On the other hand, nobody likes the Prince Regent, including you, a cool voice inside of her head argued.
But, whether she liked the Prince Regent or no, was it not her duty as his subject to prevent an assassination? What the merest foot soldier in the Army would be expected to do? She thought of her brother William, who would not have hesitated for a second to put his own life in danger to save the Prince Regent.
The thought of William steadied her as nothing else could. Although she was breathless, and the blood pounded in her ears, she promised herself—should Mr. Bellingham try to enter Carlton House, she would struggle and scream for assistance.
And so she could not help thinking; a few more steps might end her life, in the few dozen yards still to traverse, this could be the last sight she beheld, these handsome white columns fronting Carlton House, these lovely, lovely trees lining the Mall, leafing out in pale green, and lit by the rays of the late afternoon sun. Never had the world looked so incandescently beautiful, so pulsing with life. A favourite poem sprang into her head:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
Yes, yes, she thought. The world is beautiful. And I may be about to leave it, forever.
Her captor continued to walk rapidly with her arm locked in his grip, his other hand in his pocket, and Fanny kept pace with him, afraid to look at the guards on either side of the entrance gate, standing at attention in their sentry boxes. A few more yards, just a few more, and we will be clear of Carlton House, and I will not be forced to risk my life, not quite yet, not now...
They were at one end of St. James’s Park, and Fanny saw small groups of people strolling about the lawns, a young boy rolling a hoop, and Mr. Bellingham hurried her on, past the Horse Guards, toward the Birdcage Walk.
* * * * * * *
“Here, Mr. McIntosh, draw up here, before we reach the shop,” Mr. Gibson, sitting beside the coachman on the box, laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Price and I need to make ourselves scarce first.”
Before the horses had even stopped, the carriage door swung open and John Price jumped out on to the pavement.
“Now, Mr. McIntosh, if you could kindly watch the door of that little shop there, and wait for Miss Price. Miss Price should be walking out with another lady, and, if all goes well—”
“Miss Price?” said a voice at John’s elbow. He looked down and saw a young boy. “Is this Miss Price’s carriage?”
Mr. Gibson, watching from the box, inwardly cursed the mischance that brought the landlady’s son out to the pavement, to overhear them. “Why, hello there...” he began uncertainly.
“Is Miss Price coming back, then?” the little boy asked. “I should like to have a carriage ride!”
“‘Coming back?’ What do you mean, ‘coming back’? Is she not in the shop?” Mr. Gibson asked, climbing down swiftly.
The little boy pointed down the street to the intersection. “I saw her. Her and Mr. Bellingham. They were crossing the street together.”
“Are you certain?” asked John.
The boy nodded.
An icy hand grabbed Mr. Gibson’s heart.
“Which way did they go?”
The boy pointed toward Pall Mall.
John said, “I will look in the shop, in case the boy’s mistaken.”
“Yes. Yes. That’s wise, Price. I shall pursue them on foot.”
“What’s this?” demanded Mr. McIntosh. “What have ye done with Miss Price?” But Mr. Gibson was already running down the street.
“Gibson!” called John after the retreating form, “if you do not see her, keep widening the search, keep going in wider circles! We’ll search with the carriage!”
“Can I go in the carriage now?” said the boy.
* * * * * * *
Her first trial had passed, but she was not out of danger.
If the Prince Regent was not his target, surely he was drawing ever closer to his real one. And that person or persons must be within walking distance.
Was he headed to Parliament? Or had they guessed wrongly? Perhaps his target was even closer, and someone would die, because she was too afraid to do anything. She greatly regretted not screaming for help when they passed the sentries at Carlton House and she berated herself for her cowardice. She was panting and holding her hand to her side now, struggling to keep up with Mr. Bellingham as he sped her along.
“A forced march is a most unpleasant thing, is it not, Miss Price? Imagine, if you were not strolling along this lovely, tree-lined walk, but instead, you were in St. Petersburg, possessing only the filthy clothes on your back, unable to clean yourself or make a decent appearance, and being compelled to march in miserable sleeting weather, through puddles and slush and mud, in company with the most degraded ruffians. Imagine yourself being laughed at and abused by the passers-by. Imagine yourself passing by the home of His Excellency the Ambassador, not once, but several times, and crying out in despair for his assistance, and receiving none. Imagine yourself running, fleeing, and escaping through the gates of his home, rejoicing in reaching safety and sanctuary at last, only to be returned—yes, returned by force—to the Russian bear!”
Fanny wondered, must I accept the fact that these are the last few moments of my life? She tried to prepare herself for the possibility and discovered she wanted to
