The maid bobbed a curtsey, saying nothing. But Selina noticed the girl’s eyes following her as she left the inn with her head held high. There was a light in them that, if Selina were vain, she would have called admiration.
It was oddly cheering. She might not be capable of winning elections – or dukes, for that matter – but one thing was still in her power. She could set a fine example.
For the admiring maid, for the worry in Anthea’s eyes, for disappointed women everywhere, Selina walked across the square to Twynham’s Town Hall with all the poise of a queen.
As they approached the hall, taking care not to leave the shelter of the large umbrellas the gentlemen were holding above them, her purposeful stride was interrupted by a young boy in knickerbockers and a rain-drenched cap. He dashed out of the hall so fast he almost crashed into Mr Forrester, and then with barely a nod of the head and a how-do-you-do he was off again, running through the puddles as though his life depended on it.
Selina held her skirts out of the way of the dirty water splashing up in the boy’s wake and started onwards again. Mr Forrester, alert as ever, laid a hand on her arm.
“Something’s the matter,” he said. “Listen.”
Selina cocked her head. A certain degree of hustle and bustle was always to be expected during an election, but the roar of noise coming from inside the Town Hall had a different tenor. Men were raising their voices, not in excitement, but in anger. Several gentlemen erupted from the Hall’s large doors, clutching their hats to their heads to keep them on, and hurried off in various directions.
“A riot?” Anthea’s eyes gleamed with excitement. She dug around in her reticule and withdrew a notebook and a pencil. “How thrilling!”
“Wait.” Selina knew all too well that Anthea was liable to fling herself into the most dangerous circumstances to dig up a thrilling story for her readers. She turned to Mr Forrester. “Is it really a riot? Are we in any danger?”
“I don’t believe so,” he said, with a puzzled frown. “But something odd is going on, my lady. Perhaps you ought to wait here while Lord Louis and I –”
“Nonsense,” said Selina. She took the umbrella from him and swept forwards, taking Anthea’s arm as she went. “Nothing short of violence will keep me from witnessing what takes place here today.” She gave Mrs Forrester an enquiring look. “What do you say, Mrs Forrester?”
The diminutive woman summoned up a stock of courage much greater than anyone had suspected of her yet. She took her husband’s arm and looked up at him with such determination that he gave a start. “We are coming in with you, my dear. Lady Selina is quite right. Only the most dreadful danger would keep me from your side now!”
Mr Forrester coughed, his cheeks reddening. He avoided Lord Louis’s eyes. “Well, then. That settles it. Stay close to me, ladies. I will have you out of there at the first hint of –”
“Curse you!”
The words lashed out like the bite of a venomous snake. Selina was astonished to see that the speaker was none other than Mr Griggs, the portly and affable voter of Twynham.
“Curse you, Forrester!” he snarled, shaking his fist. “I don’t know how you did it, but upon my word – upon my life –”
He glanced over his shoulder, as if suddenly fearful of being overheard, shot Mr Forrester a glare that dripped with bile, and stormed off, his cane clacking violently against the cobblestones.
“What do you suppose that was about?” asked Anthea, as she scribbled down notes at furious speed.
Selina nodded Mr Forrester onwards. “We won’t find out standing out here in the rain.”
The Town Hall was a scene of total uproar. Men were shouting at one another, red in the face. Men were waving silver-topped canes in the air, hats fallen to the floor. Two gentlemen were being held apart by their friends, topcoats askew and fists swinging. But for the most part, the cries of outrage and raised fists were directed at the dais at the far end of the hall, where the Returning Officer had set up his table to count out the votes.
The bespectacled old official was finding his task significantly more difficult than usual, due to the pair of boots planted firmly across the tabletop. A pair of boots which must once have been very fine, but which were now scuffed and stained with fresh mud.
These boots rose to meet a pair of muscular thighs that Selina wished she did not find quite so familiar. A pair of kerseymere trousers were plastered to said thighs with rain. The shirt above them, still, by some miracle, belted close against the supple waist, was near-transparent from the soaking it had received. The rather fine topcoat which hung half-shrugged onto the heaving shoulders would never be the same again.
And Malcolm, hair flattened against his face, hat jammed upon his head at an angle that went beyond rakish and into the absurd, and cheeks reddened with the aftereffects of a monumental effort, raised his voice above the hubbub and roared out loud enough to quiet the outraged audience, “I say that these twenty men are not eligible to vote! And if anyone dares argue, I shall begin reading out the names and let the public form their judgement!”
The Returning Officer pushed his spectacles further up
