“You are home,” I murmured, reveling in the joy of having him inside me once again, in my arms and in my heart. “Please don’t ever leave me again, Ban. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Nor could I. No matter what my mother says—egad, I’m twenty-nine years old, not her suckling babe! I wanted you to join me in France, if you recall.”
“I could not,” I replied. “Later I will tell you why. Let me enjoy you now with no other thoughts than our mutual happiness.”
How I trembled to describe the dreadful journey I had endured on the open road that fateful night! I feared for certain he would bolt when I disclosed to him the nature of my subsequent infirmity, adding that my physician, Dr. Elliott, had admitted that the condition was likely irreversible. A brave, bold soldier would surely be repulsed by the news that his lover, once the toast of London, was now a cripple.
But I was happily mistaken. “You remember I once told you perfection was overrated,” said Ban. “After all, what call has an eight-fingered colonel to complain that his lover’s figure is imperfect? I blame myself!” he exclaimed, throwing himself to the carpet. Thus prostrated and genuflecting worshipfully before me, he declared his love unswerving. “You need never look to another for anything.”
Bold words from a bold man. Within the day he had moved into my Berkeley Square establishment. My dearest wish had been granted. Or had it? That night, he betook himself to Weltje’s and reunited with his wagering confederates. With a clearer head, I read between the lines. Ban had sought the shelter of my embrace—and my roof—because the precarious state of his finances would not permit him to lease rooms of his own. Once again I would struggle and scrimp to afford his habits, for a gentleman did not sully his hands with employment. But would I have been happier if an outbreak of war had ripped him from my arms? Most certainly not; and Ban knew it. He had betted on my too-devoted heart to deny him nothing. And damn the magnificent hero if he wasn’t right.
Twenty-four
Votes for Kisses
1784…age twenty-six
In March of 1784, Fox was embroiled in a rough reelection contest for MP of Westminster, and we did everything we could to support him. His East India Bill, calling for a separation of powers in India whereby trade would be controlled by the East India Company and the governance of the region by a committee of seven men (who turned out to be his cronies), had passed in the House of Commons the previous December. But the bill failed in the House of Lords after King George had unleashed his flaming sword, vowing that any member who voted for it would henceforth be considered a foe of the crown.
“Come—you must help me on the hustings,” Georgiana demanded. “We Whig ladies are to mount the election platform and court votes in every way we can.”
“I have heard of buying rounds of beer at the alehouses—”
“We’ll leave that to the men. I’ve got another idea brewing,” she said. “Who wouldn’t vote for our dear Mr. Fox in exchange for a kiss from a beautiful lady—especially an aristocratic one?”
“I doubt very much they would want one from me in my present condition. If they see me coming toward them with pursed lips, it might tempt them to vote for the opposition.”
“Bah! You are still a beauty, even if you must remain seated,” exclaimed the duchess. “You are ‘the Perdita.’ They once clamored to see you on the stage. They dreamed about holding you in their unworthy arms. What man would not willingly exchange his vote to kiss the same lips that were kissed by the Prince of Wales?”
I didn’t quite see it Georgiana’s way, but I agreed to help Fox if my lips were left out of it. “I’ll write his campaign songs—will that suit? Besides, Ban needs me, too, now. He’s standing for Parliament in Liverpool. I’ve promised to draft his stump speeches. Oh, Your Grace, I’m so frightfully proud of the man.”
I also became frightfully jealous when I journeyed with Ban to his birthplace and he ripped a leaf from Georgiana’s program, kissing all the pretty market girls—who of course had no vote! “I doubt their swains will plump for you now,” I fumed, “and they’re the ones who count.”
But it was impossible to remain angry with my lover when he took the hustings in full dress uniform, gallant and noble, and, appealing to the common man, held aloft his mangled hand, exclaiming, “For King and Country!”
It made a theatrical spectacle, but it was not enough to win the day. In fact, Ban came in third in a field of as many candidates. He demanded a recount, but the second tally left him short as well. With the top two vote-getters winning seats, my poor Ban was left out in the cold, and we limped back, rather literally, to London, where at the very least we could celebrate Fox’s victory. He’d barely squeaked by, but that was good enough for the Prince of Wales to host a lavish celebration in his honor at Carlton House. Six hundred guests, Ban and I among them, wore the Whig colors of buff and blue; and the prince opened the first dance with the Duchess of Devonshire, whose kisses no doubt garnered as many votes for Fox and his fellow Whig candidates as the number of vicious cartoons they prompted from the daily press.
Ban had lost more than the Liverpool election; he had lost a fortune, much of which was mine, during the costly campaign. Although he regained a considerable amount of money by beating the prince
