The Emperor (5 page)

But Morland Place had proved more strange than she
could have imagined. To be living in the country instead of
in a busy town, and in an old castle with a moat, instead of a
neat modern house with all the conveniences, was strange
enough, but she was no longer mistress of the household.
She now had to get used to the ways of servants who took
their orders from her mother-in-law and resented any
suggestion that they should change their methods. There
was a continuous flow of people through the house, bringing
noise and movement, unexpected guests and even more
unexpected absences, so that it was hard from moment to
moment to know where anyone was. There were dogs and
 
nits of saddlery everywhere, strange smells, and an incomprehensible accent to unravel.

And marriage was not what she had expected, either.
The physical side of it, which her religion had prepared her to endure, was not intolerable; but after the first two weeks
at Morland Place, her husband had removed himself
without explanation to another bedroom, leaving her to
sleep alone in the great bedchamber.

She saw little of him. He was out all day, either in the city
or helping his brother to run the estate. Often he did not
return to dinner, and sometimes not at all before she went to
bed; and from time to time he would go away for several
days to Harrogate or Scarborough, for what purpose no-one seemed to know or ask. When she did encounter him in the
house, he would greet her politely, or make some enig
matical remark she did not understand.

She was fascinated by him: he seemed so unlike other
people. He not only played well, but also sketched and
painted, and there were many examples of his talent about
the house. He was strange and moody, too silent upon some
occasions, and on others laughing inexplicably at the wrong
things. She saw that he often drank too much, and had
reason to suppose that his absences were not always upon respectable business; and yet he never missed mass, and often sat alone in the chapel for an hour together at other times.

After the Christmas season, when all the guests had gone,
and a certain flatness seemed to prevail in the house, he had
suddenly reappeared in her bedchamber, and for a few
nights had resumed physical relations with her. He left off
again as suddenly as he had begun, but it had been enough:
she proved to be with child. She had waited for an evening when he was present in the drawing room before announcing the news, and though she addressed herself to her
mother-in-law, she had covertly watched her husband's
face. His first reaction, she was sure, had been one of
pleasure; but afterwards he had looked bewildered, and
then unhappy, and had very soon made an excuse to leave the room.

Since then she had seen as little of him as before, but herown life had settled into a sort of pattern which, as far as she
could manage it, recreated her life in Hobsbawn House.
Dakers came to wake her and dress her at eight, and she spent an hour in private prayer and reflection before going
down to the chapel for mass, and then to breakfast. At
eleven she took her exercise, always in the gardens, for
Morland Place was designed for riders, and the estate had
no walks suitable for ladies. For the rest of the day until
dinner she read, worked, wrote letters, and practised her
music, though there was no pianoforte, and she found the
old harpsichord a severe trial, not suited to the sort of music
she was accustomed to play. After dinner she conversed
with such of the family as gathered in the drawing-room,
and after tea and evening prayers retired early to her bed.

That the Morlands found her as strange as she found
them rarely occurred to her and never worried her. She did not doubt that her place amongst them was understood and
secure, for her father had arranged it all, and what her
father decided upon always came to pass. She missed him sometimes, missed his affection and praise, and was occasionally puzzled by her husband, but she was not unhappy.
Her life assumed a placid and untroubled course, as she
sewed baby-shirts and prepared for the birth of her child.
Her son would inherit Morland Place and the whole of her father's estate, and the mother of that child could never be less than respected.

*

’Every autumn, God sends one perfect day, when the
colours of the trees are so beautiful they would break your heart,' said Jemima, as she and Mary rode past the beech hanger which sheltered Knapton village on the north-east. The beech leaves seemed to burn against the autumn-blue
sky, gold and copper and orichalcum and flame, tiger-
brindled with their black branches. The air was as mild as summer, but the horses' hooves struck out no smell of earth or bruised grass, sure sign that the world was cooling into winter.

Jemima, though over sixty and white-haired now, rode
easily and very erect with all the skill of a lifetime in the
saddle. Her workaday habit of black worsted was cut for
comfort rather than elegance, and her hat was an old-
fashioned tricorne which had happened to come to hand as
she prepared to go out. Mary's habit on the other hand, was
of fine cloth cut tight at the waist and long-skirted, and her
fashionably mannish tall hat was secured with a veil which
covered her whole face in a way that was particularly
becoming; but after what was for her a long ride, she was
struggling to keep her back straight, and had long ceased to attempt to direct her horse, content to allow him to pick his
own way home while she held onto the pommel for support.

As they passed through Ten Thorn gap, a partridge
rattled out from under the hedge right under their horses'
hooves. Mary's mount, a steady old schoolmaster, acknow
ledged the event only by a flicker of his ears: nothing would
distract him from taking the quickest way home to his box
and hayrack. Jemima's chestnut was a young horse she was
schooling to carry sidesaddle, and he snorted with alarm,
jumped sideways, and tried to get away up the lane. Jemima sat him unperturbed, soothing him with hand and voice, and
in a moment he consented to follow old Badger through the
gap.

‘
He's very good, isn't he?' Mary remarked when they
were side by side again. 'Your dear old Poppy would have stood up at half the provocation, and you'd have been two
counties away by now.'

‘
Yes, he's very sensible for a youngster,' Jemima said. 'I think he'll be just right for Louisa Anstey by the time she's out of childbed. But then, you know, I've often thought that
geldings are more suitable for ladies than mares. They're
usually better-tempered and more reliable, in my experience.'

‘You've always ridden mares yourself,' Mary pointed out.

‘
But then I like the challenge,' Jemima smiled. 'Louisa
has never been adventurous, but she likes to go out on
horseback, so this fellow will be just right for her in another
month. It was well thought of by John Anstey. He is a most
attentive husband.'

‘
And you benefit by the commission. Clever John! And
clever Louisa, to get a boy first time. What are they going to
call him?'

‘John, of course.'

‘
Yes, of course. I imagine Lucy must he hoping very hard
for a boy next March, so that she won't have it to do again.'

‘
Why should you think she is not pleased to be
pregnant?' Jemima asked in surprise.

‘
Oh, perhaps she may be,' Mary said, 'but it will restrict
her other activities so much I dare say she will not wish to be
often increasing. No curricle racing for her – no hunting this
winter, nor skating on the great lake at Wolvercote – no
travelling at all, if Chetwyn has any sense. Poor thing, she
will be so bored.'

‘
Do you think it is boredom, then, that makes her do
such – unexpected things?'

‘
Oh yes,' Mary said simply. 'You gave us both too much
education to fit us for the usual female life of sewing and
sitting and smiling. Lucy was more restless than me, because
she was cleverer, but she was better off really, because my
interests were never fixed on horses. I didn't know what I wanted, until Flora and Charles took me to Italy and then
set me up in London.'

‘
Is that what you wanted,' Jemima smiled, ‘to be a leader
. of the
ton?
Yes, I remember, you always said you intended
to marry an earl. Poor Captain Haworth!' Mary laughed in
acknowledgement of the jibe, and they rode on in silence for
a while, each occupied with her thoughts.

Jemima said eventually, 'It's strange how one's children
turn out so differently from the way one imagines them.
William, for example: he was so small and frail as a child –
do you remember, Mary? – and we often thought we should never rear him at all. And now he's the captain of a seventy-
four, a tall, strong man, and a great martinet! You remem
ber that last letter from Harry, where he said that William is
such a strict disciplinarian that the men call him "Bloody
Bill"? And then there's James.'

‘Ah yes, James,' Mary said thoughtfully.

‘
I often wonder why James has turned out the way he
has. He was such a quiet, good child. Perhaps he was too
much alone. You and Edward and the twins had each other
to play with, but Jamie was too young to join in, and by the
time Harry and Lucy came along, he was too old for them.

And your Papa was abroad a good deal while he was
growing up, and I was always busy. Yet he was very fond of
Father Ramsay. I can never understand what made him do
that dreadful thing with Mary Skelwith. That's when he
began to go wrong.'

‘
I think he was in love with her before she married, when
she was still Mary Loveday.'

‘
Do you? But she married Skelwith of her own free will.
Why would she have done that if she meant to –' She
frowned. 'All that apart, when the scandal broke, what
could we do?'

‘Only what you had to.'

‘
But from that moment, he has seemed so lost. If only he
could have married Héloïse.'

‘
Do you really think that would have made any differ
ence? In a few months he would have grown tired of her,
and been just the same. He is discontented by nature. I think
he has loved her far more since he lost her than ever he did
when she was there.'

‘
Oh, no, Mary,' Jemima said, quite shocked. 'You didn't
see them together as I did. He adored her, and she would
have fixed him for ever. She was so strong and energetic,
and she would have guided him into proper habits of
thought and behaviour; so that even if he did fall out of love
with her later, the lessons would have been learned.’

Mary shrugged. 'Well, it makes no difference now,
anyway. He is married to Mary Ann, and about to become a
father, and we'll all have to make the best of it. At least he
doesn't get drunk quite so often – not falling-down drunk,
at all events.'

‘Mary!'

‘
And he does help Ned, in a half-hearted sort of way. But
you notice he still visits Scarborough.’

Jemima grew a little pale. 'You surely can't mean – '

‘
I mean that I think it would have taken a love-match to
make him give up those trips, even temporarily.'

‘
But who – no, don't tell me, even if you can guess. I had
much rather not know. I hope you are mistaken.'

‘
I hope so, too,' Mary said. She was growing bored with
talk of Jamie. 'Lord, my back does ache! How you can stayin the saddle all day long I can't think.'

‘
It's because I do, that my back doesn't ache,' Jemima
said, deflected. 'You should be more regular in your
exercise, my love. As soon as Hippolyta is old enough, I
hope you will encourage her to be out of doors a good deal.
Your Papa was very firm about the value of fresh air,
especially for growing children, and regular outdoor
exercise is the best way to guard your health. I don't like to
see young women sitting indoors all day.'