The Reckoning (79 page)

‘
There's no reason, at least, why she should continue to be
a burden on you.'

‘Oh, but she isn't,' Rosamund said in surprise.

‘
I didn't mean financially,' Anstey said. 'Besides, as far as
that goes, I know your mother would want you to take
responsibility in her absence. I meant a burden on your
spirits. You're looking fagged and drawn, my dear. It's all been too much for you, young as you are, and just starting
out in life. If you will permit me, I'll consult your aunt and
uncle about it. If Polly likes it, I'm sure they'll say there's no
reason why she shouldn't make her home with them.’

‘
At Morland Place?'

‘
It was where she was born, after all, and where she lived
while her mother was alive.’

Some of the shadow went from Rosamund's eyes. She had
been finding the responsibility of Polly's endless misery very
wearying. 'If it could be arranged, I think it would be the best
thing for her. One could never be really unhappy at Morland
Place, could one? But it must only be if it really is no trouble
to anyone. You won't press my aunt and uncle if they aren't
completely willing?'

‘
I promise you I won't.' Anstey surveyed her face. 'I think
you're looking better already. Is your sister-in-law not with
you?'

‘
No, she's in London with her mother. Lady Barbara didn't
care to come to Yorkshire, and she wouldn't let Bab go
without her. But Bab is no trouble to me, I assure you,' she anticipated his concern. 'I'm only sorry she can't be here to
enjoy the fun.’

It was not Barbarina he was worried about, but he said no
more, resolving instead when he was in London to keep a
closer eye on Lucy's daughter. Now he said cheerfully, 'Race week this year is going to be the best ever. I've never seen so
many fine horses. It's going to be hard to know which to
fancy.’

Rosamund smiled. 'And there are more balls and routs and assemblies than I can believe. It's a pity we came so much at
the last minute. Next year, I'm resolved we shall have one
here at Shawes, and outshine them all!'

‘
Brava! A ball at Shawes would be a splendid thing indeed!
I don't remember when the last one was. You will be doing
everyone a service if you set yourself to becoming a great
en
tertaining
countess, my dear. There's been too little of that
since the end of the war.'

‘
Yes, they've been difficult years, haven't they? Well,
perhaps the hard times are behind us now.'

‘
Let's hope so. And now, I'm charged by Louisa to ask if
you will honour us by coming to dinner with us at Lendal
House, and if it pleases you, to name the day which would be
most convenient to you. Any day will suit us except next Tuesday, when we are engaged away. What do you say? Just a
comfortable family dinner, and a few friends. We don't live in
a grand way, as I expect you know.’

Anstey scanned her face as he made the invitation, and was
glad to see her looking less tense and unhappy than when he
had arrived. It had been a great deal for such a young woman
to bear, he thought, even – or perhaps especially – such a
brave young woman. And after her experiences in Belgium,
too. He would make sure the family dinner was as informal as
possible, and that the children played some silly games after
wards that everyone could join in. It struck him that Rosa
mund needed to romp a little, as he would have expected her
husband to know. But then husbands and wives did some
times lose touch with each other. More importantly he would
talk to James and Héloïse about Polly. That was something
real and practical he could do to help her.

*

Rosamund's drawn and fatigued looks were not all due to the
strain of the past year: there was quite another reason, which
she could not divulge to anyone, least of all to kind Lord
Anstey. Along with all her other worries had been the growing
suspicion that she might be with child. Her flux, which had
always arrived with clockwork regularity, was late.

For the first few days she had told herself that it was
nothing to worry about, that it was late only because she was
not quite well, a little fatigued and pulled; but by the time it
was two weeks late, she began to fear the worst. She had no
desire to be pregnant: the idea both frightened and dismayed
her. Already her freedom – the freedom for which she had
married Marcus in the first place – was curtailed by the
disapproving presence of her mother-in-law. If she were with
child, it would disappear entirely. She would not be able to
ride for a whole year, or travel, or dance, or do anything ener
getic; and for the last months of the pregnancy she would
scarcely be allowed to stir out of the doors, for heavily
pregnant women were not expected to go into company.

Then there would be the childbirth itself, a prospect she
retreated from even mentally. To go through that all alone –
her mother, even Docwra far away, and none but strangers to
attend her! She might die – she knew the chances. Only last
year the Princess Charlotte had died in childbed after hours
of the most terrible torture, she who might have been
supposed to have the very best of care and attention that rank
or money could acquire.

And afterwards, if she survived, as the mother of a child
she would be expected to behave with dignity, forswear
youthful pleasures, and shew a maternal interest in the brat.
Every time she met another woman, whether in a drawing-
room, a ballroom, at the dining-table or in the Park, they
would talk to her about babies, nurses, colic and teething – all
the tedious things she had heard other women talking about
for years.

There was nothing about the business to like, in fact. She
supposed that, as her duty to Marcus, she must try to give
him an heir eventually – but oh, please God, not yet! She was
too young, she had not finished enjoying herself – oh please,
not yet!
It was Moss, of course, who discovered her trouble – no-
one else was in a position to find out the truth so soon.
Knowing her lady's rhythms as well as her lady, she probably
suspected as soon as Rosamund did, and had Rosamund appeared pleased she would not have dreamed of saying
anything until Rosamund told her. As it was, Moss watched
her growing more tense and anxious day by day, which didn't
seem natural in a young woman just a year wed; and so, out
of concern and affection, she took a chance and mentioned it.

While she was brushing Rosamund's hair one morning, she
said very casually, 'If I don't mistake, my lady, it seems to me
a visitor we were expecting hasn't arrived on time.’

Rosamund looked up and met her eyes in the glass. Moss
was shocked at how unhappy she looked. If
she
were married
to his lordship, she'd be as pleased as punch to be in the
family way, and not call it a bit too soon, either. But her lady
looked at her with haunted eyes, and said, 'You've noticed,
then. Do you think it means anything?'

‘
Well, my lady, with some people, I'd say it was too early to
be sure; but our visitor's always been so punctual, like. I
think,' she added with a last, vain hope that Rosamund might
be pleased, 'you might flatter yourself, my lady, and say it
was so. Just between ourselves, of course.’

The hope proved how vain it was. 'Flatter myself? Don't
talk such faddle!'

‘
Why, sure, my lady, you want to have a baby?'

‘
Of course not. I can't think of anything I want less,' Rosa
mund snapped. 'Oh damn, damn, why did this have to
happen?’

Hiding her own distress at this revelation, Moss tried to
comfort her mistress. 'Well, my lady, we can't be sure yet, can
we? It's early days.'

‘
You were just telling me I might flatter myself,' Rosa
mund said bitterly. 'And you're quite right, of course – I've
always been regular. Oh lord, what did I do to deserve this?’

Moss went on brushing and arranging the coppery hair,
and said no more for the moment. She hoped her lady would become reconciled to the idea; would begin to be pleased, in
fact, in the normal, expected way. But each day saw her
looking more haggard and unhappy, and Moss realised that it
wouldn't do.

Coming to her on the first day in Yorkshire to wake her up,
she said, 'Can I speak to you, my lady?'

‘
Yes, of course,' Rosamund said absently. 'What about?’

‘
About – you know what, my lady. What hasn't happened
that you wish had happened.'

‘
Oh that! Yes – what about it? You haven't told anyone,
have you?' she added in alarm.

‘
Of course not, my lady,' Moss said, accepting that young
ladies did say irrational things at times. 'Who would I tell?
No, I was thinking, my lady, that if you really didn't want – I
mean, it isn't sure, yet, is it? And you'd have to promise never
to tell your mother or Mrs Docwra about it, for they'd be
mortal angry – but sometimes there are things that can be
done.'

‘
Done?' Rosamund looked a little pale. 'What things? You
mean –'

‘
It can be encouraged to happen – what hasn't happened.
You know. But you mustn't say I told you so, my lady,
please!'

‘
I see,' Rosamund said slowly. 'Well, of course I wouldn't
tell anyone. But what would I have to do?'

‘
There are several things you could try. A really long ride is
the first, lots of galloping and jumping, as much as you can
manage. And then as soon as you come in, a long sit in a hot
bath.'

‘
Yes,' said Rosamund slowly, 'I see. Of course, no-one
would think anything of my going riding, would they?’

‘
No, my lady, that's what I thought.'

‘
And here at Shawes they have that lovely bath-house,
which it would be natural for me to want to try out. Well, and
that would do the trick, would it?'

‘
It's not sure, my lady, but it often does. Only — don't you
think you ought to speak to his lordship first?'

‘
Good God, no!' Rosamund said, horrified. 'That's the last
thing! Very well, Judy, I'll try it. I'll go out for a long gallop
today. I wish my own horses were here. I suppose they must still be somewhere around Grantham. I shall have to borrow
a horse from Morland Place. Put out my habit, and when you
go downstairs, send word — no, wait a minute, I'd better write
a note. Bring me paper and pen, will you? Now I come to
think of it, it's probably better that Parslow isn't here,
anyway. He has an uncomfortable way of knowing things.'