The Dark Days Club by Alison Goodman
“I hope you are now recovered,” Selburn said, bringing her full attention back to the drawing room.
“Oh yes, it was a trifling matter.” She cast about for another subject, unwilling to lie again. “Do you plan to view the Society’s watercolors this month, Your Grace?”
“I do, although I must admit my taste lies more with the oils. I am hoping that Mr. Turner will be exhibiting next month at the Royal Academy.”
“You are also an admirer of Mr. Turner?” Helen leaned forward, one of her enthusiasms sparked. “I know he is not to everyone’s taste, but I find him brilliant. There is such excitement to be found in the wildness of his brushstrokes, and yet there is so much control of the medium.”
Selburn leaned forward too. “Indeed, his use of light is remarkable—”
The door suddenly sprang open. The two footmen in attendance stepped back, startled. A gentleman, not attired in evening dress but in crumpled breeches and jacket, strode to the middle of the room with such an air of import that it silenced all conversation.
“Why, Mr. Collison, we had given up on you,” Lady Farrington said.
“Forgive me, my lady, for my late arrival and disheveled appearance,” the man said. “But I bring terrible, melancholy news.”
Those gentlemen who had been sitting stood almost as one. Bad news, it seemed, must always be received standing, and in the last month there had been too many grim reports from the war against Bonaparte: the bloody cost of the victory at Badajoz and, in its aftermath, the shameful slaughter of its citizens by British troops. Were there more atrocities to come? Helen looked up at the Duke. His countenance was fixed, as if braced against Mr. Collison’s next words. He must have felt her gaze, for he glanced down and gave a small smile of reassurance.
“I have come from Parliament,” Mr. Collison announced heavily. “Lord Perceval has been assassinated. Shot dead in the lobby of the House of Commons.”
Helen drew in a short, shocked breath. The Prime Minister, murdered? She looked at the stunned faces around the room: like herself, they had expected war news, not something so close to home and so terrible—a direct attack upon the sanctity of government. One of the young Miss Cecils gave a loud moan and fell back in her chair, her breath coming in shrill sobbing cries, pale hands beating the air. Such a dramatic onset of vapors broke everyone’s shocked thrall. The ladies rushed over to her, fanning and calling for salts. The men, including Selburn, surged toward Mr. Collison, demanding more information. By rights, Helen should have been clustered around Miss Cecil with the other ladies, but she stayed on the sofa, listening to Mr. Collison’s report.
The details were few but painted a vivid picture. A man had approached Lord Perceval in the lobby of the House of Commons and, at close range, fired a gun. The bullet had pierced him though the heart. The Prime Minister had cried, “Murder, murder!” staggered, and then fallen to the ground. The perpetrator was found sitting nearby with the gun still in his hand. By all accounts, he was not an enemy of the state, but a respectable merchant by the name of Bellingham—an Englishman, by Jove!—with a grievance against his government. He had been taken into custody.
Amongst the exclamations of horror and outrage, Helen heard a few quiet comments. Who would replace Perceval as Prime Minister: Lord Liverpool or Melbourne? Or was this the Whigs’ chance to secure power? Politics, it seemed, did not stop to mourn.
Naturally, the party broke up soon after. The Duke left at the same time as Helen and her aunt, and stayed with them until their coach was brought around to the front door, handing both ladies into the cabin.
“Well, now,” Aunt said, settling back against the silk cushions as they pulled away. “The Duke has been most attentive, has he not?”
Helen looked back at Selburn standing on the gravel drive. He lifted his hand in farewell, his face solemn with the recent events. Helen raised her own hand. She could not help but admire him: he was a man who obviously felt deeply about the world but showed just the right amount of sensibility. Lord Carlston would have looked coldly upon the matter and made some caustic remark. No, that was not fair, Helen chided herself. She had seen his humanity all too clearly in that room in the Devil’s Acre. The Duke and his lordship were both men of deep feeling. She moved away from the window, breaking the strange pairing in her mind. Neither would be flattered to be in the other’s company.
“It is too bad that the party ended so soon, don’t you think?” Aunt asked, pulling the fur carriage rug higher over their laps.
“It could hardly continue, Aunt.”
“Yes, I know. This business with poor Perceval is terrible. I must say, though, I am glad we sent out the invitations to your ball this morning. One really cannot send out invitations the day after the Prime Minister is murdered.”
It seemed that Aunt did not stop to mourn either.
OVER THE NEXT few days, the horror of the assassination and the subsequent political unrest was the only topic of conversation at the assemblies and parties that Helen attended with her aunt. Even as they shopped for the ball, ordering bouquets and new glassware, the subject was overheard amongst the shopkeepers and lower orders. The sentiments expressed by those citizens, however, were not always dismayed or sorrowing. Sometimes they held a disturbing note of satisfaction.
“Mark my words, this could bring the Tories down,” Uncle said at breakfast on Thursday, the day before Bellingham’s trial. “With the King still indisposed, the Prince Regent will slide in his Whiggish friends before you can say, ‘God rest Perceval’s soul.’” He looked across his plate of gammon at Aunt. “You will not believe what I heard outside one of the low tap houses yesterday. Men were drinking to Bellingham. Toasting the blackguard as though he were some kind of folk hero! And the hatred for Perceval and his government—it was terrifying. I fear a mob is building.”
At the word mob, Helen paused in slicing a wedge from the breakfast seed cake. Was it possible that the Deceivers had orchestrated the Prime Minister’s murder to create a civil uprising? Lord Carlston said there were certain Deceivers that thrived on violence and the high emotions of a mob, but also that the creatures did not work together. Could there be another Deceiver motivation? It was a question only Lord Carlston could answer, but she had not seen nor heard from him since they had reclaimed Jeremiah’s soul. She resumed sawing through the sugar crust. For all her misgivings about his lordship and the Dark Days Club, this sudden silence was even more disquieting. Perhaps he had not recovered from the reclaiming agony. Then again, perhaps he was just busy defusing the dangerous emotions that had been aroused amongst the people. If that were the case, would he ask for her help? Part of her fervently hoped not, but she had to admit that another part wanted to be called into action. A shocking admission. She put the knife down and looked sourly at the wedge of cake. Too much self-knowledge did nothing for one’s appetite.
As was her usual Thursday practice, she and Darby visited Hatchards after breakfast, both keeping a sharp lookout for any reappearance of the shadow gentleman or Mr. Hammond’s carriage. There was, however, no sign of either, and they walked to the bookshop and back to Half Moon Street without any mishap or communication from the Dark Days Club. Helen could not shake her sense of unease. She considered sending a note to Lord Carlston via Darby—to the point of unlocking her writing desk and sharpening a pen—but decided against it. A letter would give the impression that she wanted to be involved.
Friday brought Bellingham’s trial. Its outcome was discussed at the dinner party that Helen and her aunt and uncle attended that evening, but the information passed around by the men at the table was largely secondhand and obscured by bombastic opinion. The later discussion in the drawing room between the ladies—waiting for the men to rejoin them after port—was far more interesting. One of them, Mrs. Forbes, had actually attended the trial, the excitement still evident in the quick flutterings of her red silk fan as she related the detail
“Mr. Bellingham pleaded not guilty,” she said to the ladies clustered around her chair, “although he had already confessed to the murder at the scene. His defense tried to argue insanity, but he would have none of it. He said that his government had failed him when he was wrongly imprisoned in Russia, and then refused to make him any reparation. It was enough for any man to take the law into his own hands, he said. The jury, of course, did not agree. They took only an hour to find him guilty.”
“I am surprised it took that long,” Lady Beck said.
Although everyone had already heard Mr. Bellingham’s sentence—death by hanging, with his body to be delivered for dissection—Mrs. Forbes announced it again with the death knell in her voice. A shiver of horrified delight ran through the women. The public execution had been set for the following Monday morning at eight o’clock outside Newgate Prison. A rather quick dispensation of justice, Helen thought: Mr. Bellingham had been tried and would hang within just one week.
“My husband and I have decided to attend,” Mrs. Forbes said. “I do like a hanging, and this one will be especially momentous.”
A murmur rose around the room, some scandalized at the intention, others expressing similar enthusiasm for such a spectacle.
“But surely you remember what happened five years ago,” Aunt said. “Haggerty and Holloway.”
A few of the older ladies in the room nodded gravely at her invocation of those two names. Messrs. Haggerty and Holloway had been found guilty of murdering a man on Hounslow Heath during a robbery, and the much-followed case had prompted forty thousand people to attend the execution. An incident in the huge crowd caused sudden, widespread panic, and thirty unlucky souls had been crushed to death, some of them women and children.
“Well, I am not intending to stand on the ground with the Great Unwashed,” Mrs. Forbes said briskly. “We will hire a room overlooking the gallows, have a spot of breakfast, and be as safe as you like.”
“Yes, yes, a wise decision,” Lady Beck said, the purple feather in her turban waving vigorously with each nod. “But you had best hurry for a room. I’ll warrant all the good ones will be gone by tomorrow.”
At eight o’clock on Saturday morning, the Right Honorable Spencer Perceval was interred. Kneeling in prayer in the library, Helen heard the bells of Westminster Abbey and St. Margaret’s Church toll as the funeral procession made its way from Downing Street. Under Uncle’s direction, the household had gathered for a solid hour of intercession for the Prime Minister’s soul. Lord Pennworth had wanted to follow the funeral procession as an official mourner and staunch Tory man, but the bereaved family had written back that attendance at the burial was to be a private affair. Uncle’s subsequent prayers were—to Helen’s ear—edged with a rather sulky pique.
After breakfast, Helen and Aunt had just taken their usual places on sofa and chair respectively in the drawing room when the doorbell rang.
“Are we expecting anyone, Helen?”
“No.”
They both watched the double doors. Finally footsteps were heard, and the doors opened to admit Barnett, a folded packet on his silver salver. “This was just delivered by footman for you, madam,” he said, bowing. “From the Lady Margaret Ridgewell.”
“Lady Margaret?” Aunt said, after Barnett had withdrawn. She turned the letter over in her hands. “Why does she write to me?”
“I don’t know,” Helen said. She clasped her hands together to hold back her impatience. Lord Carlston was finally making contact again.
Aunt slid her finger under the wafer and opened out the page. “Ah, she has written to me to request your company this afternoon. She proposes a drive with her and her brother to Richmond Park to take your minds off this melancholy day.” She looked up. “It is a little unusual. We have only just made their acquaintance.”
“True, but they are very pleasant, are they not?” Helen said, trying to keep her voice even. This was no excursion to Richmond Park. If she had to wager on a reason for the hurried invitation, it would be Bellingham’s hanging on Monday. Perhaps Lord Carlston wanted her to be part of his plans after all. “And they have Lady Jersey’s friendship and support,” she added, hoping that the reminder of the patroness’s endorsement would be enough to overcome the small irregularity of the invitation.
“Yes, they are very pleasant. Mr. Hammond, especially.” Aunt returned to the letter for a moment, then looked up again, a strange hesitancy in her manner. Helen read her aunt’s face: embarrassment. “My dear, what I am about to say may seem a little inelegant, but I think that you are mature enough to understand the realities of the world.” She cleared her throat. “Selburn seems to have an interest in you, and I know we both have high hopes in that area. Nevertheless, Mr. Hammond is a very genteel young man from a good family with solid property. Building a friendship with him and his sister would be most appropriate. Just in case.”
Helen nodded gravely, although the idea of Mr. Hammond as a husband seemed somewhat ludicrous. He was a pleasant man, of course, and worthy, but he suffered from comparison to more—she searched for the appropriate word—effective men. He was a follower, and Helen had to admit that she admired those who led.
Her aunt smiled. “Yes, I think you may go today. And we will send Mr. Hammond and his sister a card for your ball, too.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” Helen paused, wondering how to best handle her next question. She wanted Darby to accompany her, but it was not strictly necessary since Lady Margaret would be chaperone enough. She decided on the contrary course. “I will not need to take Darby, will I?”
Her aunt considered the implications. “I think it would be best if you did, my dear. After all, we do not know them very well.”
“Of course,” Helen said meekly.
“Now, what to wear,” Aunt mused. “Perhaps your burgundy silk would do well for the occasion—appropriately somber, but still with some color. Public mourning is so hard to manage in spring.”
Unable to help herself, Helen said, “More so in summer, don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes,” Aunt agreed. “One never feels inclined to grieve in summer.”
“DO YOU THINK we will come up against any Deceivers this afternoon?” Darby asked as she buttoned the back of the carriage gown. “I hope not. Neither of us is really prepared, are we? Mr. Quinn says I will need to be trained before I can take on the duties of your Terrene. But I am ready for it, my lady. Ready and willing.”
Helen twisted around to meet her maid’s eagerness. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves. Lord Carlston may want you to be my Terrene, but I have not even agreed to be a Reclaimer yet.”
Darby paused in her fastening. “Really, my lady? Forgive me for saying so, but you are acting as if you are part of the Dark Days Club already.”
“What do you mean?”
Darby gently turned Helen back around and resumed her buttoning. “Well, I have not seen you retreat from anything Lord Carlston has asked you to do. You even helped him save Jeremiah, and that was real Reclaimer work, wasn’t it?”
Helen opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. Darby had a point.
“What you and Lord Carlston did for that boy was marvelous, my lady.”
Helen craned around again. “Tell me, what did you actually see and hear? Did his lordship sing?”
“Sing?” Darby shook her head. “No, my lady, but he was chanting some kind of foreign words. You were too.” She tugged on the top of the sleeves, rearranging the gathers. “Did you not know you were doing it?”
“No.” Helen felt as if her heart had seized for a moment. She could not remember saying any words at all. “Did you see anything?”
“I did, my lady. There was a moment when his lordship said something that sounded final, like the end of a prayer, and I saw the boy lighten.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how else to put it. Then a calm came acr
“Is that why you would be my Terrene?” Helen asked. “Because it is God’s work?” She wished she had Darby’s steadfast belief in the sanctity of her gifts.
Darby brushed down the back of the bodice, then walked around to face Helen. “Mr. Quinn told me that your Reclaimer blood chose me to be your Terrene. It is a big thing to be chosen.”
“It is,” Helen said. “But I did not know I was choosing you for something so dangerous when I raised you to lady’s maid.”
Darby turned to the dressing table and picked up a pair of small garnet drop earrings. She held one up for Helen’s inspection. At her nod, Darby gently pushed the earring hook through the piercing. “I’ve been in service since I was fourteen, my lady. Until a month ago, I knew what was before me: keeping your ladyship’s wardrobe and keeping your ladyship well.” She flapped a hand, denying any discontent. “I’m blessed to be in such a position. But now I’ve been chosen to do something more. Something that is in service to the whole of mankind. Me! Jen Darby.” She inserted the second earring. “I don’t know why I’ve been chosen, but if the Lord wants me to help you, I can’t walk away.” She smiled, a rare impishness making her seem far younger than her twenty years. “And, in truth, being your Terrene is not too far from what I’m doing now, is it? I’m to keep you well and safe, and maybe stab you in the hand now and then.”
Helen laughed. “Darby!” She shook her head. “Truly, though, it is no joking matter. The Deceivers are deadly. Do you even know what you would have to do as my Terrene? Did Mr. Quinn tell you that I would have to bind you to me? Through alchemy?”
Darby sobered. “I do know. Mr. Quinn told me all about the binding and the duties and the dangers. He didn’t hold back, neither.”
“That may be so, but you have not seen these creatures,” Helen said. “They are so vicious and powerful. And you have not seen the effect they have on a Reclaimer. The madness that came over Lord Carlston . . .” She hugged her arms around her chest at the memory of his lordship’s brutal attack on his own man. He had lost himself within that bright blue glow of power. “It was terrifying to see him so, Darby. To be that untethered from one’s sense and intelligence—no, I cannot face that kind of horror.”