Hyde Park Headsman

climbed into his chair and picked up the spoon.

Emily met Miss Roberts’s eyes, and they both hid smiles.

Miss Roberts returned to the schoolroom.

The nursery maid departed with the pile of laundry to put it in the night nursery.

Emily turned to the nurse and held out her arms to take the baby.

“She’s just gone to sleep, poor little soul,” the nurse protested. She was a big comfortable woman who had been a wet-nurse in her youth, frequently taking the infants of noble houses into her own home to care for them and breast-feed them for up to the first year of their lives, or even longer, before returning them to their stately nurseries and the care of nannies, nursery maids and eventually governesses and tutors. She liked them best up to the age of about three, although she was prone to getting fond of an individual child and finding it hard to hand over her responsibility. Emily was not going to be refused. She wanted to hold the baby in her arms, feel its weight resting against her, touch its silken skin and look at the tiny face. She remained with her arms held out.

The nurse also knew better than to argue. She rose and passed over her charge.

Evie did not stir as Emily took her and rocked her gently. After several moments during which the nurse turned away and busied herself, although in truth there was nothing to do, Emily began to stroke the baby’s downy head, and finally succeeded in waking her up. She sat down in the rocking chair and started to talk to her, largely nonsense, and after about fifteen minutes—during which the nursery routine was set back, the nursery maid could not clear up, the nurse had nothing useful to do, and Edward finished his tea and became late for his bedtime story—eventually Evie began to cry.

This time the nurse’s patience was at an end. She took Evie without a word, dipped a piece of cotton in sugar water and popped it in her mouth, and quite firmly told Emily that it was time everyone resumed their proper duties.

Obediently Emily bade Edward good-night, without kissing him, which at first pleased him enormously, then on second thought left him feeling a little uncertain. Perhaps so much dignity was not really necessary yet? However, having made the decision he was not going back on it, especially in front of Roberts, whose opinion he valued. Tomorrow he would offer his cheek to be kissed, and thus have taken the initiative himself. That was an excellent solution. He went to bed well satisfied. Besides, the present bedtime story, about King Arthur, was a particularly good one.

Emily watched him go with a touch of emotion inside her, then, with a brief word to the nursing staff, turned and went back downstairs to wait for Jack.

He came in at about seven o’clock, having spent the whole day pursuing political affairs of one sort or another, and was delighted to forget them even for the short while before dinner and the arrival of another group to be pursued or persuaded. The date for the by-election had been set, three weeks from then, and his mind was fully taken up with preparations.

The following morning Emily was in the breakfast room, one of her favorite places in the house, when Jack came in carrying two newspapers. The room was octagonal with three doors, one of them to the small shaded garden to the east of the house, and the morning sun shone through the glass of that door onto the warm parquet floor and cabinets of delicate, floral porcelain against two of the walls.

“It’s all over the place,” he said, putting the newspaper on the corner of the table and regarding her gravely. “It’s still on the front pages of the Times.” She did not need to ask what he was referring to. The last subject they had discussed before going to bed had been the Hyde Park murders, and it required no explanation that he should continue now.

“What do they say?” she asked.

“The Times is largely trying to keep some sort of calm,” he answered. “One of the columnists is talking about madness, and saying it is on the increase. According to one of their correspondents there is some Viennese school of medicine which explains it all in terms of what happened in infancy, and talks of dreams and repression and so on.” He sat down at the table, reached for the bell, but before he could ring it the butler appeared. “Egg and bacon and potatoes, please, Jenkins,” Jack said absently.

“Cook has some very fine deviled kidneys, sir,” Jenkins suggested. “On a little fresh toast?”

“Does that mean you have no eggs?” Jack looked up at him.

“No sir, we have at least three dozen eggs.” Jenkins kept a perfectly sober face. “Shall I bring eggs, sir?”

“No, the kidneys sound excellent,” Jack replied. He looked across at Emily inquiringly.

“Fruit compote and toast,” Emily answered.

“Don’t you get bored with it?” He frowned, but his eyes were gentle.

“Not at all. Apricots, if Cook still has any left, Jenkins.” She could not permit Jack to know, and even less the servants, but she had every intention of getting her figure back to the exquisite shape it had been before Evie’s advent, and keeping it so.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jenkins still had difficulty in not calling her “my lady,” as he had when George had been alive and she was Lady Ashworth. He withdrew obediently about his errand.

“Probably no bacon,” Emily said with a smile. “What else?”

Jack was used to her patterns of thought. He knew she meant the newspapers again. The subject was far from exhausted.

“An eminent doctor gives his opinion as to how the crimes were committed,” he continued. “Not very helpful. One writer is convinced it is a woman—I don’t know why. Someone else has written about the phases of the moon, and predicted when the next one will occur.”

Emily shivered and pulled a face. “Poor Thomas!”

Jack looked at her gravely. “But mostly it is criticism of the police, their methods, their character, even their existence.” He let out his breath with a sigh. “Uttley has written a long article which the Times has printed, and I am afraid he is extremely hard on Thomas, although he doesn’t refer to him by name. Of course his purpose is to make political capital from his own ideas and he doesn’t care whom he hurts on the way.”