The Regency (20 page)

You play the pianoforte too, don't you, my dear?'

‘Yes, ma'am, a little,' Miss Rosedale said imperturbably.

‘
More than a little! You should hear her, Lady Morland,
when we have had a little impromptu dance for the young
ones sometimes, and Miss Rosedale plays reels for them on
the piano by the hour! How her little fingers fly about! But I
am sure you will want to talk privately to Miss Rosedale,
without me listening. Albinia, love, just come with me into
the next room and help Soames and me unpack the dinner
service your uncle Waldegrave sent, for that's one thing we
must have on display, though to be sure it would be more
sensible to leave it in the box, seeing as it only has to be packed
up again, to be sent over to the other house on Saturday. But
your uncle Waldegrave would be sure to take offence — We'll
come back in a quarter of an hour, Lady Morland, and then
perhaps you'll take a glass of something with us before you
go?'

‘Thank you, ma'am,' Héloïse said.

‘And don't you be too modest, Miss Rosedale,' Mrs Barclay
admonished from the doorway. 'If you don't tell Lady
Morland how good you are, I shall be obliged to do it for you,
and you know that will embarrass you — aye, and you too,
Albinia, I know! You think me too plain, but that is one of the
advantages of reaching my age — you don't have to mind
what you say.' And with a good-humoured nod to Héloïse and
Miss Rosedale, she took her daughter out.

Miss Rosedale turned to face Héloïse. 'Well, your ladyship,
what would you like to ask me?'

‘
I think all my questions have been answered before I ask
them,' Héloïse said, amused.

Miss Rosedale's open, pleasant face broke into a smile that
set all her fine lines in motion, and she said, 'Mrs Barclay is
the kindest of employers. Indeed, it is hardly more than the
truth when she says I am like one of the family, for in their
generosity that is how they have always treated me.'

‘
I can see that you have given satisfaction, and so I am
satisfied,' Héloïse said. 'But let me tell you about the child,
my stepdaughter, for whom I wish a governess. I will tell you
everything quite frankly, and then you may say if you think
you can help, or if you even wish to try. For truly, it will not
be easy.’

Miss Rosedale listened attentively as Héloïse described
Fanny, and told her history and the tale of her wrongdoings.
Then she asked a few short, pertinent questions, and lapsed
into a thoughtful silence.

‘
Well?' Héloïse prompted at last. 'Have I frightened you
with this terrible tale? Do you think, like Miss Bantry, that
Fanny is a monster?’

No, indeed, ma'am!' Miss Rosedale said quickly, raising
her eyes. 'Poor little girl! I am so sorry for her! She must be
lonely and unhappy.'

‘
Oh, you see it in that light, do you? I am glad. But you do
not give me an answer.'

‘
If I am thoughtful, it is only because I am wondering what
would be the best way to tackle the problem.'

‘You wish to try?' Héloïse said hopefully.

Miss Rosedale met her eyes. 'That depends on one thing.
May I ask you something frankly?'

‘It is the best way to ask,' Héloïse smiled.

‘
Forgive me, but you said Fanny has been spoilt — may I
ask by whom?'

‘By her father, mainly, and by some of the servants.'

‘
I see. And — frankly again — how much authority will I
have over the child? If she appeals against my judgement, will
I be overruled? May I count on your support, and that of
Fanny's father, whatever I do? I beg you will not think me
impertinent, but it is of the utmost importance. If the case is as extreme as you say, I may have to resort to some unusual
tactics; and if Fanny knows that she can run to you or her
papa every time I cross her, it will all be in vain.'

‘
I understand. I do not think you impertinent, Miss
Rosedale. It is very sensible of you to ask. And I promise you, if
you think you can help Fanny, you will have my complete
support.'

‘And her father's?'

‘
Leave me alone for that. We both want Fanny to grow up
into a happy, useful, sensible child. Indulgence has not
answered, nor punishment. I don't know what more there is
to try — but I dare say you do.’

Miss Rosedale smiled her pleasant smile. 'I wonder, has
anyone ever tried love?’

Héloïse considered. 'I really think they have not. Poor Fanny!'

‘
Poor Fanny indeed! Well, ma'am, if you are satisfied, I am
too.'

‘
Then you will come? I am so glad. Oh, but we must discuss
your salary and other things before you decide.'

‘
No, no, Lady Morland, I have decided already.' Her smile almost became a grin. 'Life here has become almost too easy
in recent years. I cannot tell you how much I am looking
forward to the challenge! I feel most stimulated already!’

*

Héloïse travelled post back to Yorkshire, and as the weather
was fine and the moon near-full, and as she was aware of a
stronger need every moment to be at Morland Place, she
chose to sleep on the road to be home the sooner. She woke
when the chaise finally stopped at the Hare and Heather early
in the morning. It was that stilltime between first light and
sunrise, and as she stepped down stiffly from the carriage and snuffed the clean air, she was seized with the desire to walk to Morland Place across the fields.

‘
You shall wait here with the luggage,' she told Marie.
‘Rest, have some coffee, some breakfast if you like. I'll send
someone to collect you as soon as I get home.'

‘
But madame, you don't mean to walk over the fields
alone?' Marie protested.

‘
Why not? It's my home, Marie! What harm could come to
me?’

She crossed the road and climbed the stile, and stepped out
on the footpath that led across Holgate Stray and over the
beck onto Morland land. Everything was quiet. It was going to be another hot day. The sky was pale with the promise of
it, the air unmoving and already warm, but still fresh and
dewy. There was no sound except for the birds — past the
dawn chorus now, and already about the business of the day.
The trees were fat with the full leaf of June, the grass silver
with dew, marked here and there with dark tracks, where
some animal had passed, dog or vixen perhaps, trotting home
after a night's hunting.

She had the world to herself, new and unused, delicate and
perfect, as if it had just that moment been created. She
walked briskly, shaking out the cramps and stiffness of a
night in a carriage, feeling the blood running vigorously
under her skin, breathing deeply of the clean, cool air. It was
so good to be alive! To go home to James and Sophie, Thomas
and Mathilde, brother Edward — yes, even poor Fanny! How
those two words came together in her head! But Miss
Rosedale would make everything right again. Héloïse liked
her instinctively, trusted her already.

She reached the top of the long, slight slope, and there at
last was Morland Place, square and serene, unchangeable
and immoveable, floating like an island in the moat. The
water reflected the serene sky, and the swans were drifting
casually towards the window where they rang a bell to be fed in the morning. The still-invisible sun was tinting the air with
gold and blushing the bricks to rosy, and now the upper
windows began to flash with the sun's light, as though
welcoming it back into the world. The house had stood there,
just so, for more than three hundred years, and generations
of Morlands must have come upon it just as she did now,
returning from work and travel and school, from pleasure,
from war, from success and disappointment, and had looked
down gratefully at the citadel of the family, the resting-place
the place of safety. Home!
She thought of Jemima, her aunt, and past mistress of
Morland Place, who had so wanted it to belong to Héloïse.
Well, Maman, she addressed her inwardly, things belong in
truth to those who really appreciate them; and so Morland
Place is mine. I will guard your kingdom well, and try to
make Fanny worthy of your trust. She hoped and believed
that sooner or later Fanny would be claimed by history and
her blood. Who could be born a Morland, and not respond?
She set off again down the hill, past the little copse of birch
and hazel which was all that was left of the larger wood that
had once surrounded the house. As she came clear of the
trees, she saw Fanny only a little way from her, standing on
the bottom rail of the home-paddock fence. She had her back to her, and was talking to a chestnut filly in the paddock, the
new youngster that she had chosen for her own. The filly was
eyeing her suspiciously, flirting her ears back and forth, while
Fanny held out her hand steadily, trying to wheedle her into
coming nearer.

Héloïse stood still to watch, and marvelled at Fanny's
patience with the young horse.

‘Come, Honey, come. Come little lady. Come then,' she
crooned over and over, her hand held out quite still, and a
piece snipped off the sugar loaf white and inviting on her
palm. But Honey lifted her muzzle and flared her nostrils,
and the dark eyes in the golden face eyed the gift warily,
almost knowingly.

‘
Come, Honey. Come then,' Fanny crooned; but Honey
knew of the hand which accompanied the gift, which would
catch her headcollar as she bent her head, and lead her away from the green field and freedom. She kept her distance, and
watched, poised to dart away.

Héloïse remembered something that James had told her
long ago.

‘Salt is better,' she said very quietly.

Fanny jerked round at the sound of her voice, and Honey
startled at the movement, whirled and dashed away. At once
Fanny's face contracted into a fierce scowl. 'No wonder she
wouldn't come to me,' she said resentfully. 'And now you've
scared her away.'

‘
I didn't scare her,' Héloïse said reasonably. 'She was
facing me. She knew I was here all along.’

Fanny jumped down from the fence and stood sullenly
kicking the bottom rail. Her feet were bare under her brown
cambric dress, and wet from the dew. 'Spying on me,' she
said almost inaudibly, refusing to look at her stepmother.