The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [152]
The day of the by-election was gusty with sudden showers and bars of brilliant sun. Jack was out as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and Emily could not remain in the house alone on tenterhooks, even though she knew she was of little assistance, and now even moral support was not enough to still the nerves.
Nigel Uttley was also out early. He was smiling confidently, chatting with friends and supporters, but watching him closely one might see that something of his former swagger was gone and there was an edge of anxiety visible in him now and again.
A few at a time those men entitled to vote went to the polling station and cast their ballots. They emerged looking at no one and hurried away.
The morning passed slowly. Emily moved from one place to another with Jack, trying to think of something to say that was encouraging without building his confidence when he could so easily lose. And yet as she watched the men coming and going, overheard snatches of their conversation, she could not help the surge of hope inside her that he would win.
And there was only winning and losing. Tomorrow either he would be a member of Parliament, with all the opportunity and responsibility, the work, the chance of fame which it afforded, or else he would be the loser, with no position, no profession. Uttley would be there smiling, confident, the winner. She would have to try to comfort Jack, to help him believe in himself, find something to look forward to, some other cause to build and care about and labor towards.
By a little after two o’clock she was emotionally drained, and the whole length of the afternoon still stretched ahead of her. By five she was beginning to believe that Jack really could win. Her spirits soared with hope, then plummeted with despair.
By the time the polls closed she was exhausted, untidy, and generally more footsore than she could ever remember. She and Jack went home in silence, sitting close together in a hansom. They did not speak. Neither of them knew what to say, now that the battle was over and only the news of victory or defeat lay ahead.
At home they had a late supper, too tense to enjoy it. Emily could not have said afterwards what it had been, except she thought she recalled the pink of salmon on the plate, but whether it had been poached or smoked she could not say. She kept glancing at the clock on the mantel, wondering when they would be finished counting and they would know.
“Do you think …?” she began, just as Jack spoke also.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing! It was of no importance. You?”
“Nothing much, just that it could be a long time. You don’t have to …”
She froze him with a look.
“All right,” he said apologetically. “I just thought …”
“Well don’t. It’s ridiculous. Of course I’m going to wait until the last vote is counted and we know.”
He rose from the table. It was quarter past nine.
“Well let us at least do it in the withdrawing room, where we can be as comfortable as possible.”
She accepted with a smile and followed him into the hall. Almost as soon as they were out of the dining room door Harry, the youngest footman, appeared from the archway under the stairs, his fair hair untidy, his face flushed.
“They’re still counting, sir!” he said breathlessly. “I just came back from the ’all, but I reckon as they done most of ’em, an both piles looks about the same to me. You could win, sir! Mr. Jenkins says as you will!”
“Thank you, Harry,” Jack said with a voice very nearly level. “But I think perhaps Jenkins is speaking more from loyalty than knowledge.”
“Oh no, sir,” Harry said with unaccustomed assurance. “Everyone in the servants’ ’all reckons as yer goin’ ter win. That