The Emperor (42 page)

She stopped his lips with her fingers. 'When will you
learn that I require nothing more than I have? I would not
change one minute of being with you for a whole year of the
fashionable life.’

He kissed the fingers as they withdrew. 'I hope at least
you won't mind my being a
little
more wealthy? My share of
the prize money from Camperdown will be not inconsiderable, you know.'

‘
Not as considerable as it should be, in my view. Duncan was made a viscount, and given a pension of £3,000 a year,'
Mary said, 'and he wasn't in any more danger than you.’

Haworth laughed. 'It's nothing to do with danger, my
love, as you know very well. It's responsibility. If we had
lost, Duncan would have taken the blame, so why shouldn't he have the benefits of victory? When I am an admiral, you
won't complain if they give me a title and a pension, I
hope?’

Mary came over to sit beside him. 'I'm glad you said
when, and not if, though you know I couldn't love you more
if you were Admiral of the Fleet and a duke into the
bargain.’

Haworth's grey-blue eyes were warm with love. 'And I
couldn't love you more if you were —' he paused to think of
some analogy, and Mary interrupted him with a smile.

‘Oh, but I am, Captain Haworth.’

It was a moment before he caught her drift, and then his eyes became very blue. 'Oh my darling! Are you sure?’

Mary laughed. 'Of course I am — as you should be, if you
had any idea of the passage of time. The child should be
here in August. I hope you are pleased?'

‘Pleased!' he cried, and then a frown crossed his brow. ‘But not here, my love. It would be very dangerous for you to be confined here on board. Not that young Daniels isn't a
very fine surgeon, but conditions on ship-board — and
suppose there was another battle? No, it wouldn't do. We
must see about getting you a passage for England as soon as
possible. In your delicate condition you should not be here at all.'

‘Now don't talk fustian, George. I am not in the least delicate, and I absolutely refuse to leave you until the last
minute. What, be separated from you during the very
months when I most want and need to be with you? In the summer it will be quite time enough to be getting rid of me.

No, no, I won't argue about it. I am as firm as – as – as
Anchovy's handshake,' she finished, and in making him
laugh, achieved her objective.

*

In January 1798, Sydney Street once again saw the smart town-chariot with the Earl of Chelmsford's arms on its side
panels. This time Héloïse chose Sunday for her visit, so as to
coincide with the weekly gathering of the emigres, and she was careful to bring with her a hamper of food and a dozen bottles of champagne.

They gathered round her, glorying in her good fortune, patting her lovingly, fingering the thick pile of her velvet pelisse with wonder. Romorantin grinned to the limit of his
naked gums, and did a little shuffling dance on the spot with
delight. Madame Chard burst into tears when she saw three chickens and a whole roast sirloin lifted out of the hamper,
and Thiviers, unpacking the champagne, let out a shout
which he quickly changed into the rousing chorus of a song,
which seemed however to have only one word, endlessly repeated.

They sat her in state by the fire, brought her a glass of the blessed effervescence, toasted her, France, the King, and the
Vine, and then begged to hear her story. It made very good
telling, too, having all the elements of drama, horror, excite
ment, mystery, romance, sadness, and happiness.

‘My dear,' said Madame Chard, 'what a story! Secret drawers, hidden treasure, Marie-Antoinette's jewels – you live in a fairy tale!'

‘So do we all, dear Chard,' said the Comte de Thiviers
sadly, ‘so do we all; but alas our stories do not have the
happy ending. Too much of the ogre and the dungeon about
ours, and not enough of the good fairy and the handsome prince! But let us rejoice at least that our dear Henriette-Louise has slain her dragon Poverty.’

Later when she was alone with Madame Chouflon, the latter said, 'Such talk! Fairy tales and handsome princes – I could have wrung Thiviers' neck.'

‘
Oh,' said Héloïse in a small voice. ‘So you have heard all
about that?'

‘Well,
ma petite,
not all, I imagine, but it has been much talked of in the houses of fashion, how Monsieur Morland had run away from his wife to live with a French comtesse; and then again, how he had been persuaded to return to his
wife. Those of us who serve the rich for our living must have
heard so much at least.'

‘There is little more to tell,' Héloïse sighed, 'apart from
what I told the others, about finding the treasure. That is
partly why I have come to London, to ask my cousin of
Chelmsford to help me sell the jewels. I am staying with
him, of course, and his wife is very kindly helping me to find
housemaids. The people of my village think me a wicked
woman, and won't let their daughters serve in my house
hold; but I must have two housemaids. It is not right that Marie should continue to serve as a
bonne-a-tout-faire,
she who came to me as a lady's maid.'

‘Marie does not mind what she does – you know that.'

‘
Yes, but I mind.' Héloïse gazed into the fire for a
moment, and roused herself to say, 'I have a dog, too, did I mention? A huge dog like a wolf, with yellow eyes. They
breed them at Morland Place, and, I must tell you, Flon,
they are so strange, because they never bark; indeed, just
like wolves! It is quite unnerving until you get used to it. I did not bring him here tonight, because in a confined space there seems to be so very much of him.'

‘
Ma petite fleur,
you did not come here to tell me about housemaids and dogs,' Hon said shrewdly.

‘Oh, I have told you all the story now.'

‘No, not all. What is it, child?’

Héloïse looked at her, and her lip quivered, and she was
forced to catch it with her teeth. Madame Chouflon held out
her arms to her, and Héloïse knelt in the firelight and cried
into the stiff flounces of her lap, while the old, crooked
hands stroked her head.

‘Oh my dear, I should have guessed,' Flon exclaimed
gently. 'That's right, cry your tears out, little one, it's the
best way. I expect you've been keeping up a brave face for everyone until now, haven't you?' Héloïse said something
incoherent in her lap, and Flon went on soothing her until
the flow of tears slowed and clotted, and she reached the
 
hiccoughing stage, and there was some point in thrusting a handkerchief into her fingers.

When she had blown and mopped, and was sitting, dishevelled and red-eyed on the hearth-rug with the damp
linen crumpled in her hand, Héloïse said, 'I'm sorry. I'm
better now.'

‘No need to be sorry, my child. Everyone needs to cry sometimes. But now we must be practical.'

‘Yes, madame,' Héloïse said with a watery sort of smile.
She felt better already. There was something about speaking
French and having someone suggest being practical which made her feel as though she were back at home.

‘So,' Flon said, placing her hands squarely on her knees, ‘first of all, when is the child due?'

‘
I am not sure – you see, I have never had a baby before.’

‘
Stupid! When was your last flux?'

‘In – in October,' said Héloïse shyly.

‘Beginning or end?'

‘The middle of the month.'

‘Then the baby will come at the end of July,' Madame Chouflon said firmly, 'and I shall think you a simpleton if you can't work that out. Now, the next thing is, who knows of it?'

‘No-one,' said Héloïse quickly. 'Except – I think perhaps Marie may have guessed, but I have not told her.'

‘You have not told the father?'

‘
Oh no!' Héloïse said, shocked. 'How could I do that? He
has returned to his wife, to try to do what is right. Do you think I would make it more difficult for him than it must be
already? If he were to know, he might run away again – or if
he stayed, he would suffer twice as much.'

‘Don't you know that you are likely to suffer?' Madame Chouflon said.

‘
But it cannot help me to hurt him,' Héloïse said simply.

‘
I think he will be bound to find out sooner or later. Children make a great deal of noise in the world.'

‘
Better later than sooner. But, dear Flon, what am I to
do? The people of my village disapprove of me already
because I lived with someone else's husband. Now, if I have
a baby as well –

‘
Well, dearest, there is nothing much we can do about
that, except to stare them out. And I think the circumstance of your being rich and extending your house will help.'

‘James said that,' Héloïse frowned. 'I don't see why.'

‘Because a rich woman in the neighbourhood benefits everyone; and in time they will get used to your circum
stances. An unexplained baby is not nearly so hard to
swallow as a man they know perfectly well belongs to some
one else. You are quite right to think of two housemaids,
but you must do more: you must give yourself all the
trappings of a woman of consequence. Another footman, at least, and a cook you must have, and a respectable older woman to be your chaperone.’

Héloïse smiled up at her suddenly. 'You, Flon?’

Flon smiled back. 'I hoped you would ask me. I am
certainly older, and if I am not entirely respectable, well,
they will not know that! I shall come very gladly.'

‘I wish you had come before, when I first asked you,' Héloïse said. 'Why didn't you?'

‘
That was entirely different. Before, you were asking me
out of kindness; now you have need of me.'

‘
I think that is called the sin of pride,' Héloïse said
sternly. Madame Chouflon patted her cheek.

‘At my age, and in my circumstances, pride is all I can afford,
ma there.’

*

Héloïse returned to London that evening much happier than she had left it. Her future seemed secure, laid out before her
in all its detail, and she realized that she was a great deal luckier than she deserved to be. She had a home, wealth, faithful servants, a friend, and a child to come, on whom to lavish her love. God is merciful, she thought, and her heart
filled with gratitude, and a longing to express it. It was diffi
cult, she reflected, living in a Protestant country: at home,
she could simply have stopped the carriage in any street and
gone into the church to light a candle.

The chariot was making its way along Piccadilly when a child darted out from a side street and ran heedlessly across the road, right under the hooves of the Chelmsford horses.

The carriage lurched violently as the horses plunged; a
woman screamed and there were shouts, and Héloïse
fumbled with the door, and jumped down without waiting for the steps.

The child was sitting at the road's edge, and there was blood on her face. Two of the bystanders were holding her,
but she was struggling violently to escape. As Héloïse went
towards her, a servant came running across the street
through the stationary traffic crying,

‘
Matilda Nortiboys, you wicked girl, come here this
minute!’

Héloïse's heart lurched. Accustomed as she now was to
English corruptions of French words, she was easily able to
translate Matilda Nortiboys back into Mathilde Nordubois. But could it be? Could it be the daughter of her old friend Lotti, the child she had promised years ago to cherish and
protect? She stared at the child with wide eyes: a thin,
gangling girl with a long, white freckled face and a tangle of
fox-red hair. It must be she. But what was she doing here in
London? The servant was still thrusting her way through the
gathering crowd, as Héloïse knelt beside the child, drawing out her handkerchief to wipe the blood away, and said in French, ‘Mathilde, is it you? Do you remember me? I am Molise, Mama's friend!' The child stopped struggling, but stared at Héloïse with no more than bewilderment.

‘Don't let her go, the naughty runaway!' the servant was shouting as she struggled through.

‘Don't be afraid,
chérie,'
Héloïse went on, still in French. ‘I am your friend. I knew you when you were a baby, in France. Don't you remember Paris?'

‘Oh Ma'am, don't trouble with that — you'll get yourself all messed.' The servant had now reached them, and took hold of the child's arm, trying to drag her to her feet. 'She's
a wicked, disobedient girl, ungrateful too, when people have been so kind to her. She's always running away, the naughty
sprite. You come with me, Matilda Nortiboys. It's a
whipping for you this time, my girl, and don't say you
haven't been warned.’