The Emperor (64 page)

‘You left her at home in Yorkshire?' Lucy said.

Héloïse chuckled. 'Oh yes, along with all my other waifs
and strays! It will be a very good thing when the improve
ments to my house are finished, for it . already as full as it
can hold. Two months ago poor Father Jerome arrived at
my door - he was our priest in London, you know, we poor
émigrés.
He was cast out of his lodging and could not find
another, so he came to me, and what could I do but take
him in? They are not so unkind to Catholics in my part of
Yorkshire, so I hope he will be safe at Plaisir.'

‘
It must be a great comfort to you to have him there,'
Lucy said.

Vraiment,
it is, and we may even make a convert out of
Stephen, who is already, I think, half a Catholic from sharing a room with Monsieur Barnard, who is a very
devout man, apart from making choux pastry the way no
English cook ever did. But it will not end with Father
Jerome, I fear. While I was in London, Cousin Charles put
me in the way of helping a poor Frenchwoman who had got into trouble with the law and did not know enough English
to help herself.' She sighed. 'There are a great many of my
people in trouble or need, and no-one to help them. The
children, in particular, one must pity.' She gave Lucy a
considering look. 'J
e
me demande’
she mused.

‘Yes?' Lucy asked warily.

‘
Well, there is no harm to ask you,' Héloïse decided
briskly. ‘Maman once told me that you had an ambition to
start a school, and it occurs to me that you might perhaps
help some of the
émigré
children in that way. Without
parents or money or education, one can see they must sink into degradation, particularly the girls, who will end all as
prostitueés
if someone does not help them.’

Lucy shook her head. 'I have not thought about a school for a long time. Besides, my plan was for a select establish
ment for the serious education of young ladies.’

Héloïse clasped her hands.
'Eh bien,
if you will provide
the school, I will provide the girls.' Lucy shook her head
again. '
Mais pourquoi pas?
Don't you see poor emigrant
girls who must take care of themselves will learn more
eagerly than the daughters of the rich, who wish only for
husbands? You could do so much good, Cousin Lucy, and
they would be so grateful.'

‘
It's out of the question,' Lucy said firmly. 'I have enough
to do with my household to run, and my own children to
take care of.’

Héloïse smiled. 'Well, I do not mean to tease you. I shall
say no more, and perhaps you may consider again. You
have only to think what it would mean to your daughters if
they were left destitute. That is what I think so often — I look
at those poor girls, and I see my own little Sophie-Marie,
and I think, there but for — '

‘
I beg your pardon?' Lucy interrupted in surprise. 'Your
own little who?’

Héloïse made a face. 'Oh dear, my tongue runs away
with me! But there is no harm in your knowing, after all. I
am sure you will not betray us.’

Lucy stared at her. 'You have a child? Oh Héloïse! Oh, I
am so sorry! I mean, of course, she must bring you greatjoy, but at the same time — '

‘
Yes,' said Héloïse. 'There are many causes for joy, and
many for sorrow also. But mostly for joy.'

‘Then,' Lucy said slowly, 'you never told Jamie?'

‘
No. How could I? It would only have made things worse
for him. I suppose one day he will find out the truth, but I
shall not tell him. He is married to another, and that is a fact
that cannot be escaped.’

Lucy gazed at her, stricken. Héloïse's words had brought
her own situation to her mind, and the conflict inside her
that she had hardly yet allowed herself to acknowledge. She
longed to pour out the whole story, and ask her advice.
Lucy had never cared much for women or women's
company, but there were similarities between them which
attracted her to her cousin. They had both undergone
experiences early in life which had set them aside from the
generality of their sex, and though Héloïse, more than Lucy,
was essentially a womanly woman, they both had a strong
streak of practicality and courage which made them alike.

But before she had any opportunity to unburden herself,
Lady Barbara returned to the drawing-room, and Lucy
retreated again behind her protective camouflage. It was just
as well they were interrupted, she thought afterwards: it
would be unfair to add to Héloïse's burdens, and in any
case, one must always work out one's own salvation.

*

After two weeks, the Chelmsford party left to resume their
journey, and when she had waved them out of sight, Lucy
went back inside, and felt that she had never been so lonely in her life. Mother was dead, and Mary was dead; Chetwyn
had abandoned her, and who could blame him; and Weston
was far away. She went back into the drawing-room, and to
avoid Lady Barbara, who wanted to talk about how many
changes of clothes little Lord Meldon had in a day, she said
she had a letter to write, and went and sat down at the
writing-table.

She wished now, futilely, that she had confided in
Héloïse who, she felt, was the only person who would have understood without condemning. How lightly she had
dismissed James's conduct in running away to Héloïse, as
just James being difficult as usual. Yet, however little he loved his wife, the decision to go must have been hard to
make, and still more so the decision to come back.

What a child I've been, she thought; and then, resent
fully, but it was not my fault. They had married her off when
she was only fifteen, to get her out of the way. It seemed to her now a monstrous thing, to marry her to Chetwyn, whose
heart had been given so long ago to Edward that there was
no possibility he could ever love anyone else. They had
condemned her to a life without love. Ah, how she had used
to scoff at the idea of love! Romantic nonsense she had
called it, until Weston.

Weston! She had not written to him, despite saying that
she would, because the child made everything different.
Loving Weston, even committing adultery with him, seemed
forgiveable, understandable; but she was Chetwyn's wife,
she was the Countess of Aylesbury, and her children would inherit the title and the estate. Marriage, children, property
– they were inseparable; love was something quite other. She could not tell Weston the child was his, because that
would be a betrayal in a way that loving him was not; and
she could not write to him, because it would be equally
impossible not to mention her pregnancy, or to tell him that
the child was Chetwyn's.

Oh, but she missed him! Why was so much of life simply
a matter of luck? Mama and Papa, Mary and Captain
Haworth on the one side, Jamie and Héloïse, her and
Weston on the other. Virtue and wickedness, happy mar
riage and adultery, and the difference was so small and so
insurmountable. I'm only twenty-one years old, she thought:
what am I going to do with the rest of my life?

*

Weston wrote, as he had promised. In his first letter, he said,
‘I have news of your brother Harry, which you may not yet
have heard: he is made acting-lieutenant, and only waits for the Commander-in-Chief to confirm the commission, which
I make no doubt he will do, as he and Captain Collingwood
are old friends. I took despatches to the
Excellent
only last
week, and saw Lieutenant Morland proudly clutching the
telescope as officer of the watch and looking completely the
thing. He charged me to send you his love if I were to write,
for he was much too busy. Brothers have not the same
incentive to write as lovers! I await
your
letters more eagerly
than I can say. I suppose they follow me around the
Mediterranean, and will all arrive together, weeks of happi
ness all in one bag!’

In his second letter he said, 'I must tell you that I dined
yesterday with your brother Haworth aboard the
Africa.
I
like him exceedingly. He bears his bereavement well, and
speaks of your sister with affection, as though she were
waiting for him somewhere onshore. I suppose we sailors get
used to being separated from our loved ones.

‘
His daughter is the delight of the whole ship's company.
When I first saw her, she was on the fo'c'sle, sitting on the
deck clutching a large camel carved out of wood, while a
grizzled old tar played to her on his flute. About half a
dozen other hands were standing by awaiting their turn at
entertaining her!

‘
Haworth tells me that there is never any shortage of
volunteers to look after her, and the men take the tenderest
care of her. She has had a wonderful effect on discipline:
they have not had a single flogging in months, for the threat
of not being allowed to approach the baby is a far greater
deterrent than the cat, and the men inflict their own condign
punishment on any jack who dares to cuss or behave
unseemly in her presence. She has more clothes and play
things than she can use, Haworth says, for the men are
always making things for her.

‘
We are on our way to Gibraltar at this moment, where I
will consign this letter to the homeward-bound bag, and
hope to find something from you awaiting me. I prefer to
think your letters have been delayed, than that you have not
written any!’

His third letter spoke of the political situation: 'We have
the Frogs on the run! The Russians and Turks have taken
Corfu, and are using it as a naval base; the Russians are
driving the French from Italy, and the Austrians are fighting
back on the Danube. The Egyptian venture is such a failure
that the illustrious General Buonaparte has abandoned his
army and sailed for home, which must mean the end of his career! And our intelligence from France is that the troops
are still unpaid, the country over head and ears in debt, and
the Directory so discredited that it seems likely there will
soon be either a renewal of the Terror under General
Bernadotte, or a counter-revolution to restore the
Bourbons.

‘
So perhaps we may have peace before my present com
mission ends. How shall I feel about that, I wonder? But
why do you not write to me? I wish you may not be unwell.
Have pity at least on my anxiety, and write to say that you
are in good health.’

*

As soon as he arrived at Morland Place, Chetwyn was
driven over to Twelvetrees by Edward in his gig, where
work had begun at last on the new stables which Jemima
had been wanting ever since she first married Allen.

‘
It's going to be a slow business,' Edward said, as they
turned into the main yard. 'We have to go on using the old
stables while we build the new, so we can only do it a little
at a time. It would be much better if we could simply knock
the whole lot down, but then where could we put the
horses? Ah, there's Jamie — and Fanny, too.'

‘
Doesn't her mother mind her grubbing around in all this
dirt?' Chetwyn asked mildly, seeing Fanny, grimed from her forehead to her boots, sitting on a pile of bricks.

‘
She's never said anything. I expect she's glad that James
takes an interest in her. Hullo!'

‘
Ned — and Chetwyn! You've arrived at last,' James said,
turning round from his contemplation of the plans spread
out before him on a plank.

‘
Only just. Ned was so eager to chew me the building that
I didn't even have time to change,' Chetwyn said, jumping
down from the gig as a groom came up to take the horse's
head. Fanny rushed over to greet him, with Puppy bouncing
beside her. She had the dog attached to her by a rope tied
around her waist. 'Hello, Fanny! I do believe you've grown
again. How old are you now?'