Freed at last, the angry businessman expected Parliament to pay him one hundred thousand pounds for his losses and suffering—a ludicrously high figure. Gibson could think of many families who had suffered as much or more than Bellingham, who were brought to destruction precisely because of the policies of their own government. What about the fellows who’d signed up to fight for king and country three years ago, and shipped out to Europe under incompetent leaders who encamped them in a Dutch swamp, where they perished with fever? Where was the redress for the 4,000 dead soldiers? What did their families deserve?
Or, what of the merchants who, owing to the global trade blockade and counter-blockades, were bankrupted, with warehouses full of goods they could not sell? What about the potters, the weavers, the lace-makers whose materials sat unsold? The prosecution of the war worked directly against their interests. They were impoverished by the very government which taxed the rest of what little they had. There wasn’t enough money in all of England to repair every injustice. Yet Mr. Bellingham droned on.
“Finding myself thus bereft of all hopes of redress, my affairs ruined by my long imprisonment in Russia through the fault of the British minister, my property all dispersed for want of my own attention, my family driven into poverty, my wife and children needing support which I was unable to give—I ask you, Mr. Gibson, as a man, what would you not be willing to attempt, in your efforts to obtain justice on behalf of your children?”
“Your children? Pray, Mr. Bellingham, what are the birthdates of your children. How old are they?”
“Their birthdates? Well—what— James is eight years of age, I suppose, and John is six years old by now, and little Henry.... Henry is... You are not suggesting anything about the constancy of my wife, are you?”
“No, no, Mr. Bellingham. But you refer so repeatedly to your manly distress on behalf of your children. I find myself wondering what you actually know about them. Their birth dates, for example.”
“That is nothing to the purpose, Mr. Gibson. Nothing to the purpose at all.”
“I think it is to the purpose of testing the sincerity of your arguments.”
“Well, if you think my head can retain such trivialities, you cannot understand my hardships, my sufferings, the outrages—”
“If I cannot understand after listening to you talk for three hours without ceasing, I fear I shall never understand, Mr. Bellingham. I am sorry to say, I agree with your friends—had you employed as much industry, ingenuity and energy toward repairing your fortunes, as you have done in resenting the past, you and your family would be in a better position than you find yourself in today.”
Mr. Bellingham drew himself up, and scowled.
“Sir! I am sorry to discover in you, another one of those toad-eaters who will not speak up against this administration. You will curry favour with the powerful rather than help the oppressed.”
Another man might have resented the slur, but Mr. Gibson only laughed. “Indeed, Mr. Bellingham. You have sketched me perfectly.
“Sir,” he added, rising and offering his hand. “I wish you well. I wish you very well, and prosperous, and happy. And if I can do you any good turn, it would be my pleasure to do so, for the sake of your family—for young James, John, and little Henry. I shall not forget your story, but I can make no promises of any kind toward obtaining redress for you. Good day, sir.”
“If my own government refuses to do me justice, Mr. Gibson, I will act as an honest Englishman. Soon I shall force the government to give me a hearing. Good day to you, sir.”
* * * * * * *
Lady Delingpole, relaxing in her chamber, engrossed in her novel, suddenly became aware of her husband’s voice and realized he was at her elbow.
“....So—are you at home for the gentleman? I almost said ‘yes’ on your behalf, knowing you to be very fond of him, but thought I had better confirm.”
“I regret I was unable to give you my full attention at the very instant you wished to claim it, dear, but, as you may have observed, I was looking at a book, and, as you might have surmised, I was in fact, reading the book, therefore, you must give me a moment—of whom am I fond?”
“Oh—I must start again, must I? Well, William Gibson has called, and wishes to present you with a copy of the annual report of the Society for—-confound it, you know, that society that Wilberforce and his Clapham Saints set up for the deserving poor.”
“Oh, excellent! Yes, I shall see him directly. Ring for Andrews, will you?”
William Gibson had not long to wait—not more than half an hour, indeed—before Lady Delingpole was graciously able to receive him.
“I wanted to thank you again, your Ladyship, for using your influence to arrange the visit from Mrs. Perceval to the academy. Our mutual friend Mrs. Butters also wishes me to convey her thanks. As is so often the case where you are concerned, your hand, the hand that guided events, was invisible. I am sorry to say, your name does not appear in my article.”
Lady Delingpole laughed. “I did hear all about it though, from Jane Perceval! I cannot wait to peruse your account of the proceedings!”
“Unfortunately, ma’am, propriety and discretion compelled me to leave out the most interesting parts.”
“Still,
