The Flood-Tide (34 page)

Thomas sat for a long time staring at the page, conscious of a dull pain at the deepest levels of thought, while the surface of his mind said only there is nothing new here, nothing I did not know. It is all innuendo. Their relationship is quite innocent. But it was horrible to have such things suggested in public. Those who mattered would know who the 'gallant naval captain' was, and while they might claim to take no notice of gossip and common scandal, it would inevitably affect his standing. His hands gripped the newspaper until his knuckles were white, and the pages crumpled under them.

Did Harvey know? Was that why he had left the paper? And if he did know, was it done in kindness or spite? He could imagine Harvey saying, I thought you ought to know; but that could be said with concealed glee, as well as with serious kindness. But no: he remembered Harvey's face as he left to go over the side. That last searching glance was one of friendship.

A week later, in accordance with standing orders,
Isabella
put into New York again to revictual, and a sealed Admiralty letter was awaiting Thomas there. He was ordered to proceed at once to Port Royal, there to take command of the
Rochester,
44, and to join Admiral Rodney's squadron. It was promotion, it was the removal to West Indian waters that he had wanted, and it was, if Rodney lived up to his reputation, a chance for action, and Thomas ought to have been delighted. But he realized that he did not know, he would never know, whether this promotion was due to his professional standing or Flora's activities in London.

Then he shook himself, and give a private, ironical smile. Why should he care? Patronage as well as ability had always been a requirement in the navy, and things were no different now. Probably dozens of officers had been promoted as a result of the heavy losses on St Juan. He had a job to do, and he would do it to the best of his ability, whatever the results. And at least it was better than the endless, tedious blockade duty.

*

In June 1780 London was convulsed by the bloodiest riots that had ever sullied her streets. Some minor easing of the laws proscribing Roman Catholics had been passed through Parliament, and Lord George Gordon, a Protestant fanatic, led a protest by the so-called 'Protestant Association' which in reality was nothing more than a mob driven to madness by hysterical oratory and unlimited gin. The houses and business premises of Roman Catholics - or sometimes of those merely thought to be sympathetic - were attacked and burnt down, and the magistrates were powerless to control matters.

The Government seemed unable to decide on any action, and members of the Cabinet cowered in their houses, but the King acted with resolution and courage, called out the Guards, and was prepared to lead them himself in his determination not to allow anarchy to prevail. But over three hundred people were killed before order was restored, and thousands of pounds' worth of damage was done. It was by mere good luck that Flora was not in London at the time, for she had been staying, as usual, in Chelmsford House. But Lady Chelmsford, being a little unwell as the result of a miscarriage, had decided to try Bath, and Flora had accompanied her. Lord Meldon had agreed to follow in a week rather than travel with them, for he and Flora were not unaware of the gossip which was being attached to them. The ladies took with them Chelmsford's elder daughter, Sophia, who at fifteen was wild for balls and entertainments. Horatio, now seventeen, was away at school, and the younger daughter, Amelia, who was five, remained at home with her governess.

When the news of the riots reached Bath, Flora was anxious, even agitated, about the safety of Lord Chelmsford and the younger child, but her anxiety was by no means shared by the child's mother. Lady Chelmsford only said placidly, 'To be sure, my dear, there would be no reason for them to attack Chelmsford House.
We
are not Catholics.’

Such unreasonable confidence was proved at last to have been perfectly justified after all, and Flora was able to return to the enjoyment of those pleasures Bath was renowned for. She had never been to Bath before, and everything interested her. She accompanied Lady Chelmsford to the baths themselves on the first morning, but never went again. The baths were attended very early in the morning; the approaches to them were dark, miserable, and not over-clean, the dressing rooms like dungeons; and the bathing clothes voluminous and unflattering. Thereafter Lady Chelmsford had to take her baths alone, Flora and young Sophia joining her afterwards in the Pump Room where she would drink her glass of water, and the three of them would walk about and hear the latest gossip.

After breakfast, and the morning service in the Abbey, they were free to enjoy themselves, walking, riding, driving, or shopping, until dinner at three. After tea the evenings were filled with card parties, the play, or the ball. To be sure, the round was no different from that of London, except in being more restricted, but Flora enjoyed the novelty; and there were pleasant drives and exploring parties to various beauty spots in the area. And with Lord Meldon there, she was perfectly happy.

It was he who brought to her the copy of the
Gazette
containing the reports of the battle between Rodney's fleet and the French off Martinique. He gave it to her one morning while they were strolling about the Pump Room, having left Lady Chelmsford and Sophia talking to some friends by the door. Silently he folded the paper and pointed out the paragraph.

. . . and I cannot end this report without mentioning in the strongest terms the exemplary conduct and courage of Captain Thomas Morland of the
Rochester
in leading the boarding of the
Artois.
Captain Morland received a slight wound, from which I am happy to report he is now recovering . .

Flora read the words over and over, and then looked up at Lord Meldon, and her lip began to tremble. Hastily he tucked her hand under his arm and walked with her along the edge of the room so that her face was turned away from the company, and their speech was covered by the music.

‘Dear Flora, compose yourself,' he said gently. 'You see the Admiral says it is only a slight wound. He will be well by and by.’

She shook her head. 'That is not it,' she said, so low that he had to stoop to hear her. 'You know that is not what distresses me.’

He did not answer at once, but pressed her hand closer to his side, and their steps slowed. At last he said, 'Yes, I know.' Now they stopped altogether, and he said, 'I have to confess to you that when I first began taking notice of you I did it out of sheer mischief. Oh, I can't excuse myself - I was a peevish boy, I resented my father's happiness with my stepmother, I wanted to make trouble. But I was very soon caught in my own trap. My feelings for you, dearest Flora—'

‘Oh, don't!' she whispered in belated alarm, but he went on.

‘My feelings for you grew, first to a warm friendship and a lively interest - and then - oh Flora, you know, you must have known for a long time, that I love you.'

‘Charles—' she began, and then realized that refutation was useless now. 'Yes, I know, and I should not have done what I did. As soon as I felt myself in danger from you, I should have quitted your company. And now it's too late. I love you too. Oh Charles, what shall we do?’

He could make no answer for the moment, except to press her hand.

‘This report,' she said after a short silence, 'it brings it home to me. Oh Charles, I am a married woman. Thomas - I was so young when I married, hardly more than a child. He is older than me, I never really knew him. But when I saw he was wounded, I suddenly thought - what if he should hear? What if he should find out? It would wound him far more than anything the French can do.'

‘But we have done nothing wrong,' Charles said urgently. 'You must keep reminding yourself, Flora, that we have done nothing wrong. We have been together in public, we have been as brother and sister. Gossip may surmise what it likes, but we know it is false.'

‘
We don't!'
she cried. 'Whatever our actions have been, our feelings are wrong. Oh Charles, what can we do?' There was a silence in which they looked at each other, and all the impossible possibilities passed through their minds and were dismissed. In the end he said sadly, ‘Nothing. There is nothing we
can
do, except to be together.' He turned her, and they walked on, turning at the end of the room along the front of the orchestra.

‘I'm so afraid he will be killed,' Flora whispered, 'and then I will never know if I wished for it or not.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 The Act of Parliament for the enclosure of the Morland lands went through in July 1781, just before the end of the session, but the fact had anticipated the Act, and already the three largest open fields had been ploughed and levelled. The levelling and laying-in of drains was an important part of enclosure, for under the strip system, cross-ploughing was impossible, and so the only method of draining had been the building up of the centre of the field into a crown. Over the years, moreover, the rigs and baulks changed levels drastically, so that the furrows were sometimes feet deep.

‘It's a wonder to me,' Allen said to Jemima, 'that we ever grew anything at all under the old system. Now you will see the difference - a level field, well-drained, with a uniformity of soil and moisture, and nothing wasted in dividing up the holdings! Then imagine that field, well manured from grazing our wintering cattle on a turnip crop, well bound together with a crop of good clover grass, sewn with row upon row of strong, clean corn.'

‘My darling,' Jemima laughed, 'you do not have to convince
me,
remember.’

But there had been moments when she had had her doubts about the business, especially when, earlier that year, two of the smaller tenants had come to her seeking an interview.

‘About this enclosure, mistress,' they said.

‘Are you sure it is not Sir Allen you should be speaking to?' Jemima asked.

They looked embarrassed, and shifted their feet, and then one of them, a man called Fosdyck, said, 'Well, mistress, it's this way - the master's so set on it that he'd never listen to us. And we reckoned that, after all, it's you that's really the owner and if you said - if you made up your mind—'

‘But what is it that troubles you? I understood that everything had been agreed, that you had all been advised of your allocations, and were contented.'

‘T'isn't the allocation, mistress,' said the other, Master Black. 'Master explained all to us, and how if we put our strips together, and took a piece more for grazing rights, it would come to such and such an amount, and we couldn't say it weren't right—'

‘The master wouldn't stint us wrong, we know that,' Fosdyck put in anxiously. 'But once we've got our allocation, what are we do to with it? We can't afford to plant hedges round it, nor to build fences.'

‘Then there's drains to lay in, and a road to be built,' Black added. 'And my little bit is on the far side o' the beck, and I can't afford to build a bridge over it. How am Ito get my ox and my plough over the beck?’

Jemima stared at them helplessly. 'Oh dear. I can't begin to answer your questions. But I will say this to you, I am sure Sir Allen has thought of all these things and will have some answer for you. And I will put your questions to him, on your behalf.’

But Allen had had no answer, in the sense of a solution. ‘I'm afraid that it's true, that the smaller holdings will hardly be worth the expense of fencing,' he said, 'but what's to be done? The enclosure must go through, for the greater good, and if the allocations are fair, one has done all one can.'

‘But what will happen to people like Black and Fosdyck?' Jemima asked. Allen shrugged.

‘They will find a way round their problems, or they will sell their holdings. The latter is the most likely.'

‘Sell to whom?' Jemima asked in a small voice. Allen tried not to look guilty.

‘To me,' he said. ‘I'm sorry, Jemima, it can't be helped. I'll give them a good price, and you know that the land will be better farmed by me than by them. And that will mean more meat and corn for everyone in the country.' ‘But then what will happen to them?'

‘They will find work - don't forget, there will be plenty to do in the new system, and I will employ them, if they ask me, and give them a fair wage.'

‘I see,' Jemima said, and she had nothing more to say about it. She could see, she agreed with him, as to the necessity of it, but it saddened her all the same. She remembered when she had been a young girl and her father had taken her out to meet the tenants and labourers and outworkers, and had explained to her how their independence was precious to them. They liked to have their own little patch of land, however poor, and their own cow, however sway-backed, and to work in their own way and in their own time. It was inefficient, of course, led to poor husbandry, unequal work, sometimes destitution - but, as her father had said, 'A little freedom is as precious to a weaver as to any man.' She could see both sides of the problem, and it gave her pain.

But the worst thing was the loss of common rights to those cottagers who had them by right of tenancy of a certain dwelling. There was one old man called Horace Truman - Gaffer Truman, as he was known. He lived in a cottage on the edge of the common just beyond the Ten Thorns, and in that tiny, odiferous cottage he had raised fifteen children by a succession of three wives, and had outlived all of them. They had none of them ever been much above the level of starvation - and sometimes below it, when a pig died or a cow went dry. But he had survived, heating his hovel and cooking his food by the turf and firewood he collected on the commons, feeding his pigs with the acorns, his cow with the grazing and loppings, keeping a few chickens or a goose, doing the odd day's labour when he was badly off, and 'taking a holiday'. -getting drunk - when things were going well.