Southampton Row - Anne Perry [71]
“Yes,” he said gently, his body returning into its natural grace. “People laugh at him sometimes, and his political enemies harp on his age . . .”
“How old is he?”
“Eighty-three. But he still has the passion and the energy to go around the country campaigning, and he’s the best speaker in front of a crowd that we’ve ever had. I listened to him a couple of days ago. They cheered him to the echo. There were people who brought their tiny children carried on their shoulders, just so they could tell them one day that they actually saw Gladstone.” Almost unconsciously he put his hand up to his eye. “And there are those who hate him as well. A woman in Chester threw a piece of gingerbread at him. I’m glad she’s not my cook! It was so hard it actually injured him. It was his better eye, too. But it hasn’t slowed him. He’s still planning to go up to Scotland and campaign for his own seat . . . and help everyone else he can.” There was admiration in his voice, half reluctant. “But he won’t give in on the working week! Home Rule before everything.”
“Is there any chance of it?”
He gave a little grunt. “None.”
“You didn’t argue with him, did you, Jack?”
He glanced away from her. “No. But it will cost us dearly. This is an election every man wants to win, and neither party. The burdens are too great, and issues we can’t succeed in.”
She was momentarily puzzled. “You mean they’d rather be in opposition?”
He shrugged. “The Parliament won’t last long. It’s all to play for next time. And that could be very soon . . . even within the year.”
She caught an edge in his voice, something he was not saying.
He turned away and looked towards the fireplace, staring at the painting over the mantel as if seeing through it. “Someone invited me to join the Inner Circle this evening.”
She froze. Like settling ice she remembered what Vespasia had said, and the clashes Pitt had had with the invisible force of secrecy, the power that had no accountability because no one knew who it was. It was they who had cost Pitt his job in Bow Street and sent him almost fugitive into the alleys of Whitechapel. That he had emerged with a desperately hard-won victory, bought with the price of blood, had earned their unrelenting enmity.
“You can’t!” she said aloud, her voice harsh with fear.
“I know,” he answered, keeping his back to her. The lamplight shone on the black cloth of his jacket, stretching the weave with the tension in his shoulders. Why did he not face her? Why did he not dismiss it with the same anger she felt? For a moment she was not even sure if she had said no again, but she did not move, and the silence in the room was unbroken.
“Jack?” It was almost a whisper.
“Of course.” He turned slowly, making himself smile. “It all comes at a high price, doesn’t it? The power to do anything useful, make any real changes, the friendship of those you care about, and integrity to yourself. Without the right influence you can play at the edges of politics all your life and not realize until the end, and maybe not even then, that you haven’t actually changed a thing, because the real power has eluded you. It was always in the hands of someone else . . .”
“Someone anonymous,” she said very quietly. “Someone who is not what or who you think they are, whose reasons you don’t know or understand, who may be the reality behind faces you think are innocent, you think are your friends.” She stood up. “You can’t make bargains with the devil!”
“I’m not sure you can make political bargains with anyone,” he said ruefully, putting one hand on her shoulder and running it lightly down her arm so she could feel it through the silk of her gown. “I think politics is about judgment as to what is possible and what isn’t, and having the skill to see as far as you can where each road leads.”
“Well, the Inner Circle road leads to giving up your right to act for yourself,” she answered.
“Power in government is not about acting for yourself.” He kissed her softly and she stiffened for a moment, then pulled away and stared at