The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [153]
“Thank you,” Jack said gravely. “I hope you are not going to be too disappointed if I don’t win?”
“Oh no, sir,” Harry said cheerfully. “But you will!” And with that he turned and went back through the green baize door to the servants’ quarters.
“Oh dear,” Jack sighed, resuming his way to the withdrawing room. “They are going to take it very hard.”
“We all will,” Emily agreed, going through the door as he opened it for her. “But it is hardly worth fighting for something if you don’t want it enough to care if you win or lose.”
He closed the door and they both sat down, close to each other, and tried to think of something else to talk about while the minutes ticked away and the hour hand on the gold-faced clock crept towards ten, and then eleven.
It was growing very late. There should have been a result. Both of them were acutely aware of it, and trying not to say anything. Their conversation grew more and more stilted and sporadic.
Finally at twenty past eleven the door burst open and Jenkins stood there, his face flushed, his tongue stumbling over his words in wildly uncharacteristic emotion.
“S-sir—Mr. Radley. There is a recount, sir! They are nearly finished. The carriage is ready, and James will t-take you to the hall now. Ma’am …”
Jack shot to his feet and took a step forward before even thinking of reaching back for Emily, but she had also risen. Her legs weak with tension, she was only a yard behind him.
“Thank you,” Jack said a great deal less calmly than he had intended. “Yes, thank you. We’ll go.” He held out his hand towards Emily, then hurried to the front door without bothering to take his coat.
They rode in silence in the carriage, each craning forward as if they might see something, although there was nothing but the sweep of street lamps ahead of them and the moving lights of carriages as others hastened on this most tumultuous of nights.
At the hall where the ballots were being counted they alighted and with thumping hearts mounted the steps and went in the doors. Immediately a hush fell over at least half the assembled people. Faces turned, there was a buzz of excitement. Only the counters remained, heads bent, fingers flying through the sheaves of paper, stacks growing before them.
“Third time!” a little man hissed with unbearable tension in his voice.
Emily gripped Jack’s arm so tightly he winced, but she did not let go.
Over at the far end of the hall Nigel Uttley stood glowering, his face pale and strained. He still expected to win, but he had not foreseen that it would be close. He had thought to have an easy victory. His supporters were standing in anxious groups, huddled together, shooting occasional glances at the tables and the piles of papers.
Jack’s supporters also stood close, but they had not in honesty thought to win, and now the possibility was there and real. The die was cast, and they would know the verdict any moment.
Emily looked around to see how many people were here, and as her gaze passed from one group to another, she saw the light on coifs of gleaming silver hair on a proud head.
“Aunt Vespasia,” she burst out with astonishment and pleasure. “Look, Jack!” She pulled violently at his sleeve. “Great-Aunt Vespasia is here!”
He turned in surprise, and then his face broke into a smile of intense delight. He made his way over to her, pushing through the crowd.
“Aunt Vespasia! How very nice of you to have come!”
She turned and surveyed him with calm, amused eyes, but there was a flush of excitement in her cheeks.
“Of course I came,” she exclaimed. “Surely you did not think I would miss such an occasion?”
“Well it is … late,” he said in sudden embarrassment. “And I may well … not win.”
“Of