Jack, to help him believe in himself, find something to look forward to, some other cause to build and care about and labor towards.
By a little after two o’clock she was emotionally drained, and the whole length of the afternoon still stretched ahead of her. By five she was beginning to believe that Jack really could win. Her spirits soared with hope, then plummeted with despair.
By the time the polls closed she was exhausted, untidy, and generally more footsore than she could ever remember. She and Jack went home in silence, sitting close together in a hansom. They did not speak. Neither of them knew what to say, now that the battle was over and only the news of victory or defeat lay ahead.
At home they had a late supper, too tense to enjoy it. Emily could not have said afterwards what it had been, except she thought she recalled the pink of salmon on the plate, but whether it had been poached or smoked she could not say. She kept glancing at the clock on the mantel, wondering when they would be finished counting and they would know.
“Do you think …?” she began, just as Jack spoke also.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing! It was of no importance. You?”
“Nothing much, just that it could be a long time. You don’t have to …”
She froze him with a look.
“All right,” he said apologetically. “I just thought …”
“Well don’t. It’s ridiculous. Of course I’m going to wait until the last vote is counted and we know.”
He rose from the table. It was quarter past nine.
“Well let us at least do it in the withdrawing room, where we can be as comfortable as possible.”
She accepted with a smile and followed him into the hall. Almost as soon as they were out of the dining room door Harry, the youngest footman, appeared from the archway under the stairs, his fair hair untidy, his face flushed.
“They’re still counting, sir!” he said breathlessly. “I just came back from the ’all, but I reckon as they done most of ’em, an both piles looks about the same to me. You could win, sir! Mr. Jenkins says as you will!”
“Thank you, Harry,” Jack said with a voice very nearly level. “But I think perhaps Jenkins is speaking more from loyalty than knowledge.”
“Oh no, sir,” Harry said with unaccustomed assurance. “Everyone in the servants’ ’all reckons as yer goin’ ter win. That Mr. Uttley’s not near as clever as ’e thinks. Cook says as ’e’s overdone ’isself this time. An’ ’e’s not married neither, which Mrs. ’Edges says as makes ’im socially much sought after by rich ladies wif daughters, but they don’t trust ’im the same as a man wot’s got a family, like.” His cheeks were pink with exertion and excitement, and he stood very straight, his shoulders back.
“Thank you,” Jack said gravely. “I hope you are not going to be too disappointed if I don’t win?”
“Oh no, sir,” Harry said cheerfully. “But you will!” And with that he turned and went back through the green baize door to the servants’ quarters.
“Oh dear,” Jack sighed, resuming his way to the withdrawing room. “They are going to take it very hard.”
“We all will,” Emily agreed, going through the door as he opened it for her. “But it is hardly worth fighting for something if you don’t want it enough to care if you win or lose.”
He closed the door and they both sat down, close to each other, and tried to think of something else to talk about while the minutes ticked away and the hour hand on the gold-faced clock crept towards ten, and then eleven.
It was growing very late. There should have been a result. Both of them were acutely aware of it, and trying not to say anything. Their conversation grew more and more stilted and sporadic.
Finally at twenty past eleven the door burst open and Jenkins stood there, his face flushed, his tongue stumbling over his words in wildly uncharacteristic emotion.
“S-sir—Mr. Radley. There is a recount, sir! They are nearly finished. The carriage is ready, and James will t-take you to the hall now. Ma’am …”
Jack shot to his feet and took a step forward before even thinking of reaching back for Emily, but she had also risen. Her legs weak with tension, she was only a yard behind him.
“Thank you,” Jack said a great deal less calmly than he had intended. “Yes, thank you. We’ll go.” He held out his hand towards Emily, then hurried to the front door without bothering to take his coat.
They rode in silence in the carriage, each craning forward as if they might see something, although there was nothing but the sweep of street lamps ahead of them and the moving lights of carriages as others hastened on this most tumultuous of nights.
At the hall where the ballots were being counted they alighted and with thumping hearts mounted the steps and went in the doors. Immediately a hush fell over at least half the assembled people. Faces turned, there was a buzz of excitement. Only the counters remained, heads bent, fingers flying through the sheaves of paper, stacks growing before them.
“Third time!” a little man hissed with unbearable tension in his voice.
Emily gripped Jack’s arm so tightly he winced, but she did not let go.
Over at the far end of the hall Nigel Uttley stood glowering, his face pale and strained. He still expected to win, but he had not foreseen that it would be close. He had thought to have an easy victory. His supporters were standing in anxious groups, huddled together, shooting occasional glances at the tables and the piles of papers.
Jack’s supporters also stood close, but they had not in honesty thought to win, and now the possibility was there and real. The die was cast, and they would know the verdict any moment.
