The Regency (21 page)

Héloïse ignored the words and the pose. 'When I arrived at
the inn the day seemed too good to waste, so I decided to walk
home across the fields. Everything is especially lovely at this
time of morning, isn't it?’

Fanny looked at her suspiciously, so exactly as Honey had
watched Fanny that Héloïse wanted to laugh; and yet her
heart was tugged towards the wild, ungoverned little girl.
Who, indeed, had ever loved Fanny? Of course James doted
on her, but did he know her? Did he even really see her, or
was she rather some image of perfection to him, some symbol
of unattainable happiness? Fanny's mother had abandoned
her at birth, the servants either flattered her or complained
about her. She had no brother or sister, no friend — she
hardly saw other children, except the children of servants
whom the servants had taught her to despise. She lived all
alone in her lofty dignity as heiress, waiting for the wealth
and the power and the responsibility which would one day cut her off even more completely from the rest of the world.
Suddenly Héloïse smiled. 'Will you walk back to the house
with me?'

‘What for?' Fanny said rebelliously.

‘
Just for the company,' Héloïse said unemphatically. 'Look, the sun's coming up! Oh, I never get tired of seeing that!' She
stared towards the horizon and began to walk, as if assuming
Fanny would follow; and after a brief hesitation, she did.
'How is Honey coming along?' she asked after a moment.

Fanny kept her eyes on the ground, which she kicked now
and then as she walked; but she answered. 'We backed her the
day before yesterday, and we've had the saddle on her every day. She doesn't like it. Papa says she has a cold back, but I
don't think so. I think she just doesn't want to be ridden.'

‘Why not?' Héloïse asked with interest.

‘
Why should she? Until she's broken, she runs free. She can
do what she likes. Why should she carry me? I wouldn't want
to, if I was her.'

‘Then, why do you make her?'

‘
Because she's
mine,'
Fanny said fiercely, looking up. 'Any
way, she'll like it once she knows. We'll go everywhere
together. One day we'll —' She stopped abruptly, realising
she was saying too much.

Héloïse pretended not to notice. 'When I was a girl,' she said dreamily, 'I had a chestnut horse called Prestance. He
was so beautiful, and I loved him so! But I had to leave him
behind when we ran away from France.'

‘
What happened to him?' Fanny asked gruffly, unwilling to
allow her interest to show.

‘
I wish I knew! Of course, no-one would hurt a horse; but I
wish I knew that he went to a kind person, who would talk to
him and stroke him. They need to be petted and loved.’

Fanny said nothing, only walked along kicking the silver dew from the grass with her bare feet, enjoying making her
mark on the new morning world. At last she said, 'Why is salt
better?’

Héloïse rejoiced inside. 'They will stand longer for salt.
With sugar they crunch it up and then it's done; but with salt
they'll lick and lick at your hand, as long as there's the least
taste of it left.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘
Someone told me,' Héloïse said, avoiding the mention of
James between them. She went on, 'I used to ride Prestance in
the woods near Paris, and if ever I was unhappy, I used to
think I would just gallop away on him, and never come back.
But I didn't, of course. It wouldn't have worked.'

‘Why not?' Fanny said, feigning indifference.

‘
Because you can't run away from unhappiness. It can run
faster than you.’

They were nearing the house. Héloïse stopped and turned
to face her, and for once, Fanny stood her ground and met her
look. Fanny's eyes were hazel, a light, golden brown flecked with shifting lights of gold and green, and fringed with dark
lashes which somehow gave the impression of being tangled,
like her dark bushy curls. Her face had grown thinner
lately, not with ill-health, but with the shedding of child
hood's rounded contours, and Héloïse realised for the first
time that those eyes, that face, were not those of an absolute
child. Fanny was growing up. Héloïse looked for James's like
ness, but there was none there, except perhaps for something
indefinable about the shape of the mouth. She must look like
her mother. It was a strong-featured face, not pretty, but very
much itself, and unforgettable.

The eyes were wary and hostile, but there was something
else there, too — a woman's vulnerability. Héloïse wanted
suddenly to give her something, but she had nothing Fanny
would accept. Yet there was something in the air, some
tenuous breath of contact between them; delicate as the first
laboriously woven strand of a spider's web, and as fragile.

‘
I have something to tell you, some news,' she said
suddenly. Fanny only looked. She wanted to tell her about
Miss Rosedale, but there were no words which would not
arouse Fanny's hostility, and telling her now would only arm
her against the new governess ahead of time. So she said
instead, 'I hope you will think it good news, Fanny. I am to
have a baby — a new brother or sister for you. Isn't that
wonderful?’

She almost held her breath; and for a moment, the words
did not seem to make any impact on Fanny. The wild, shy
eyes only looked uncomprehendingly, neither with interest
nor dislike. But the moment passed, and Fanny's face seemed
suddenly to grow thinner, her eyes narrowed, her mouth pinched.

‘
No it isn't!' she cried shrilly. 'It's
disgusting!'
And she
turned on her heel and began running, back the way she had
come, veering across the grass, her bare brown feet twinkling
under the hem of her plain linen gown. But there was some
thing different about the way she ran. It was not the long,
free, child's lope Héloïse had seen before. She ran from the
knees, as a woman does; and clumsily; and when she flung
a hand up across her face, Héloïse realised that she must be
crying as she ran.

*

The main gate was still closed, but the postern stood open,
and Héloïse stepped through into the cold shadow of the
barbican, and out into the sunlit courtyard. From the stables
came cheerful morning noises, the swish of a broom, the
scrape of shovel on cobble, the clank of a bucket, the rustle of horses moving about in their deep straw beds, pulling at their
hay-racks, sneezing as the hay-dust tickled their nostrils. On
the stable roof a young peacock with a juvenile tail was
shrieking dolefully in answer to a distant and more senior
companion. A sparrow flew up into the gutter with a piece of
bread, and was instantly set upon by a brown and bickering
mob.

The house door was also closed, but the kitchen door in the
corner of the yard was open, and the cook, Monsieur Barnard,
sat on a wooden stool just outside it, his back to the wall,
his legs stretched out into the sunshine, and a thin cigar
sending a wreath of smoke up into the still, blue air. There
was nothing unusual in this: Héloïse knew that he liked to
have his moment to himself before beginning the frantic daily
round of cooking. What surprised her was that he was not
alone. Thomas, barefoot and still in his nightshirt, was stand
ing beside him, his hands on Barnard's knees, talking to him.

Barnard had seen her, but Héloïse made a quick negative
gesture, not wishing to disturb the scene. 'And what happened
when you got on the ship?' Thomas had just asked. 'Was it
a big ship?'

‘
No, no, it was a very little ship, and it went up and down
on the water, and I was very ill,' the cook replied genially.
‘There was a storm, which nearly sank us, and we all would
have died; but a ship of the King's navy came along, and
rescued us. So I met Mr William Morland, the master's brother, who brought me here.’

Thomas had asked in English, and Barnard replied in
French, but now when Thomas spoke again, it was in French,
as if it made no difference to him which language was used.

‘
My father was a captain in a King's ship,' he said proudly.
‘He was very brave. He's dead now.'

‘
Yes, I know, little one,' Barnard said, clearing his throat.
He touched Thomas's head very lightly, and evidently
decided it was a good moment to terminate the interview, for
he looked beyond the child towards Héloïse, and Thomas,
alerted, turned and saw her. His face broke into a flattering smile, and he came running to her, and she caught him and
lifted him up, to receive a wet and hearty kiss on the cheek.

‘
Cher petit, I am
so glad to see you!' Héloïse said. 'But what
are you doing out here in your nightgown?'

‘1 woke up. Sarah was still asleep, so I came to see M'sieur
Barnard,' Thomas explained as if it were an obvious conse
quence.

‘
Well, you had better go and get dressed now, or you'll be
late for breakfast. Run,
mon etoile;
I'll come and see you
later.’

She set him down, and he tugged her down by the neck to
kiss her again, and scampered off. Héloïse turned to her cook, who had risen to his feet and was looking rather embarrassed.
‘Does this often happen?'

‘
Just lately, yes, my lady,' Barnard answered. 'The sun
wakes him early.'

‘And what do you speak of?'

‘
I tell him stories of France, and he tells me about himself.'
He met Héloïse's eyes. 'I saw no harm in it.'

‘
Oh, no, no, I am not angry, only surprised. I did not think
you had a taste for the prattle of children.'

‘
I like the little fellow, my lady,' Barnard said unemphati
cally.

‘
And does he understand everything you say?' she asked
curiously. No-one had ever heard Barnard speak English.
Their present conversation was, of course, in French.

‘
Certainly, my lady,' Barnard said. 'He speaks French and
English equally, just like Miss Sophie.'

‘
I suppose she has taught him,' Héloïse mused, and caught
a look which flickered in her cook's eye, which suggested that
there had been more and longer conversations between him
and Thomas than she knew about. From Barnard rather than
from Sophie, had he learned his French? The thought of such
tenderness nestling in the tough old heart of the Tyrant of the
Kitchen both touched and amused her. 'Well, as long as he
doesn't annoy you —'