The Flood-Tide (50 page)

Jemima shook her head and sighed. 'The troubles that title has caused over the years,' she said. 'I should be very sorry if Mary ever came to have it, for it brought me no happiness.'

‘Well, the present Lady Chelmsford is happy enough,' Edward pointed out, 'and Flora loves her Charles. I don't think you should condemn it from your own unhappiness, Mama. And I tell you what I shall do - I shall get Chetwyn to dance with Amelia Fussell all night, so as to give Mary a chance. How will that be?'

‘Really, Edward—!'

‘Why, Mama, it's a most generous offer, I'm sure,' Edward grinned. 'After all, I was planning to have him to myself all evening.’

It was only afterwards that Jemima thought there had been something odd about the last bit of that conversation, but she could not quite put her finger on it, and in any case, she was so busy preparing for the birthday that she had no time to brood over matters. But it came back to her at the ball at Shawes. Dinner had been very elegant, and afterwards the diners stood around in the drawing room chatting while they waited for the hour to arrive for the ball to begin. She was talking to Lord Chelmsford about horses when Allen strolled over to join them, and the Earl changed the subject.

‘By the way,' he said, 'I've had a most odd letter from our young friend in Paris,' he said. 'The direction on the wrapper was most amusing - all it said was "To the Lord Chelmsford; London" - but of course it got to me all right.' Allen was giving Chelmsford significant looks, and even went so far as to hem, but the Earl was fumbling inside his coat for the letter, and did not notice. 'Deuce take it, I made sure I had it here somewhere - what? - no, that's not it. Well, no matter, I remember well enough what it said said you'd spoken to our young cousin when you were there in '83, and undertaken to tax me about readmitting him to the family—’

He broke off at this point, at last seeing Allen's gestures. He raised his eyebrows politely, and Allen said, 'The matter has been a close secret, Charles. I'm afraid you may have—'

‘What? Oh, Lord, you mean Jemima doesn't know? Dam'me - I beg your pardon, Jemima - I never thought I assumed, as she was married to my brother—'

‘I'm sorry to have overheard, even inadvertently, something I should not,' Jemima said quickly, trying to conceal that she was burning with curiosity. 'I shall take myself off at once, and give you privacy.’

Allen and Chelmsford exchanged looks, and Allen said, ‘Well, I suppose it doesn't matter if Jemima knows it all, now she has heard that much.'

‘Good heavens, no, you must not break a confidence for my sake,' Jemima said.

‘It concerns a pensioner of mine,' Chelmsford said. Not to put too fine a point on it, he has a certain amount of Morland blood, albeit with a bend sinister in the way, Ma'am—'

‘I shall leave you at once,' Jemima said, smiling firmly, and walked away, her thoughts racing, despite her determination not to be curious.

When she had gone, Chelmsford said, 'So what is all this, Allen? Why didn't you tell me about it?'

‘He asked me to represent to you his wish of being taken back into the family, and I promised him I would think about it. I did think about it, long and seriously, but when I considered the inevitable repercussions, I decided it would be a most undesirable thing, and so I did not mention it to you. He has a child you see.'

‘A child? A bastard?'

‘Apparently not. He said his wife died. A girl child, Charles, with Morland blood and Stuart eyes.' The two men regarded each other in grave silence for a moment.

‘A most undesirable complication,' Chelmsford concluded.

‘Precisely. And even if there were not a child, think of the explanations that would have to be made. You have seen already, in the last five minutes, how much trouble he could cause.'

‘Damn it, Allen, I'm sorry about that. It never occurred to me—'

‘It doesn't matter. There were reasons why I didn't tell Jemima about it. I suppose I will have to explain to her, but it won't be easy.'

‘I'll write back to Henri and refuse, then. But has it occurred to you that there is no way in which we can prevent him from turning up on the doorstep one day, if the fancy takes him?'

‘I think you have the means to put pressure to bear on him,' Allen said. 'You could make the pension conditional upon his maintaining secrecy.'

‘Yes, that's true. Good idea. And I'll tell you what - I'll write and say that I shall continue to pay the pension to his daughter as long as he keeps mum. If he's a decent man, he won't want to jeopardize her future.’

When he rejoined Jemima, she smiled brightly at him and spoke pointedly of a neutral subject, and he lifted her hand and kissed it in token of thanks. He was afraid that if he told her the bare facts, she might guess the rest. Yet if he told her nothing, she might guess at worse things. He would have to think carefully what to say, and how to say it, and choose his moment.

*

Amelia Fussell and Horatio Morland opened the ball, to the chagrin of many of the young ladies present, who had hoped for the honour, but Jemima could not tell whether Mary minded, for she was at once approached by Tom Loveday, John Anstey, and James Chetwyn, and was too busy allocating them their time for her face to reveal anything to her mother. William presented himself with a bow to Caroline Fussell, and James claimed Celia Anstey's hand with a flourish. The other young people paired off, and the ball began. Mary had taken Tom Loveday for the two first, and Jemima was a little put out to see Chetwyn at once return to Edward's side, and the two of them plunge into deep conversation. She made her way quickly to them.

‘Edward, why are you both standing here like this?' she asked in a voice low but urgent. 'Everyone will think you so rude. Look, there are young ladies with no partners. You, Edward, in particular - don't you see Miss Elizabeth Anstey sitting down? Go and ask her at once.'

‘But Mama—'

‘Don't you see, it looks as though you thought yourselves too good to dance with these girls. Would you insult the whole of York?’

‘But
I—'

‘Not in the least, madam,' Chetwyn interrupted Edward firmly. 'Thank you for reminding us of our manners, when we had so lamentably forgot them. We shall pick two York roses this instant. Ned - you go that way, and I'll go this. Your servant, ma'am.’

He gave her a charming bow, gave Edward a firm shove in the small of the back towards the younger Miss Anstey, and walked off himself in the other direction, and a moment later led a blushing young lady into the set.

Relieved of her responsibility for a moment, Jemima was able to walk around, watch the dancing, talk to the other matrons, and remember, with a certain amount of wistfulness, her own dancing days. Edward danced the two first with Elizabeth Anstey, the two second with her sister Margaret, and the two third with Caroline Fussell. The two third were Mary's dances with Chetwyn, and at the end of them, Horatio Morland came up to claim her hand, and Jemima was so occupied in watching Mary and Horatio together, in order to determine if there was any truth in the talk, that she lost sight of Edward and Chetwyn. The two fifth Mary danced again with John Anstey, which was enough in any case to cause comment, but Jemima noticed, as must every gossip in the room, that Miss Morland's eyes and cheeks were bright, and that she had no lack of things to say to her partner. Jemima did not know whether to be pleased or worried. It would be good to think that Mary's genuine affection for John Anstey was stronger than her ambition for a title, and yet she had refused him before, and was, moreover, planning to go to London with Flora in a month's time, where she would be in Horatio's company and out of Anstey's sight.

It was when that pair ended that Jemima suddenly realized Edward and his friend were no longer in the ballroom, and a wave of anger rushed over her that Edward had ignored her stated wishes that he should dance. Chetwyn's rudeness was bad enough, and disappointed her, when she had thought so well of him, but Edward owed her a duty, and as unobtrusively as she could she slipped out of the ballroom to go in search of them. It was easy for her to move quickly and surely about the house which had once been hers, and she did not have far to look to find them. They were in the orangery, and as she came to the door, she saw them standing amongst some greenery, looking out of the window.

She had been about to call out to them, but something stopped her. They were not doing anything in particular, just standing side by side, looking out at the velvety night, not even talking. It was the way she and Allen sometimes stood, looking at the moon, or at the scenery, too close to need to speak, keeping pace with each other's thoughts with the ease of accustomed lovers. Edward had known Chetwyn since he was a young boy, and presumably they were close enough also not to need to talk. And yet While she hesitated, she heard one of them sigh - she could not tell which - and then Chetwyn laid his arm for a moment across Edward's shoulder, and Edward turned his head and smiled at his friend. Then something near her rustled - the draught moving some leaves, perhaps - and Chetwyn removed his arm, and walked away, going towards the other door. At that moment Jemima walked forward, and Edward turned and saw her.

He waited for her apprehensively, while Chetwyn left them by the far door, and Jemima was never sure if he had seen her or not. Edward looked like a child expecting to be scolded for stealing apples, but she was no longer angry -there was instead a heaviness inside her, like the forerunner of sorrow. She stood for a while looking at him, wondering what to say. Should she berate him for leaving the dance? What was it that was cold and heavy in her breast? What was she afraid of? He looked so young, she thought. He had always looked younger than his age. And while she was still waiting for words to come to her, he said, 'Well, Mother, now you know.’

Know what? she wondered, but before she had time to say it, his mouth quivered, and his cheeks burned with a sudden flow of blood, and the understanding came to her with a great gush of shock, and fear, and, more than anything, grief. Grief for him, for Edward, her gentle son no anger. She wondered why she had not known before, considering the ways of her first husband with his 'friends’

but even as she thought it, she knew that this could not be the same thing. Rupert's male friends were not like Chetwyn, and he had not behaved with them as she had seen Edward behave. That arm across the shoulder, and the smile, were loving and tender; she could not believe there was anything vicious there. And yet

‘For God's sake, say something!' Edward said desperately, his voice cracking. 'Shout at me, berate me, but don't - just - stand there.’

She let her breath out in a long sigh. 'Oh Edward,' she said, and the gentleness of her voice made him flinch. ‘What can I say?’

He turned his head, a movement of pain, and she wanted to comfort him. How had he been tainted? Rupert was no kin to him. What had happened to him?

‘How far—?' she began, asking a question she didn't want to know the answer to. mean - you and - your friend - how far has it gone? Are you lovers?’

Edward looked at her puzzled. ‘What do you mean?' he asked. ‘How could we be lovers?' Her instant relief must have shown on her face, because suddenly he was scarlet, and a mixture of anger and shame made his eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh!' he said. ‘You mean—?' He shook his head, not in denial, but as one shakes away a troublesome insect. ‘Of course not! How could you even think that we would—? How could you say such a thing?'

‘I didn't say it, darling,' Jemima said. 'I didn't really think it - I only wanted to be sure.'

‘Chetwyn and I are friends. He is my dearest, dearest friend. I love him.' Now his angry voice gentled, and he went on apologetically. 'That's why, you see, Mother -I'm sorry to disappoint you. But I can't find it in my heart to care about girls. I can't explain. I wanted to tell you, often and often, but I knew I could never make you understand.'

‘I do understand,' she said.

‘No, you don't. How could you?'

‘It will change, Edward. Your feelings will change in time, and this love will become part of other loves you feel.' He shook his head, and she saw it was no use talking any more now. ‘Go back to the ball now,' she said. 'And dance all the dances.’

He looked at her like something stricken. 'Are you ashamed of me, Mother?'

‘No. No, of course not. You are my good, dear, gentle son, Ned. Nothing changes that. Now go back to the ball. Go on. I shall follow.’

Alone, she tried to compose herself. It is just a boyish fancy, she thought, nothing more. He will grow out of it. A young boy's hero-worship which somehow had not ceased when it should. In time it would assume its proper dimension in Edward's life. In a few years it would all be forgotten, and he'd be a husband and father like any other young man.

So she told herself, and with her mind she believed it. But as she turned back towards the ballroom, she felt for the first time the touch of age, and she climbed the stairs slowly, as though they wearied her.

*

’What's the matter?' Allen asked her as they got into bed.

‘It's nothing,' she said vaguely, her mind still whirling so that she forgot for a moment that it was useless to say that.

‘Jemima, my love,' he protested gently. She gave a small, troubled smile.

‘I'm sorry. Yes, of course I am preoccupied.' In that moment she decided not to tell Allen what had passed between her and Edward that evening. If, as she hoped, he grew out of it, there was no need to worry Allen. If he did not, Allen would come to realize it in good time, and the knowledge, coming gradually, might be more palatable.