The Emperor (63 page)

‘Thank you,' she said.

 
James was right that Lucy's scandal would he forgotten by
Society as soon as Weston was out of sight. Adulteries
might not be precisely acceptable, but there were plenty of
them around to blunt the appetite. The royal dukes set the
pattern, from the Prince of Wales downward; then there
were such notorious cases as Lord Robert Spencer, the
Duke of Marlborough's son, who took Mrs Bouverie,
married woman and mother of eight, for his mistress in
1786 and had been living with her ever since; and Fox's
uncle, General Fitzpatrick, who had purportedly sired a
large number of his closest friends' children.

Lady Aylesbury's brief, though exceedingly public,
infatuation with a naval lieutenant was not much more than
a nine-days' wonder, especially as she immediately retired to
the country, out of sight and mind. There may have been
those who wondered about her pregnancy, but since Lord
Aylesbury received congratulations just as he should, there
was really nothing to talk about.

At Wolvercote, Lucy settled in for the term of her preg
nancy, and since she could never bear to be doing nothing,
she set about recreating the well-ordered household that
had existed at the time of Flaminia's birth and which she
had neglected ever since. It was not difficult. The permanent
staff were willing to forgive her her defection now that she
had returned, especially as she was pregnant again. The
newcomers to the servants' hall quickly fell under the spell
of her charm and authority, and found that any tendency to
revive old gossip was quickly quashed by their seniors.

She turned her attention also towards the nursery,
though she still could not feel much interest in Rosamund,
who at eighteen months was a difficult, colicky baby with a singular lack of any infant charm. The other two were more
promising. Hippolyta, who would be five by the time the
new baby arrived, already had a great deal of Mary's
porcelain beauty. The loss of her mother had not affected her deeply, for she had been very young when Mary went
away, and hardly remembered her; of her father she had no
recollection at all. She had a curious dignity for a child, the
result, Lucy thought, of being not only the eldest in the
nursery, but also the senior grandchild of the family. She
was everyone's pet wherever she went, but it did not make
her spoiled and difficult like her cousin Fanny, only rather
solemn and oddly consequential: the infant alderman,
Chetwyn had called her once.

Lucy thought that she would turn out to be intelligent, though at the moment she shewed no remarkable aptitude
except for organization. It was mostly Flaminia she organ
ized, who at three had become chubby and garrulous, and
whose greatest happiness was to be Hippolyta's lieutenant,
confidante, and live plaything. The days of heaving Flaminia
around like a good-humoured and confiding sack were over,
but she trotted after her friend wherever she went, took the supporting role in all their plays, and accepted as from the
oracle everything Hippolyta said. It was 'Polly says' and
‘Polly thinks', and her whims were as the laws of Medes and
Persians; in return ‘Minnie' was Polly's darling, bullied,
petted, and protected.

Chetwyn had gone back to Town as soon as he had
escorted Lucy to Wolvercote, but he came down at Easter, bringing a small party with him — to act as a buffer state,
Lucy guessed. They were mostly his own friends, bachelors
or pseudo-bachelors, and they came to shoot and fish all
day and to play cards or billiards all evening. Of Lucy's
friends he had brought only Danby Wiske, sad-eyed now
and more monosyllabic than ever, and George Brummell, who assured Lucy that his leaving London even for a few
days was an act of the greatest heroism.

Tor you know, my dear Countess, that I have just been
elected to both Brooks's and White's, and I was on the point
of beginning my campaign.'

‘
Campaign?' Lucy said vaguely. 'I thought you had left
the Dragoons.’

Brummell tapped her on the back of the hand. 'You are
not paying attention! My campaign to civilize London, of
course. I shall establish myself as the arbiter of graceful
living, and create around me the kind of society in which I
belong but which does not, alas, yet exist! And when you
have rid yourself of your burden,' he gave a significant
glance downwards at his own trim waistline, 'you must come
back to London and help me, my dear ma'am.’

Lucy shook her head. 'I don't think I have the heart for
it.'

‘
Nonsense! You must come – you cannot be spared,'
Brummell said calmly.

‘
It's true, ma'am,' Wiske put in a word. 'London ain't the
same without you. Damn' dull. Your wit and beauty – '
Surprised by his own eloquence he turned red and fell silent. Brummell dismissed him with an airy wave of the hand.

‘
Oh, those are very well,' he said, 'but what we chiefly
ne
^e
d you for, dear ma'am, is your back.'

‘
My back?' Lucy said, startled into full attention.
Brummell smiled angelically.

‘
Your back, Lady Aylesbury.' He sketched a line in the
air with one hand. 'There isn't another female back in all
London which even comes close. Oh, the humps and round
shoulders I am forced to view, even in the best houses,
positively like camels! To say nothing of the freckles and blemishes whenever the poor dears go
décolletées.
I must have yours, Countess, on which to rest my eyes for relief,
when my sensibilities have been racked!’

Wiske looked disapproving, but Lucy laughed out loud
for the first time in weeks. 'You really are absurd,' she said.

‘
That's better,' Brummell said approvingly. 'I can't bear
to see you so down in the mouth – besides, it makes you
look quite old!'

‘I feel a thousand years old,' Lucy sighed.

‘
It will pass,' Brummell said comfortingly. 'Everything
does.’

Since Horatio had now gone abroad with his regiment, Chetwyn had invited his wife, Lady Barbara, and her two
children to stay for a few weeks, and she had accepted with alacrity, welcoming the opportunity to shut up the house in
Park Lane and live at someone else's expense for a while.
She calculated that as Lady Aylesbury was enceinte and had
no female companion, she ought reasonably to be able to
extend her visit at least until Lucy rose from childbed.

Marcus and Barbarina, four and two years old, had
inherited their father's pink and white colouring and pro
truberant pale-blue eyes; while a stern nurse and an
unbending mother had crushed out of them any tendency to
exhibit individuality. Brought to the Wolvercote nursery,
they stood, holding hands for comfort, just inside the door
where they had been left, lacking the initiative to move any further. Dressed alike in white muslin frocks, identical pale
eyes bulging, pink triangular mouths slightly open, they
looked like two startled white mice. Hippolyta, having
looked them over with a professional eye, received them
with relish. She saw at once that they were docile and dull,
and would never complain at always playing the page and
never the king.

With this increase to the nursery, Lucy saw the necessity
of engaging a governess. She went about it with her usual
energy, and soon discovered a Miss Trotton, an elegant,
well-spoken young woman with an intelligent eye and an air
of quiet authority. Lady Barbara questioned her sharply,
discovered that she painted in water-colours and played the
harp, and put her down at once as a very genteel, well-
educated girl, fit to have temporary charge of her Dear
Angels.

To Jemima's daughter she must seem but poorly
educated, since she had never studied Latin, Greek, Astron
omy, or Philosophy, but Lucy decided she had an intel
ligent, liberal mind, not fettered by rigid prejudices,
combined with a central core of good principles and self-
discipline, and engaged her at a handsome salary.

When the house party broke up, Chetwyn sought out
Lucy in her room to say goodbye. He had treated her with
extreme politeness at all times, both publicly and in the rare
moments when they were alone together, but there was
none of the old brotherly friendliness, and she missed it. The
farewell now was nothing but formal, his smile merely
polite, his eye as flat as his boot-sole.

‘
I shall be in Town until the end of June, then Brighton
for a few weeks, and then I shall go straight to Morland
Place,' he said. Lucy heard him with a lowering of spirit.
‘You will not return here in August?' she asked, for that
was his usual time.

‘
There is nothing here that the steward can't handle,' he
said. 'I shan't return unless he tells me there is some serious problem that requires my personal attention. I don't imagine
there will be.'

‘
Then I shan't see you until October?' she asked, trying
to sound indifferent. The baby was due in September.
Chetwyn raised an eyebrow.

‘
That must be as you please,' he said politely. 'You know
where I will be.' He bowed and turned to go.

‘
Chetwyn!' she said desperately. He turned, and there
was nothing in that frozen, polite face to which she could
appeal. 'Oh, nothing,' she said. 'I hope you have a pleasant
summer.’

*

Lucy's pregnancy was not difficult, and she began to feel
bored, not with Wolvercote, which she was enjoying after
several years spent mostly in Town, but with the lack of
company. Lady Barbara she mildly disliked, and she
certainly had no pleasure in the company of a woman whose
sole subjects of conversation were money and her children. She was glad, therefore, when in May Charles and Roberta,
going down to Shawes early on account of Charles's health,
which had been poor for eighteen months past, stopped off
for a visit.

It was good to see them again: Charles, urbane, kindly,
interested in everything that interested her, full of pleasant
small gossip about London happenings; Roberta the same
good-natured, sensible, soldier's daughter she had always
been. But there was a change. Charles had begun to grow
old when his first wife Flora died, and now, seeing him with his travelling-wig and cane, with Roberta supporting his arm
and fussing gently over him, it was like watching a dutiful
daughter attending to an elderly father.

They had with them young Robert St Vincent Morland,
Lord Meldon, more usually known simply as Bobbie. At a
little over two, and still in petticoats, he was a precocious
child, bright, friendly, and biddable. He was also robustly
healthy, and Lady Barbara regarded him with a hostile and
jealous eye as he slipped his confident hand out of his
mother's and into Miss Trotton's, and went off to join the
nursery-party.

The Chelmsfords had also brought Héloïse with them. She had travelled post to London to attend to some legal
business, and was taking the opportunity of travelling back
to Coxwold in their company. While Charles and Roberta
were seeing Bobbie settled, with Lady Barbara in close
attendance, Lucy was able to have a long chat with Héloïse,
whom she hadn't seen for some years.

‘
What were you doing in London?' Lucy asked. 'Has
something been heard about Mathilde's brother?’

Héloïse shook her head. 'We still have not been able to
find him. We now know that after the shipwreck he was
taken to a foundling hospital for boys in Tonbridge, but he
ran away almost at once, and has not been seen since. I
think he must certainly be dead, for Charles's agents have
made the most thorough enquiries, but Mathilde says she
knows he is alive, and nothing will persuade her that he is
not.'