The Victory (71 page)

‘
If it would not fatigue you,' he said happily, standing up at
once.

‘
Oh, I am never fatigued,' Héloïse said, and rang the bell to
tell Stephen not to unharness the ponies. Not fatigued, but
puzzled, she led the way out, wondering what it was that Flon
was nodding to herself about so significantly.

Once in the phaeton, and driving at a leisurely pace along
the lanes, the Duc seemed much more at his ease, although he
did not seem to have as much to say for himself as usual, and
kept silence in favour of staring alternately at the ponies'
brown-tipped, cream ears, and at Héloïse's profile as she
handled the reins. It was left to Héloïse to make conversation
along the lines of how pleasant thé weather was, what a
profusion of wild flowers grew in the hedgerows, and what a
good crop of lambs there seemed to have been that year.

By the time she reached Byland Abbey she had run out of
conversation, so she pulled up the horses on the grass verge
opposite the ruins, and said, 'Have you ever visited the ruins?
They are really very interesting.'

‘
Should you like to walk a little, and look at them?' he
asked eagerly. 'Will your horses stand?'

‘
For a little while, perhaps,' she said doubtfully, but he was
already jumping down, and holding out his hand to help her
out. They walked across the grass and stood looking at the tall
west front with its vast broken circle of a rose window, reminder of what a magnificent church must once have stood there.
'It was a Cistercian house, you know,' she said, feeling the
necessity to entertain him. 'Very rich, until it was destroyed
at the Dissolution. It is not as big or as grand as Rievaulx, but
I always think it is very charming, all the same, and the
prospect over the fields is delightful.’

She received little response, and was racking her brain for
something else to say about Byland Abbey, when the Duc
suddenly found his tongue.

‘Dear madame, won't you sit down? I have something most particular to say to you.’

He gestured towards a block of fallen masonry, dusted it
with his hand, and gently but firmly obliged her to sit upon it.

Then he stood in front of her, and removed his hat. The sun
shone on his glossy hair, and with his uncertain smile, he
looked particularly young and handsome.

‘
It was not really on business that I came to Yorkshire,' he
said abruptly. 'Or, at least, it was business of a sort, I suppose,
but the thing was, dear madame, that I found Brighton most horribly flat and dull without you. If I had known you were
not there, I would not have gone at all.’

Many things were suddenly plain to Héloïse. 'Monsieur le
Duc,' she began in protest, but he flung himself suddenly
upon his knees in front of her, and seizing her hand, said,
‘Charles! Oh, won't you call me Charles, dearest, sweetest
Héloïse — forgive me, but that is how I think of you! Yes, and
I do think of you, every moment, ever since I first met you.
The first time I saw your lovely face and sweet smile, I knew I
had met my fate! I believe I loved you from that moment, but
it was only when I arrived at Brighton and found you were
not there that I realised how much I cared for you. Life
without you was suddenly intolerable. I saw then what I must
do. I must have been blind, not to see it before, but you will
forgive me for that, I know, because you have the kindness of
an angel! Forgive me that I have not asked you before, and let
me ask you now: dearest Héloïse, will you marry me?’

Héloïse looked at him with astonishment not unmixed with
dismay, perplexity mingled with pleasure, and was unable at once to answer him. She had known, of course, that he liked
her — why else should he have spent such a flattering amount of time in her company over the last two years? And she liked
him, too, and would have been mildly piqued to have seen
him transfer his attentions to some other young woman. But
she had never thought of those attentions as meaning
anything in particular. For her, all thoughts of marriage had
long since been folded up and put away.

The Duc took advantage of her silence. 'I see I have taken
you by surprise. But you do not regard me, I think, with
complete indifference? It is not disgusting to you, my offer?'

‘
Of course not,' she said weakly. 'How could I be other
than flattered and grateful for your regard? But I had not
thought —'

‘Then please, oh please, dear Héloïse, do think now!
Though I have no royal blood, I am of good family — I have
sixteen quarterings. My name is a venerable one, and my
fortune, though diminished, is adequate, I believe, to support
you in the style that becomes you. And we should suit
each other admirably, I am convinced. We come from the
same world, you and I, and we are both exiles for the same
cause.'

‘
But you know that I am older than you? That I have been
married? And what of the children? I have responsibilities, you
see.

‘
But of course I know these things. I am not a simpleton! The difference in our ages is nothing, and I adore the children. Here is no bar to our union! Sweet, lovely Héloïse, say
yes, say yes quickly!’

He knelt before her, his handsome head framed by a
romantic arch of ruined stonework and the blue sky beyond
it, and she saw how marriage with him would be perfectly possible. He was sweet-tempered, amiable, well-educated,
handsome, and French, and though his passion for her might
not last, his good sense and good manners would never allow
that to become apparent. After an initial period of fervour,
they would settle down to a comfortable marriage in the
French style, of mutual respect and affection, strengthened
by common interests, and perhaps children of their own. And
Sophie and Thomas would accept him very quickly, and
though Mathilde might be upset at first, she would soon get
over it, when she met someone of her own age to love.

Yes, it was quite devastatingly possible. She would have
security for ever, a companion, someone to love and esteem
her, the opportunity to have more children. But in the back of
her mind was the thought, like the sad piping of a marsh-
bird, that it would have been the most romantic and wonder
ful moment in her life, if only it had been James kneeling
there.

James was married, and for ever out of reach. She ought
not to think of him. She ought to put herself out of the tempt
ation of thinking of him. She could never marry him, and
now here was a kind, delightful, eligible man making the sort
of offer for her that nine out of ten girls in London at this
very moment would give their hair for.

‘
My dear — my dear Charles,' she said, using the name a little awkwardly. 'I am more grateful than I can say for your
kindness. An offer from you is flattering indeed, and you are
right, I am not indifferent to you. Far from it.'

‘
But you are going to refuse me, I can hear it in your
voice!' he cried tragically, and she could not help laughing.

‘
No not that! But I must have time to think about it. The
issue is not simple, you see; and though you may have known
for a week that you were going to make me an offer, I have
only just this minute heard about it.'

‘
Of course, I understand,' he said, relieved. 'It was thought
less of me to expect you to answer at once. Naturally you
must take time to consider.'

‘Thank you. I shall try not to keep you waiting too long.'

‘
I can wait as long as you like, provided the answer is yes,'
he said. He held out his hand and raised her, to her feet, and
then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with tender dedica
tion. She had been lonely a long time; it was long since she
had known the pleasure and security of strong arms around
her; and something in her fluttered towards him in that
instant, wanting to say yes, and be swept away. But too many
things, not least his happiness, depended on her making the
right decision. If she married him, she must be ready to give
everything to him, everything she had kept back, wicked
sinner that she was, for James.

*

Hot weather in July and al fresco parties naturally tend to
come together in the human mind, and though James and
Edward, left alone at Morland Place, might well have resisted
the conjunction, the presence of Lucy and her children, and
the arrival home from London of John Anstey in sociable
mood, gave rise without too much struggle to a picnic party in Watermill Field.

Mary Ann was visiting her father as usual, and had taken
Henry with her; Lousia Anstey, recovered now from the birth of her seventh, a female they had named Charlotte, came in a
large and shabby barouche which had belonged to John's
mother, with her other four surviving children, Alfred,
Benjamin, Louisa and Mary; Little John was still at sea.

Another carriage brought the Morland Place children, and the
other adults came on horseback.

It was the kind of party most likely to bring pleasure to
everyone, for none were present but old friends, who
preferred comfort to elegance, and companionship to wit.
Rugs were laid down, and an enormous array of cold foods was spread out, and everyone ate and chatted at their ease.
John Anstey, having recently come from London, had the best
right as well as the best spirits for talking, and he entertained
them with the latest London gossip, which was all about the
so-called 'Delicate Investigation' into the conduct of the
Princess of Wales.

‘
Though quite why they call it that, I don't know,' he said,
‘for it really ought to be called the Indelicate Investigation.'

‘
John, dear,' Louisa said mildly, hesitating between cold
ham and cold beef.

The Princess's behaviour, eccentric in youth, had become a
greater scandal year by year, and her wild extravagance and
uncouth manners had alienated most of Society, though there
were still those who said she had been unfairly treated by
both her husband and his father. But she was fond of male
company, and very free with her male friends, and though the
Prince had long ago repudiated her, and had not lived with
her for many years, rumours had abounded both in 1801 and
1802 that she was pregnant.