“He’s winning, isn’t he?” she said quietly, searching Jack’s face and seeing the answer in his expression. He was angry, helpless, frustrated, and yet acutely aware that if he spoke to defend Aubrey Serracold as he wished to, he would achieve nothing but demonstrate the loyalty of a friend, and he would jeopardize his own seat. Nothing was as certain as he had imagined it to be only a week ago.
She watched him as Voisey went on and the crowd listened. They were with him now, but she knew what a fickle thing popularity was. Give people laughter, praise, hope of benefit, a shared belief, and they were yours. A breath of fear, a perceived insult, even boredom, and they were lost again.
What would Jack do?
Part of her wanted him to honor friendship, say what he could to right the inequity between Aubrey and this man who was manipulating the situation with such skill. Aubrey’s letter to the editor had played right into Voisey’s hands. Why had Aubrey been so foolish? She felt a sinking weight inside her as the answer came unbidden to her mind. Because he was idealistic but naive. He was a good man with an honest dream, but he was no politician yet, and circumstances would give him no time to become one. There were no rehearsals, only reality.
She looked at Jack again, and saw the indecision still in him. She said nothing. She was not yet ready for the answer, whatever it was. He was right, there were some prices that were very high to pay for power. And yet without power one could achieve little, perhaps nothing. Battles were costly; that was the nature of fighting for any principle, any victory at all. And if you retreated from the struggle because it hurt, then the prize went to someone else, someone like Voisey. And what was the price of that? If good men did not take up the sword, literal and figurative, then the victory would go to whoever would. Where did the right lie?
If it were easy to see, maybe more people would find it, and fewer be beguiled along the way.
She moved a step closer to Jack and linked her arm in his. Then he turned to her, but she did not meet his eyes.
There was a reception that evening which Emily had considered earlier would promise a certain enjoyment. It was less formal than a dinner and offered much more opportunity to speak with a greater variety of people of one’s choice, simply because one was not seated around a table. As usual at such events there would be some form of entertainment, either a small orchestra, with a soloist to sing, or possibly a string quartet, or an exceptional pianist.
However, she already knew that Rose and Aubrey Serracold would also be there, and word of this afternoon’s speech would have reached at least some of the guests, so in a matter of an hour or so all would be aware not only of Aubrey’s extraordinary breach of sense in the newspapers but of the superb response to Voisey’s speech. The evening now promised to be awkward, even embarrassing. And whatever Jack was going to do about it, time would not allow him any more latitude in which to make up his mind.
It was unfair, but she was angry with Charlotte for not being here to discuss it with. There was no one else in whom she could have confided exactly the same feelings, the doubts and the questions.
As always, she dressed carefully. Impressions mattered a great deal, and she had long known that a pretty woman can charm a man’s attention when a plainer one cannot. She had also learned more recently that careful grooming, a shade and line of gown that flattered, a direct smile with an air of confidence, could make others believe one was far more beautiful than was the bare fact. Accordingly, she wore a tight-waisted, flaring gown of natural-colored sheer printed in green, a shade which had always become her. The effect was so dramatic that even Jack, in a wretched mood over Voisey, widened his eyes and was obliged to compliment her.
“Thank you,” she said with satisfaction. She was dressed for battle, but he was still the conquest which mattered the most.
They arrived sixty minutes after the hour stated on the invitation, which was about as early as was decently acceptable. A score of other people arrived either immediately before or after them, and for a few moments the hall was a crush of guests all exchanging greetings. The ladies divested themselves of capes. Though the evening was mild, they would not be leaving until after midnight, when it would be chilly.
Emily saw several social acquaintances and political wives it was wise to befriend, and a few she actually liked. She knew that Jack had his own duties for the evening which he could not afford to ignore. This was not an occasion purely for pleasure.
She set about listening with charm and attention, passing the appropriate, well-thought compliment, exchanging a word or two of gossip which if repeated would not come back to haunt her.
It was two hours later, after the musical entertainment had begun—the soloist was one of the plainest women Emily had ever seen, but had the effortless soaring voice of a true operatic diva—that Emily saw Rose Serracold. She must only just have arrived, since she was so strikingly dressed no one could possibly have missed her. Her gown was vermilion and black stripes, richly draped over the sleeves and bust in black lace, which flattered her extreme slenderness. There was a vermilion flower on the skirt to match the ones at bosom and shoulder. She was sitting on one of the chairs at the edge of the group, her back stiff, the light gleaming on her pale hair like the sun on corn silk. Emily looked for Aubrey beside her, or beyond, and did not see him.
The singer was so very excellent she commanded the mind and the senses, her voice so lovely it would have been vandalism of the ear to speak through her performance. But as soon as it was over Emily stood up and went to Rose. There was a small group already gathered around, and before anyone stood a little to one side to allow her to join, she heard the conversation. She knew instantly with a cold sinking in her stomach exactly what they were referring to, even though no names had been mentioned.
“He is far cleverer than I thought, I admit,” a woman in gold was saying ruefully. “I fear we have underestimated him.”
“I think you overestimate his morality,” Rose said sharply. “Perhaps that was our error.”
Emily opened her mouth to intervene, but someone else spoke first.
“Of course he must have done something remarkable to have been knighted by the Queen. I suppose we should have taken that into better account. I’m so sorry, my dear.”
Perhaps it was the condescension in the voice, but it was to Rose a goad she could not ignore. “I’m sure he did something very special indeed!” she retorted. “Probably to the tune of several thousand pounds—and contrived to do it while there was still a Tory Prime Minister to recommend him.”
Emily froze. Her throat was tight and the room glittered and swam around her, the lights in the chandeliers multiplying in her vision as if she were going to faint. Everyone knew that wealthy men had donated massively to both political parties and been given knighthoods or even peerages for it. It was one of the ugliest scandals, and yet it was the way both parties funded themselves. But to say specifically that anyone had been rewarded in such a way was inexcusable, and wildly dangerous, unless one was both able and willing to prove it. Emily knew Rose was lashing out in every direction she could because she was afraid Aubrey was not going to win after all. She wished it for all the good she knew he could do, and believed in passionately, but also for him because she loved him and it was what he had set his heart on.
Perhaps also she was afraid of the guilt that would consume her for her own part in the loss, if it should happen. Whether the newspapers ever heard of her connection with Maude Lamont or not, or whether they used it, she would always know that she had cared more for her own necessity than for Aubrey’s career.