The Victory (82 page)

Héloïse. Admitted at last, the thought of her flooded him
with joy, like brilliant sunshine. Now at last he could marry
her and bring her back to Morland Place, her and Sophie, put
right what had gone horribly, stupidly wrong all those years
ago. He thought of being married to her, loving her openly
and honestly, without shadow, without guilt, being with her
as of right, never having to part from her, seeing her and
touching her every, day of his life. He imagined the unique joy
and contentment of requited love, and thought, surely this is
what we were made for?
The pain in his shoulder from the weight of Nez Carré's
head brought him down to earth from his raptures. He
pushed the horse off him, and Nez Carré woke with a snort. ‘Everything is going to be all right,' James told him. 'There
will have to be a period of mourning first, but what is a few
months of waiting, with the certainty of happiness at the end of it?' Nez Carré nudged him in agreement. 'How shall I tell
her? Write to her? No, that won't do. I shall have to go up
there and tell her myself. Perhaps I should go down on one
knee and propose to her again, do the thing properly?’

Nez Carré had no opinion on the matter. He was beginning
to feel hungry again. He lowered his head and nibbled first at
James's shoe so as not to hurt his feelings, and then began to
nose casually at the grass around it.

James's first instinct was to go at once, today, not to waste an instant of the time they might be happy in. But he thought
again of Mary Ann, and restrained himself. It would not do.
It must not be said that he went rushing off the moment he
heard she was dead. Some respect was due to her. He would
wait a few days, and then ride quietly over to Coxwold and
tell Héloïse the news, and ask her to wait until the mourning
period was over. He must do everything properly this time,
make no mistakes. It would be all right. There could be no
more misunderstandings between them now.

Nez Carré was beginning to move away, grazing as he
went, and James gave him one last affectionate slap on the
rump and climbed back over the fence, and began to walk
towards the house. It was going to be difficult to get through
the next few days, to do what was expected of him, to offend
no-one, to keep up appearances. But he must do it. He
wanted nothing in his present behaviour to be able to cast a
shadow over the happiness of the future.

I'm sorry, Mary Ann, he addressed her in his mind, for all
the wrongs I did you. I wish I had behaved better by you, and
I'm not glad you're dead, truly I'm not. I can honestly say I
never wished for your death, even in the depths of my heart;
and I will pay you the respect the world demands. So forgive
me, now, if I am glad that I can marry Héloïse. I can't help it.

 
Dakers's letter to James came the following day, and brought
home to him for the first time the reality of his wife's death,
and with it, the reality of her life. Here was another view of
the calm, polite, neatly-dressed woman who had shared a roof
and a name with him, but little else. She had been Dakers's
nurseling, Mr Hobsbawn's daughter, the darling of
Hobsbawn House; and firmly as they had loved her, they had
hated and despised him.

The strength of the animosity towards him shook him badly. It was unpleasant to discover all that hatred in a woman who had been living under his roof, like finding
scorpions nesting in one's mattress. He felt threatened by it,
but he felt also misjudged, misunderstood. I am not like this,
he thought, reading the letter again, his eyes screwed up
defensively as though the words might jump off the page and
attack him. It was a caricature of James Morland, this black-
hearted villain of Dakers's pen. He was foolish, selfish,
careless of others, but he was not worth so much bitter
hatred.

He wondered if Dakers really did, as she claimed, speak for
Mr Hobsbawn too, and then decided that hatred of this order
was a woman-thing, and that Mary Ann's father must be
feeling far more grief than bitterness. It was not James's fault,
by any stretching of the facts, that Mary Ann had gone sick-
visiting against advice. Every mistress of Morland Place since
it was first built had visited the sick: it was a duty laid down
by long tradition; and if Mary Ann had resembled her prede
cessors in nothing else, she had had a stern sense of duty. As
for this priest about whom Dakers hinted such dark complic
ations, that was obviously the fantasy of an embittered virgin.
Mary Ann hadn't enough hot blood in her to feel passion for
any man, least of all an ordained priest of Holy Mother
Church! A letter of condolence had been dispatched at once, on
receipt of Rathbone's letter, but this epistle of Dakers's
resolved a doubt which had been growing in James's mind, as to whether or not he ought to visit Mr Hobsbawn. He knew he
had not been a favourite with his father-in-law, even before
he had run away to Héloïse, and that since that episode his name
had probably been unmentionable at Hobsbawn House; but
now that Mary Ann was dead, he must shew that he knew
what was proper, at least. Mr Hobsbawn might not receive
much pleasure from a visit, might even misinterpret James's
concern, but he would regard the lack of a visit as a cold
hearted neglect of duty which only confirmed his bad opinion
of his son-in-law.

Father Aislaby, appealed to to confirm James's judgement,
obliged.

‘
Doing the right thing may not always win approbation,
but not doing it can never make one feel easy. It is an atten
tion you ought to pay. Whether or not Mr Hobsbawn will
receive you is a matter for his own conscience, but I think he
will. From what little I know of him, I would say he is hasty-
tempered, but a good man underneath.'

‘
Good,' James said. 'I'm glad you approve. Then if I had
better go, I had better go at once. And,' he said as the idea
struck him. 'I'll take Fanny with me!’

Aislaby was not quite quick enough to conceal his dismay,
and when James frowned at him, hastened to say, 'Perhaps it
may not be safe to take her, with the plague about.'

‘
Nonsense,' said James. 'Only poor people catch the plague;
and besides, Fanny is as a strong as a horse. I shall not take
her
sick visiting, you know.’

Still Aislaby hesitated, and James went on, 'Now what?
Don't you think it's a good idea? If it is right for me to pay Mr
Hobsbawn the attention, it must be right for Fanny, too. And
having lost little Henry, he will surely welcome a visit from
his own granddaughter — his only grandchild now.’

Aislaby struggled to recover himself. 'Oh — yes, yes. I'm
only afraid it might be too much for him. Fanny is not a
quiet, gentle child. Her noisiness might be too much for his
nerves at a time like this.’

James looked wounded. 'Fanny will behave herself. You underestimate her, you know. She will understand what is expected of her on an occasion like this.’

Aislaby, who had been privileged to witness in the nursery
some of Fanny's reactions to her orphanhood which James
had not, doubted it, but he could not tell James that. He
sought for another explanation. 'There is the possibility, too,
that Mr Hobsbawn might misunderstand your reasons for
taking Fanny with you,' he said desperately. 'He may think you are only concerned with persuading him to change his will in Fanny's favour. After all, she has never visited him
before.’

James considered this, and rejected it. 'He may think so, of
course, but then we have already decided that he may think
my purpose in coming is a mercenary one. It can't be made
worse by Fanny, and might be made better. If the thing is
right in itself, it ought to be done, and the consequences must
look after themselves. Fanny's quite an heiress in her own
right, as Mr Hobsbawn knows. He must know that she
doesn't need his money.’

Aislaby, seeing James's mind was made up, had nothing
more to say.

*

Fanny had been far more intrigued by her new status as
orphan, than upset by her mother's death. Ever since Henry
had been born, Mary Ann had removed from her daughter
even the scant attention she had previously paid her, and if
they met at all in recent years, it was only by accident,
because they happened to be in the same room at the same
time. When they did meet, her mother would look at Fanny with indifferent eyes, caring too little for her even to scold
her, as some of the older servants still dared to do. Fanny
didn't mind their scolds, because she knew how to win them
round. She had use only for people who admired her, or
whom she could manipulate, and as Mary Ann was in neither
category, her indifference towards her daughter was more
than equalled by Fanny's towards her.

So when James had come in person to tell her that her
mama and little brother were dead, the news did not distress her in any way. She considered first of all what her reaction
ought to be, and seeing that James expected her to be upset,
and that the nursery-maids were inching forward already,
preparing to comfort her, she decided not to disappoint them, and cried very prettily for ten minutes or so. It was an accom
plishment she had developed over the years, and had found
very useful on those occasions when she had driven her
attendants to the point where their exasperation with her outweighed their fear of her temper. She had often heard
Sarah say to Lotty that the crying proved that Miss Fanny
was really a good girl underneath, in spite of everything.

So she cried first of all, and was petted and comforted, and
listened to the underlying approval in the voices around her.
James in particular was impressed by her sensibility, for
though he defended her against every criticism, it was
sometimes with the wistfulness of hope rather than the
firmness of conviction. Fanny's tender tears brought such
emotion welling up into his voice as he told her she was his
good little girl, that she was quite overcome by her own
performance, and cried in good earnest for some minutes.

When the first transports were over, she began to be aware
that her bereavement could be put to good use, as everyone around her seemed prepared to treat her as though she were
made of some fragile material, and told her cousins quite
sharply that they must be particularly kind to poor Miss
Fanny, who had lost not only her dear mama but her dearest
little brother too. At dinner time, when they asked her in
tones of tender concern if she could fancy anything to eat, she
began to perceive the possibilities of the situation. She sighed
sadly, and said in a faint and quavering voice that she
couldn't eat a thing, and then allowed them to persuade her
gradually into all her favourite foods, cold chicken, currant
tarts, syllabub, orange cream, and jellies.