The Salon Of Lady Fox

That morning, as the previous morning, London was in turmoil.

A terrible tension had settled over the great city on April 18th. It was as if a dreadful storm was about to break. The citizens walked briskly and spoke with energy, often with worried or outraged expressions on their faces.

For the spies of the police force, it was like being a child in a candy shop where all the jars had been opened and left unattended. They no longer knew where to turn.

"Did you hear?"

"Of course! What a disgrace!"

"How could our officers have allowed such a thing?"

"What will happen now?!"

"Do you think the French will try to land troops on our soil?"

"Don't worry, my dear. The Royal Navy protects us!"

"No French ship will ever reach us. We are safe."

"Certainly, but still..."

In the streets of London, newspapers and pamphlets were being passed from hand to hand at a wild pace, even faster than money at a gambling table at Court. At the speed of a galloping horse, news of the peace treaty signed between Prussia and its enemies spread through the streets, salons, clubs, and cafés.

The excitement in the capital was such that one might have thought they were on the brink of a new civil war—or worse, a revolution! That excitement didn't fade away, even after two weeks.

Meanwhile, the great personalities of the realm, especially the women, hurried to invite the most prominent figures of the kingdom to their residences.

Among these figures was Lady Caroline Fox, wife of the Treasurer, Henry Fox.

At thirty-five, she was a woman of rare nobility, both in heart and blood. She was one of the daughters of the second Duke of Richmond, Charles Lennox, and thus a descendant of Charles II of England.

Yet, she owed nothing to him, for she had chosen to follow her heart by marrying Henry Fox despite the difference in age and status. Indeed, her father, though very wealthy by the end of his life, had come from a modest background.

As her father, the Duke, had forcefully told her, there was no way his daughter would marry the grandson of a farmer.

She hadn't listened and did not regret it, for she was happy.

The manor her husband had acquired nearly twelve years ago now, Holland House, was the most lively of them all. People often gathered there to discuss literature, philosophy, art, and, of course, politics.

It would be a mistake to think that because one was born a woman, one understood nothing of these matters.

In truth, it was a fascinating subject, provided one sought to understand the why and how. In this, Lady Fox's friends had an advantage, for they loved understanding what was happening around them and discovering the behind-the-scenes stories that journalists were not allowed to print in their papers and gazettes for fear of offending this or that person.

They didn't care about such threats and, without the slightest shame, spoke among themselves of all sorts of anecdotes that could prove precious and useful.

Often, they would pass this information on to their husbands, brothers, cousins, and fathers, but it wasn't always necessary, as the men frequently joined in these passionate and lively discussions.

"Is it true, Lady Fox, that His Majesty began to cry when he learned of the signing of this treaty?"

"Well, he placed a hand over his eyes and took a long time to respond to the Secretary of State for the Southern Department."

"My husband?" Lady Hester Pitt, William Pitt's wife, gasped in surprise, startling the child she held in her arms.

"Indeed, Lady Grenville! Has he said nothing to you?"

"To be honest," she admitted, "he didn't come home last night."

"Really? Fufu, does that happen often? You should be wary."

The women, easily grasping the innuendo, laughed heartily, though the laughter soon faded.

"You don't know my husband well," Lady Pitt replied with a tired voice having given birth just two weeks ago, and with a touch of melancholy. "He isn't like that, truly. But yes, it happens often, especially since the start of this war. He works very hard for the good of the kingdom. I fear for his health."

"That's true, madam," nodded the Duke of Newcastle gently, sitting in the most elegant manner, a steaming cup of tea in hand. "You know, and I believe everyone in London knows, your husband and I have many disagreements, but I must admit that no one at Court works harder than him. I wouldn't be surprised if someone told me that his speeches are longer than his nights. You should advise him to rest a bit."

"Oh, but I do, yet he is so stubborn. I fear this little one is already starting to take after him, isn't that right, John?"

The child, a year and a half old, looked up at his mother with large dark eyes inherited from his father. So far, he had been more interested in his mother's sublime pearl necklace than in what was happening around him—at least until the arrival of sweet, sparkling pastries that looked like precious gems.

"My Lord Duke," said Lady Fox, turning slightly to face the tall man, "you don't seem saddened by the end of this war. How is that? This Treaty of Berlin leaves our kingdom alone to face our enemies."

"Yes, why are you so calm?"

"Ladies, I am calm because I have absolute confidence in our armies and navies to defend us, regardless of the enemy or their numbers. Your husband, Lady Fox, is making tremendous efforts to provide additional funds to our armies, and your husband, Lady Pitt, is making equally great efforts to spend it all on our war."

"Ohohoh, how funny you are, sir!"

Lady Pitt smiled graciously, though she wasn't entirely sure if it was a compliment. She set her child down, who quickly toddled over to the table, trying to see the delicacies placed amidst large bouquets of colorful flowers.

"More seriously," resumed the Duke of Newcastle, adopting a more professional posture, "the reason I'm not worried for our kingdom is that we only have two real enemies: France and Spain. All the other great states that were at war with us are now satisfied, having gained land and gold by tearing apart Prussia. Now, they must digest their winnings. That's why they naturally came to us to end this conflict."

"Are you saying that the Holy Roman Empire, Russia, Sweden, and Austria no longer pose any threat?"

"None," confirmed the Duke, lifting his cup to his lips. "They couldn't care less about our kingdom. What interested these realms and empires were primarily Prussian lands. Except for Sweden, which wasn't quick enough to seize the opportunity, all are satisfied with this outcome."

"So," asked Elizabeth Montagu, much more a woman of letters than a politician, "this treaty is actually beneficial to us?"

"I wouldn't go that far, madam. In reality, it would have been far more advantageous for us if this war had lasted much longer. The longer the better, of course, without involving our troops—or as little as possible."

"Isn't that horrible?" she whispered as she thought about all those lost lives.

"Unfortunately, that's the reality, madam. The longer the war drags on in that part of Europe, the more our enemies, especially France, are forced to bankrupt themselves and keep their troops stuck in place. Because this war over Silesia ended prematurely, our enemies have been able to redeploy—if only partially—their troops to harm us. It's in this context that Admiral Hawke was arrested: because he miserably failed to stop a French fleet carrying a strong force."

"Ah, that's the matter my husband was talking about," said Lady Grenville.

"What did he say?" asked Lady Fox with sincere curiosity.

The Duke of Newcastle perked up, pretending to be more interested in the intoxicating scent of the tea served to him.

"He went to Plymouth to meet Admiral Hawke. He's very saddened by what's happening to him, just as he was when Admiral Byng was arrested and tried for his failure at Minorca. For him, it would be unjust for Hawke to be condemned for this failure."

The people present appeared uneasy at these words, as the Duke of Newcastle had been directly involved in the Byng affair, making him the main culprit of a disaster everyone wished to forget. Naturally, all eyes turned to him, but once again, he seemed unbothered.

"What happened to Admiral Byng," he said in a deep, steady voice, "has nothing to do with Admiral Hawke's case. I have no doubt that justice will prevail, and if not, I will support the petition for clemency that will undoubtedly reach His Majesty's desk."

"Thank you, my lord!" Lady Pitt softly replied, running an affectionate hand through her only son's hair, who was growing up so fast.

"But isn't it dangerous?" asked Lady Montagu, gracefully wiping a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of her plump lips that had escaped from a puff delicately sprinkled with chocolate. "Aren't you afraid our admirals might go mad at sea out of fear of ending up like poor Admiral Byng?"

Once again, awkward glances turned toward the Duke of Newcastle.

"It is indeed a concern. We cannot let this become a habit, or I fear the worst for our glorious navy. If Admiral Byng's unfortunate execution was a clear message to our officers to encourage them to do their utmost, a second Byng would be a threat, driving our admirals to undertake the worst follies out of fear of being dishonored and executed."

As he spoke these words, his expression transformed, and his gaze became colder than an eternal glacier. A wild thought crossed his mind.

Pitt, that madman, surely he wouldn't dare...

His lip trembled slightly, and his hands clenched around his cup. The hot liquid began to tremble as well and spilled slightly onto his crimson breeches.

"Are you alright? Did you burn yourself?"

"Ah, no! Ahem, forgive me! How clumsy! Kuhum!"

The man hastily grabbed a napkin to dab at his clothes, but the damage was done.

As he delicately patted the damp fabric, the politician's mind was racing. The more he thought about it, the more worried he became about what William Pitt might be plotting.

"I... I must apologize, I've just remembered I have an urgent letter to write. Ladies, gentlemen, please excuse my sudden departure."

The Duke bowed deeply, careful not to dislodge his imposing powdered wig, and excused himself, surprising everyone in the vast room bathed in light and spring fragrances.

He quickly reached his carriage and addressed the coachman without delay.

"To Whitehall."

"Very well, sir."

As soon as he was seated and the door closed, the coachman cracked the whip, urging the two horses forward. The carriage could be considered modest given its owner's status. It was black, lacquered, adorned with a few gold designs, particularly around the doors.

On both doors were his coat of arms, extremely complex as it depicted all the alliances forged over generations with the great families of England. This crest was also displayed on his impressive gold signet ring, which he only removed on very rare occasions.

Alone in the carriage, he curled up slightly, clasping his hands before his mouth as if in prayer.

Pitt, you wouldn't have this admiral condemned to drive all the others into madness, would you?

The more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed.

He knew how much that man wanted an all-out war with France. He knew he had nearly died of rage when the Duke of Cumberland signed that vile treaty at Kloster-Zeven, and he also knew that Pitt was ready to do anything to ruin France. And that was the fundamental difference between them: he was more reasonable.

There were certain lines that should not be crossed. Once that line was passed, he would say "stop," but not him. He wouldn't stop until France was brought to its knees. Eventually, even that might not satisfy him. He might want nothing less than the total destruction of that kingdom.

The problem was that, unlike him, Pitt was willing to do things that a man should not even consider.

To prevent the signing of the Berlin treaty, he had to turn a blind eye to a number of things. Being willing to assassinate a diplomat and frame someone else for it—that wasn't him.

He hadn't given that order, of course, but if his most loyal agent had decided to resort to such a shameful method, it meant that he himself was changing and becoming more like Pitt.

We cannot win the war at such a price! If that's the case, what's the point of winning? We would lose our identity, our pride as Britons, our honor! Even back then… Byng… no, long before that… How did I end up here?

Slowly, he buried his face in his hands as if to hide his features, ravaged by shame. He recalled his family motto: "no shame in loyalty."

Byng… I had already crossed the line, and for what? Simply to avoid facing my own responsibilities. It should have been me who was condemned, me and all those who hadn't provided the necessary means for that operation's success. What a disgrace! From the start, it was doomed to fail! And I knew it!

Slowly, he sat up straight and took five deep breaths to calm himself. He couldn't appear in such a state.

I must be sure of this man's intentions. Depending on what he says…

Between Holland House, located in Kensington to the west of Hyde Park, which roughly marked the boundary of London, and Whitehall, there were barely four miles (6.4 km), yet it took an excruciatingly long time to reach their destination.

He barely noticed how violently he was being shaken by the lamentable condition of the road. Potholes were everywhere, each deep enough to break a wheel or a horse's leg.

The carriage skirted the southern edge of Hyde Park, which led them onto the bustling Piccadilly. The street was particularly busy that day, but he hardly spared a glance for all the people coming and going.

Some were seated in the street, holding out skinny hands toward the passersby, hoping for a small coin to buy a piece of bread. There were also numerous women of ill-repute selling their charms, though they had none.

A grimace formed on his face as the carriage passed them. Unfortunately, it was such a familiar sight that it had become ordinary.

There was hardly a street in London where you wouldn't find a few of them. In some places, they were so densely concentrated that one might wonder if they were truly in the capital of the most powerful kingdom in the world.

There seem to be more and more of them, the old politician sighed silently. If we lose this war, how many more will there be?

In a sharp turn, the Duke of Newcastle's carriage entered The Haymarket, which was in no better condition despite the nearby St. James's Palace and the offices of the kingdom's most illustrious figures. There too, beggars, including maimed and penniless veterans of the War of Austrian Succession, sought to survive by any means.

Finally, after turning right at Charing Cross to avoid The Strand, which led straight to St. Paul's Cathedral and its famous dome, the carriage arrived at Whitehall.

There were many fine buildings with delicate facades, though some looked so old that they stood out in contrast. Perhaps that was the only real difference between old London and the young cities of New York or Boston. Here, there were ancient buildings that had witnessed countless kings, queens, and princes.

The entire street seemed dedicated to the smooth running of the kingdom, all the way to Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament.

"We've arrived, my lord."

Without a word, he opened the door and stepped into a magnificent building that housed numerous offices for an army of politicians and diplomats. Here, the kingdom's interests in the vast southern regions—from the Americas to Italy, including the Caribbean, France, and Spain—were defended.

With a brisk pace, he entered the building, ignoring everyone who greeted him. He had no trouble finding his way, having visited frequently. Like those people, he was deeply invested in foreign affairs.

With minimal announcement, he entered William Pitt's office.