39

Benjamin Disraeli sat in the darkened room and stared defeat in the face.

He had found himself, by some strange chance, ensconced in Lord Salisbury’s home at Hatfield, the master being conveniently abroad.

A few servants, like sly spectres, drifted in and out, but mostly it was silent.

Like the grave.

He lit a cigar and blew the smoke over a tray of liver and bacon which added ignorance to insult. A last supper.

The inventory was bleak and inescapable. It was a bloodbath.

Only two years ago, all had been set fair. Disraeli had been chief minister of state and lord of all he surveyed.

The fleet set for Constantinople to put the Russians in their place and Gladstone’s windows broken by the outraged populace because of his opposition to that very action.

William had thundered against an unjust war, a fleet of ironclads that were a waste of public money, sending troops out to die without necessity in foreign climes and thereby upsetting the probity of the budget.

It was a deeply unpopular position and Disraeli had been delighted to see the Liberal party bear the brunt of the people’s anger.

The mob had chanted a trite, belligerent little music-hall ditty outside Gladstone’s London home, before they stoned his windows. 

Jingoism. Ugly word. Heart in the right place though.

Disraeli blew a thoughtful smoke ring from lips that had tasted many strange fruits. A succession of intense relationships with young men, mostly his secretaries, had given rise to salacious innuendo but only Benjamin Disraeli knew the truth, and Benjamin was not telling.

Only two years ago. And look at him now.

In Scotland the Tories had fallen from nineteen to seven. Only two survived in Wales. Even England had a non-Conservative majority.

Only in Ireland was there a surplus of Conservatives but that was more than balanced by the number of Home Rulers most of them firmly affiliated to Charles Stewart Parnell. A man who, with a bit of luck, would be a gadfly to Gladstone for the rest of his life.

Already three confidential cipherograms of an increasingly hysterical nature had arrived from a stunned Victoria who, unlike himself, had not contemplated the electorate’s rejection.

Despite Gladstone’s avowed intention, when he had served her last as prime minister, to ‘tranquillise’ the Irish, Victoria could not rid herself of the illogical fear that somewhere Gladstone was a secret Fenian and would impose Home Rule and democracy willy-nilly.

As for the loss of Beaconsfield himself, it was like a death in the family. The only minister since Melbourne to become her friend had been snatched from her by … that half-mad firebrand who would soon ruin everything and be a dictator.

I would sooner abdicate than have any communication with this man!

Disraeli sighed. That was the ultimate threat and nothing might stand against it because the position of a minister who forced it on would be untenable. It would bring chaos to the state and the country would not stand for it. Whoever did so would be politically annihilated.

But in that terrible victory would also be the seeds of the Queen’s own destruction.

It would take time. But, inexorably, her ruin and that of the constitution would follow as the night follows day.

The monarch must accept the electoral will of the people. Break that compact, and she would fall like a stone.

That was unfortunately unthinkable and though Disraeli might gain a certain warped pleasure in delaying the inevitable … inevitable it most certainly was.

He might advise her to send for Hartington, the present leader of the Liberals who had been completely eclipsed by the Messianic return of Sweet William and bore a healthy grudge, perhaps even bring in Puss Granville at a pinch.

But … no. Harty Tarty and Puss. Compared to Gladstone, they were shadows on the wall.

Victoria would have to accept the proposal and there’s an end to it. Even the Queen must walk to the altar.

He would advise her so. She would survive. She was a tough old bird.

He smiled wryly at that thought and looked down at his green velvet trousers. Then another thought struck, not nearly so pleasant.

What of him? Would he survive? He was too old to come back and form another government unless by miracle.

He would become a desiccated creature of society, moving from one soirée to another like some sort of Egyptian mummy.

He had few real friends; what politician does? Even Salisbury within whose house he was now immured, wrote formerly of Dizzy in his letters as a ‘Hebrew varlet’, and a ‘mere political gangster’.

Hebrew varlet, eh? A little rich considering his ancestors had attained a high level of civilisation at a time when the inhabitants of England were going half-naked and eating acorns in the woods.

Disraeli walked over to the window, twitched back the curtain and looked out into a black night.

In the glass, his reflection stared at him like a ghost being slowly but surely drawn back into the darkness. He puffed on the cigar and though the ghost did the same, the other did not seem to enjoy it as much.

Dignified imperturbability. That was what he presented when they brought him the news.

But inside, his world had collapsed. He had lost everything, his Faerie Queen, his power, his very title, prime minister. He had lost it all to a humourless fiscal puritan. A roundhead to his cavalier.

Indeed his hatred of William Gladstone was the only thing to sustain him at this precise moment. Otherwise he was an empty shell. Thank God for malice.

Only a miracle could save him now. An act of God or someone who confused himself with the deity.

His mind returned to the conversation in the private room of the club. The fellow had offered him a very decent brand of cigar. That was surely a good sign.

Disraeli had not made his desires plain. That would never do. He left the interpretation to others.

Perhaps nothing would occur.

Still … hope springs eternal, does it not?

Who knows what was happening out there in the night?

He pulled shut the curtains and noticed, as he turned, a brandy decanter that stood on one of the small tables.

He would puff on his cigar and raise a glass to his beloved Queen.

Who knows?

There might be one last roll of the dice.

Hope springs eternal.