The Flood-Tide (52 page)

In the afternoon, Allen went in to speak to him.

‘We know about your debts, child,' he said, and James had the grace to colour. 'Why did you let matters get to such a pitch? You should have come to me if you wanted money, not to strangers.'

‘I didn't think you'd give it to me,' James muttered. ‘Because you've wasted your allowance on drink and gambling?' Allen said. 'Well, I've no sympathy for that sort of thing, you're right there. But a debt is a matter of honour, and you implicate us all when you use your Morland name to borrow money.' He noted the pallor of his son's face, and said more kindly, 'I won't go on about it now, when you're feeling badly. But when you are well again, we will have to go over it, and you will have to tell me every penny you owe, so that it can all be paid back.’

It was not a prospect to please. Shame made James say sulkily, 'If you had given me a decent allowance in the first place—'

‘I gave you what I thought you reasonably needed. I was not to know you had unreasonable demands too. But what hurts me most, James, is not that you are a drunkard and a gambler - though that is bad enough to have to acknowledge about one's son - but that you have been so secretive, that you have cared so little for us, for the family, as to bring us into disrepute through your actions.' James turned his head away wearily, and Allen saw a tear shining in his eye, and knew he had said enough. He stood up.

‘Rest now, and when you are well we will talk it all out, and see if we can't do better in the future. You have great abilities, my son, and it is a shame to abuse them so.’

He went away, and James closed his eyes and swallowed tears. Pain in his head, and shame in his heart, were yet eased by a relief that the juggling was over, the eggs had fallen and smashed, and that he no longer had to fear the worst. Provided, he thought wearily, the other matter did not come out - but there was no reason why it should. It was not connected in any way to debt or drink or the Maccabbees Club.

*

Celia Anstey presided over her tea kettle with more content than was usual. Her sister Augusta had come to tea, bringing with her Mrs Skelwith, the former Mary Loveday, who was looking pale and plain; and although her sister Margaret had her fiance Edgar Somers with her, and was simpering over him abominably, Celia could comfort herself that James Morland was twice as clever as Edgar and ten times as handsome, and that he had danced with her more than with anyone else at the ball at Shawes. He seemed to have been expressing a definite preference, and she was just a little surprised that he had not come to call on her - using her brothers as an excuse of course -to follow up his advantage.

The doorbell below rang, and Celia noticed Mary Skelwith jump at the sound and turn her head irresistibly towards the door for a second before she recovered herself. She had exhibited the same restlessness once or twice before, and Celia leaned forward and said with honeyed concern in her voice, 'Why, Mary dear, you aren't looking so very well this afternoon.'

‘I'm very well, Celia, thank you,' Mary said, composing herself with an effort.

‘But you are pale, and seem so nervous, dear. What a shame your husband should be away at a time when you are not well. Sure, you must have been all alone last night?' She had brought up the subject of Mary's husband only because she thought Mary was ashamed of having had to marry such an old man as John Skelwith, but Mary looked if possible even paler, though two small spots of red appeared on her cheekbones.

‘Of course I was alone,' she said sharply. 'But I am used to it. I am often alone.’

Celia raised an eyebrow. ‘La, how strange you are! I didn't mean anything by it. Have some more tea, Mary dear.' The door opened, and Celia's maid came in, looking agitated.

‘A letter for you, ma'am,' she said, and lingered after handing it over, making significant noddings of her head and rollings of her eyes.

‘Very well. What is the matter, Jenkins? What is it you want?' Celia said impatiently, pausing in the opening of her letter.

‘Oh ma'am, haven't you heard? Terrible news, ma'am,' the maid said with relish.

‘What news? I haven't heard any news.'

‘Mr James Morland, ma'am,' the maid nodded importantly. 'Had a fall from his horse, a bad one, and was taken up lifeless, ma'am.'

‘What?' Celia cried out, but her attention was taken away at once by a strange moan from Mrs Skelwith, who half rose to her feet, and then sank back into her chair, deathly pale.

‘Good God, she's fainted!' Mr Somers said, and while he and the other ladies crowded around her, patting her hands and fanning her face, Celia shook her unfortunate maid and scolded her, and then, seeing the letter she had been given was from Morland Place, hastily opened it.

Mrs Skelwith soon came to herself, and answered inquiries faintly with, 'I am quite well, quite well. Please, don't trouble yourselves.'

‘Are you sure, Mary?' Augusta asked, and being in an interesting condition herself, her mind naturally ran that way. 'Perhaps you may be in the family way? Have you thought of it, dear?’

Before Mary could be obliged to answer, Celia, who had read her letter with some trepidation, said, 'It's all right. This is from Mary Morland, who explains it all. James had a fall and hit his head, but he is not seriously hurt, and will be quite well in a day or two. Jenkins, how could you be so stupid? Go away at once, and be more careful in future before you spread rumours.'

‘That was how I heard it, ma'am,' Jenkins said stubbornly. ‘I'm sure I can't help it if I'm told wrong.' She flounced out, and Celia turned to look at Mary with a sudden thoughtfulness, as several apparently unconnected threads came together in her mind.

‘Are you all right, Mary?' she asked abruptly, and Mary met her gaze with her usual calm.

‘Yes, of course. It was silly of me - but it is a little hot in here,' she said, and Celia let it pass.

*

The birthday celebrations were to spread over three days: on the first day a cricket match and horse races; on the second day a fair with all the usual competitions and quite a few new ones Jemima and Allen had thought up, finishing with fireworks and music; and on the third day a grand dinner and a ball.

In spite of his accident, and the unpleasant and embarrassing interview with his father that had followed his recovery, James had regained enough of his aplomb to ride his chestnut in one of the races and even to smile when he won a pipe of wine. In the evening there was a quiet family supper, from which he could not well absent himself. Everyone was there to wish Allen a happy birthday and drink his health, and offer their presents, but when they settled down afterwards to sit about the fire talking, James excused himself by saying he had a headache and was going to bed.

‘Yes, you've had quite an energetic day, haven't you?' Allen said genially. 'You rode a good race, James.'

‘I hope you have not been doing too much,' Jemima said with some concern. 'If you wake up with a headache tomorrow, you must tell me, and we'll have the apothecary over straight away.'

‘I'll be all right, Mother,' James said, and kissed her, and went away, to prepare a bolster for his bed and slip out down the back stairs. He felt a little bad about it, especially since Mother and Father were being so kind, but he couldn't help it. He must see her, and tonight was his last chance, before her husband returned.

The next day was the fair, and long before dawn the stallholders were setting up, and the fires were being lit for the cook-pits. By midday it was in full swing, and the fields around the moated house were filled with people and noise and heat and smells and a hearty holiday mood. The games and competitions were under way, the jugglers and entertainers, the dancing bear and the dog that walked on its hind legs, the travelling musicians, the fire-eater, the Educated Horse, the gypsy who told fortunes, the Eastern Mystic who walked on nails, and the sword swallower were all giving their shows, and people were eating, gawping, playing, talking, gambling, dancing, and flirting, just as the fancy took them.

Celia Anstey, having shed her younger brothers at the cooked-meat stall, and her sisters at the gypsy's booth, wandered about in search of James, and finally found him, rather out of the throng, leaning against a tree and staring moodily at the bright scene before him. She went towards him eagerly, preparing to tease him a little and try to cheer his obvious sadness, when she suddenly saw what he was looking at, and stiffened. John Skelwith was standing at an ale stall nearby, talking to a group of his business acquaintances, with his wife on his arm. All Celia's hurt and jealousy rose up in her, and she walked over to James as stiff-legged as a threatened dog.

‘Well,' she said, and James started and turned to look at her, and then turned his head away and settled moodily against his tree again. 'Well, that's put a stop to
your
little game, hasn't it?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' James said wearily. 'Please, Miss Anstey, I don't want to be rude, but—'

‘No, I'm sure you don't want to be rude to
me,'
she said pointedly. 'After all, you need someone to confide in, and there can't be many people left you can talk to. In fact, Mr Morland, it may well be that I'm your only friend.’

He pushed himself upright and turned on her irritably, like a bull goaded by flies. 'I have plenty of friends. I don't know what you're talking about, and I don't want to know. If you'll excuse me I'll—'

‘Stay where you are,' she said sharply. 'I say you need someone to confide in - someone who knows about you and Mary Skelwith.’

He froze.

‘Yes, that surprises you, doesn't it? You thought no-one knew. You thought you had been very clever.'

‘There is nothing between Mrs Skelwith and me,' he said, and then, seeing it was no use to deny what she evidently knew, he gestured with his head towards the group he had been watching. 'Nothing, now. You see, he is back. It's all over, and if you were to speak of it to anyone, I would simply deny it, and then where would you be?'

‘You think it's all over? You poor simpleton. Don't you know she's taken to fainting? Poor Mary, she turns pale and faints away, and I wonder what can cause that? I don't suppose she's told
him
yet. He doesn't look as though she has, does he?’

James stared at the talking group for a long moment, and then turned to Celia, his face rigid with anguish. ‘What do you want? he said in a low voice. Celia smiled, feeling her power over him at last, to make up for the years in which he had had power over her.

‘Be nice to me, Mr Morland, that's all. You danced with me a good deal at Shawes, and if you dance with me tomorrow at the ball, people will think your attentions are growing very pointed. Well, you have to marry some time, don't you? No one would be at all surprised if you were to ask for my hand. I'm a good match, after all, and you're only third son. Though, of course, people will see that I'm fond of you, too. I shall be
very
nice to you, I think, if you are nice to me.’

She stepped closer, laying her hand on his arm and smiling up at him, and he looked down at her and saw the triumph in her smile and the apprehension in her eyes. He bared his teeth in what might charitably be called a grin.

‘You're a fool,' he said contemptuously, and shook her hand off, and walked away. Rage and chagrin burned her cheeks.

‘It's you that's the fool!' she shrieked after him. 'You'll see! You'll see!’

But he did not stop, or even turn.

*

For days no-one spoke of anything but the Skelwith Scandal, and even after the first excitement had died down, the subject was revived almost daily for weeks, told and retold, losing nothing in the telling. Deliciously it was chewed over, how skimble-shanked old John Skelwith was cuckolded within weeks of his marriage by that young spike James Morland, a mere boy; and how, when the old man found out the state of affairs, he had marched off on his own two bent legs, and broken in upon the Morland family in the middle of their family dinner to celebrate Master Morland's birthday to demand recompense. And how the lady herself, following her husband in the chaise as soon as she could get the servants to turn it out, ran in, practically
en deshabille,
and clutched her husband's arm, sobbing, as if she thought he was going to strike someone.

York society was pretty uncharitable to the participants in the drama, finding their confusion and distress a matter for more mirth than sympathy, and Skelwith got shortest shrift of all, for it was generally agreed that when an ugly old man married a pretty young girl he must expect what he got, especially if he left her alone in the house for weeks at a time while he attended to business. Thus fame translated Mary at a stroke: she was a pretty young girl in this adventure, while at the time she married she was considered lucky to get Master Skelwith on account of being plain and twenty.

Celia Anstey was much ridiculed for her part in the episode, which was entirely contrary to her expectations. To hear herself derided as a cross old spinster, so eaten up with jealousy because her infatuation with the young man was not returned that she tried to stir up a duel in which he might be shot, mortified her so severely that for days she shut herself in her room, sobbing dismally.

‘But what did you do it for, girl?' her father roared at her again and again. 'Did you want to make us a laughing stock?’