The Victory (23 page)

‘
No, my darling, he's not a plaything, you know. And
though he's so small, you would find him too heavy. Later,
perhaps when you're older.'

‘
There won't be any later,' Mathilde commented tactlessly.
'Or at least, he won't be here then.'

‘Mama, why does the baby have to go away?' Sophie asked plaintively.

‘I've already explained it to you, Sophie, my love. He doesn't properly belong to cousin Lucy.'

‘
But who does he belong to?' Sophie persisted. She had
touched the new baby's hand, and his tiny fingers had locked
around one of hers in a way that made her feel quite proprie
torial towards him.

‘Well, no-one, really,' Héloïse said absently.

‘
Then why can't
we
have him?' Sophie asked excitedly. 'If
no-one else wants him, he can sleep in my cradle, and I'll look
after him, as soon as I'm big enough.'

‘
Oh darling, it isn't that easy.' The complications of the
matter were too much for her to explain to her daughter, and
she said instead, 'There isn't room, for one thing.'

‘He's very little,' Sophie observed with justice.

Héloïse looked up, and found Flon looking at her. 'Now,
Flon, don't!' she warned.

‘
Oh,
ma chére!
It does seem hard to have to part with him,
the poor, dear little wain’

Héloïse ran a harassed hand through her hair. 'The
decision does not rest with me. His lordship might very well
not agree. Lucy herself might not like it. He could never enjoy so much obscurity in a household like this, as with respectable
poor people.'

‘
I don't think either of them would care a bit,' Flon said
stoutly. 'They just want the poor little mite out of the way.'

‘And what would we do when he grew out of the cradle?'

‘
You always intended to build on to the house, my dear. A
new wing with new bedrooms would make us all very
comfortable. And you don't really want to part with him, do
you?’

Without realising it, Héloïse had been cradling the baby
close, as though it were her own. 'It is quite ridiculous,' she
said firmly, ‘to go on in this way, collecting people as though
they were — were
seashells!'

‘
And think of poor Captain Weston,' Flon said cunningly. 'How glad he would be if
you
were to take care of his child,
instead of a stranger.’

*

Lucy slept until evening, and woke refreshed and ravenous. A
tray was prepared for her, with a number of dishes of special
delicacy devised for her and wept into by the tender-hearted
Barnard.

As she ate, Lucy could hear the baby crying somewhere in
the house. The birth had been so quick and easy, she felt
quite remarkably well, and her first disappointment in seeing
the baby had dissolved while she slept.

‘Her ladyship to see you, my lady,' said Docwra.

‘
Cousin Lucy, you look very well,' Héloïse said. 'The sleep
has done you so much good.'

‘
And you look guilty,' Lucy said shrewdly. 'What have you
been up to?'

‘
Up to? Oh, nothing at all,' Héloïse said hastily. 'Everyone
is charmed with your new baby. They are so adorable when they are very small. I remember how I could not keep from
gazing and gazing at Sophie.'

‘
I've hardly even seen it,' Lucy said, resolutely addressing
herself to a piece of white fish with shrimp sauce. 'I suppose I
ought to write a note to these people Stephen has found, so
that he can take it away. The poor little thing will want to be
fed, soon.’

Héloïse clasped her hands together. 'Cousin Lucy, what
would you say — how would you think?' — Lucy looked up —'Would you let me keep the baby?’

Lucy stared. 'Are you serious?’

Héloïse launched into an explanation to which Lucy
listened in silence, her face expressionless. At the end of it, she
said, 'Are you asking me this because you think it is what I
want? Is it for my sake?'

‘
I do not want to make your life more difficult,' Héloïse
said. 'If you would be happier sending the child away, I have
no more to say. But I would like to keep him, for my own
sake, and for his.' Lucy gave no reaction, and she added, 'I
always wanted lots of children. If I can't have my own, at
least I may have other people's.’

Lucy looked away, staring out through the window at the
top of the apple tree, rocked by the wind. 'I have made a
promise to Chetwyn,' she said quietly, 'and the decision must
lie with him. But if he has no objection, I would prefer the
child to be brought up by you — of course I would.' She
turned back to Héloïse, and her eyes were bright. 'It is the
best thing I could hope for — for any child, to be brought up
by you.’

Héloïse took her hand and pressed it gratefully.

‘
Well, then,' Lucy said brightly, after a moment, 'it seems I
have letters to write.'

‘
And I suppose I must ask Stephen to try to find a
wetnurse, for the baby will have to be fed.’

Lucy made a start on the cheesecakes Barnard had made
specially for her. 'I wouldn't put him to that trouble. I can
feed the baby myself, for a few weeks. I fed Flaminia, after
all, and it didn't kill me.’

*

Lucy delayed writing to Weston about the baby until she had
heard from Chetwyn, and so when the
Nemesis
put into
Torbay, on New Year's Eve, there was no news for him. The
fleet remained at anchor only one day, before returning to
station, but further westerly gales followed, and at the end of
January the fleet was forced again to run for shelter to
Torbay. This time, the long-anticipated letter was waiting for
him. It was typically brisk.

‘Coxwold. January 1st 1804.

‘
Dear Weston, I am happy to tell you I was delivered of a
son on the 20th December. You will wonder it was so long
ago, but I waited to know the child's fate before I wrote to
you. My cousin Héloïse begged me not to send it away, but to
let her bring it up herself at Plaisir, because she had taken
such a fancy to it. Naturally I preferred that solution, and believed you would too, so I wrote to Chetwyn to ask his
permission for the change of plan, which he sent, pro
vided all discretion was used and the child's identity
concealed.

‘
So it is all settled, and I know you will be happy with the
result. The boy could not want a better home, and I shall
have no fears in leaving him behind when I go back to
London at the end of February.

‘
Everyone seems to be settling in for a long war. Addington
is not popular here — people want the war fought more
aggressively now they have got over the immediate fear of
being invaded. I hope I may be mistaken in thinking the
blockade will not be over soon, for I want more than anything
to see you again.’

That was all there was by way of tenderness, and Weston
smiled ruefully at the firm handwriting which filled the page, but left him hungry. There remained only the signature at the
bottom, and two crossed lines. He turned the page sideways
and read the hasty post-script.

‘
We christened the child Thomas. He is perfectly healthy
and begins to look more agreeable. I fed him myself at first,
and grow quite fond of him.’

*

Lucy did not go back to London at the end of February.
When she had written the letter to Weston, she had been
feeling restless, and had named the earliest date for departure
she thought Docwra would countenance. But hard weather
set in in mid-January, and Lucy caught a cold which, though, not severe, left her feeling languid, and content, for the time
being, to remain at Plaisir, being looked after and amused
and having all decisions made for her.

She was not obliged to bestir herself over the baby. With
eight females in the house besides herself, there was never any
likelihood that young Thomas's cries would go unheeded, and
he was picked up and changed and winded and cuddled and
fed by whoever managed to get to him first. Even Stephen
revealed a partiality for taking him out into the garden on
fine days, and Monsieur Barnard, most mysteriously, proved
to have in his capacious memory a receipt for a breast-milk
substitute on to which Thomas was weaned without difficulty
when Lucy tired of feeding him.

So the first weeks of February, when she would normally
have been hunting, found her still at Plaisir. To repay a little
of Héloïse's generosity, she took over the instruction of
Mathilde, who had remained her most fervent admirer.
Though Héloïse had been well taught at the convent, the
range of her education was much narrower than Lucy's, who
was able to initiate Mathilde into the delights of a number of
new studies. Mathilde learned willingly, and the effort
involved was just sufficient to stop Lucy growing bored. She
was content to spend the rest of the time reclining on the
sopha with a book, sprawling on the floor playing games with
Sophie, or sitting by the fire talking to Héloïse.

‘
We are so different, you and I,' she said one evening, when
they had been silent a while, staring into the flames. 'If I had
been you, when James came to live here, I would never have
let him go back. It is all I want in life — to be with Weston.'

‘
Even for you, that is not
all
you want,' Héloïse said. 'You
do not do yourself justice.'

‘And you do me too much,' Lucy said with a grimace. 'I am completely selfish.'

‘
No, cousin Lucy,' Héloïse smiled. Tor, tell me, why are
you here, if it is not because you wish to do the right thing?’

 
‘
Well, never mind that now,' Lucy said hastily. 'But tell
me, why
did
James go back to Morland Place? Why did you
let him?’

Héloïse looked at her doubtfully, as though wondering how
much Lucy would be able to understand. 'Because it was
wrong.'

‘
But that isn't it,' Lucy said restlessly, 'You love James, and
you were happy when you were with him, and unhappy when
he left. You've told me so. I don't believe you would give that
up, just because — because some priest told you to.'