A Marriage of Attachment: a sequel to A Contrary Wind (Mansfield Trilogy Book 2)

countrymen? Why is he not here to give an audience to their cries for assistance? Is his faction so indifferent to the just claims of our citizens, that he will not even deign to give them a hearing?
“Where indeed?” muttered James Stephen to himself. He had been assigned to cross-examine all of Brougham’s witnesses, as though it was possible to deny the misery and hardship which stalked the land. If ever there was a thankless task, this was it. And while he faced down the angry crowds, and righteous members of the opposition, where was his chief? Still taking tea in Downing Street?
Stephen dashed off a short note and gave it to a messenger. “Tell the Prime Minister to come here immediately. Tell him to hurry. He must show himself if we are to survive.”
*    *    *    *    *    *    *
“Miss Price! Fanny!”
Fanny’s eyelids fluttered, and she became aware of William Gibson’s face peering closely into hers. She next realized he was lying at full length above her, but bracing himself to keep his own weight off of her.
“Fanny! Fanny! Please answer me.”
“Oh! Mr. Gibson! Oh!”
“Fanny! Thank heaven! You’re all right!”
“I must have fainted for a moment.”
“Several moments, actually.” The worst moments of my life, Gibson thought to himself. “Pray, allow me.” He winced as he rolled to one side, got up slowly and clumsily, then extended his hand to help her off the ground.
“What happened, Mr. Gibson?”
“You were speaking so intently to Mr. Bellingham you didn’t see me running across the park. Just as I caught up with you, I saw him point a pistol—at least I think I did—” Gibson stuck his hand in his own pocket and mimed the action. “That, and your scream, convinced me he was about to shoot you. I thought if I fell on him, he might discharge his pistol, even accidentally, so I decided I had better fall on you instead. Pray excuse me.”
Fanny began to shiver uncontrollably. Mr. Gibson had used his body to shield her from being hit by a bullet.
“Did he hit you? Oh, Mr. Gibson! Have you been shot?”
“No—that is—I don’t think so. I imagine it is the sort of thing a person takes notice of. I felt a heavy blow to the back of my head—I think he hit me with his pistol-butt. I am still seeing stars.” He felt the back of his head and winced again. “I shall have a considerable goose egg back there.
“Oh dear! I am so sorry!”
“Still, better than being shot, I fancy.”
“And where is Mr. Bellingham now?” Fanny asked anxiously, looking around.
“He ran. He turned and ran, that way,” Gibson gestured toward Westminster Cathedral.
Fanny clutched his arm. “Oh no, Mr. Gibson, we must stop him. He is about to kill someone, I know it.”
“Yes, he was about to kill you!”
“Yes, but you see, I refused to go with him. He wanted to prevent me from raising the alarm, so he couldn’t leave me at the shop. But I—I didn’t—I wanted to stop him, so I refused to go any further—”
Gibson looked at her in wonder. “Do you mean to tell me, you were deliberately trying to stop him, in spite of the fact that he threatened to shoot you?” He formed each word very slowly and carefully.
“Well, because... I thought he was going to shoot the Prince Regent, and that would never do, and then he didn’t stop at Pall Mall, but he came walking along this way, and I didn’t know when he might reach his target, so…”
Gibson turned visibly pale, closed his eyes, and wavered back and forth. “Fanny,” he said. “Fanny.”
Fanny felt chagrined. “Perhaps I acted very foolishly but—but— my brothers would have done the same. Or something even better.”
Gibson swallowed and nodded. “Would you mind—my hat—over there, on the ground.”
Fanny stooped and retrieved his hat, which he held in his hand rather than try and force on his aching head.
“By now, perhaps he has reached his real target. Did he say anything to you about his intentions, Fanny?”
Fanny closed her eyes, trying to recall Bellingham’s exact words. “He said, ‘I am already late,’ as though he had a specific rendezvous or opportunity in mind. And he said, ‘I am the instrument of justice. All will be well.’”
“Already late—he is most likely bound for the Houses of Parliament--they begin their sessions at four-thirty. Miss Price, I think you did it—you succeeded in making him late and you’ve prevented him from reaching his target in time. But I must follow him.” Gibson grabbed her by the arms and pleaded, “Fanny, please go back—quickly as you can. Your brother and Mr. McIntosh are searching for you. If you do not find them, then hire a cab and go home. Promise me. Do not linger in the park, it is no place for an unaccompanied lady.”
“But you are injured! Are you well enough to go in pursuit, Mr. Gibson?”
“I am sorry, but I must leave you. I must run!”
Fanny knew she was no runner, and could not possibly keep pace with Mr. Gibson’s long legs as he raced down George Street, to the palace of Westminster. Fanny stood and watched him until he disappeared from sight before turning to re-enter the park. She realized she was trembling like an invalid and her legs would hardly obey her. She pushed on, holding her shawl tightly around her, eyes downcast, looking at no one, for she did not know what she might do next—faint, or fall into hysterics, or just cry. She tried to draw long, deep, calming lungsful of air, but the housemaid had laced her stays particularly tightly that morning, and she could only take tiny shallow breaths.
She was terrified of the danger William Gibson was running toward, if he caught up with John Bellingham. Bellingham