mind.”
Vespasia had no idea what she was referring to. She waited patiently, her face a mask of polite interest.
“If you had told me ten years ago that police would be having gun battles with anarchists in the streets of London,” Cordelia continued, “I should have said you were mad. Indeed, I would have said you were a political alarmist, almost certainly with some purpose of your own in trying to frighten people.” She took a deep breath. “Now we are forced to admit that it is the truth. There are madmen in our society who are bent upon destroying it, and the police need all our support, morally and materially.”
Vespasia thought of Pitt, whom she had known since her great-nephew had married Charlotte’s sister Emily. George had been killed, and Emily had married again, but the friendship had continued and grown stronger. “Yes, indeed,” she said aloud. “Theirs is a difficult and frequently thankless task.”
“And dangerous,” Cordelia added. “A young policeman was shot in the battle. But for the courage and quick thinking of his fellows, he would have bled to death there in the street.”
“Yes.” Vespasia had read the account in two newspapers. “But it appears he will recover.”
“This time,” Cordelia conceded. “But what of the future?” She looked at Vespasia earnestly, her face grave, her back ramrod stiff. “We need more police, and they must be better armed. We must not handicap them with antique laws framed for a more peaceful age. London is now teeming with foreigners of all sorts, men with wild ideas of revolution, anarchy, even socialism. And to institute their own insanities upon us they have made it plain that they intend to destroy what we have, and terrorize us into accepting their will.” Her eyes were brilliant with grief and rage. “As long as I draw breath, I will not let that happen! I will fight with every influence I have to see that we uphold and assist them to protect us and all we believe.” She watched Vespasia intently.
Vespasia felt a vague shadow of discomfort. It was so nebulous she could not be sure if it was something Cordelia had said, or the embarrassment of not being able to say anything that would address the real issue of her grief. Cordelia had had only one child, and yesterday he had been killed. Vespasia had several children and they were all alive and well. They were all married; she saw them seldom, but she kept a warm correspondence with each. It was absurd to feel guilty because she had so much more than this furious woman opposite her. Cordelia was trying to come to terms with her pain by turning it into anger, and a crusade, which would occupy her mind and her energy, and perhaps blunt the raw edge of her emotions with exhaustion.
Or if she were honest, Vespasia’s guilt was more truly for the sweetness and the intensity of friendship she had shared long ago with Sheridan Landsborough.
Cordelia was still waiting for some response to her words. Vespasia was not at all certain that she wished for a police force with more guns, but this was not the time for her to say so.
“I am sure after this tragedy we will find many people determined that our police will have every assistance we can give them,” she agreed.
Cordelia forced herself to smile. “We must see to it,” she agreed. “There need to be some changes made. I have scarcely had time to think of details, but every energy I have will be directed to that end. I am sure I can ask you to use your influence also.” She assumed agreement, and yet her eyes searched Vespasia’s as if she still required an answer.
Vespasia took a deep breath, doubtful of her own motives for being reluctant. Was it some genuine reason of political uncertainty, or her old dislike of Cordelia intruding? The latter would be shameful, and she felt the blood burn up her cheeks. “Of course,” she said too quickly. “I have not had time to think either, I admit. But I shall do. It is an issue that
Vespasia had no idea what she was referring to. She waited patiently, her face a mask of polite interest.
“If you had told me ten years ago that police would be having gun battles with anarchists in the streets of London,” Cordelia continued, “I should have said you were mad. Indeed, I would have said you were a political alarmist, almost certainly with some purpose of your own in trying to frighten people.” She took a deep breath. “Now we are forced to admit that it is the truth. There are madmen in our society who are bent upon destroying it, and the police need all our support, morally and materially.”
Vespasia thought of Pitt, whom she had known since her great-nephew had married Charlotte’s sister Emily. George had been killed, and Emily had married again, but the friendship had continued and grown stronger. “Yes, indeed,” she said aloud. “Theirs is a difficult and frequently thankless task.”
“And dangerous,” Cordelia added. “A young policeman was shot in the battle. But for the courage and quick thinking of his fellows, he would have bled to death there in the street.”
“Yes.” Vespasia had read the account in two newspapers. “But it appears he will recover.”
“This time,” Cordelia conceded. “But what of the future?” She looked at Vespasia earnestly, her face grave, her back ramrod stiff. “We need more police, and they must be better armed. We must not handicap them with antique laws framed for a more peaceful age. London is now teeming with foreigners of all sorts, men with wild ideas of revolution, anarchy, even socialism. And to institute their own insanities upon us they have made it plain that they intend to destroy what we have, and terrorize us into accepting their will.” Her eyes were brilliant with grief and rage. “As long as I draw breath, I will not let that happen! I will fight with every influence I have to see that we uphold and assist them to protect us and all we believe.” She watched Vespasia intently.
Vespasia felt a vague shadow of discomfort. It was so nebulous she could not be sure if it was something Cordelia had said, or the embarrassment of not being able to say anything that would address the real issue of her grief. Cordelia had had only one child, and yesterday he had been killed. Vespasia had several children and they were all alive and well. They were all married; she saw them seldom, but she kept a warm correspondence with each. It was absurd to feel guilty because she had so much more than this furious woman opposite her. Cordelia was trying to come to terms with her pain by turning it into anger, and a crusade, which would occupy her mind and her energy, and perhaps blunt the raw edge of her emotions with exhaustion.
Or if she were honest, Vespasia’s guilt was more truly for the sweetness and the intensity of friendship she had shared long ago with Sheridan Landsborough.
Cordelia was still waiting for some response to her words. Vespasia was not at all certain that she wished for a police force with more guns, but this was not the time for her to say so.
“I am sure after this tragedy we will find many people determined that our police will have every assistance we can give them,” she agreed.
Cordelia forced herself to smile. “We must see to it,” she agreed. “There need to be some changes made. I have scarcely had time to think of details, but every energy I have will be directed to that end. I am sure I can ask you to use your influence also.” She assumed agreement, and yet her eyes searched Vespasia’s as if she still required an answer.
Vespasia took a deep breath, doubtful of her own motives for being reluctant. Was it some genuine reason of political uncertainty, or her old dislike of Cordelia intruding? The latter would be shameful, and she felt the blood burn up her cheeks. “Of course,” she said too quickly. “I have not had time to think either, I admit. But I shall do. It is an issue that
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