The Flood-Tide (38 page)

‘Too many eyes upon her,' he replied, and broke into another bout of coughing, so that Jemima grew almost angry.

‘You are very solicitous for others, and I wish you would do the same for yourself. Dearest, won't you
please
go to bed? Look how tired and pale you are. It distresses me to see it.’

He drew her hand through his arm and walked towards the drawing room. 'After supper, I will go. But I want to be here if Flora comes down. I'm well enough, my dear. You suffer more than I do from my symptoms.’

In the drawing room Mary, who had been the most eager to greet her cousin, pouted crossly at the news that Flora had gone to her room; James, who remembered her with affection always as his childhood protectress, merely shrugged and went back to his sketching, at which he was developing quite a talent. Edward was not yet home from Oxford, and Harry, Lucy and Jack were in the nursery, but Louisa had hoped to see her mother, and was waiting with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension that touched Jemima. She was in heavy mourning, of course, for her father, whom she did not remember at all, and Jemima thought it looked strange on a little girl of seven. She explained to her that her mother had gone to her room, and watched Louisa absorb it along with all the other disappointments of life with a childish philosophy. Then Allen resumed his seat by the fire, and having asked and received permission by the exchange of a glance, the little girl scrambled onto his lap and settled happily into her accustomed haven.

In her room, Flora submitted to the ministrations of Joan, and as soon as she reasonably could, dismissed her. Once alone she gave a sigh of relief, and walked over to the windowseat, and sat down to stare out at the grey world and think. Her impulse to come back to Morland Place had been an instinctive one of flight, but she was not sure, now that she was here, that it had been such a sensible thing. There was too much to remind her at Morland Place, too much to accuse her.

Here in this very room she had grown up; sitting on this windowseat and gazing out of this window she had spun her silly romantic dreams, had fixed upon Thomas as their object, persuaded herself that she was in love with him, longed so hard to marry him that she had carried the matter by her own will alone. Without her efforts would he ever have noticed her, beyond his pretty young cousin beginning to grow up? He had married her because
she
wanted it, and what had she done but bring him pain? Oh, she could find excuses for herself. She could say that he had not been forced to marry her; that as he was considerably older than her, he ought to have been responsible for himself; that she was too young to know what she was about. She could cry out, passionately, inside herself that she had done no actual wrong, that she had committed no crime, that she had not been unfaithful to him, in the physical sense. But none of that was any good. Married to him, she had fallen in love with another man; she had been false to him in her heart and, worse, had never much cared about it, until the news of his death had brought it home to her.

Thomas, dead - killed by a cannonball in action. Thomas, kindly smiling Thomas, her childhood's hero, father of her children. And oh, her children! Here was fresh fuel for grief and guilt. She had been at Chelmsford House - where else? - when they brought the news. She remembered the quiet commotion of it, when no one could decide who should be the one actually to tell her. Then Charles had come to her, held her hands, looked so seriously and carefully into her face to prepare her - as if anything could be apt preparation for such news. And then, confusion, shock, bewilderment, and guilt. Charles, then and in later interviews, telling her that she must not blame herself, that there was nothing to feel guilty about; Charles, saddened by Thomas's death, yes, really saddened, and yet unable to hide his joy and hope that now they could really be together.

‘Are you mad?' she had cried. 'How can I marry you? How can you even suggest it?'

‘Oh, not now, this minute, of course,' Charles had said hastily. 'Of course there must be a proper period of mourning, but when that is over, I can claim you honestly and openly as I have always wanted to.’

And racked with guilt she had denied him, abused his callousness, and he had tried to persuade her.

‘We have done nothing wrong. We have not contrived his death - not even wished it. Yes, I can truly say that, that I never wished him harm, and I know that you can say the same. But Fate has freed us, for each other. Why should we refuse what Fate offers us?'

‘
Everyone
knows!' she had cried hysterically. ‘If I marry you now, they will talk. They will always be whispering, staring at us and whispering. Oh, I have been so wrong! I cannot bear to think about it.’

And she remembered now also the last interview, when with the calmness of exhaustion and grief upon her she had told him in a voice that allowed no argument that she was going home to Morland Place.

‘For how long?' he asked. 'You must not stay too long away.'

‘I shall never come back,' she said. 'I shall never see you again.’

She held him with her eye, so that he should not plead with her, and in the end all he said was, 'But I love you.’

She fought against tears then. 'I love you, too. But I can never be with you again.’

So she had fled home, refusing even to allow them to send her post, for the greater scourging of her soul. The long, cold, uncomfortable journey had passed like a bad dream, and now here she was at Morland Place, in her own bedroom, where every evidence of kindness - the good fire waiting for her, the hot water ready in the silver ewer, Allen's understanding of her need to be alone, Jemima's warm and sympathetic smile - reopened the wounds of guilt and injured self-esteem.

She did not go down to supper. Like an animal, she hid in her burrow. Alone, she went over and over the same train of thought, and wept until grief exhausted her, then slept, and woke to repeat the process. And every day, as the year shortened into darkness, her heart cried, senselessly, after Charles, longed for him as unheedingly as a dog whining at the door; and, like a dog, could not be comforted or explained to.

*

Edward came home for Christmas, and Jemima discovered all over again what a satisfactory young man he was making. At nineteen he had become steady, sensible, kindly, mature, a person she felt at once she could trust and confide in. He will be like his father, she thought, and there was great satisfaction in the idea.

Allen was still in bed, nursing his cough, but mending now, so Jemima had her son to herself the first evening, and they sat up late when the others had gone to bed, talking. It was natural for her to discuss Flora with him.

‘She still keeps to her room, and when she does come out, she is so silent, and looks so pale and drawn,' she said. 'I must admit that at first I was a little relieved that she had such proper feelings, because, you know, I have had doubts once or twice whether it had been such a good idea for her to marry so young - but now, she looks so uncomfortable, I wish she could begin to get over it. Do you think you could persuade her to leave her room? You have probably seen more of her in the past few years than we have. She might regard you as less of a stranger.'

‘I could try,' Edward said doubtfully. ‘If she will see me tomorrow, I will do what I can - but she may not want to see me. I might remind her of too many things.' There was a silence, while Jemima wondered whether to ask him what things, and then he said, 'Has she had any letters, since she came back? Has she heard from Charles - Lord Meldon?’

A surge of relief came over Jemima that the subject had been broached. 'Oh Edward, what do you know about that - situation?’

Edward looked at her consideringly, his head cocked a little, and he looked so like his father for a moment that she wanted to hug him. 'Little enough, though perhaps more than you. It was never as bad as you have probably thought, Mother. There was talk - inevitably - but they behaved in public—' he hesitated, seeking the right words - 'not improperly, in the strict sense, though they displayed more intimacy than society allows between two people not married to each other. But it was more the intimacy of brother and sister. They were very close.'

‘Were they lovers?'

‘I think - not,' Edward said deliberately. 'Has she had letters from him?'

‘She has had letters, but since I did not examine them before they went up, I cannot tell if they were from Lord Meldon,' Jemima said. Edward grinned suddenly.

‘Mother, you are a truer gentleman than most of the gentlemen I know. Anyone else would at least have looked at the handwriting.' Jemima blushed at the compliment, and Edward went on, 'Well, I shall see if she will receive me tomorrow. She may be glad to talk to someone who knows a little of what was happening.'

‘And talking of gentlemen,' Jemima said, 'what of your friend Chetwyn? We thought you would spend Christmas at Wolvercote again this year, and I was so pleased when I heard you were coming home.'

‘Chetwyn is gone to Venice, for the carnival, as the start of his Grand Tour,' Edward said a little abruptly. 'He will be gone two years at least.'

‘I see,' Jemima said. 'That will be pleasant for him. Will he—'

‘Mother, I want to talk to you about Oxford,' Edward interrupted her. 'I want to ask you if you would mind if I did not take my degree.'

‘Well, I—'

‘The fact is that I'd like to leave Christ Church. I'm not really learning anything there, and I feel it's a waste of my time and your money.'

‘Taking the degree isn't of the first importance,' Jemima said cautiously, 'but it is meant to be of use to you, in making you the right sort of friends, and introducing you to society.’

Edward smiled ironically. 'I don't really have any close friends there, except Chetwyn. And besides, I can't believe that that sort of society is going to be much use to me in the future. My life lies here, Mother, at Morland Place, and I'd be far better employed learning about the estate and the business, and taking over from Papa. Now don't you think so?

‘Are you unhappy at Oxford?' she asked, and he shrugged.

‘No, not unhappy. I enjoy it really. But it is a waste of time, as far as I can see. I am the heir, Mother, and I should be here.'

‘Well, my darling, I should love to have you here, of course, and I have no particular wish for you to finish your course at Oxford, if you don't want to be there. As long as you are sure—'

‘Quite sure.'

‘Then we shall ask your father tomorrow, and see what he says. There is certainly always more to do about the place than we can easily manage, and to tell the truth, I'd be glad to have you take some of the strain from him. He has not been well this winter, and though he keeps so hale and hearty as a rule, he is well past sixty, and I'm sure he made himself ill with doing too much. But for heaven's sake, don't press that as your reason for wanting to leave Oxford.'

‘Trust me,' Edward smiled. 'No, I shall say the truth, that I want to come home, and have nothing to keep me at Oxford now.'

‘Won't you miss it at all?' she asked curiously. There was a shadow in his eyes for a moment as he answered.

‘No, there is nothing there for me now.' But the shadow passed as quickly as it came, and she felt no invitation from him to pursue it. And he went on in a perfectly cheerful voice, Now what of Mary's affairs? Tell me the latest development. Is my friend Anstey still leading the field, or have the outsiders made ground?’

Jemima laughed. 'Whatever you do, don't speak in those terms when she's about, or there will be terrible storms. It's bad enough to have James teasing her, though I must say she's such a little popinjay I can hardly blame him. But he gets her into such a passion, and stays so cool and calm himself! That boy is so wicked.'

‘He takes after you, Mama, it must be so,' Edward said.

Now don't believe the stories your father tells about me,' she retorted. 'He only does it to tease.’

*

Mary's preference for her childhood knight, John Anstey, had grown so marked over the past year that Jemima was not at all surprised to receive an invitation to dinner with Sir John and Lady Anstey which pretty well necessitated a return invitation to dine and spend the day at Morland Place.

Sir John was in the coal way, a trade which had increased so enormously in the past twenty years that the Ansteys were rising rapidly in the world, and they were in the process of moving from their shabby old house on Skeldergate, handy for Queen's Staith where the coal barges unloaded, to a new house being built for them by John Carr on the Lendal, handy for the Assembly Rooms and the Mansion House.

Sir John had stood for Parliament, had been presented at Court, and knighted for his trouble, and was altogethera modern man and in a state of as much improvement as his fortune. Lady Anstey, on the other hand, was in the older style, a large, motherly woman, comfortably rather than fashionably dressed, who could neither read nor write, and had no conversation beyond her children and her servants. After the dinner in Skeldergate, when the ground was tested and the air snuffed by the Ansteys, a fine spell of weather persuaded Jemima to issue the return invitation without delay, and so at noon on the shortest day the massive Anstey coach rolled into the yard bearing Sir John and Lady Anstey, young John, and the next two eldest children, Alfred who was seventeen, and Augusta, who was sixteen.