The Flood-Tide (8 page)

Lord and Lady Chelmsford were both mounted on hirelings, and Jemima got her first sight of their younger children. Eight-year-old Sophia, plump and pale with surprising yellow ringlets, was on a fat grey pony which slept determinedly through all the excitement, its leading rein in the hands of a groom, who grasped it as though it were likely to take off at full gallop at any moment. Her brother, Horatio, who was ten, was on a hireling horse too big for him, which he had been cantering about so continuously that it was already sweating and rolling its eyes. This, Jemima guessed, was mainly for the benefit of Mary, who, demure and dainty on her pony, was already surrounded by a group of swains, including John Anstey and Edward, all vying to bring her refreshments and offering to show her the best line when hounds ran.

A movement beside her made her turn her head, and there was Charlotte, with William just behind, looking neat and horsemanlike on her pony.

‘Such a lot of nonsense,' Charlotte snorted, watching the crowd round Mary. 'If they hang around her, they'll miss the hunt, for Mary never went out of a trot in her life. I know exactly what she'll do. She'll ride to the first covert, follow at the back of the field until we come to the first jump, and then call for a groom to take her home.' It was so perfect a picture that Jemima could only smile. 'And look at the stupid Horatio person,' Charlotte went on. 'His horse is nearly knocked up already, and we haven't even moved off. He doesn't deserve to have a horse at all. Look at it frothing! Mother, why do we have to have people like that at our hunt?’

It was not a question, as Jemima knew quite well. 'You and William had better try and stay at the front,' she said instead of answering. 'There are some strange horses out today, and I'm afraid you may be kicked. And stay together, won't you?'

‘Yes, Mother, I'll take care of William,' Charlotte said, answering the thought rather than the words.

It was a wonderful hunt, with one of the longest gallops Jemima remembered, so long indeed that all but the best horses got left well behind. Jemima found herself at the front, for there were few horses who could outrun Poppy over her own country, with no one but the huntsmen in front of her and only a handful of hard riders nearby. A few yards to her left was Lord Meldon on his wicked-looking chestnut, and as she turned her head, he gave her a challenging smile and tried to urge an extra ounce of speed from his mount. Jemima smiled back, glad to see him so cheerful. Angus was not far behind, more from the determination of his bay to keep up than any desire of his own, and a little way behind them were Thomas, Flora and Allen, comfortably together. Half a dozen well mounted neighbours made up the rest of their company, and the rest of the field was out of sight.

Thus Jemima was in at the kill, but missed all the drama. Horatio's mount, brought to a pitch of near-hysteria before the first covert, took off like a catapult shot as soon as the first run started. Charlotte and William had at first thought this all of a piece with his previous behaviour, but when the animal passed them with its head up, its eyes white, and froth spraying from its rigid jaw, they realized that young Horatio was out of control. They were coming up to a stout but jumpable hedge. The horse swerved violently sideways and galloped off into the wood, and under Charlotte's leadership they swung away in pursuit.

A wild pursuit it was too, through a tangled wood at full-pelt, but where the tall horse could go, their shorter ponies could follow. The path led to a thick thorn hedge, its top smashed through in a welter of broken twigs. Charlotte in the lead pressed her pony on; it jumped boldly. On the other side the hireling lay thrashing, tangled in its reins, with the boy half under it, caught by his foot in the stirrup. All this Charlotte saw in mid-air; she wrenched at the reins and her pony twisted its body sideways in a desperate attempt to avoid the fallen horse. They landed awkwardly, her pony fell, and she was thrown clear.

William was in time to avoid the jump, hearing the cries from the other side. A little further along was a lower place in the hedge, and he jumped there in safety, to find that Charlotte, unperturbed by her fall, had flung herself onto the hireling's head and was struggling to free its feet from the reins.

‘William, William, come and hold a leg,' she panted.

By the time help arrived, they had got the hireling to its feet, stiff and trembling, and freed young Horatio who, though very shocked and bruised, was not seriously hurt by his escapade. It was only then that Charlotte saw her pony, standing beside William's, holding off the ground a foreleg that dangled horribly and uselessly.

The Honourable Horatio Morland was whisked off to be examined by the best surgeon in York, while plain Miss Charlotte Morland was taken to her home to be bathed, annointed, and put to bed by Alison. While everyone was dressing, a message came from Shawes to say that Horatio was not considered to be in danger, and that the ball would therefore take place as planned, but that the children's part of the entertainment was cancelled. William would not in any case have gone without Charlotte, and Edward and Jamie had never much cared about it, so they were not too disappointed, but Mary was furious, and by a fine piece of illogic, blamed Charlotte for the whole thing.

‘Naturally they cancelled it because they heard Charlotte is sulking in bed. It isn't
fair.
Why is everyone against me? I shall never forgive her for this, never!' she cried through tears of rage.

Rachel, the under-nursery-maid, threatened her with a whipping, and Abram sent up a special batch of cakes for consolation, but as Edward said unconcernedly as he set off to find a book for the evening, 'When Mary sulks, she likes to do it for a good, long time.’

When Jemima emerged from the closet, where the powdering was always done, dressed except for her gown, Allen, preparing resignedly to take her place, said, 'I don't wish to be vindictive, but I rather resent that the boy didn't hurt himself more seriously. If he was going to cause so much trouble, he might at least have got the ball cancelled, and saved
me
the trouble of flouring my head. Darling, must I really powder?'

‘You really must,' Jemima said, not without sympathy, for her own hair was tortured up over a horsehair 'piece', stuffed full of pins, larded, and powdered according to fashion. 'It would be quite an insult to your hosts - and besides, you are Sir Allen now, and must keep up appearances.'

‘Well, I suppose we must suffer to be beautiful,' he said with a whimsical smile, and Jemima stepped closer and laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Besides again, you look
so
handsome in powder, I am almost in sympathy with the fashion. It makes you look so young, and so dashing - what are you doing? Darling, you'll get it all over you! Allen!'

‘For two pins,' he murmured, kissing her again, ‘I'd send word that we're both ill.'

‘No pins!' she cried, extricating herself laughingly. ‘What, sir, would you shock the whole world by proclaiming that you are in love with your wife? Your
wife,
sir? No, no, go and powder. I must go and see my poor Charlotte before we leave.’

Charlotte was lying hunched face down in her bed, one hand clutching a wet handkerchief beside her towselled head on the pillow. Jemima thought she was asleep, and was about to tiptoe away, when Charlotte said in a dull voice, 'Mother?’

Jemima sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked the rough hair, and after a while Charlotte rolled over and looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

‘It isn't fair,' she said after a while, not passionately this time, but in a low, tired voice that affected Jemima much more.

‘So many things in life seem unfair,' she said.

‘But why did Mouse have to die?'

‘Because we can't set horses' legs, darling, you know that. I wish we could.'

‘I know that, but I mean
why?
It wasn't fair. He didn't do anything wrong. Why would God make him die like that?'

‘Oh Charlotte, I don't know,' Jemima said, sighing. ‘Animals' deaths always seem so hard, much harder than humans'. I suppose because they don't understand. But God knows even when a sparrow falls, and He has His reasons for everything.’

There was a silence. Charlotte stared past her mother at the flickering candle flame, bowing in the draught from the doorframe. At last she asked, 'What happens to animals, after they die?'

‘What do you mean, after they die?' Jemima asked, puzzled. Horses were always cut up for dog food, but she had already promised Charlotte that Mouse would be buried honourably, though she had not had time yet to consider where such a grave could be dug.

‘Father Ramsay says that horses have no souls. So that means they can't go to Heaven, doesn't it?’

Here was the heart of her trouble. Her eyes came reluctantly back to her mother's and she swallowed, trying to look grown-up and unconcerned.

‘I don't know, darling. Father Ramsay ought to know best - but then, he has never known horses, the way we do. And I don't think God would let anything true and brave and faithful perish, do you?’

Charlotte did not answer, and in a moment Jemima pushed the damp hair from her forehead, kissed her, and stood up. The eyes followed her up, and Charlotte said in a voice shy with unaccustomedness, 'You look very pretty, Mama.' Jemima smiled down at her, and turned away. As she reached the door, she heard her say, almost too low to heard, 'I don't think I'd want to go to Heaven, if there were no horses there.’

*

Jemima enjoyed the ball. Though she was past forty, she was still pretty, and had a lively eye and a neat figure, and was evidently considered young enough to be asked to dance every dance, though some she refused for decency, in case there should be not partners enough for the young women. When she sat out, she enjoyed looking round the great ballroom, with its magnificent chandeliers and its mirrored wall, modelled, it was said, on Versailles, and its little gilt chairs and sconces. It had all once, for a little while, been hers, but she had never felt ownership of it, of the graceful house called ‘Vanbrugh's Little Gem'. To her it always seemed to belong to the woman for whom it was built, the Countess Annunciata, whose portrait by Wissing hung over the fireplace at the end of the ballroom.

Jemima had met her only once, just before her death, when she was an old, old woman, but she remembered that interview vividly. Annunciata had given her, in her will, the magnificent diamond collar, gift of King Charles II, much to the annoyance of her granddaughter who had expected to have it herself. Jemima had thought then, 'I am her real heir,' though she had not entirely understood the thought. But it had turned out to be true. She had become, in her turn, Countess of Chelmsford, and mistress of Shawes, though she had not kept it long. But she saw now that it was in being mistress of Morland Place, and guardian of the family as Annunciata had been before her, that she was truly Annunciata's heir.

‘If you would not think it improper to dance with a married man, would you come to the set with me?' Allen's voice broke her reverie. Jemima shook herself and smiled.

‘A fig for convention. Let us shock them all,' she said, putting her hand in his.

‘You were very pensive, my love,' he said as they stepped to the bottom of the set.

‘I was thinking about the old Countess,' she said.

‘Annunciata? Yes, she does seem particularly present here,' Allen said, smiling round as if she stood behind him.

‘I don't think she would like the Fussells much, do you?' Jemima said, behind her fan.

‘Nor the Chelmsfords,' Allen grinned. 'She was an exceedingly particular old lady. But I must say I find them very good sort of people. Lady Ann has been overwhelming me with her gratitude on behalf of her son, which has extended beyond poor Charlotte to a sort of generic virtue. We are all heroes by contamination. She is determined to show her gratitude, as is your brother.'

‘And what form is this gratitude to take?' Jemima asked, amused.

‘They beg leave to honour Flora's wedding with their presence, to offer Shawes for the wedding party, if we want it, and to have Flora and Thomas stay at Chelmsford House when they are in London. Lady Ann offers to chaperone Flora, and to introduce her at Court, and to have her to stay for as long as she likes when Thomas is gone to sea.'

‘All very well for Flora and Thomas, but what of Charlotte?' Jemima asked.

‘Charlotte was mentioned at the very beginning of the conversation, but was soon swallowed in the general flood of gratitude. Now here is the part that needs a decision, my love: young Horatio is to go to Eton in January, and Chelmsford offers to do all the right things in order to send William there as well.'

‘William!' Jemima said, aghast. Allen nodded.

‘Yes, my own reaction was the same. But, you know, it may be that we protect the boy too much. One would not like to make him soft, through over-indulgence.'

‘But I have heard how the boys live at public schools. William would not survive a week there. Besides, how could we part him from Charlotte? He would grieve terribly.’

Allen nodded. 'Well, on the whole, I think you are right. My notion was to suggest that Edward takes William's place in the scheme. He was to go to school in any case, and Eton will be so much more of an advantage to the boy than St Edward's. It doesn't matter so much what he learns, it's who he will meet. Your brother has remained friends all his life with the boys he knew at St George's.'