Fanny resolved to choose a moment to call for help when there were sufficient crowds nearby—when there were enough people to witness and hear and, she hoped, prevent Mr. Bellingham from escaping, if he made good on his threat to shoot her.
They were approaching a small crowd of men and boys gathered together on the pavement, some elegantly dressed, some of the labouring classes. She reckoned her best time had come, although her mouth was so dry from fright she thought she could barely speak to be understood.
“Mr. Bellingham!” She struggled and stopped walking.
“Miss Price, I believe I already explained to you the necessity for your silence.”
“Mr. Bellingham, I do not believe you are going to shoot me. You would not shoot a harmless, defenceless woman.”
His large hand, wrapped around her slender arm, tightened so much that she gasped in surprise and pain.
“You are correct, Miss Price, I would not ordinarily do such a thing, but these are exceptional circumstances.”
“Will you not confide in me? I know you have been sorely mistreated, but perhaps something can be done, even at this late hour.”
“Something will be done, Miss Price. I will do it. I am the instrument of justice. All will be well.” He jerked her arm. “Be silent and come with me. I am already late.”
“No, no I won’t, Mr. Bellingham,” answered Fanny with a quavering voice. “And if you do not stay with me, I will scream, loudly. And those men up there will come to my assistance.”
Mr. Bellingham glanced in their direction, then laughed. “Those men up ahead are gathering to watch a cockfight and I think they would be not at all interested in leaving off their entertainment to intervene in a dispute between us.”
“Well,” said Fanny, feeling extremely foolish. “Perhaps some of them will.”
“It pains me to be under the necessity of having to explain this to a lady, but the fact is, they will assume you are a whore, trying to gull me out of more money. Are you willing to risk your life upon their chivalry? I promised you, Miss Price, that if you were to impede me, I would shoot you.”
Indeed, had any passer-by closely observed them, they would have concluded that the lady was obviously in the grip of some strong emotion, perhaps even on the verge of hysteria, and the gentleman was only trying to reason with her. Fanny felt overwhelmed with despair at the conviction that what he had said was true—she had chosen the wrong time and place—those men would not come to her aid.
Fanny stood, hypnotized with horror, as Mr. Bellingham levelled the pistol in his pocket at her midsection and poked her with the barrel.
“The bullet to this pistol is half an inch wide, Miss Price. I fancy the wound will be so comprehensive, that you will expire quickly with little pain. I cannot say for certain, though.”
Fanny shook like a leaf. Will this be the last thing I see? The last thing I hear?—
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, and screamed. Her scream was a weak and kittenish one, because after all, she had never in her life really screamed before, and never would again.
A paralyzing force slammed into her. She felt herself falling, and the world went black.
Chapter Nineteen
“The Orders in Council and the American embargo threaten British commerce with complete and utter destruction. To prosecute the war in Spain against Napoleon, the government has beggared our Treasury, poured out the lives of our brave soldiers, and they hesitate not to neglect every interest, every domestic tie—to cripple, oppress, starve and grind down our own people.”
Lord Brougham, a leading Whig, with the wind of public opinion at his back, demanded that the House of Commons rescind an order by the Prime Minister to boycott all trade with France and her allies. The war against France, prosecuted for so many years, had exhausted the treasury but worse, involved all the western nations and their colonies in blockade and counter-blockade.
The public was thoroughly weary of war and angry at its leaders. Manufacturers suffered, merchants suffered, ships were idle and factories silent. Because so many people were affected, the debate brought a larger-than-usual audience to the House.
Brougham was youthful, handsome, eloquent, and ambitious. He had his witnesses at the ready, and the statistics at his elbow. The public gallery was packed with his supporters, as well as reporters from the daily gazettes, who hung on his every word as he described scenes of privation from all over Britain.
James Stephen, sitting opposite the speaker, glowered impatiently, while murmurs of approval for Lord Brougham floated down from the galleries above his head.
Stephen was an influential member of the government party—in fact, it was his book, War in Disguise, which had introduced the idea of capturing American merchant ships as part of prosecuting the war against France, a strategy which led to the global trade war. And now, America was on the brink of declaring war against England as well.
Brougham will let Napoleon take over the world, so long as he can buy some good French Burgundy, Stephen thought contemptuously.
But he was worried. Lord Brougham had arranged for representatives of the various British industries—pottery and plate, weavers and metalworkers, to testify in Parliament about the desperate hardships the government had imposed upon its own people. Stephen knew the Whigs believed they could pick off enough wavering Tories to call for a non-confidence vote and bring down the government.
“And where is their leader?” Brougham demanded, scanning the half-empty benches opposite him with contempt. “Where is the man whose policies have brought such disaster upon his own
