He would become a desiccated creature of society, moving from one soiree to another like some sort of Egyptian mummy.
He had few real friends; what politician does? Even Salisbury within whose house he was now immured, wrote formerly of Dizzy in his letters as a ‘Hebrew varlet’, and a ‘mere political gangster’.
Hebrew varlet, eh? A little rich considering his ancestors had attained a high level of civilisation at a time when the inhabitants of England were going half-naked and eating acorns in the woods.
Disraeli walked over to the window, twitched back the curtain and looked out into a black night.
In the glass, his reflection stared at him like a ghost being slowly but surely drawn back into the darkness. He puffed on the cigar and though the ghost did the same, the other did not seem to enjoy it as much.
Dignified imperturbability. That was what he presented when they brought him the news.
But inside, his world had collapsed. He had lost everything, his Faerie Queen, his power, his very title, prime minister. He had lost it all to a humourless fiscal puritan. A roundhead to his cavalier.
Indeed his hatred of William Gladstone was the only thing to sustain him at this precise moment. Otherwise he was an empty shell. Thank God for malice.
Only a miracle could save him now. An act of God or someone who confused himself with the deity.
His mind returned to the conversation in the private room of the club. The fellow had offered him a very decent brand of cigar. That was surely a good sign.
Disraeli had not made his desires plain. That would never do. He left the interpretation to others.
Perhaps nothing would occur.
Still … hope springs eternal, does it not?
Who knows what was happening out there in the night?
He pulled shut the curtains and noticed, as he turned, a brandy decanter that stood on one of the small tables.
He would puff on his cigar and raise a glass to his beloved Queen.
Who knows?
There might be one last roll of the dice.
Hope springs eternal.
40
Nievie, nievie, nick-nack,
Which hand will ye tak?
The right or the wrang,
I’ll beguile ye if I can.
CHILD’S RHYME
She stood in the corner, fingers grasped awkwardly round a glass of champagne, watching the Great Man receive due tribute from admirers who would melt like snowflakes should the result ever emerge otherwise.
From the huge population of Midlothian, only 3,620 electors were franchised to vote, but a comfortable majority had voted for Sweet William.
Gladstone’s cheeks were unwontedly flushed: red wine and the press of bodies. He would have a headache in the morning, deranged liver and bowels, castor oil prescribed; oh yes, he would have a
She hid her smile behind the fluted glass and watched as, around his ungainly figure, some quite beautiful women fluttered like butterflies, drawn to the fire, the source of power. Butterflies.
Or was it moths? They burnt in ecstasy at the flame. She had once viewed them die in a hotel room in Venice, the window open on a hot airless night, a single candle in the lamp to lure the prey to death.
They had wagered on the number. She had lost. The forfeit had been deliciously degrading.
Soon, she would be back in his arms. Safe and damned. But not yet, there was much yet to do.
She checked the french windows through which they had agreed he would enter, their being left a little open despite the chill of the evening to let the smoke of best-quality cigars escape into the night.
He had not yet appeared.
To still the tremor of anxiety she turned back and surveyed the magnificent drawing room and double cantilevered staircase, thronged with elegant figures, gowned and suited, laughing and gay, mouths open, eyes sparkling. And yet, despite it all, there was an animalistic quality to the crowd she found … quite repugnant.
A realisation that she was looking at it through his eyes. So be it. Who better?
Fasque had been inherited by Tom Gladstone, the eldest brother, who had always lived in William’s shadow and was doing so once more, somewhere in the happy gathering. There was coolness between him and the Great Man; little wonder since Tom was a staunch Tory and she wondered if William had demanded the reception here, just to spite his brother.
Through the library doors she glimpsed the figure of Lord Rosebery, his doughy complexion and pale hazel eyes more pronounced than usual.
After victory was announced, a torchlight procession had arrived at the George Street house to be addressed by first Gladstone, and then Rosebery. But that was as near as his lordship would get for a while. He did not have the common touch, mostly because he detested the masses. He was a misanthrope. He detested everyone. Except himself.
Horace Prescott leaned forward to murmur something in his master’s ear and was rewarded with a pale smile. Both men stared at Gladstone and somewhere else, she was sure, no doubt guzzling champagne and stuffing his face from the trays of food proffered by an ill-qualified retinue of local girls and tradesmen masquerading as servants, was little George Ballard.
She liked George, he was a treacherous soul but he had some value. He spent much of his time trying to insult her in various ways or shock with lewd insinuations, but she had enjoyed the tale of him sneaking down the cellar steps of a rampant bawdy house to spy Horace being soundly flagellated.
He had slapped Prescott hard on the back, next day.
Dear George.
He, too, would have his eye on Gladstone and she was reminded of a painting she had once viewed. The leader of a pack of lions. Isolated in his own pride. Only surviving so long as he had the strength to keep the claws of others at bay.
For a moment she felt obscurely sorry for the old man and almost regretted the part she would play in his downfall but then Gladstone turned to smile at her.
Ah yes. A strange bond. She would have no difficulty persuading him to the family vault that they might both pray and give thanks for victory at Jessy’s tomb.
She would kneel at his feet and look up with adoring eyes. Sweet William liked that. He would put his hand upon her shoulder and she would shake as if moved by a secret desire she could not name. He liked that even more.
An obsequious sexuality, charged and hidden, under the cloak of worship. Not a word said, not a carnal touch, but he relished her submissive adulation.
As the Serpent had once remarked, she was an artist in erotic transference.
Catherine Gladstone, noticing the direction of her husband’s gaze, also smiled over. The woman had borne his various obsessions with beautiful creatures of low and high degree, being assured for herself that he would be incapable of the act of infidelity to the marriage bed.
But did she consider
The good wife saw no danger here and thus smiled over. A mistake on her part, as she would soon discover.
