The Flood-Tide (53 page)

It only added to her shame when she heard him say to John, 'Now tha mayst be thankful that Mary Morland turned thee down. It wouldn't do to be mixed up with that family now,' and to see John's patient sorrow as he bore the sting. In the end Sir John solved the immediate problem by packing Celia, her mother and her unwed sisters off to Harrogate to take the waters and keep out of the way until the affair died down.

Various were the emotions of the Morland Family, immediately and afterwards, but amusement was not one of them. It was they, of course, who witnessed the wounded husband's rage, so great that it transcended for a short while his undistinguished appearance, so that while he stood blazing in the doorway to the dining room there was nothing ludicrous about him, despite his bowed legs, despite the day-old traveller's stubble on his chin, and the large old-fashioned wig knocked askew on his head. It was they, too, who saw his young wife cling to his arm and beg his forgiveness, and saw him suddenly begin to weep.

The family dinner was broken up, the birthday ball cancelled at once, and on Allen, who should have been celebrating as the head of a happy, united and prosperous family, fell the burden of the interviews: with the miscreants, and with the outraged husband. The latter was the longest and most unpleasant, for while he sympathized entirely with Master Skelwith's anger, he had to try to soothe it, and to persuade him out of more violent and public expression of it. Skelwith was for casting Mary off, for calling James out, for horsewhipping him, for divorcing her, for having her whipped through the streets as a whore, for having them both put in the stocks in the Thursday Market, and finally for shooting him, her, and then himself to put an end to the unhappy business.

Allen wisely let him rage for a time, and then began gently to persuade him that a public casting-off of Mary would do no-one any good, and would only bring him public odium. It was a delicate point, for John Skelwith assumed that public opinion would be with him, while Allen, who knew the world pretty well, was already convinced that it would find the old man's plight laughable.

‘Consider, sir, a divorce would need an Act of Parliament. It would be discussed in public places, written up in the newspapers. People would say - I'm truly sorry, but I'm afraid they would - that you weren't able to keep her, even for a few weeks.' Skelwith scowled, but Allen saw that he took the point. 'Consider again, the young woman is penitent, she has learned her lesson, is ready to make all amends that possibly can be made in such a sad case. Would it not be better to forgive her? You have the rest of your life to live with her. Would you throw away everything for one early mistake?'

‘Mistake?' Skelwith said dangerously.

‘Error. Crime. Sin. Call it what you will. She is young, sir, and high spirited, and I doubt she understood fully what she was about.' He was sure she
did,
but no matter. ‘She has learned her lesson. Why not let it end there?'

‘But the young man - he should not get off scot-free.'

‘I think you can safely leave him to me, sir,' Allen said. Skelwith cocked his head on one side.

‘Oh can I, sir? I don't think I can, sir. I think you will be lenient with him, your own son, sir. I want him horsewhipped. I want him—'

‘Yes, I know. But who is to do it?' Allen said quietly. There was a brief silence, and then Allen said, 'I shall deal with him, sir, with all the severity the case deserves, I promise you. You have my word on that.’

When Skelwith finally departed, Allen leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. All the severity it deserves, he thought. 'God damn the boy,' he exploded aloud. 'Why couldn't he take his pleasures discreetly?’

Edward put his head around the door. 'Did you call, Father?’

No. Yes - send James to me. Where is he?'

‘He's in his room. I've been talking to him.'

‘Is he penitent?' Allen asked, without much hope. Edward shook his head.

‘Not a bit. He says that after the fuss you made over Maggie Henshaw, he gathered that if he had a mistress it would have to be a married one, and now he has done what you wanted you're upset about it.'

‘Upset!'

‘He said he didn't want to risk the brothel in Petergate, so what else could he do?' Edward shrugged. 'I suppose it's only what's done every day of the week in every town in the country, Papa. Men will take mistresses, and women will be unfaithful.'

‘But damn it, not a woman only just married! Why did he have to choose her, of all people?'

‘Well, Papa,' Edward said gravely, 'I think, oddly enough, that he is in love with her.' He hesitated before asking, 'What did you agree with Skelwith?'

‘I said I would give James the punishment the case deserved.'

‘I see. Yes, that's very subtle. Well, I'll go and fetch the miscreant, shall I?'

‘Yes, do, Ned. God knows what I can say to him. Where's your mother?'

‘In the drawing room. She's taking it rather badly. When I've brought you James, I'll go and sit with her.’

*

Mary and William had taken themselves out of the way as soon as they could, and Edward found his mother alone, sitting staring at the fire. He sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm round her shoulders, and said, 'Don't take it to heart so, Mother. There's no harm done.'

‘No harm done?' she said.

‘No - believe me. Skelwith has been placated, James will be rebuked, and the gossips will have a wonderful time for a few days, and then it will all be forgotten. If the old fool hadn't made such a fuss, it would never have got this far in the first place.'

‘You don't think he should have made a fuss?' Jemima said. 'Really, Ned, sometimes I just don't understand you. Not make a fuss when he finds his wife is having an affair with a boy several years younger than her, only weeks after their marriage?'

‘Well, what did he expect? It isn't such an astonishing thing, now is it, Mother? It's been going on since the world began, and will go on for ever. Half the literature of the world is about old men being cheated by young wives And what harm is there, in the end? It will all blow over, you'll see.'

‘But what about the sanctity of marriage?' Jemima cried. 'It is a holy sacrament.'

‘There was never anything sacred about
that
marriage, nor about two-thirds of modern marriages, I should say. She wanted his money, he wanted her youth, so they made a bargain. It's business, Mother, not a sacrament.'

‘Edward, don't talk like that, please. You have been brought up with better ideas, surely?'

‘Things are changing, Mother. Ideas are changing. People today don't just accept everything they're told. Religion is being set aside, when it doesn't pay.'

‘Edward!'

‘Oh, don't worry, Mother, I'm still your dutiful son. That isn't
me
talking. I'm only telling you how people think. Things are changing, and you can't turn the tide back. People want to decide for themselves what's right and what's wrong, and what to do with their lives. They're not content to be told, and to ask no questions.'

‘Very well, but we are talking of individuals, not these "people" with whose ideas you are so well acquainted. We are talking of young Mary Loveday ruined, John Skelwith deeply wounded and unhappy. And what about the child?'

‘Ah, the child,' Edward said thoughtfully. 'Well, I suppose it will be all the same to the child, one way and another. It will be born in wedlock, and if it has some other man for a father, I don't suppose it will ever know. Such things happen all the time.'

‘But not—' Jemima was about to say, but not in this family. And then she remembered the night of the ball at Shawes, and Allen's revelations about Marie-Louise's bastard child, who was, when all was said, her own brother. Her father, her dear, revered, beloved father, had sinned too. Edward was right. She burst abruptly into tears.

‘Oh Mama, please don't cry!' Edward dropped to the floor in front of her, knelt at her knees and tried to take her in his arms, more distressed than he could have expected. 'Oh don't, don't. There's nothing here worth that. You've never cried, Mama, never.'

‘I don't understand anything any more,' she whimpered through her tears and her hands. 'The whole world seems to have turned upside down. There's you - and James -and—'

‘Oh dearest, darling Mama, please don't cry! I'm still here, still your same Edward, and I'll always be here, I'll never go away, never change. And James—'

‘What will become of James?' she said miserably.

‘James will survive,' Edward said firmly. ‘He will always survive, even if the whole world goes up in flames. He is a salamander. Sooner weep for me than for James!' She fumbled for her handkerchief, and he drew his out and thrust it into her fingers, and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose and sat up, her old brisk self again.

‘Oh dear,' she said. ‘I'm better now. What a fool I've been. You must not tell your father what a fool I've been, Edward.' He was still kneeling before her, watching her face, and she thought how very young he looked, and she was glad in a secret and guilty way that he would stay hers, like that, and not marry away from her. She patted his cheek, and he smiled. 'Poor Allen! What a time he's having of it, and on his birthday, too, when everything was supposed to be so splendid for him.'

‘Yes, poor Papa. We must try to make it up to him when the fuss dies down.’

*

Flora and Lord Meldon, who had once been the cause of tumult and scandal themselves, felt tenderly towards Allen and Jemima, and on the day after the news broke they came up with their scheme to ease matters for them. They proposed, when they left for London, to take with them not only Mary and William, but James too.

‘I've spoken to my father about it,' Meldon said, 'and he's perfectly agreeable to have James stay at Chelmsford House, and to present him at Court. He's sure he will be able to get James some appointment. The King likes well set up young men, and he will not forget what he owes to
you,
Sir Allen. As a gentleman of the bedchamber or something of the sort James will be in the way of making a career for himself, and the talk here will soon die down once he is out of sight.'

‘And it will take him out of temptation's way, as far as Mrs Skelwith is concerned,' Jemima murmured approvingly, for from what she had seen and heard of James's attitude to the whole affair, she was not convinced he did not mean to take up again where he left off, only more discreetly.

Thus it was settled, and James, though not asked for his approval, was satisfied with the scheme. He was eager for new horizons and wider opportunities, and it would certainly be agreeable to be out of the way of his sniggering acquaintances and his scolding family for a while.

The last small incident happened on the day before the departure in the middle of September, when Mary had gone into York to make some last-minute purchases. She scorned the idea of hiding herself away and avoiding the Ansteys or Fussells or anyone else who might stare or laugh; but as she was walking along Pavement with her maid behind her, she almost bumped into a young man coming out of the hatter's shop, and when she saw that it was John Anstey, she almost wished she had stayed home.

There was a moment's awkward silence, and both of them turned a little red, and then John Anstey bowed abruptly, and Mary replied with a slight curtsey, and John said, 'Your servant, ma'am. I hope you are well?'

‘Thank you, sir. I'm just - just doing some shopping, you see.' It was foolish of her to explain her presence, and the foolishness warmed John, and made him more confident.

‘Miss Morland - I just wanted to say - I'm very sorry—' ‘Sorry? For what?’

Tor the unpleasantness.
You
know. For what Celia did. It was terrible, but she has been so miserable, if you saw her you would forgive her.'

‘I'm not aware there is anything to forgive,' Mary said coolly. He looked at her sadly.

‘I can understand your being angry. But really she has almost made herself ill, and my father has sent her and my sisters away to Harrogate until she's better.’

Mary felt she had been too cold, and tried to make amends.

‘I am leaving too, Mr Anstey. Tomorrow. I go to London tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow? To London? And pray - pray, when do you return?'

‘I don't know,' she said, and suddenly it seemed silly to be so stiff with the boy she had known since she was a child, her old friend and admirer, the first of her knights. She dropped all her formality and stiffness. 'I don't know if I'll ever come back, except for holidays, now and then. My life can't be here any more.'

‘Can't it? Oh Mary, can't it?' He took her hands impulsively, affected by her change of mood, and she did not pull away. 'I'm independent now, and you are of age too. Our parents cannot oppose anything we want. Mary, couldn't you marry me? You know how I feel about you.'

‘I know,' Mary said gently. 'I'm sorry, John. It wasn't my parents who opposed before, you know, it was me.'

‘They told me that, but I didn't believe it, quite. You had looked at me - and said things - I believed you cared for me. I still believe it,' he said stubbornly, overcoming his shyness.

‘I do care for you, John, but it's impossible. I can't live here, like this.' She freed a hand, to wave it at the city of York. 'There's a bigger world that I belong to. And especially now, after what's happened, I can't stay here.' She resumed her formality like a mantle, and gave a slight curtsy. 'Goodbye, Mr Anstey. I'm glad I had the chance to say goodbye to you before I leave.’