The Regency (37 page)

Her incoherent plea was that Miss Rosedale should under
stand that it was an accident, that the moment when she
might have performed such a wicked, unspeakable act had
passed and gone as if it had never been; but with despair in
her heart, Fanny knew she could never be believed, that she
had lost for ever the trust and esteem of the only person who
had ever really liked her. Tears broke from her, and she
sobbed with desperate grief.

And then, to her astonishment, Miss Rosedale dropped the two broken pieces she held, sat down with a bump, and drew
Fanny into her arms. Fanny fell against her shoulder, her
sobs intensifying in sheer relief, Miss Rosedale crying jerkily
through her own tears, 'Oh poor Fanny! Oh my poor vase!
Oh dear!’

It was several minutes before they were able to stop, and
disentangle themselves rather shyly from each other.

‘
Here, have my handkerchief,' said Miss Rosedale, always
practical. 'I've got another.’

Fanny blew her nose and pushed her hair out of her eyes,
and then looked around her at the shattered fragments of the
vase. Her heart seemed to grow cold at the extent of the
damage she had caused.

‘Could it perhaps be mended?' she asked in a small voice.

Miss Rosedale raised her head from the contemplation of
the ruin and held Fanny's gaze. Fanny longed for reassur
ance, and for a moment Miss Rosedale almost gave it. But
then she shook her head. ‘No, I'm afraid not. It's too badly
broken; and some of the pieces have splintered.'

‘
I really didn't mean to do it,' said Fanny urgently. ‘You do
believe me, don't you?'

‘
Yes, I believe you,' Miss Rosedale said sadly. 'But the vase
stays broken, you see.’

Fanny returned the regard steadily, understanding. This,
then, was the beginning of being grown-up, accepting that
sometimes things were done that couldn't be undone, and bearing the guilt of them, that no amount of saying sorry
could ever take away from you. A weight seemed to descend
on her, and she almost felt her soul stretch under it, and then
steady to take the strain. She looked at Miss Rosedale with
different eyes, seeing her for the first time not as a figure put
in authority over her, a shape with the label 'governess'
attached to it, but as a separate human person, for whom she
must have care, as she had care for herself. When you hurt
someone, she discovered, even when you didn't mean to, in a
way you take responsibility for them.

*

During that day — 7 January — the temperature dropped
again, and by the next morning it was seventeen degrees
below freezing. No more snow fell, and with the freezing hard of the surface, the men were able to go out on snow-shoes and
with sledges to fetch in firewood and take hay to the beasts.
But for those in the house there was no possibility of remaining
warm at that temperature. No fire could combat it, no walls
keep it out.

Héloïse stayed in the steward's room, because it was
smaller and easier to heat. The fire in the grate was stacked
high with logs and coal, and Héloïse lay on the chaise-longue,
brought in from the drawing-room and pulled up close to it.
She was bundled up in several layers of clothes, with her
heavy cloak over the top, and with her hands stuffed into her
muff, and Kithra lying across her feet, but still the cold
seemed to penetrate. Beyond the circle of the fire, the air
struck chill and damp, and it seemed to creep and creep into
her body, making her lethargic, as though her blood were
gradually congealing in her veins.

Everyone sat with her when they were not otherwise
occupied, partly because it was the warmest place in the house
— Tiger lay on the hearth so close to the fire that the hair on his
belly began to singe, filling the air with the smell of burning wool — and partly because they knew how anxious she was.
Marie and Mathilde sat with her most of the time, sewing and
chatting, or reading aloud to her to while away the hours.

Edward came in from his trips about the estate to give her
news of the animals and the state of the snow, to ask how she
felt, and look uncomfortable at the answer, since there was
nothing he could do to help. Héloïse tried to persuade
Mathilde to go out for a while, even if it was only around the
courtyard, to keep her circulation moving, and Edward at
once offered to teach her to use snow-shoes; but Mathilde
would not leave her side.

She and Marie had the notes that Lucy had left, and
Mathilde knew them off by heart now. She intended to be as
useful as possible to dear Madame, to repay her for all her
kindness and, she felt obscurely, for her failure to marry John
Skelwith, who had evidently abandoned Morland Place
because of her lack of encouragement. She was sure that
Marie would not be of much use when the baby came,
although she claimed to have delivered Madame of Sophie.
But from what Mathilde remembered of that occasion, Marie
and Flon had spent all their time arguing about procedure,
and precious little help either of them had been to Madame.
If the baby should start before her ladyship arrived, Mathilde
would see to everything. So she would not leave Madame's
side for a moment, and every time she moved or even
coughed, Mathilde was half out of her chair on the instant.

Héloïse was unaware of the effect she was having on her
ward. She was too uncomfortable to be aware of anything
much outside her own body. The baby was very low in her
belly, making any movement difficult and every position
uncomfortable. She was afraid that her time was near. She
didn't think she was going to last another week, and thought
of Lucy, still travelling up from Belvoir. She longed for her
to arrive, and prayed that she would not be delayed by the
condition of the roads, or by more bad weather.

James came in with a fresh hot-water-bottle which dear
Barnard had filled for her, and tucked it under the crook of
her knees. His cheeks were bright, and he smelled freshly of
outdoors. He had just been as far as the Hare and Heather,
more for the sake of the exercise than for any prime purpose,
for the snow made him restless, and he couldn't settle
indoors.

He asked how she was, and sat down beside her, holding
her hand inside her muff. 'Well, I've brought you the news
from the great wide world,' he said. 'Or perhaps I should say
the great white world! It's so cold that a barrel of beer froze
solid in the taproom of the Hare and Heather. Though judging
by the number of people huddled together in there, I'm
surprised it had a chance to freeze.’

Héloïse smiled at him, grateful for the cheering up. 'More,'
she said simply, and he laughed.

‘
Some good news I gathered there — Louisa Anstey's had
her baby. Another boy, born this morning, and they're calling
it Henry, after its maternal grandfather. Louisa is said to
have had an easy birth, and is comfortable, so that's a good
omen for you, isn't it, my love?'

‘Yes, my James, if you say so. What else?'

‘
Let me see — oh yes, that family of gypsies that were
living down by Askham Bogs was found frozen to death — the
whole family, right down to the dogs. Blackie from Marsh
Farm found them when he was out looking for sheep. It seems
they just ran out of firewood.'

‘
Oh, les pauvres!'
Héloïse cried in distress, and Marie glared
at him over her stitching. James saw that he had chosen his
news badly, and looked awkward.
Héloïse
shifted her position
uneasily and said, 'What was the road like, James? The great
road, to the south?'

‘
It's hard to say,' James said. 'It looked passable as far as I
could see, and some riders had come in from Tadcaster, but
no coaches so far today.' He looked at her anxiously. ‘Do you
feel anything, love? Is it starting?'

‘
I don't know. I think it may be soon,' Héloïse said. 'I wish
Lucy were here. Do you think she will get through?'

‘
If I know Lucy, she'll come even if she has to walk. But the
road into York is all right, and if the worst comes to the
worst, we can call in a midwife or a physician — both, if you
like. Two physicians. You shall have anything you want.’

Héloïse smiled and squeezed his hand. 'I know. But what I
want is Lucy.’

The pain began in the late afternoon, so gradually that by
the time
Héloïse
became conscious of it, she had no knowl
edge of how long it had been going on. She had been waiting for the normal pains of birth, the strong, tightening pain that
came suddenly, held on a while, and then faded. This pain
was different: it did not fluctuate and it did not go away.
Once started, the grinding ache went on and on.

‘
What is it, madame? Is it the baby?' Marie asked when
Héloïse finally admitted to it.

‘
I don't know. It isn't like labour pains — just a long ache,
like backache. It isn't very bad yet. Perhaps it will go away.'

‘
Perhaps it's indigestion,' Marie said hopefully. The short
day was closing into night, and it would be in all ways better
if the baby didn't come until the morning.

‘
Yes, perhaps,' Héloïse said. 'We'll wait a while, and see
what happens.’

Mathilde listened to all this in silence, and then got up and
slipped out of the room, and went to find the housekeeper.
Mrs Scaggs had left shortly after Madame came to Morland
Place — or rather, shortly after Barnard came to the Morland
Place kitchens — and the new incumbent, Mrs Thomson, a
ripely handsome local woman, was in all ways more pleasant
and friendly.

‘
I don't know if it is the baby or not,' Mathilde explained,
‘but at all events, Madame's room ought to be prepared.'

‘
You're right, Miss,' said Mrs Thomson. 'It would never do
to have to do it at the last minute. I'll see to it straight away. I've kept the childbed linen handy this week past, and it only
needs putting 'fore the fire a moment or two to air it. You
leave all that to me. But I think you had better tell Mr James,
Miss — not to worry him, but a message did ought to be sent
for the midwife right away, for it'll take time for her to get
here, and somebody ought to be on hand, in case her ladyship
don't turn up. Which,' she added with a knowing look, 'it
would be a miracle if she did with the roads the way they are, if you'll pardon my frankness, Miss.'