Chapter 9 #2
Viola stood in front of the window display, clasping her hands in rapture. This was where she would spend the remaining morning, she told Georgiana, who, good-naturedly, went along with her.
“By all means. I need to buy some stationery myself,” she said, and pushed the door with the tingling bell open.
Viola was in paradise. Her eyes scanned the display counters filled with books, notebooks, pocketbooks, travel books, and memorandum books. It smelled of parchment, leather, and ink.
She inhaled it. That was her second favourite kind of smell. Her number one favourite was the dry, brisk scent of bergamot and musk, with a touch of neroli, woody beneath it all, and decidedly masculine. It belonged to one person, and one person alone.
Her eyes stopped at a brown calf leather notebook with a flap, tied with leather ribbons.
She gasped.
There it was.
Her notebook! The one he’d given her at Westwood Hall. The one she’d filled all too quickly and then been unable to find another with which to replace it. She’d scoured the shops in Edinburgh and Inverness, to no avail.
She asked the shopkeeper for the notebook, who presented it to her.
She picked it up reverently. It was hideously expensive, but worth every penny.
“It’s a fine notebook,” the shop manager said, rubbing his hands together. “Of the utmost best quality. Each is made with much care, and the paper inside is thick, cream paper that takes the ink well.”
“I know.” Viola turned it in her hands. “I would like this one, please. In fact, give me two. And two of these quills and a penknife.” She pointed at a pair of lovely goose quills.
“Gladly, ma’am.” The shopkeeper wrapped it all up carefully in silk paper and tied it into a neat parcel with a bow in front. Then he placed it into an exquisite pasteboard envelope, tied with string, bearing the letters of the shop.
Viola left the shop, beaming.
“Well, I’m glad you have found something that pleases you, Viola, even though I find it odd that a plain notebook can make you smile in that manner when all the organza and taffeta and lace cannot.
But I suppose tastes are different,” Georgiana stated.
“Lily, on the other hand—” She interrupted herself when the door to the house they passed opened and a group of gentlemen exited.
Her hand gripped Viola’s. “Oh my,” her voice had turned breathless, “look who is here!”
“Who?” Viola looked at the men with polite interest.
“Liverpool. Our prime minister. Leaving White’s.”
The surrounding people stopped and stared, and a general excited babble rose.
“And not only that, but that gentleman next to him, if I’m not mistaken, appears to be Castlereagh. And good heavens!” Her voice had turned into a squeak. “Fane!”
Viola’s head whipped around. “Where?”
“He was at Almack’s the other night; didn’t you see him? Caused quite a commotion. How lucky we are to see the power trio together. Naturally, they would come out of White’s Club.”
The people pressed around the men. “Prime Minister, Prime Minister, lend us your ear! When will a man be able to afford a loaf for his children?” one voice shouted. “Will Your Lordship finally repeal the Corn Laws, or let the people starve?”
“Yes! Repeal! Repeal!” shouted another.
“And what about Ireland? Chief Secretary, what comment do you have on the intolerable situation in Ireland?” another shouted. It came from a man in a baggy jacket.
“Why should my taxes feed Irish beggars when my own children go hungry?” shouted another.
“The Irish cost this nation three pounds for every one they contribute! When will you stop the drain on English coffers?” The last question came from a well-dressed man with a pale, peaky face.
“Three pounds to one? Fascinating. I did not know gin-shop arithmetic had advanced so far.” That was Sebastian’s voice. People chuckled. Unlike Liverpool, who pressed on toward the carriage, Sebastian stopped to acknowledge the man’s question and seemed willing to debate him.
“And what of Irish immigrants? Send them back! Let them starve in their own country!” the man shouted.
Sebastian looked him up and down. “You are a pamphleteer, are you not? Then let me tell you one thing. The man who sold you that coat was Irish. The meat in your pie was Irish. The soldier who kept Bonaparte from your door was Irish. Need I go on?”
The people muttered quietly.
He turned to follow Liverpool into the carriage.
Another voice rose above the fray, ringing clear and sharp. “One last question, Chief Secretary.”
Heads turned.
Georgiana gasped. “Viola!”
Undeterred, she continued. “There is only one public asylum in all of Ireland, and it is in Dublin.” Her voice rang out clearly.
“What provision is made for the rest of the country, Chief Secretary, when the mentally ill are confined in gaols? When will you finally have suitable hospitals built to remedy this shocking situation, under which women are suffering? Surely their plight cannot leave you unmoved?”
He paused and turned. Their gazes collided. For the briefest instant, surprise flickered across his face. Then he narrowed his eyes.
“The asylum in Dublin was opened precisely to remedy that abuse,” he said with a clipped voice. “The law does not permit lunacy to roam unattended. It is an imperfect system. It is, nevertheless, a system. Sentiment does not build hospitals. Administration does.”
“That is a monstrous answer, sir,” Viola said, her voice steady, “and of little comfort to those who are left to languish in gaol.”
“Viola,” Georgianna hissed, tugging at her sleeve.
He regarded her with a cool, condescending smile. “Madam, if you have the means to conjure asylums from thin air, by all means, do so. Until then, we shall proceed with law, not sentiment.”
The crowd surged again, bodies pressing in, voices rising, and Viola was pushed back as he turned away and disappeared into the crush.
“Well. I never.” Georgiana stared alternately at Viola and the departing carriage, mouth agape. “What on earth were you thinking, Viola? That got you a taste of The Slayer.”
“Yes, well,” Viola cleared her throat. “I couldn’t resist.”
“How do you know about these things, anyhow? Ireland. Asylums. Goodness me.” Georgiana fanned herself with her hand. “One would think we have enough madness in England alone, as well as badly led asylums. Why concern yourself with Ireland, of all places?”
“Indeed. Why would one?” she echoed.
“Let us go to Gunter’s for some ices. It might do us both some good to cool our heads a little. Debating with The Slayer in the middle of the road, indeed. Oh, my nerves!”
Viola agreed and gladly followed Georgiana to the prestigious ice salon.
After two ices, several meringues and lemon tartlets later, Georgiana leaned back with a sigh.
“This reminds me. I have received an invitation to Lady Beringbroke’s for dinner.
Since Lily is ill, she won’t be able to come.
It is a shame, for there will be some eligible gentlemen there for sure. Why don’t you join us instead?”
“I really don’t have the time,” Viola began, but Georgiana interrupted.
“Nonsense. Why wouldn’t you have time? Don’t, for one moment, think that I have forgotten what we have agreed.”
“What have we agreed?” Viola said weakly.
“Why, that I would find you an eligible party, of course.” She looked satisfied.
“That can’t be accomplished if you hide yourself away.
You must show your face a little in society.
But please, Cousin.” She made a pained expression.
“I beg of you! Leave off that dreadful cap and those spectacles! It ages you at least twenty years. I shall lend you another one of my dresses.”
Viola sighed. “If you absolutely must, Cousin.”