The Regency (123 page)
‘
We will never be the same. Nothing will ever be the same
again,' Sophie had said, sobbing with her head in his lap.
‘Why did Fanny have to die? It isn't
fair!’
James
touched her dark head, tried to feel the love for her
he knew existed, but it wouldn't come, like the tears that were
trapped somewhere deep inside him and wouldn't flow.
Sophie cried, and he patted her vaguely, answered her some
how. Héloïse watched him, but didn't come near him, knowing
with some instinct deeper than words that he could not
bear to be touched. Some time he would come to her, and
take comfort of her, but not now. After a while, she came and
took Sophie away, and held her on her lap and hugged her,
watching James from out of another world, a world where
things happened. He was trapped like a fly in amber, held in
the boredom of grief, the monotony of bereavement, caught in a world where nothing would ever happen any more, but
the repeated remembering that Fanny was dead.
*
On the day of the funeral, Mr Pobgee came to the house, and
asked the butler if he could see her ladyship.
Ottershaw, who cared deeply about etiquette, and more
than ever at a time like this, allowed himself to raise an eye
brow. ‘Mr Morland and Mr James are in the drawing-room,
sir,' he suggested.
‘
No doubt, my good man,' said Pobgee patiently, 'but I
would still like the favour of an interview with her ladyship.'
‘
Her ladyship is much engaged,' Ottershaw said disapprov
ingly. 'I will enquire if she is at liberty. If you would care
to wait, sir —'
‘
Is there anyone in the steward's room? I will wait there,
then. I should like to see her ladyship privately, if you please.’
It was some time before Héloïse joined him, looking older
than her years, and very plain in crow-black crape. The news,
conveyed to her at length by Ottershaw, that the family
lawyer wished to see her, had started a train of thoughts
which had not troubled her before. The shock of Fanny's
death had been so great that it had not been possible yet to
wonder how it would affect any of them materially: of all the aspects of Fanny's self that had occupied their minds, the fact
of her being the heiress had not been one.
Material considerations had been confined to the immediate
problems of the funeral, and mourning-clothes. Mathilde's
wedding had had to be postponed, of course, and Sophie's
come-out would have to be put off. Poor Mr Hawker would
have to be informed, and Mr Hobsbawn — what would the news do to him? But what would happen to them all in the
long run, it had not yet crossed her mind to wonder.
‘
Mr Pobgee,' she said, holding out her hand civilly. All the
burden of the funeral arrangements had naturally fallen on
her shoulders, but she did not allow it to appear that it was very inconvenient to have him take up her time just now. 'I
hope you haven't been waiting long?’
He waved that aside. 'It's good of you to see me, ma'am.
May I offer my deepest condolences? Such a shocking thing!
It must be very hard for you all to bear. It seems so much
worse when a young person is taken from us. In the nature of
things, we don't expect to outlive our children.’
Héloïse nodded painfully, and sat down, offering him a seat
by a gesture of her hand. 'You have come, I suppose, about
the inheritance,' she said.
‘
Yes, ma'am, I have. Of course, I will arrange a formal
reading of her late ladyship's will in due course, but I
thought —'
‘Her late ladyship's?' Héloïse queried.
‘Just so,' Pobgee said gently.
‘I don't understand,' Héloïse said.
‘
Lady Morland left the estate in trust for Miss Morland —
Mrs Hawker, I should say. It did not become hers absolutely
until she reached the age of twenty-one. As her demise has occurred before that age, the clauses in the will concerning
the trust become invalid, and a further clause takes its place.'
He looked at her sympathetically, knowing she was not really
taking in his words. He began again. ‘Do you remember
ma'am, just after Lady Morland's death, that I came to see
you?'
‘
Yes, to give me the cedar-wood box,' Héloïse said, grateful
for something concrete to attach her mind to.
‘
Just so. And I also told you that there was another
provision in her will that concerned you, but that I was not at
liberty to divulge it until and unless certain circumstances
existed.' Héloïse nodded. 'I have to tell you that those circum
stances now exist.’
‘Sir?'
‘
In plain language, ma'am, Lady Morland's will provided
that in the event of Miss Morland's death without issue before
attaining her majority, the whole estate was to come to you.’
Héloïse stared at him. 'You are not serious?'
‘I never jest about matters of business,' he said gravely.
Héloïse tried to assemble her thoughts; and suddenly
remembered that day long ago when she had walked with
Jemima in the gardens at Shawes. It came back to her so
vividly that she might almost have been there. She remem
bered the heat of the gravel under her thin sandals, the
aromatic, evocative smell of box, the sound of the bees in the lavender bushes: all as fantastic as another world on this grey
March day. She remembered the sound of Jemima's voice,
though she couldn't see her face. 'I wanted to leave Morland
Place to you —' she had said. 'I wanted you to have my
kingdom —'
‘
She recognised me as her heiress, as the countess had
recognised her,' she murmured to herself.
‘My lady?' Pobgee enquired.
She looked up. 'You are sure, Mr Pobgee? That everything
comes to me?'
‘
Everything, ma'am. The whole estate, as it would have
gone to Miss Morland — Mrs Hawker. Of course, there are
various provisions in the matter of pensions and small
bequests —’
He talked on, but Héloïse no longer heard his voice.
Morland Place was hers, she thought, pleasure not yet winning
over astonishment. The house and the moat and the
stableyard and the gardens; the little chapel, with its marble
memorials, its exquisite fan-tracery, and the generations of
ancestors sleeping peacefully in the vault, trusting the honour
and the name of Morland to those who still strived in the living
world above their quiet heads.
She thought of the orchards, the fields, the woods and
streams, the farms, the town property, all hers; the horses and
the sheep, the chickens in the fowl-yard and the pigeons in
the dovecote; the wine in the cellar and the treasure in the
strong-room; the peacocks on the kennel-roof and the swans
on the moat
‘No, not the swans; the swans belong to the King,' she said
aloud, cutting Pobgee off in mid-sentence. He looked at her
enquiringly, and she realised he hadn't understood her,
because she had spoken in French. But somehow for the moment she couldn't seem to find any English; her poor
bemused brain wouldn't work properly. 'Her kingdom,' she
tried to explain. 'She left me her kingdom, because she knew I
would take care of it.'
‘
My lady? Are you all right? Shall I call someone?' poor
Pobgee asked anxiously.
Héloïse put her hands to her face, and felt that her cheeks
were wet, and a sound escaped her which was something like
a sob. Her long regency was over, and she was Mistress of
Morland Place in truth. It was not just, she wanted to explain;
but it was right.
‘Poor Fanny,' she said. 'Oh poor Fanny!'
DYNASTY 1: THE FOUNDING
Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
Triumphantly heralding the mighty Morland Dynasty —
an epic saga
of one family's fortune and fate through five
hundred years of history. A story as absorbing and richly
diverse as the history of the English-speaking people
themselves.
THE FOUNDING
Power and prestige are the burning ambitions of Edward
Morland, rich sheep farmer and landowner.
He arranges a marriage. A marriage that will be the first
giant step in the founding of the Morland Dynasty.
A dynasty that will be forged by his son Robert, more
poet than soldier. And Eleanor, ward of the powerful Beaufort family. Proud and aloof, and consumed by her
secret love for Richard, Duke of York.
And so with THE FOUNDING, The Morland Dynasty
begins — with a story of fierce hatred and war, love and
desire, running through the turbulent years of the Wars
of the Roses.
FICTION
DYNASTY 2: THE DARK ROSE
Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
The marriage of Eleanor Courtenay and Robert Morland
heralded the founding of the great Morland Dynasty.
Now, Paul, their great grandson, is caught up in the conflict of Kings and sees, within his family, a bitter struggle bearing seeds of death and destruction.
And Nanette, his beloved niece, maid-in-waiting to the
tragic Anne Boleyn, is swept into the flamboyant
intrigues of life at court until, leaving heartbreak behind,
she is claimed by a passionate love.
A magnificent saga of revenge, glory and intrigue in the
turbulent years of the early Tudors as the Morlands crest
the waves of power.
DYNASTY 3: THE PRINCELING
Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
The third volume in the magnificent Dynasty series.
Elizabeth I is now England's Queen and the Catholic
Morlands are threatened by the upsurge of Protestantism.
They must seek new spheres of influence if they are to
restore the family fortunes.
John, heir to Morland Place, rides north to wed the
daughter of Black Will Percy, a Borderland cattle lord.
He learns through blood and battle how to win proud
Mary's heart.
Lettice, his gentle sister, is married to the ruthless,
ambitious Scottish baron, Lord Robert Hamilton, who
teaches her the bitter lesson of survival in the bleak and treacherous court of Mary Queen of Scots.
