The viscountess looked as though she’d just stepped out from the frame of one of the fashion plates theMenagerieso often printed.
“The principles and doctrines now advanced by your accusers,” Lady Summerville was proclaiming, “do not apply to your case alone, but, if made part of the law of this land, may hereafter be applied as a precedent by every careless and dissipated husband to rid himself of his wife, however good and innocent she may be...”
Agatha grimaced. So that was why Lady Summerville was so determined. In defending Caroline, she defended her own marriage rights as the wife of a peer. Particularly one who, according to Penelope, would be divorced in a trice if her husband had been able to afford it.
Not terribly altruistic of her, of course—but Agatha had to wonder: Was self-interest the worst motivation, if it resulted in improvement for everyone? Perhaps Sydney’s favorite philosophers were right. Perhaps revolution was really only a matter of getting enough people’s individual motivations to flow in the same direction, at the same time.
She finally spotted Penelope, standing tall in the sunlight, her hair shining like an angel’s halo. The effect was entrancing and Agatha’s pencil moved almost of its own volition, recreating the earnest lines of Penelope Flood’s face, her lofty gaze, the generous lines of her figure as she stood there in support of her Queen. She looked sweet and honest and loveable, the very picture of virtue.
As she finished her sketch, Agatha gazed down the hill, in awe of the sheer number of people who had ventured here. It was busier than Vauxhall had been last night. The moralists might spend their time railing against the licentiousness of rope dancers and mollies and all the folk of any sex who offered pleasure for payment—but tyrants and politicians like Lord Sidmouth knew the truth: this daytime crowd in front of Brandenburg House was much, much more dangerous.
Here were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people, most of whom weren’t permitted to vote in elections, but who had come to demonstrate to their government and their monarch that they would not be overlooked or ignored. They proved that they mattered by showing up in droves.
For the first time since Waterloo, Agatha felt her soul billow with national pride. Maybe the crowd had the right of it. Maybe something could change this time, without the need for bloodshed.
Surely the powerful wouldhaveto listen, when so many voices were crying out.
