A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(49)

“Here we are, then,” Toby said, leaning forward in his seat. He took his wife’s hand. “Shall I have the driver take you on to Wynterhall? Our trunks have likely arrived by now, and the house staff will be expecting you.”

“What do you mean? I don’t want to go on to the house, not alone. I want to stay here with you, and watch the proceedings.”

“Isabel, it’s only the nomination of candidates … a trifling matter of procedure and an excuse to tap a few kegs of ale. Not a referendum on the human condition. Besides, the hustings can become disorderly. This isn’t a scene for a lady.”

She peered out the carriage window. “But there are several ladies in the crowd already. Please, let me stay. If you like, I’ll sit in the carriage and watch from here. I want to witness the birth of your political career.” With a little smile, she added, “And I’d so looked forward to hearing your speech.”

“Had you?” Toby asked, suddenly wishing he’d prepared one.

* * *

Isabel asked the coachman to retract the landau top so she might enjoy the open air. From her vantage point at the edge of the square, she watched the crowd churn with anticipation. The taverns bordering the green were doing a brisk business, and the dry-goods merchants as well. Wandering piemen and orange-sellers hawked their wares in colorful song. Above all, a string of bright banners fluttered in the breeze. Bel had never attended a country fair, but in her imagination, they looked much like this.

A man wearing an outmoded jonquil-yellow topcoat mounted the hustings platform and called out to the throng. His voice was every bit as loud as his coat. Bel could tell from his proud bearing, he took his duties very seriously.

“All right, then,” he called. “We all know how this goes. As your returning officer, empowered by the sheriff to oversee this election, I’ve summat to read aloud.” He withdrew a folded sheaf of parchment from his pocket.

“Can’t we skip over that part?” a voice whined from the crowd.

“No, we can’t skip over that part,” the yellow-clad man mimicked back. He shook his clutch of papers and fortified his booming voice. “It’s procedure, you idiot. It’s government. It’s this paper what separates us from the heathens.”

Another bystander called out, “It’s that paper what makes you a pompous arse.”

“No, it ain’t,” a third shouted. “It’s that bloody coat.”

“Trust me, gents, it’s neither.” This came from a round-cheeked woman draped over the sill of a second-story window. “He’s a pompous arse, wearing nothing at all.”

The crowd roared with laughter, and the yellow-clad man’s face turned a violent shade of red.

“I only wish he’d read me that paper some night,” she continued. “Couldn’t be any more boring than his—”

Bel couldn’t make out the remainder of her remark. A fresh storm of laughter drowned it out. Still, she blushed as her mind filled in the blank.

“Enough!” the man in the yellow coat berated the crowd. “Drink your ale, you uncivilized idiots. And you, woman”—he waved a finger at the cackling figure in the window—“I’ll paddle your meddling arse six shades of red this evening.”

“Oh, Colin,” she sang out, fluttering her eyelashes. “Do you promise?”

When the crowd finally settled—several minutes later—the man in the yellow coat began to read. Bel understood why the crowd had protested the idea. First there was the writ calling for a new Parliament, and then the act against bribery. Then another man came forward, to administer the officer’s oath against bribery. And as the gears of government creaked along, the sun inched higher in the sky, baking the square with soporific heat. Soon the horses were stamping and whickering with impatience. The coachman’s head slumped to the side, and even Bel was swallowing back a yawn.

Finally, the yellow-clad returning officer put out the call for nominations.

“Montague!” the crowd roared as one. They repeated the name until it became a three-syllable chant: “Mon-ta-gue! Mon-ta-gue!”

Montague? Who was Montague, and why had Bel not heard of him if he possessed such a loyal following? She’d thought Mr. Yorke posed Toby’s only opposition. A bent, decrepit man mounted the platform, helped up the stairs by a man half his age and twice his size. He wore a faded Army redcoat with tarnished buttons and cuffs worn white at the edge. The crowd’s chanting increased in volume until he doddered to the center of the stage and snapped a military salute.

To a man, the assembled electors came to attention and saluted in return.

“All hail Madman Montague!” a man cried out from the throng.

The hulking man at the candidate’s elbow made a threatening gesture with his fist. “Don’t you be disrespecting the colonel.”

“Aw, come on. Ain’t as though he can hear me.”

The man in the yellow coat regained control of the stage. “Colonel Geoffrey Montague is hereby a candidate for the office of Member of Parliament.”

A general cheer rose up again. The old man saluted with even greater vigor, sending the epaulette of his uniform askew.

Bel understood it now. The crowd took amusement at this old man’s expense. He must present himself as a candidate in every election, with no serious hopes of winning, and the people of the borough took from him a hearty laugh. It was pathetic, really. Poor thing.