The Flood-Tide (9 page)

‘Yes, Edward would take it in his stride. I don't think that boy ever notices anything. Do you think Charles would agree?'

‘I think so, if I speak while the plan is still hot in his mind. I'll do it after this dance.'

‘We are only half-way up the set. Do it now, if you like. I will sit down again,' Jemima said, and then saw the couple at the top turning to dance down. 'I must say, I am surprised to see Flora dance a third time with Lord Meldon. I sometimes think Thomas takes good nature a little too far. But they look happy enough. Lord Meldon has quite lost his sulky look.'

‘I should think he would,' Allen said. 'He is dancing with the second prettiest woman in the room. And since I am dancing with the prettiest of all, the scheme must wait. I would not have you sit down for the world.’

*

Flora's wedding took place on 3o December, in the chapel at Morland Place. The Chelmsford family came to the service, and the Fussells to the wedding breakfast, which was held at Morland Place, Jemima refusing the more elegant surroundings of Shawes on the grounds that it would break Abram's heart, but really because she wanted it to be a simple family wedding, as her own to Allen had been.

There had not been time for a grand wedding dress, but Jemima and Alison and the two sewing maids had got together over Jemima's best blue silk, and Jemima had lent the wonderful Brussels lace from her first wedding, and the pearl half-hoop headdress which was one of the family heirlooms, and everyone agreed that Flora could not have looked lovelier if there had been six months and twelve London dressmakers to prepare for it.

The young couple set off for London in the Chelmsford coach, accompanied by Lord Meldon and Lord Chelmsford, who left Ann and the children to finish their holiday at Shawes and who, Jemima thought, looked secretly pleased to be going back to civilization. The families parted on the best of terms, with the promise of a great deal more intercourse in the future.

‘I feel as though nothing exciting will ever happen again,' Charlotte said mournfully when the coach had gone. Jemima put an arm round her shoulder.

‘Here's something exciting already for you - I have decided that you and William are to have proper horses. So you can help me choose, and school them. It was time you were properly mounted - I thought so even before the accident.’

It was successful in cheering Charlotte, though William took it as quietly as if it was nothing to him. Jemima noticed from time to time that he was out of sorts, but between all her usual tasks, and trying to guide Charlotte away from unsuitable horses, and trying to find out what Edward would need for Eton, she had little enough time for observing children's moods. She did, however, witness the goodbye between William and Edward when the coach was ready to take the latter away to the south.

‘I'm sorry it's me instead of you,' Edward said gravely as the brothers shook hands.

‘Yes, I am too,' William said. 'But - well, you know.' ‘Yes, I know. I'm sorry.’

Jemima went indoors thoughtfully as the coach passed out of sight, wondering why William should be sorry not to be going. She would have liked to ask Allen about it, but he had gone with Edward, to take him on the first part of his journey, and by the time he came back, she had forgotten the incident in the busy press of her days.

*

Edward was miserable from his first day at Eton. He and Horatio lodged with a sour, hard-mouthed woman called Dame Weston, whose parsimony meant privations for the boys in the way of food and coals which came hard to growing youngsters. Edward was a quiet, hard-working, obliging boy, who made no particular enemies amongst his fellows, but by the same token made no particular friends. Horatio made it clear from the beginning that he resented sharing a name with a farmer's son, and had no intention of being friendly with him: indeed, he took the lead in deriding Edward's peculiar habits, such as washing, and saying his prayers night and morning, and writing home, and reading books. Like all boys, Edward wanted to be inconspicuous amongst his peers, so he soon modified those aspects of strangeness, and once Horatio tired of baiting him, the other boys let him alone.

In his lessons Edward did well, for he had been well taught by Father Ramsay. Being by nature obedient and willing to please, he avoided the most savage beatings by the masters, though flogging and birching were so much part of education at Eton that it was impossible to remain entirely unscathed. Eton was only the width of the river from Windsor, where King George liked to spend much of his time. King George had a great interest in education. When he rode across the river to Eton, he would cry cheerfully to any boy he met, 'Well, well, my boy, when were you last flogged, eh?' If there happened to be a master about, the King would enjoin him to put the boy's name on the list for the next round of punishments. It was no comfort to the boys that the young princes were flogged as savagely, or that it was all done for their own good.

Lessons consisted mostly of Latin grammar, construing and composing, with a little writing and arithmetic on alternate days. The many other subjects Edward had been taught at home - French and Italian, astronomy, history, geography, theology - were quite neglected, but he soon learned not to talk of them, for to be highly educated was considered ungentlemanly, suitable only to 'ushers and Jesuits'. With the ill will of Horatio to help rumour along, he might have become unpopular, but he did his best to hide his education, and showed a willingness to help the others with their 'construes', and was soon put down as being 'clever', which was an epithet of pity rather than contempt. A man could no more help being 'clever' than being blind or crippled.

But even if a boy avoided being beaten by the schoolmasters, he might still be beaten by his fag-master when he returned to his boarding house. Edward was unfortunate in being assigned to fag for one of the worst of the seniors, a boy called Stevens, who was lazy and vicious and brutal, and as arbitrary and whimsical as any tyrant. Edward had no particular wit or charm to defend himself against such a person. Even before he had learnt what his duties were, he was being beaten for failing in them, and if he managed to get something right, Stevens would change the rules and beat him just the same.

Even the other boys, hardened to physical punishment and receiving a good deal of it themselves one way and another, pitied Edward, and were grateful Fate had not assigned
them
to Stevens. Sometimes when he had been beaten for a speck of mud on Stevens' boot, or because his fire smoked when the wind was in the east, they would gather round Edward with a certain rough sympathy to examine his wounds.

‘Two of 'em are bleeding, Morland. I will say Stevens knows his stuff.'

‘That one's a bit low.'

‘His aim is never up to much after the second bottle.' ‘Thank God I've got Crosby. Crosby can't flog for anything.’

The toast was Edward's worst trial. It was his duty to toast Stevens' bread and cheese for his supper, and it had to be done perfectly, not undercooked or burnt, and ready fresh and hot at the exact moment that Stevens wanted it. Moreover, Stevens would not allow him to use a toasting fork, and in order to get the toast near enough the flames to brown at all, Edward had to subject his fingertips to severe burning. At night in bed he wept from the pain of them, and when the blisters burst they festered. At times he could barely hold the toast without dropping it - another beatable offence. At first he prayed nightly to the Lady, and St Anthony, patron of the oppressed, to help him; but as time went on he prayed simply and desperately to God to let him die.

It was on a day in spring that Edward first caught the eye of Chetwyn, the House Captain. He had been out picking flowers for Stevens' nosegay, and had passed the senior boy with no more than a scared duck of the head, when Chetwyn called him back.

‘Morland - from York, aren't you? Any relation to the Morlands who breed the racehorses?'

‘My mother and father, sir,' Edward said, wondering what new derision or imposition was coming. But Chetwyn lounged gracefully against a windowsill, and seemed to be looking at him with kindly interest. 'Well, my mother mostly,' he added, encouraged.

‘Your mother, eh? Well, well. Know anything about horses, boy?'

‘A bit, sir. Our stallion, Artembares - I helped Mother hand-break him, sir.'

‘Artembares - yes, I've seen him run. Know what your mother's sending down to Newmarket this year?'

‘Yes, sir, we've a good colt called Persis, by Artembares out of a mare called Dawn. Mother thinks he's bound to do well, sir.'

‘Don't call me sir, Morland. Oh, it's all right, don't look so scared, I won't eat you.' He paused thoughtfully, while Edward moved from foot to foot, worried that the flowers would wilt, or that Stevens would be looking for him. Suddenly Chetwyn smiled. 'Listen, Morland, I've got two horses over at Biggs' stable, and they need exercising. My damned groom is laid up with some sickness or other, so I need someone to ride my second horse for me. I'm taking them over to Dorney Common for a run - care to come along and help me?’

Edward stared, torn between his terror of Stevens and the inadvisability of refusing a house captain. In the end he managed to stammer, 'But S-Stevens—'

‘Oh, I'll square it with Stevens, don't you worry. All right, Morland, I'll see you at Biggs' in half an hour.’

It was for Edward a blissful day. To be riding a horse again, to be away from the terror and torment of Stevens, would have been enough for him, but in addition there was the completely new experience of the kindly interest of an older boy. Chetwyn was charming to him, praised his handling of the horse, expressed an interest in all Edward's family, and displayed a knowledge of racing and breeding that made Edward feel at home. They took dinner together in Datchet, and continued to chat amicably about the stud at Twelvetrees.

‘You write home a lot, so the other fellows tell me,' Chetwyn said, lighting his pipe and leaning back comfortably when they had cleared their plates. Edward looked surprised, and Chetwyn said, 'Oh yes, I hear things. It's my business as House Captain to know who's who in the house. Does your mother write back to you? Does she tell you about the horses?'

‘Well, she would if I asked. She only says if something important happens,' Edward said, a little puzzled.

‘Ask her, next time you write. She'll be sending something to Ascot, I dare say? I'd be interested to know what. I'd be interested in
anything
she says about horses, understand?’

Edward didn't, quite, but he was too pleased and grateful for the notice to ask. 'Of course, Chetwyn,' he said. 'I'll tell you everything. Do you go to the races?'

‘Oh yes,' Chetwyn said. 'I'll take you, if you like.'

‘But aren't they out of bounds?'

‘Certainly. But the trick is, not to be caught. My chestnut, now, he has a turn of speed. Would you say he was as fast as your mother's horses?’

At the end of a delightful day, they rode back towards Eton, and Edward felt the shadow of the place descending upon him again. They put the horses up at Biggs', and walked back through the darkening streets. As they turned into a dimly lit alley, Chetwyn stopped and put a hand on Edward's shoulder.

‘I say, Morland how would you like to be my fag, instead of Stevens'?’

A soul suffering the torments of Hell, who was offered a free passage to Heaven, could hardly have stared with more surprise, longing and gratitude than Edward stared at Chetwyn. Hardly able to believe it was a true offer, yet ready to adore and serve him to the last drop of his blood if it were, Edward could only nod speechlessly.

‘Very well, I'll fix it. Come to my study tonight at supper time. I'll speak to Stevens right away. Don't worry, he'll agree. He'll have to.'

‘Thank you, Chetwyn,' Edward breathed, his eyes shining. Chetwyn's hand increased its pressure a little on his shoulder.

‘That's all right. I'm sure we'll get on very well, you and

CHAPTER FOUR

 Henri Maria Fitzjames Stuart, who used his title of Comte de Strathord when it suited him, was lying very languidly in bed with the plump and pink Madame Brouillard when his servant Duncan gave the alarm from down in the street. The two-note whistle meant that Monsieur Brouillard was coming home, unexpectedly early, and its effect on Henri was electrifying. Electricity had been demonstrated before the late King Louis XV, when a hundred monks, holding hands, had been connected to an electric current, and had all jumped simultaneously, a most amusing sight. Henri jumped out of bed and into his breeches with as much violence, bundled the rest of his clothes in his cloak and threw them out of the window to the waiting Duncan, kissed Madame Brouillard on her soft, sulky lips, and departed by the same exit as his clothes. The projecting stone lintel of the window below made a stepping-stone, and Duncan's arm steadied him as he landed from the six-foot drop.

‘This way, sir, down this alley. There's a doorway where you can dress in safety,' Duncan said. He handed Henri his garments imperturbably and knelt on the slimy cobbles to fasten the breeches over the stockings as if it were a first-floor apartment at Versailles, but Henri could feel his disapproval seeping through his fingertips. Duncan did not object to his master having mistresses, and obviously mistresses must be married women, but he did not think it right or dignified that he should debauch the wives of the bourgeois, who objected to such things and necessitated descents from windows. Moreover, Poissonnieres was one of the less pleasant and most odiferous sections of Paris, and traces of rotting fish were extremely difficult to eradicate from silk and velvet clothes.