A Slow Paced Envy (6/15)
Sunday, July 16th, 2023 17:35![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fumblingmusingsA study of a potential Female England characterisation. Snapshots through the years showing how and where her attempts at parenthood and romance run dissonant to the reality of being the motherland of the world's largest empire. There's a lot of people in her head who don't belong there, and it soon becomes everyone else's problem.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Six: 1812-181, or the War of 1812
Somerset, England
Dearest Matthew,
Everyday news from home and my sister brings less and less comfort. In only two months this country has seen a year’s worth of news, none of it pleasant. I recount this to you, for I do not know what information is allowed in the household. Try and get a hold of the Bath Chronicle next time you are in town, as they usually have a helpful column on page two or three overseeing all news from Europe to the Americas as they hear it. They may be more accurate than I, hundreds of miles away in Spain.
First, nearly daily the Luddites seem to find a new target to vent their anger. Never would I think to see the day to agree with Lord Byron, to kill men for destroying a loom seems such an outlandish thing, and yet here we are. There must be dozens at this stage who are set to hang. I doubt they will be pardoned.
Secondly, the explosion in Felling was awful; they still have not re-opened the pit to recover the dead. I sent Evelyn my apologies - I understand the dangers of mining, I truly do - but she did not reply. I heard the youngest was eight years old.
Thirdly, I am sure the news of a great victory at Badajoz has spread somewhat like wildfire. We are making progress, though Antonio’s location is still an unknown factor to us. I suspect he is further north, in the Basque country. We will not have won any favours ensuring a love for us with this . This siege does not feel like a victory. The Earl constructed gallows to our men in the town square as a warning and publicly flogged the soldiers who had turned to beasts, if only to placate what few civilians that remain. The men lost their minds. I will never adjust to seeing that rage unfold, despite having lived it myself. I hope you never will either. They say it is understandable; five thousand men chewed up and spat out until they were piled so high at the base of the walls that the trenches were running red rivers. I will not soon forget it. Nor will I forget the sight of Wellington as he wept. Despite this, I could not find it in me to comfort him. It was his making.
Fourthly, and perhaps I should have begun my letter with this news, but I find thoughts come to me so scattered and haphazardly I must write them down as and when I am able, but some buffoon has only gone and shot the Prime Minister, and all over the damned Russians jailing him five years ago. The court only took a couple of days to decide to hang the man. There is talk of the head going to St. Barts. What funny things we do to the dead here. Lord Liverpool will try to replace Perceval, if my guess is correct (and it usually is).
Fifthly, I heard more riots were put down, this time in the Midlands. No work and no money and no food. Your mother tells me that the weather thus far has been abominable - barely breaching sixty even though it is June and with endless rains. Is Jack coping well? I cannot imagine it can compare to Botany Bay. This weather would be grim enough if not for these damned Orders in Council. What hurts France hurts us hurts all neutral countries and -
I will stop. Your Uncle will speak to Castlereagh, see what can be done. I would ask your Aunt - one Irish to another - but I know she holds him in contempt. I know your mother is not above reading the letters we send you, so I will leave it there.
I hear the baby grows fatter and happier by the day. He is good for her, I think, and it is a good thing for her not to be in Europe. I do not know what she would have done had she been at Badajoz with me. You and Jack keep her from much madness in the country, and I hope you know how much your Uncle and I rely on you for that task. Keep her focus on the baby, and what can be done domestically. For God’s sake. Surely she can tolerate taking you to Bath for a while whilst she schmoozes with members of parliament. She can be charming when she wants to be, and Bath is only up the road after all. Go to the Assembly Rooms. Be introduced to a pretty woman. You spend so much time either in England’s smallest city or in the wilderness of the colony. There is better company to be had than whomever your mother lets past the threshold. And if she does in fact read this letter, I guarantee she will see I am right, though she will take her time in admitting it.
I will write again when I can. I imagine we will be leaving soon to Salamanca. Long hours of marching await.
Yours faithfully,
Rhys.
Matthew read through the letter twice. He was by the orangery, chewing on cherries that had been picked that morning, sitting at a painted white metal table and chair. England had her entire garden re-done a few decades prior, taking care to make it look as natural and untouched as possible. It did not hold a candle to any garden in France, but Matthew suspected it was not trying to. He remembered her old garden, a neat Tudor design, perfectly symmetrical. All gone, ripped up to make space for trees and bushes and endless green space. The orangery, plus the more rustic cottage garden for growing food however, remained as it had been. When Evelyn had told Matthew so long ago that she had learned to grow food well, he took it to mean all those farming tools they used; he didn’t realise that she had also meant herself, literally.
He looked up at Evelyn, who was bent in half by the outdoor tap, washing the head of lettuce she would be cooking as part of tonight’s dinner. Lamb, suet dumplings, peas, lettuce. For all that Francis had made fun of her cooking, Matthew did not mind it at all. She cooked him hot meals, despite that not always being the custom here, and dinner had slipped later and later, going from three in the afternoon to six in the evening.
Jack was running back and forth along the grass. Chasing squirrels, from the looks of it. His too short legs meant he would never catch up. He was bundled up more than his brother or mother. He did not do so well in the cold, despite it being June. He was growing increasingly muddy, the ground sodden from endless rain. It was one of the few sunny days they had enjoyed this year. All three of them were looking rather pallid.
“Do you want to read?” Matthew asked Evelyn.
Mother harrumphed, either as a no or a confirmation that yes, indeed Uncle Rhys was right, and she had already read the letter before the intended recipient. She turned off the tap. It was water that came directly from the springs around Wells. As far as Matthew knew, it had never run dry. She wrapped up the leafy greens in a white towel, waving for Matthew to come over.
“Spin your arm around until I say stop. Wait. Go over there. Don’t splatter it all over me.”
Matthew did as he was told, feeling rather foolish as he swung his arm around and around and around. Jack saw, thinking the entire thing was hilarious, then ran close. He copied the movement, giggling loudly. Mother pulled Jack towards her, ensuring Matthew didn’t accidentally wallop his baby brother in the face.
“Uncle Rhys says that the battle -”
“Not in front of the baby.”
Matthew bit his tongue, then tried again. “He says you should take me to Bath.”
“You will not like it there.”
“Oh.”
“It is very beautiful, and old, and the water tastes of rotten eggs and blood.”
“Oh.”
She seemed to double back on herself, musing out loud, “I suppose we could do so. But I fear they will look at us like country bumpkins.”
“Aren’t we?”
She smiled, closed mouth and tightly, then waved a hand, letting him know he could stop rolling his shoulder. Jack reached up, taking a leaf to nibble on. He ate like one of those small mammals from his home with the pouches in their bellies.
“Are you lonely?” she asked Matthew, rubbing Jack’s back as he belched.
Matthew thought about it. “Are you?”
She sighed, fidgeting with Jack’s collar, trying to make it lay down flat.
“A little. I love you both dearly but… not the same as having people your own age.” She gave Matthew a look. “If you know what I mean.”
Matthew could no longer get away with saying he was Evelyn’s child in uninitiated company. It upset her, he could see, to deny the existence of such a connection, but claiming a boy of seventeen was somehow the child of a woman who appeared no older than thirty was impossible. A ward, was the current story. Same as Jack. It was useful, having two brothers in the army and navy. The excuses of far away flings and dead mothers served their purpose well enough. Matthew’s accent was hard enough to explain. Lord knew what Jack would sound like - his exclamations and mumblings and demands for attention had an interesting inflection, curling up at the end of sentence as if he were always asking a question.
Which he was, Evelyn had noted. Everything was to be queried. Why was his favourite word, right after yes, no and mama. He was happiest in Summer, providing the weather was good. This year was not proving to be not so. It had been cold, for England that is. April had barely seen temperatures go above forty degrees. The harvest this year would be bad. Still, England’s orangery did well enough to give them food which was otherwise inaccessible. Any leftovers were given to the parish poorhouse at St. Cuthbert’s.
“Well. If we were to go to Bath, I can think of one person who would like the warm water. Hmm?” England held onto Jack’s chubby fingers and he toddled from side to side, still a little uneven in his balance. He looked up at her, giggling and shying away into her white skirts, bashful and so sweet. His cheeks were bright red, a smattering of freckles visible against his darker skin. It was looking a little dry, lips chapped. She had almond oil and beeswax somewhere that would soothe the irritated skin, but even so, Evelyn’s gentle look cracked.
“He does not like it here; he needs to be warmer.”
Matthew chewed on his thoughts, unsure of what to say. Eventually he decided on, “He is happy when he’s with you. And we always feel more comfortable in our own lands.”
“You’re both a part of me. There is no… no distinction.”
Oh God, he was treading on fine ground. Luckily, Matthew’s little brother came to the rescue.
“Mama, up!”
She coughed, and Jack amended. “Please?”
Evelyn consented, getting down to hold Jack. Matthew did not miss her face screw up as she stood straight, lip trembling to stop a cry escape. She was still in pain.
“Bath?” Matthew asked again.
Evelyn sighed, and rubbed Jack’s back. It didn’t seem to occur to her that he was smearing mud all over her dress.
“Bath,” she agreed, then got an awfully queer look in her eye. Humour. Matthew could forget sometimes that she had the sense for it. “I will introduce you to some girls and boys. Maybe you can come home late one night.”
“That’s improper,” he stuttered.
She laughed. It sounded spiteful, but not at him, oddly.
“We are country bumpkins my darling. We do not fit in with high society.” Evelyn walked off, Jack in tow. “Take the vegetables inside Matthew. Chop chop!
*****
“Which one is he…”
“Sixty-nine.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
England patted Matthew’s leg. Jack was wriggling on his mother’s lap, defiantly chewing on her fingers. She didn’t seem to notice, or at least it was doing the job of stopping him from making a racket in the middle of Sunday service.
“Not long to go,” she breathed, so quiet even Matthew had to strain to hear her. There was a discomfort in his chest, a feeling akin to heartburn. He tried to tell himself that it was the bread, but had to admit to himself that he had been struggling with it for several days now. Weeks even.
The Dean stood in the pulpit of Bath Abbey, not looking up at the congregation as he spoke.
“… For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in the miry depths, where there is no foothold. I have come into the deep waters; the floods engulf me. I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for my God. Those who hate me without reason outnumber the hairs of my head; many are my enemies without cause, those who seek to destroy me. I am forced to restore what I did not steal…”
Evelyn sighed, looking down at the toddler on her lap and not even pretending to pay attention. She kissed him repeatedly, squeezing him close and revelling in having such a cuddly tactile baby.
Matthew, meanwhile, was thoroughly lost, hearing the words but not quite understanding them. England had never forced him to attend any Anglican service, but there were times when he needed to show face. He would willingly go, for more and more of his own people were reformed Christians, so it made sense for Matthew to attend. If only for practicality purposes. There was a Catholic chapel in Bath - the converted theatre on Orchard Street - though Evelyn was reluctant to let him go alone.
The Dean continued, stating, “I am a foreigner to my own family, a stranger to my own mother’s children,” making Matthew’s hands shake around the Bible. Evelyn took his hand in hers, Jack still gnawing on her left fingers, and squeezed. It struck Matthew that she was offering comfort as much as she was seeking it in return.
How othered the two of them felt from their own siblings.
England had heard these words of that psalm a thousand times, in English, in Latin, and even Greek or Hebrew. It was hard to listen after so long.
Thankfully, the service was short - an hour at most. And when everyone got up to leave, Matthew saw why Evelyn had insisted on bringing him and Jack.
An old man approached their pew, England standing up to greet him. He moved as if someone who had never quite fully recovered from a stroke. Matthew stood up as well, knowing he could not return to sitting until Evelyn had. He wished he could. The queasiness in his stomach was starting to make the abbey - beautiful as it was - look twisted and upside down. He gripped to pews, looking down at his feet, and tried to breathe normally.
“Captain Phillip,” England said graciously. Matthew did not often hear that tone from her. Captain who? “Good morning to you dear sir.”
“A fine morning to you as well Miss Kirkland. It has been too long since you have been to visit.”
“I am sorry to make you come in from Bathampton today, but I am glad you received my letter. I had so wanted you to see him again after all this time.” She smiled, bouncing Jack on her hip. “Do you recognise him? Sweet Jack?”
“He is much grown. Do you receive much news about the colony?”
“Whenever the ships return.”
The two spoke kindly, and Matthew was able to piece together that whomever this man was, he had been very important in the finding and retrieval of Jack. A retired naval officer. England was fond of her navy, far more than her army. She didn’t much trust them and their red coats. It seemed the love was reciprocal - more than once a man in uniform had arrived at the Estate or in London with a beautiful box of pearls for their nation.
Matthew grunted, shifting from foot to foot. The sickness was getting worse. He tried to stand straight. For how long has he watched England suffer, and yet continue on uncomplainingly? She would expect the same from him.
“My lady? My lady,” a voice cautiously called throughout the abbey. A young woman shuffled up the side aisle, politely dodging each person who was walking in the opposite direction. Anne, Matthew recognised. She was ostensibly Evelyn’s waiting woman, but Matthew suspected she crossed over into companion (and more) out of polite company.
Disgruntlement flickered across Evelyn’s expression. She looked back at Matthew, to see him wavering.
“Stand straight darling,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“My lady,” Anne huffed, red in the face. “I apologise for interrupting, but you must read this. A message from London. You have to read now.”
Evelyn took the parchment, opening it in front of the captain. She managed it quite well, considering she had a toddler in her arms.
“Is it about Spain?” she asked rhetorically. “Or Russia?”
She read the memo, gave a tiny, quiet gasp, then looked at Matthew again. He stumbled, but remained upright, waiting for terrible news. Swallowing, she looked back at Captain Phillip.
“You must excuse me, sir, for I have no doubt that you will hear about this in your own time. You need not hear it from me. Please give Mrs Phillip my good wishes.”
The man inclined his head, suspicious but knowing when not to push a subject, walked away, supported by his cane, then a lady waiting for him, who took his arm.
Slowly, like an old woman, Evelyn collapsed back into her pew. Matthew joined her, relieved to be off his feet once again. Jack began to mutter and mumble, restless and wanting to walk about. She let him slide to the floor, not looking at him. Instead, she looked over at the stained glass, at the painting of King Edgar being crowned. The last peace she had known at the time; with his death there was nothing but war and invasions to follow. It never ended.
“Anne, please take Jack back to the house. Let him walk as much as he can, let him tire himself out. Matthew will take me back.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Jack whined when Anne took his hand, pulling back to Evelyn. “Mama, you come too?”
His question made her dark eyes lighten, just for a moment.
“Sweet baby, you will be bored to tears with my tasks this morning. Go home with Miss Anne and I will be back soon.”
Jack made a distinct noise close to a whimper. Evelyn reached for him, the small boy barely reaching her hips even when sitting. “Hug? Oh, a big hug for my sweetheart,” she embraced him warmly, “Mattie and I will not be long. Go now. Mama will be home soon.”
With great reluctance, Jack pulled away, joining Anne and leaving with the crowd. Matthew remained seated with Evelyn until most, if not all the congregation had left the church. Jack waved goodbye to his mother, but she did not see it. Matthew returned the effort instead. The little boy’s face lit up, and waved more frantically. It wasn’t that Matthew ignored the boy, it was just that the slightest bit of direct attention made him brighten up and shine like the sun. He really was sweet.
England was folding, unfolding, reading, the refolding the paper over and over again, an anxious tick.
“What is wrong?” he asked England.
“Do you feel well?” she replied. When Matthew mulled over his words, Evelyn grew exasperated. “Do not lie to me. You must promise never to do that.”
“…My stomach is turning over.”
“Hmm.” She sat, thinking for a few moments more, then turned to face her eldest boy. Her eyes, emeralds even in her softest moments, were unflinching. “I imagine, darling, that there are foreign troops in your lands right now.”
Matthew’s stomach dropped. “What has happened?”
She began to tear the memo into tiny pieces, long talon nails catching and ripping the paper to ribbons. When she spoke, her voice was ice.
“The United States has declared war against Great Britain. This includes Upper and Lower Canada, the only piece of us that he can do harm to. News travels so slow, does it not? Stabbing me in the fucking back as half of Europe dies fighting a despot… What is wrong with him?”
A lot of things went through Matthew’s mind at that moment. Cursing his brother mostly. Understanding him, worst of all. And yet the only thing that came of out of his mouth though, was a thoroughly unhelpful,
“You can’t curse in a church.”
He cringed as soon as he said it. England had done much worse than simply swearing on consecrated ground.
Evelyn stood up and walked up and down the nave. Matthew remained seated, watching the woman dressed all in white flitter around like a ghost.
England had decidedly and definitively closed off her heart to Alfred. She did not want to see him; did not want to think of him; did not want him anywhere near her or the family. Trade was necessary, there was too much there to be entirely severed, but that did not mean she had to be kind to him. Why should she be kind? He had turned out to be no different than the rest of Europe; ready to abandon her the moment she refused to lay down and roll over and give others everything they could ever want. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.
To have someone she loved irrevocably, unconditionally, her baby, her love, her beautiful boy that she had so willingly died and been tortured for, to reject her completely for actions that she did not take… She had not harmed one single person in the colonies. Never.
He did not see it that way.
Inaction was just as bad as action. Supposedly.
She had loved him. Loved him to distraction. And it was not enough. And yet she remained enamoured with the idea of him. Of what had been. Because she had failed, she was in love and she had loved him and apparently did not say so enough. Was she bad at showing it? Was it her fault for not doing enough? What more could she have done?
And round and round and round the grief spiralled. England had tried very hard for decades not to let him occupy her thoughts, and indeed, France had taken up most of them in recent years. He was easier to hate. Easier to blame. And all that love she would pour elsewhere.
Her reluctance to care for Jack had melted away within a month. Now she was deeply jealous of those initial months he had spent with Ireland whilst she had wasted away in her room. Even now, when Erin bothered to visit - it was not to see her sister - it was to see the giggly little boy who liked to hide under women’s skirts.
She turned back to Matthew, whose pallor seemed awfully green. Stomach churning in dread, she knew what had to be done would only make him worse.
“Are you in pain?” she asked regardless.
He shook his head. Evelyn sat next to him once more. It had started raining outside, the pattering of rain against the windows louder than their voices.
“I do not have the manpower to fight him. He knows this. Otherwise impressment wouldn’t have been such an issue. If I had the men I needed, I would not take those runaways. And yet, why does he want to fight me? I have not interfered in any domestic affairs of his, I’m not encroaching on any land. We cancelled the Orders of Council days ago, but I know even when he hears of this, he will not stop. He is too proud. He will not stop. So what is to be done about it? You must have recognised by now, that during a war our people fight best with their nation next to them.”
Matthew frowned, confused. “You… he cannot hurt you here. And Jack needs you to be close.”
“Define ‘hurt’.” Her voice was decidedly flat. “But yes. I will stay. You, you cannot. You must go back home now. Remember everything your Uncles taught you? You are a man now, though it breaks my heart to admit it. You must go home and fight. The um… the Royal Scots are there, the King’s too, aren’t they? Yes, first and eight regiments… forty first too. That is good, they’re good.”
It did not strike Matthew as odd that she seemed to know exactly where her army was at any given moment. She knew more than she often let on. Easier to feign ignorance and meekness that way. She continued, screwing up paper and staring at the window’s, “The Bisshopp’s - their son Cecil - he’ll be made a lieutenant colonel, that is the inspecting field officer, for Upper Canada. I will send you to him. You can go together.”
The idea of being alone was terrifying. Since the end of the Seven Years War, Matthew had not been separated from Evelyn for more than a few weeks at a time.
“Don’t make me go alone, please, I’ve changed my mind.”
Her eyes watered. “Oh my darling. You must. Be brave for me. I cannot hold your hand now. Your brother is hurting you to hurt me. Push back. You are a part of me, you are yourself, but you are not him, nor will you ever be.”
Matthew bit his tongue, discomforted by her words in a way he could not put a voice to.
“Alfred wouldn’t hurt me.”
Shaking her head, Evelyn disagreed. “I believed the same thing. And then he murdered me. It is the way of nations. I had hoped our family would be different, and I failed. Therefore, your brother is dead to me. Remember that. He wants me off the continent and has too much ambition to see reason. He will use you to achieve his goal, and if he truly cared about you he would not declare war. The sick feeling in your stomach is an invasion. You never felt that with me, am I right? When you would run to meet me at the harbour, when you were still so small and New France, did you ever feel this ill? No? Then you know that this war is wrong, and he does not belong. Go home, push him out. If there is no other choice, then yes, call for me, but be patient and time it well. I will not be able to come for some time. You must do what you can with what you have been given. And I am so sorry my darling, but you will have very little.”
Matthew took her hands, gloved and pristine, and frowned. “I hate it when you talk like this,” he confessed.
Evelyn stared at their laps, then fell forward, bumping against her boy’s forehead.
“Me too.”
“You promise you will come if I call for you?”
She pulled Canada to his feet, taking him down an aisle until she found the window she was looking for. Mary, in her blue gown and bright yellow hair; God’s infant son on her lap with his shining bright halo. Even in the rain, the glass glowed.
England dropped the shards of the letter to the floor, scattering them underfoot.
“I swear it to you, Canada. You will go with my blessing, and with theirs,” she inclined her head towards the painted glass, “for whatever you deem that blessing worth coming from my mouth.”
Cupping his cheeks, Evelyn kissed his forehead, before moving to take his hands.
“I will speak to him if I can find him,” Matthew insisted. “I may be able to find a way out. If you give me permission for diplomacy, that is.”
Her eyes dulled. “You have my permission, although it is not worth much. You can try, sweet darling. You perhaps are aware of something I am not. After all, I know you write to each other still.”
Alarmed at being so calmly and yet threateningly called out, Matthew tried to pull back his hands, only to find his mother holding tight. She smiled, and it was not pleasant to look at. Her lips were very pale.
“I know you write. I understand. You did the same with me under Francis’ nose. You love him, I understand. But I am warning you to guard your heart.” Her smile turned dangerous. Fragile, like she was very close to becoming the little savage Francis would call her in his more verbose moments. Matthew had never had cause to be frightened of her, but in that moment, in that church, he found he very much was so.
“Do not betray me,” she stated, “not for him.”
“Yes mother.”
“Good boy.”
*****
Washington DC, USA
There had been no Battle of Leipzig. America and Canada’s troop numbers could never match the half a million soldiers on one open field. Neither was it the Battle of Paris. No grand ancient city was under siege. Just forts, settlements with barely a thousand occupants, and Catherine and Thomas Lundy’s house near Niagara Falls.
(Catherine was nice. Marching for miles had been exhausting, but the water she had offered had helped, if only for morale purposes. Between her, Laura, and Madeleine so long ago, Canada seemed to be making a habit of women making a name for themselves in war.)
But that was still an awful battle. Long. It had started in the evening through to midnight, in the dark and Matthew had been thrown at waves of too disciplined soldiers by a leader who was a better administrator than general. Two years of killing was enough. And they were starting to lose. Every day they retreated and regrouped. America was learning how to fight and well. It had frightened Matthew, who, after two years and several burnt towns, had finally called for help from England. With the news of Napoleon’s deposition, surely the Prime Minister would ask Wellington to come to Canada? With him, the dozens of regiments hardened by years in Spain and India would make all the difference, right?
Matthew’s troops were not much of troops, if he were honest. Everyone complained about it. And what British troops there were here were under-resourced and frustrated by the said Canadian militia.
Matthew had delayed it as long as he could. But this battle had only convinced him that he had made the right choice writing to her. He didn’t worry about Jack anymore - Uncle Rhys had returned from the continent, so it was not like the baby would be abandoned, and Aunt Erin, for all her bemoaning, really did have a soft spot for the happy baby when she found herself in his company. No, Matthew needed Evelyn’s attention now. All of it.
Evelyn had arrived in August, only not with any army regiment, but with her marines. This did not surprise Matthew - of course she had taken to the odd little rejects, neither fitting in with her infamous red coats nor with the blue blooded navy. Wearing red, white and black, she was more tightly bound up then Matthew had ever seen her, even in the days of her wearing wide skirts and tight stays, much different to the almost Grecian white slips she wore nowadays. She had appeared very torn when she finally saw him again after two years, looking rather worn down in a tired uniform. Impressed and in love with the sight of Canada in red, but miserable that he was wearing such a uniform in the first place.
She had always been reluctant for any of the colonies to be trained in the ways of war; whether this was just another mother frightened of losing her son in battle or England nervous of a rebellious colony, Matthew no longer knew.
It was all very complicated, but she had held him very tight the moment they were alone and away from the men from her navy. Of course she was travelling with a smaller group of soldiers, she would not be confused for any travelling party trailing behind a battalion, England was something precious to be protected. Even in uniform, she was unmistakably a small woman.
“You’ve done so well,” she had whispered, brushing her hand through Matthew’s filthy hair. “You pushed him back. Do not worry about York, do not worry about Halifax, do not worry about Quebec. Leave it to me now.”
“I never saw him. Not at York or Niagara. He was never far though.”
She nodded, then squeezed him tighter. “How much do you… Darling. I’m going to go to Baltimore, hopefully the capital will follow. Tell me, please, honestly, will you hate me if I kill him?”
Matthew pulled away from her, inspecting Evelyn’s expression. She looked very nervous for his answer.
“No matter what I say, you will not change your mind, will you?”
She swallowed, vulnerability beginning to freeze. She replied, “I didn’t ask for your permission. I asked if you would hate me.”
“You never told me why he killed you, that day.”
“I was in his way,” was her unsatisfying answer. “Matthew”-
“I had to drag you,” he burst out, suddenly too emotional for words. “It was so hard, carrying your body. He just left you -!” He cut himself off, choking. England was watching him carefully, lips pressed together. Matthew growled, stepping back and gesticulating wildly. He had a temper, England had learned. It took a lot to rouse it, but it burned just as hard as any nation she knew. “And now all of this, and after burning York and trying so many times with Kingston and Halifax… and he doesn’t even have the nerve to fight me in person! I don’t care anymore. If I had met him last month I would have tried to do the same as you. Fine. Kill him. I don’t care.”
Evelyn stared. “My poor darling,” she murmured. “I think you do care. Very much.”
Canada kicked the mud. “The older I become, you know, the more similar I think we are.”
“You and your brother?”
Interesting that, despite trying to not think of herself as Alfred’s mother anymore, she could not draw a line between the boys being brothers.
Matthew was baffled by her statement. “No? No, I meant you and I.”
Evelyn blinked, having nothing to say to such a thing. The only thought that came to mind was a quiet, but no less desperate, need to plead for forgiveness.
*****
“It is dreadfully ironic, I think. That our ministers are busy trying to broker a peace whilst we’re here, trying to murder each other.”
Alfred wriggled underneath her, hands scrambling up to push Evelyn away. The hands that were around his throat impossibly tightened, pulling his head up, only to slam it back to the ground. There were tears in his eyes, but Evelyn told herself that was from the burning buildings. He didn’t care that it was his mother choking him. She was a stranger to him, he’d said as much when he had shot her. She didn’t matter to him; he didn’t matter to her. She repeated this lie to herself, explaining away the tears with the smoke of the burning building. It was quite thick, and the air was heavy. A storm was on its way.
“But I am nice Alfred. See, I can burn cities without destroying civilian homes, unlike you. No, no, this is purely for the drama of it all. You set half of the Great Lakes on fire and I comprehend why you did such a thing, I do. Kidnapping men and making them serve on my ships is rather uncouth, I would be very angry too! But I swear it was for the greater good. You will understand one day I am sure, of the necessity of monstrous things to stop a dictator. And besides, most of them were British anyway - jumping from one ship to another doesn’t change your nationality! Running away like that… you would think they never wanted to be on a ship in the first place! Not like they had been conscripted drunk from the pub, goodness me, how tyrannical!”
Evelyn laughed, sarcasm leaking through. She choked on the laugh as Alfred grappled for something to grab. He would use it to smash her head in, Evelyn was sure of it. She squeezed his throat harder.
“You would kill me again if given the chance? You hate me that much?”
The smoke was stinging - making her tear up. That was all.
“I understand,” she insisted. “What you said, back then, there may have been some truth in it. So I have resolved to be better. Matthew called for me, and I came. I will never idly sit by again. I cannot change what the politicians say, I cannot make the world more just… but thank you Alfred, for showing me I can always strangle the fucker who hurts my children!”
America kicked, trying to buck off England, but she would not budge. She slammed his head down again, cracking his skull no doubt. His fingers gripped her wrists, desperately trying to pry her hands off him. Her hair had fallen out of its pinned state, manic and curled in the heat. She sniffed, muscles trembling she she choked the life out of Alfred. He could not fight back well; attacking capitals did funny and painful things to their body.
“I loved you,” she hissed. “I still love you. God above!”
Alfred watched her, his eyes red with broken capillaries and unfallen tears. Her hands loosened around his neck, and valuable oxygen came rushing into starved lungs. Neither moved, England still pressing down on his chest, hands still around his throat, a threat that she could resume killing him if he moved too abruptly.
“I loved you, Alfred. You cursed and killed me and now you look at me as if I am the one betraying you? How dare you! I wish it could have been different, that I could have done more, but all we have is what they give us. If you can show me a different way, then I beg you, do it. I told you, this world is yours Alfred. Be the grand hero from our stories. Alfred the Great, hmm? But you know, in that lovely head of yours, that they will make some silly peace where nothing changes and Matthew suffered for nothing.”
Alfred swallowed. “I didn’t want any of this,” he rasped.
“They made you, am I right?” England murmured, her non-query still audible over flames and collapsing beams. She shut her eyes when Alfred nodded, rocking and shaking her head. “Do you understand now? You call me a puppet, but all of us are. I wanted to protect you from it. I wanted so much to just be human for as long as… But we are not. As you say, I am an Empire. Everyday more people fall under my government’s jurisdiction, everyday I have people in my head who do not belong there. You must forgive me then, if I turn a blind eye where I can. It will drive you mad, Alfred, when your time comes, if you do not do the same.”
“…Not like you,” he gasped.
She was always so certain that he was destined to be a great power. The way she spoke of it with such sureness had embedded itself into Alfred from such a young age. It was true, because even someone as deluded as England could see it.
Evelyn stood up, her anger completely leached away.
“You are likely stronger than me,” she moaned, staring at her trembling hands. “I think I am too sentimental… for certain things. You never had that problem.”
Alfred sat up, feeling the back of his head for where England had smashed it against the floor. It came away red, but not enough to make him truly alarmed. Evelyn watched him with something akin to pity. He stared back at her, mouth open, catching his breath.
“Why did you stop?”
She sniffed, standing straight and pulling her red coat into place unnecessarily. Her hair was beyond rescue, but it almost always was. Exhausted, she leaned down, grabbed Alfred’s coat collar, and dragged him out the burning building. He yelped, twisting and wriggling, but she held tight, and was able to get him outside, throwing him down the steps. Considering that the city centre was burning, there was little chaos. Private property had been ordered to remain untouched, and the city had been evacuated before the first torches had been lit. This was not a raid done in the heat of battle, it was a cold, methodical warning.
That was all. A warning. Not a punishment.
England explained, looming high on the steps as the fire lit up the building behind her. “We are not staying. I have no desire to see you on your knees. I want nothing from you, I have no designs against you. I know you do not believe me, but I promise it is true. You hurt Matthew; I hurt you. You keep your anger directed at the right person, stupid boy. I burn this city, the houses and offices of great men, but I have no interest in occupying it. I just wanted you to understand - Alfred, I will not sit by anymore. Say you understand.”
The ceiling of the building inside collapsed, throwing out cinders and flames and smoke. England did not flinch, only continued to glare at America.
He nodded once more. Feeling little satisfaction, England held her arms open wide. “Am I the monster yet? Are you satisfied, I have shown you what lies beneath two hundred years of false mothering? The vicious, cold hearted and manipulative bitch? Is that what you see?”
Her anger began to rise again, but it was only from frustration, a feeling of being permanently misunderstood, both to herself and by others
“Tell me Alfred, have you ever once known who I am?”
*****
History Notes:
- All the things that Wales’ letter references happened in the first half of 1812.
- England was often made fun of in Europe because they ate dinner so early (get it? Afternoon tea?) and usually had cold meals whilst they were at it (no wonder we’re all so miserable). You can literally see it in Jane Austen’s novels by year of publishing as dinner grows later and later in the day.
- English versus French gardens: what’s better?
- Arthur Phillip was the first governor of New South Wales. He did… okay, all things considered. Coincidentally, Phillip did indeed retire and die in Bath.
- War of 1812… right. No, America’s war aim was not particularly expansionist, despite what some men in Congress wanted. Yes, Britain literally ended one of the causes of war like a week before America declared war, except they didn’t know until too late. No, neither side really achieved anything save some symbolic woohoos, but yes the US did get their national anthem and no more impressment (more Napoleon related than anything else), and yes Britain got to burn the president’s house and keep Canada to themselves. Still, Britain’s focus was always on Napoleon, not Canada. In 1814, when Napoleon was first deposed, there was talk of sending the Duke of Wellington and co. over, and he said he would go if he was commanded, but stated that the war was stupid, and Canada would be fine without him.
- Cecil Bisshopp was the heir to an Estate in Sussex - his letters can be read back and forth between him, his family, and his soldiers online. He died following a raid near Buffalo, which in itself was a retaliation for a raid on Newark (no not that one). Much of the War of 1812 was a ‘you burnt this so I’ll burn that’ kind of thing. Interestingly, Cecil’s family home would become home to Canadian soldiers during WWII.
- The Royal Marines are the bastard children of the army and navy, being a part of the navy and yet being trained soldiers and wearing red coats (called lobsters by the blue coated sailors… sad times). They were the ones firing off those rockets mentioned in the American National Anthem. Worth looking up what conflicts they have been informed in - will maybe inform why Evelyn is attached to them...
- Canada and his war time ladies.
- The fact that the Americans apparently never really tried the obvious to blockade the St. Lawrence river, which would have totally strangled any efforts of supply to Quebec, shocked Britain. They decided - just in case - to build a canal as an alternate source in case something ever kicked off again. The Rideau Canal took 20 years to build and was never used for its intended purpose, but the Brits did plop a bunch of people at its mouth to help populate the small settlement there and voila. Ottawa.
Link to Chapter Seven
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Six: 1812-181, or the War of 1812
Somerset, England
Dearest Matthew,
Everyday news from home and my sister brings less and less comfort. In only two months this country has seen a year’s worth of news, none of it pleasant. I recount this to you, for I do not know what information is allowed in the household. Try and get a hold of the Bath Chronicle next time you are in town, as they usually have a helpful column on page two or three overseeing all news from Europe to the Americas as they hear it. They may be more accurate than I, hundreds of miles away in Spain.
First, nearly daily the Luddites seem to find a new target to vent their anger. Never would I think to see the day to agree with Lord Byron, to kill men for destroying a loom seems such an outlandish thing, and yet here we are. There must be dozens at this stage who are set to hang. I doubt they will be pardoned.
Secondly, the explosion in Felling was awful; they still have not re-opened the pit to recover the dead. I sent Evelyn my apologies - I understand the dangers of mining, I truly do - but she did not reply. I heard the youngest was eight years old.
Thirdly, I am sure the news of a great victory at Badajoz has spread somewhat like wildfire. We are making progress, though Antonio’s location is still an unknown factor to us. I suspect he is further north, in the Basque country. We will not have won any favours ensuring a love for us with this . This siege does not feel like a victory. The Earl constructed gallows to our men in the town square as a warning and publicly flogged the soldiers who had turned to beasts, if only to placate what few civilians that remain. The men lost their minds. I will never adjust to seeing that rage unfold, despite having lived it myself. I hope you never will either. They say it is understandable; five thousand men chewed up and spat out until they were piled so high at the base of the walls that the trenches were running red rivers. I will not soon forget it. Nor will I forget the sight of Wellington as he wept. Despite this, I could not find it in me to comfort him. It was his making.
Fourthly, and perhaps I should have begun my letter with this news, but I find thoughts come to me so scattered and haphazardly I must write them down as and when I am able, but some buffoon has only gone and shot the Prime Minister, and all over the damned Russians jailing him five years ago. The court only took a couple of days to decide to hang the man. There is talk of the head going to St. Barts. What funny things we do to the dead here. Lord Liverpool will try to replace Perceval, if my guess is correct (and it usually is).
Fifthly, I heard more riots were put down, this time in the Midlands. No work and no money and no food. Your mother tells me that the weather thus far has been abominable - barely breaching sixty even though it is June and with endless rains. Is Jack coping well? I cannot imagine it can compare to Botany Bay. This weather would be grim enough if not for these damned Orders in Council. What hurts France hurts us hurts all neutral countries and -
I will stop. Your Uncle will speak to Castlereagh, see what can be done. I would ask your Aunt - one Irish to another - but I know she holds him in contempt. I know your mother is not above reading the letters we send you, so I will leave it there.
I hear the baby grows fatter and happier by the day. He is good for her, I think, and it is a good thing for her not to be in Europe. I do not know what she would have done had she been at Badajoz with me. You and Jack keep her from much madness in the country, and I hope you know how much your Uncle and I rely on you for that task. Keep her focus on the baby, and what can be done domestically. For God’s sake. Surely she can tolerate taking you to Bath for a while whilst she schmoozes with members of parliament. She can be charming when she wants to be, and Bath is only up the road after all. Go to the Assembly Rooms. Be introduced to a pretty woman. You spend so much time either in England’s smallest city or in the wilderness of the colony. There is better company to be had than whomever your mother lets past the threshold. And if she does in fact read this letter, I guarantee she will see I am right, though she will take her time in admitting it.
I will write again when I can. I imagine we will be leaving soon to Salamanca. Long hours of marching await.
Yours faithfully,
Rhys.
Matthew read through the letter twice. He was by the orangery, chewing on cherries that had been picked that morning, sitting at a painted white metal table and chair. England had her entire garden re-done a few decades prior, taking care to make it look as natural and untouched as possible. It did not hold a candle to any garden in France, but Matthew suspected it was not trying to. He remembered her old garden, a neat Tudor design, perfectly symmetrical. All gone, ripped up to make space for trees and bushes and endless green space. The orangery, plus the more rustic cottage garden for growing food however, remained as it had been. When Evelyn had told Matthew so long ago that she had learned to grow food well, he took it to mean all those farming tools they used; he didn’t realise that she had also meant herself, literally.
He looked up at Evelyn, who was bent in half by the outdoor tap, washing the head of lettuce she would be cooking as part of tonight’s dinner. Lamb, suet dumplings, peas, lettuce. For all that Francis had made fun of her cooking, Matthew did not mind it at all. She cooked him hot meals, despite that not always being the custom here, and dinner had slipped later and later, going from three in the afternoon to six in the evening.
Jack was running back and forth along the grass. Chasing squirrels, from the looks of it. His too short legs meant he would never catch up. He was bundled up more than his brother or mother. He did not do so well in the cold, despite it being June. He was growing increasingly muddy, the ground sodden from endless rain. It was one of the few sunny days they had enjoyed this year. All three of them were looking rather pallid.
“Do you want to read?” Matthew asked Evelyn.
Mother harrumphed, either as a no or a confirmation that yes, indeed Uncle Rhys was right, and she had already read the letter before the intended recipient. She turned off the tap. It was water that came directly from the springs around Wells. As far as Matthew knew, it had never run dry. She wrapped up the leafy greens in a white towel, waving for Matthew to come over.
“Spin your arm around until I say stop. Wait. Go over there. Don’t splatter it all over me.”
Matthew did as he was told, feeling rather foolish as he swung his arm around and around and around. Jack saw, thinking the entire thing was hilarious, then ran close. He copied the movement, giggling loudly. Mother pulled Jack towards her, ensuring Matthew didn’t accidentally wallop his baby brother in the face.
“Uncle Rhys says that the battle -”
“Not in front of the baby.”
Matthew bit his tongue, then tried again. “He says you should take me to Bath.”
“You will not like it there.”
“Oh.”
“It is very beautiful, and old, and the water tastes of rotten eggs and blood.”
“Oh.”
She seemed to double back on herself, musing out loud, “I suppose we could do so. But I fear they will look at us like country bumpkins.”
“Aren’t we?”
She smiled, closed mouth and tightly, then waved a hand, letting him know he could stop rolling his shoulder. Jack reached up, taking a leaf to nibble on. He ate like one of those small mammals from his home with the pouches in their bellies.
“Are you lonely?” she asked Matthew, rubbing Jack’s back as he belched.
Matthew thought about it. “Are you?”
She sighed, fidgeting with Jack’s collar, trying to make it lay down flat.
“A little. I love you both dearly but… not the same as having people your own age.” She gave Matthew a look. “If you know what I mean.”
Matthew could no longer get away with saying he was Evelyn’s child in uninitiated company. It upset her, he could see, to deny the existence of such a connection, but claiming a boy of seventeen was somehow the child of a woman who appeared no older than thirty was impossible. A ward, was the current story. Same as Jack. It was useful, having two brothers in the army and navy. The excuses of far away flings and dead mothers served their purpose well enough. Matthew’s accent was hard enough to explain. Lord knew what Jack would sound like - his exclamations and mumblings and demands for attention had an interesting inflection, curling up at the end of sentence as if he were always asking a question.
Which he was, Evelyn had noted. Everything was to be queried. Why was his favourite word, right after yes, no and mama. He was happiest in Summer, providing the weather was good. This year was not proving to be not so. It had been cold, for England that is. April had barely seen temperatures go above forty degrees. The harvest this year would be bad. Still, England’s orangery did well enough to give them food which was otherwise inaccessible. Any leftovers were given to the parish poorhouse at St. Cuthbert’s.
“Well. If we were to go to Bath, I can think of one person who would like the warm water. Hmm?” England held onto Jack’s chubby fingers and he toddled from side to side, still a little uneven in his balance. He looked up at her, giggling and shying away into her white skirts, bashful and so sweet. His cheeks were bright red, a smattering of freckles visible against his darker skin. It was looking a little dry, lips chapped. She had almond oil and beeswax somewhere that would soothe the irritated skin, but even so, Evelyn’s gentle look cracked.
“He does not like it here; he needs to be warmer.”
Matthew chewed on his thoughts, unsure of what to say. Eventually he decided on, “He is happy when he’s with you. And we always feel more comfortable in our own lands.”
“You’re both a part of me. There is no… no distinction.”
Oh God, he was treading on fine ground. Luckily, Matthew’s little brother came to the rescue.
“Mama, up!”
She coughed, and Jack amended. “Please?”
Evelyn consented, getting down to hold Jack. Matthew did not miss her face screw up as she stood straight, lip trembling to stop a cry escape. She was still in pain.
“Bath?” Matthew asked again.
Evelyn sighed, and rubbed Jack’s back. It didn’t seem to occur to her that he was smearing mud all over her dress.
“Bath,” she agreed, then got an awfully queer look in her eye. Humour. Matthew could forget sometimes that she had the sense for it. “I will introduce you to some girls and boys. Maybe you can come home late one night.”
“That’s improper,” he stuttered.
She laughed. It sounded spiteful, but not at him, oddly.
“We are country bumpkins my darling. We do not fit in with high society.” Evelyn walked off, Jack in tow. “Take the vegetables inside Matthew. Chop chop!
*****
“Which one is he…”
“Sixty-nine.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
England patted Matthew’s leg. Jack was wriggling on his mother’s lap, defiantly chewing on her fingers. She didn’t seem to notice, or at least it was doing the job of stopping him from making a racket in the middle of Sunday service.
“Not long to go,” she breathed, so quiet even Matthew had to strain to hear her. There was a discomfort in his chest, a feeling akin to heartburn. He tried to tell himself that it was the bread, but had to admit to himself that he had been struggling with it for several days now. Weeks even.
The Dean stood in the pulpit of Bath Abbey, not looking up at the congregation as he spoke.
“… For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in the miry depths, where there is no foothold. I have come into the deep waters; the floods engulf me. I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for my God. Those who hate me without reason outnumber the hairs of my head; many are my enemies without cause, those who seek to destroy me. I am forced to restore what I did not steal…”
Evelyn sighed, looking down at the toddler on her lap and not even pretending to pay attention. She kissed him repeatedly, squeezing him close and revelling in having such a cuddly tactile baby.
Matthew, meanwhile, was thoroughly lost, hearing the words but not quite understanding them. England had never forced him to attend any Anglican service, but there were times when he needed to show face. He would willingly go, for more and more of his own people were reformed Christians, so it made sense for Matthew to attend. If only for practicality purposes. There was a Catholic chapel in Bath - the converted theatre on Orchard Street - though Evelyn was reluctant to let him go alone.
The Dean continued, stating, “I am a foreigner to my own family, a stranger to my own mother’s children,” making Matthew’s hands shake around the Bible. Evelyn took his hand in hers, Jack still gnawing on her left fingers, and squeezed. It struck Matthew that she was offering comfort as much as she was seeking it in return.
How othered the two of them felt from their own siblings.
England had heard these words of that psalm a thousand times, in English, in Latin, and even Greek or Hebrew. It was hard to listen after so long.
Thankfully, the service was short - an hour at most. And when everyone got up to leave, Matthew saw why Evelyn had insisted on bringing him and Jack.
An old man approached their pew, England standing up to greet him. He moved as if someone who had never quite fully recovered from a stroke. Matthew stood up as well, knowing he could not return to sitting until Evelyn had. He wished he could. The queasiness in his stomach was starting to make the abbey - beautiful as it was - look twisted and upside down. He gripped to pews, looking down at his feet, and tried to breathe normally.
“Captain Phillip,” England said graciously. Matthew did not often hear that tone from her. Captain who? “Good morning to you dear sir.”
“A fine morning to you as well Miss Kirkland. It has been too long since you have been to visit.”
“I am sorry to make you come in from Bathampton today, but I am glad you received my letter. I had so wanted you to see him again after all this time.” She smiled, bouncing Jack on her hip. “Do you recognise him? Sweet Jack?”
“He is much grown. Do you receive much news about the colony?”
“Whenever the ships return.”
The two spoke kindly, and Matthew was able to piece together that whomever this man was, he had been very important in the finding and retrieval of Jack. A retired naval officer. England was fond of her navy, far more than her army. She didn’t much trust them and their red coats. It seemed the love was reciprocal - more than once a man in uniform had arrived at the Estate or in London with a beautiful box of pearls for their nation.
Matthew grunted, shifting from foot to foot. The sickness was getting worse. He tried to stand straight. For how long has he watched England suffer, and yet continue on uncomplainingly? She would expect the same from him.
“My lady? My lady,” a voice cautiously called throughout the abbey. A young woman shuffled up the side aisle, politely dodging each person who was walking in the opposite direction. Anne, Matthew recognised. She was ostensibly Evelyn’s waiting woman, but Matthew suspected she crossed over into companion (and more) out of polite company.
Disgruntlement flickered across Evelyn’s expression. She looked back at Matthew, to see him wavering.
“Stand straight darling,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“My lady,” Anne huffed, red in the face. “I apologise for interrupting, but you must read this. A message from London. You have to read now.”
Evelyn took the parchment, opening it in front of the captain. She managed it quite well, considering she had a toddler in her arms.
“Is it about Spain?” she asked rhetorically. “Or Russia?”
She read the memo, gave a tiny, quiet gasp, then looked at Matthew again. He stumbled, but remained upright, waiting for terrible news. Swallowing, she looked back at Captain Phillip.
“You must excuse me, sir, for I have no doubt that you will hear about this in your own time. You need not hear it from me. Please give Mrs Phillip my good wishes.”
The man inclined his head, suspicious but knowing when not to push a subject, walked away, supported by his cane, then a lady waiting for him, who took his arm.
Slowly, like an old woman, Evelyn collapsed back into her pew. Matthew joined her, relieved to be off his feet once again. Jack began to mutter and mumble, restless and wanting to walk about. She let him slide to the floor, not looking at him. Instead, she looked over at the stained glass, at the painting of King Edgar being crowned. The last peace she had known at the time; with his death there was nothing but war and invasions to follow. It never ended.
“Anne, please take Jack back to the house. Let him walk as much as he can, let him tire himself out. Matthew will take me back.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Jack whined when Anne took his hand, pulling back to Evelyn. “Mama, you come too?”
His question made her dark eyes lighten, just for a moment.
“Sweet baby, you will be bored to tears with my tasks this morning. Go home with Miss Anne and I will be back soon.”
Jack made a distinct noise close to a whimper. Evelyn reached for him, the small boy barely reaching her hips even when sitting. “Hug? Oh, a big hug for my sweetheart,” she embraced him warmly, “Mattie and I will not be long. Go now. Mama will be home soon.”
With great reluctance, Jack pulled away, joining Anne and leaving with the crowd. Matthew remained seated with Evelyn until most, if not all the congregation had left the church. Jack waved goodbye to his mother, but she did not see it. Matthew returned the effort instead. The little boy’s face lit up, and waved more frantically. It wasn’t that Matthew ignored the boy, it was just that the slightest bit of direct attention made him brighten up and shine like the sun. He really was sweet.
England was folding, unfolding, reading, the refolding the paper over and over again, an anxious tick.
“What is wrong?” he asked England.
“Do you feel well?” she replied. When Matthew mulled over his words, Evelyn grew exasperated. “Do not lie to me. You must promise never to do that.”
“…My stomach is turning over.”
“Hmm.” She sat, thinking for a few moments more, then turned to face her eldest boy. Her eyes, emeralds even in her softest moments, were unflinching. “I imagine, darling, that there are foreign troops in your lands right now.”
Matthew’s stomach dropped. “What has happened?”
She began to tear the memo into tiny pieces, long talon nails catching and ripping the paper to ribbons. When she spoke, her voice was ice.
“The United States has declared war against Great Britain. This includes Upper and Lower Canada, the only piece of us that he can do harm to. News travels so slow, does it not? Stabbing me in the fucking back as half of Europe dies fighting a despot… What is wrong with him?”
A lot of things went through Matthew’s mind at that moment. Cursing his brother mostly. Understanding him, worst of all. And yet the only thing that came of out of his mouth though, was a thoroughly unhelpful,
“You can’t curse in a church.”
He cringed as soon as he said it. England had done much worse than simply swearing on consecrated ground.
Evelyn stood up and walked up and down the nave. Matthew remained seated, watching the woman dressed all in white flitter around like a ghost.
England had decidedly and definitively closed off her heart to Alfred. She did not want to see him; did not want to think of him; did not want him anywhere near her or the family. Trade was necessary, there was too much there to be entirely severed, but that did not mean she had to be kind to him. Why should she be kind? He had turned out to be no different than the rest of Europe; ready to abandon her the moment she refused to lay down and roll over and give others everything they could ever want. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.
To have someone she loved irrevocably, unconditionally, her baby, her love, her beautiful boy that she had so willingly died and been tortured for, to reject her completely for actions that she did not take… She had not harmed one single person in the colonies. Never.
He did not see it that way.
Inaction was just as bad as action. Supposedly.
She had loved him. Loved him to distraction. And it was not enough. And yet she remained enamoured with the idea of him. Of what had been. Because she had failed, she was in love and she had loved him and apparently did not say so enough. Was she bad at showing it? Was it her fault for not doing enough? What more could she have done?
And round and round and round the grief spiralled. England had tried very hard for decades not to let him occupy her thoughts, and indeed, France had taken up most of them in recent years. He was easier to hate. Easier to blame. And all that love she would pour elsewhere.
Her reluctance to care for Jack had melted away within a month. Now she was deeply jealous of those initial months he had spent with Ireland whilst she had wasted away in her room. Even now, when Erin bothered to visit - it was not to see her sister - it was to see the giggly little boy who liked to hide under women’s skirts.
She turned back to Matthew, whose pallor seemed awfully green. Stomach churning in dread, she knew what had to be done would only make him worse.
“Are you in pain?” she asked regardless.
He shook his head. Evelyn sat next to him once more. It had started raining outside, the pattering of rain against the windows louder than their voices.
“I do not have the manpower to fight him. He knows this. Otherwise impressment wouldn’t have been such an issue. If I had the men I needed, I would not take those runaways. And yet, why does he want to fight me? I have not interfered in any domestic affairs of his, I’m not encroaching on any land. We cancelled the Orders of Council days ago, but I know even when he hears of this, he will not stop. He is too proud. He will not stop. So what is to be done about it? You must have recognised by now, that during a war our people fight best with their nation next to them.”
Matthew frowned, confused. “You… he cannot hurt you here. And Jack needs you to be close.”
“Define ‘hurt’.” Her voice was decidedly flat. “But yes. I will stay. You, you cannot. You must go back home now. Remember everything your Uncles taught you? You are a man now, though it breaks my heart to admit it. You must go home and fight. The um… the Royal Scots are there, the King’s too, aren’t they? Yes, first and eight regiments… forty first too. That is good, they’re good.”
It did not strike Matthew as odd that she seemed to know exactly where her army was at any given moment. She knew more than she often let on. Easier to feign ignorance and meekness that way. She continued, screwing up paper and staring at the window’s, “The Bisshopp’s - their son Cecil - he’ll be made a lieutenant colonel, that is the inspecting field officer, for Upper Canada. I will send you to him. You can go together.”
The idea of being alone was terrifying. Since the end of the Seven Years War, Matthew had not been separated from Evelyn for more than a few weeks at a time.
“Don’t make me go alone, please, I’ve changed my mind.”
Her eyes watered. “Oh my darling. You must. Be brave for me. I cannot hold your hand now. Your brother is hurting you to hurt me. Push back. You are a part of me, you are yourself, but you are not him, nor will you ever be.”
Matthew bit his tongue, discomforted by her words in a way he could not put a voice to.
“Alfred wouldn’t hurt me.”
Shaking her head, Evelyn disagreed. “I believed the same thing. And then he murdered me. It is the way of nations. I had hoped our family would be different, and I failed. Therefore, your brother is dead to me. Remember that. He wants me off the continent and has too much ambition to see reason. He will use you to achieve his goal, and if he truly cared about you he would not declare war. The sick feeling in your stomach is an invasion. You never felt that with me, am I right? When you would run to meet me at the harbour, when you were still so small and New France, did you ever feel this ill? No? Then you know that this war is wrong, and he does not belong. Go home, push him out. If there is no other choice, then yes, call for me, but be patient and time it well. I will not be able to come for some time. You must do what you can with what you have been given. And I am so sorry my darling, but you will have very little.”
Matthew took her hands, gloved and pristine, and frowned. “I hate it when you talk like this,” he confessed.
Evelyn stared at their laps, then fell forward, bumping against her boy’s forehead.
“Me too.”
“You promise you will come if I call for you?”
She pulled Canada to his feet, taking him down an aisle until she found the window she was looking for. Mary, in her blue gown and bright yellow hair; God’s infant son on her lap with his shining bright halo. Even in the rain, the glass glowed.
England dropped the shards of the letter to the floor, scattering them underfoot.
“I swear it to you, Canada. You will go with my blessing, and with theirs,” she inclined her head towards the painted glass, “for whatever you deem that blessing worth coming from my mouth.”
Cupping his cheeks, Evelyn kissed his forehead, before moving to take his hands.
“I will speak to him if I can find him,” Matthew insisted. “I may be able to find a way out. If you give me permission for diplomacy, that is.”
Her eyes dulled. “You have my permission, although it is not worth much. You can try, sweet darling. You perhaps are aware of something I am not. After all, I know you write to each other still.”
Alarmed at being so calmly and yet threateningly called out, Matthew tried to pull back his hands, only to find his mother holding tight. She smiled, and it was not pleasant to look at. Her lips were very pale.
“I know you write. I understand. You did the same with me under Francis’ nose. You love him, I understand. But I am warning you to guard your heart.” Her smile turned dangerous. Fragile, like she was very close to becoming the little savage Francis would call her in his more verbose moments. Matthew had never had cause to be frightened of her, but in that moment, in that church, he found he very much was so.
“Do not betray me,” she stated, “not for him.”
“Yes mother.”
“Good boy.”
*****
Washington DC, USA
There had been no Battle of Leipzig. America and Canada’s troop numbers could never match the half a million soldiers on one open field. Neither was it the Battle of Paris. No grand ancient city was under siege. Just forts, settlements with barely a thousand occupants, and Catherine and Thomas Lundy’s house near Niagara Falls.
(Catherine was nice. Marching for miles had been exhausting, but the water she had offered had helped, if only for morale purposes. Between her, Laura, and Madeleine so long ago, Canada seemed to be making a habit of women making a name for themselves in war.)
But that was still an awful battle. Long. It had started in the evening through to midnight, in the dark and Matthew had been thrown at waves of too disciplined soldiers by a leader who was a better administrator than general. Two years of killing was enough. And they were starting to lose. Every day they retreated and regrouped. America was learning how to fight and well. It had frightened Matthew, who, after two years and several burnt towns, had finally called for help from England. With the news of Napoleon’s deposition, surely the Prime Minister would ask Wellington to come to Canada? With him, the dozens of regiments hardened by years in Spain and India would make all the difference, right?
Matthew’s troops were not much of troops, if he were honest. Everyone complained about it. And what British troops there were here were under-resourced and frustrated by the said Canadian militia.
Matthew had delayed it as long as he could. But this battle had only convinced him that he had made the right choice writing to her. He didn’t worry about Jack anymore - Uncle Rhys had returned from the continent, so it was not like the baby would be abandoned, and Aunt Erin, for all her bemoaning, really did have a soft spot for the happy baby when she found herself in his company. No, Matthew needed Evelyn’s attention now. All of it.
Evelyn had arrived in August, only not with any army regiment, but with her marines. This did not surprise Matthew - of course she had taken to the odd little rejects, neither fitting in with her infamous red coats nor with the blue blooded navy. Wearing red, white and black, she was more tightly bound up then Matthew had ever seen her, even in the days of her wearing wide skirts and tight stays, much different to the almost Grecian white slips she wore nowadays. She had appeared very torn when she finally saw him again after two years, looking rather worn down in a tired uniform. Impressed and in love with the sight of Canada in red, but miserable that he was wearing such a uniform in the first place.
She had always been reluctant for any of the colonies to be trained in the ways of war; whether this was just another mother frightened of losing her son in battle or England nervous of a rebellious colony, Matthew no longer knew.
It was all very complicated, but she had held him very tight the moment they were alone and away from the men from her navy. Of course she was travelling with a smaller group of soldiers, she would not be confused for any travelling party trailing behind a battalion, England was something precious to be protected. Even in uniform, she was unmistakably a small woman.
“You’ve done so well,” she had whispered, brushing her hand through Matthew’s filthy hair. “You pushed him back. Do not worry about York, do not worry about Halifax, do not worry about Quebec. Leave it to me now.”
“I never saw him. Not at York or Niagara. He was never far though.”
She nodded, then squeezed him tighter. “How much do you… Darling. I’m going to go to Baltimore, hopefully the capital will follow. Tell me, please, honestly, will you hate me if I kill him?”
Matthew pulled away from her, inspecting Evelyn’s expression. She looked very nervous for his answer.
“No matter what I say, you will not change your mind, will you?”
She swallowed, vulnerability beginning to freeze. She replied, “I didn’t ask for your permission. I asked if you would hate me.”
“You never told me why he killed you, that day.”
“I was in his way,” was her unsatisfying answer. “Matthew”-
“I had to drag you,” he burst out, suddenly too emotional for words. “It was so hard, carrying your body. He just left you -!” He cut himself off, choking. England was watching him carefully, lips pressed together. Matthew growled, stepping back and gesticulating wildly. He had a temper, England had learned. It took a lot to rouse it, but it burned just as hard as any nation she knew. “And now all of this, and after burning York and trying so many times with Kingston and Halifax… and he doesn’t even have the nerve to fight me in person! I don’t care anymore. If I had met him last month I would have tried to do the same as you. Fine. Kill him. I don’t care.”
Evelyn stared. “My poor darling,” she murmured. “I think you do care. Very much.”
Canada kicked the mud. “The older I become, you know, the more similar I think we are.”
“You and your brother?”
Interesting that, despite trying to not think of herself as Alfred’s mother anymore, she could not draw a line between the boys being brothers.
Matthew was baffled by her statement. “No? No, I meant you and I.”
Evelyn blinked, having nothing to say to such a thing. The only thought that came to mind was a quiet, but no less desperate, need to plead for forgiveness.
*****
“It is dreadfully ironic, I think. That our ministers are busy trying to broker a peace whilst we’re here, trying to murder each other.”
Alfred wriggled underneath her, hands scrambling up to push Evelyn away. The hands that were around his throat impossibly tightened, pulling his head up, only to slam it back to the ground. There were tears in his eyes, but Evelyn told herself that was from the burning buildings. He didn’t care that it was his mother choking him. She was a stranger to him, he’d said as much when he had shot her. She didn’t matter to him; he didn’t matter to her. She repeated this lie to herself, explaining away the tears with the smoke of the burning building. It was quite thick, and the air was heavy. A storm was on its way.
“But I am nice Alfred. See, I can burn cities without destroying civilian homes, unlike you. No, no, this is purely for the drama of it all. You set half of the Great Lakes on fire and I comprehend why you did such a thing, I do. Kidnapping men and making them serve on my ships is rather uncouth, I would be very angry too! But I swear it was for the greater good. You will understand one day I am sure, of the necessity of monstrous things to stop a dictator. And besides, most of them were British anyway - jumping from one ship to another doesn’t change your nationality! Running away like that… you would think they never wanted to be on a ship in the first place! Not like they had been conscripted drunk from the pub, goodness me, how tyrannical!”
Evelyn laughed, sarcasm leaking through. She choked on the laugh as Alfred grappled for something to grab. He would use it to smash her head in, Evelyn was sure of it. She squeezed his throat harder.
“You would kill me again if given the chance? You hate me that much?”
The smoke was stinging - making her tear up. That was all.
“I understand,” she insisted. “What you said, back then, there may have been some truth in it. So I have resolved to be better. Matthew called for me, and I came. I will never idly sit by again. I cannot change what the politicians say, I cannot make the world more just… but thank you Alfred, for showing me I can always strangle the fucker who hurts my children!”
America kicked, trying to buck off England, but she would not budge. She slammed his head down again, cracking his skull no doubt. His fingers gripped her wrists, desperately trying to pry her hands off him. Her hair had fallen out of its pinned state, manic and curled in the heat. She sniffed, muscles trembling she she choked the life out of Alfred. He could not fight back well; attacking capitals did funny and painful things to their body.
“I loved you,” she hissed. “I still love you. God above!”
Alfred watched her, his eyes red with broken capillaries and unfallen tears. Her hands loosened around his neck, and valuable oxygen came rushing into starved lungs. Neither moved, England still pressing down on his chest, hands still around his throat, a threat that she could resume killing him if he moved too abruptly.
“I loved you, Alfred. You cursed and killed me and now you look at me as if I am the one betraying you? How dare you! I wish it could have been different, that I could have done more, but all we have is what they give us. If you can show me a different way, then I beg you, do it. I told you, this world is yours Alfred. Be the grand hero from our stories. Alfred the Great, hmm? But you know, in that lovely head of yours, that they will make some silly peace where nothing changes and Matthew suffered for nothing.”
Alfred swallowed. “I didn’t want any of this,” he rasped.
“They made you, am I right?” England murmured, her non-query still audible over flames and collapsing beams. She shut her eyes when Alfred nodded, rocking and shaking her head. “Do you understand now? You call me a puppet, but all of us are. I wanted to protect you from it. I wanted so much to just be human for as long as… But we are not. As you say, I am an Empire. Everyday more people fall under my government’s jurisdiction, everyday I have people in my head who do not belong there. You must forgive me then, if I turn a blind eye where I can. It will drive you mad, Alfred, when your time comes, if you do not do the same.”
“…Not like you,” he gasped.
She was always so certain that he was destined to be a great power. The way she spoke of it with such sureness had embedded itself into Alfred from such a young age. It was true, because even someone as deluded as England could see it.
Evelyn stood up, her anger completely leached away.
“You are likely stronger than me,” she moaned, staring at her trembling hands. “I think I am too sentimental… for certain things. You never had that problem.”
Alfred sat up, feeling the back of his head for where England had smashed it against the floor. It came away red, but not enough to make him truly alarmed. Evelyn watched him with something akin to pity. He stared back at her, mouth open, catching his breath.
“Why did you stop?”
She sniffed, standing straight and pulling her red coat into place unnecessarily. Her hair was beyond rescue, but it almost always was. Exhausted, she leaned down, grabbed Alfred’s coat collar, and dragged him out the burning building. He yelped, twisting and wriggling, but she held tight, and was able to get him outside, throwing him down the steps. Considering that the city centre was burning, there was little chaos. Private property had been ordered to remain untouched, and the city had been evacuated before the first torches had been lit. This was not a raid done in the heat of battle, it was a cold, methodical warning.
That was all. A warning. Not a punishment.
England explained, looming high on the steps as the fire lit up the building behind her. “We are not staying. I have no desire to see you on your knees. I want nothing from you, I have no designs against you. I know you do not believe me, but I promise it is true. You hurt Matthew; I hurt you. You keep your anger directed at the right person, stupid boy. I burn this city, the houses and offices of great men, but I have no interest in occupying it. I just wanted you to understand - Alfred, I will not sit by anymore. Say you understand.”
The ceiling of the building inside collapsed, throwing out cinders and flames and smoke. England did not flinch, only continued to glare at America.
He nodded once more. Feeling little satisfaction, England held her arms open wide. “Am I the monster yet? Are you satisfied, I have shown you what lies beneath two hundred years of false mothering? The vicious, cold hearted and manipulative bitch? Is that what you see?”
Her anger began to rise again, but it was only from frustration, a feeling of being permanently misunderstood, both to herself and by others
“Tell me Alfred, have you ever once known who I am?”
*****
History Notes:
- All the things that Wales’ letter references happened in the first half of 1812.
- England was often made fun of in Europe because they ate dinner so early (get it? Afternoon tea?) and usually had cold meals whilst they were at it (no wonder we’re all so miserable). You can literally see it in Jane Austen’s novels by year of publishing as dinner grows later and later in the day.
- English versus French gardens: what’s better?
- Arthur Phillip was the first governor of New South Wales. He did… okay, all things considered. Coincidentally, Phillip did indeed retire and die in Bath.
- War of 1812… right. No, America’s war aim was not particularly expansionist, despite what some men in Congress wanted. Yes, Britain literally ended one of the causes of war like a week before America declared war, except they didn’t know until too late. No, neither side really achieved anything save some symbolic woohoos, but yes the US did get their national anthem and no more impressment (more Napoleon related than anything else), and yes Britain got to burn the president’s house and keep Canada to themselves. Still, Britain’s focus was always on Napoleon, not Canada. In 1814, when Napoleon was first deposed, there was talk of sending the Duke of Wellington and co. over, and he said he would go if he was commanded, but stated that the war was stupid, and Canada would be fine without him.
- Cecil Bisshopp was the heir to an Estate in Sussex - his letters can be read back and forth between him, his family, and his soldiers online. He died following a raid near Buffalo, which in itself was a retaliation for a raid on Newark (no not that one). Much of the War of 1812 was a ‘you burnt this so I’ll burn that’ kind of thing. Interestingly, Cecil’s family home would become home to Canadian soldiers during WWII.
- The Royal Marines are the bastard children of the army and navy, being a part of the navy and yet being trained soldiers and wearing red coats (called lobsters by the blue coated sailors… sad times). They were the ones firing off those rockets mentioned in the American National Anthem. Worth looking up what conflicts they have been informed in - will maybe inform why Evelyn is attached to them...
- Canada and his war time ladies.
- The fact that the Americans apparently never really tried the obvious to blockade the St. Lawrence river, which would have totally strangled any efforts of supply to Quebec, shocked Britain. They decided - just in case - to build a canal as an alternate source in case something ever kicked off again. The Rideau Canal took 20 years to build and was never used for its intended purpose, but the Brits did plop a bunch of people at its mouth to help populate the small settlement there and voila. Ottawa.
Link to Chapter Seven
