The Emperor (33 page)

‘
No, Mama,' Ned said with affectionate amusement, 'you
wouldn't have done anything of the sort, and you know it.’

She looked at him. 'The worse my failure then, that my
children should be so different from me! For even you, Ned,
my dear son, though you are a great comfort to me, even
you don't feel James's crime as I do. You are angry with
him, because you feel he has wronged us, and made us all
appear ridiculous. You are afraid of the scandal, but you
don't abhor the sin because it is a sin.'

‘Oh, Mother — '

‘No, my darling, I don't reproach you. Only I have failed
all of you, your father especially; and my father, who left the
fortune of the Morlands in my hands. I haven't proved such a good guardian, have I?’

He didn't answer. Jemima brooded, thinking of her
childhood; of the Morland history and the sense of family which Allen had instilled into her during their long rides
together; how he, unwittingly, had been preparing her for
this responsibility at a time when there was no likelihood it would ever be hers. She remembered the Countess Annunciata, who, more than any other, she thought of as her predecessor, and of all the troubles against which she had had to defend the family.

‘
We have survived so much, we Morlands,' she said at
last. 'War and famine and rebellion, poverty, dissension, religious persecution: we came through them all, and they made us stronger. Only now I wonder if we can survive
through peace and prosperity. Something has gone out of
us, some virtue, and I don't know what it is, or how to get it back.’

She glanced at her son, and saw him listening, but not understanding, and she felt old, and so alone. Allen had
been her dear companion through most of her life, her
husband and lover for thirty years of it, and five years of widowhood were not enough to blunt the pain of missing him. She had not made a friend of her children when they were young, and perhaps she should not be surprised now
that they did not understand each other. In some ways,
James had been the child of hers to whom she had felt
closest; and yet it was he who had inflicted the deepest
wound.

Héloïse would have understood, she thought painfully. She would have been a daughter to me, more truly than the children of my body. It was the bitterest of ironies.

‘He'll come back of his own accord eventually,' Edward said. 'I'm sure of it. After a while, when the novelty wears off, he'll get bored and want to come home. It's not to be
supposed that there'll be much to do up there, in a little
village miles from anywhere, and Jamie's used to his
comforts. Héloïse isn't rich, and it's quite a small house, isn't
it, Mother?'

‘Quite small,' Jemima agreed absently.

‘And then, I think he will miss Fanny. He's very fond of
her. If we leave him be for a while, it will probably all blow
over.’

She turned to look at him; saw his pleasant, gentle,
untested face; his hopefulness that he had offered her
comfort, and, even more, that the violent winds of life
would not come howling down on his quiet haven, and she smiled painfully. 'Oh Ned,' she said.

‘
I tell you what, though, Mama,' he added urgently, 'I
have just thought of it: if we are to keep this business quiet,
we must make sure Mrs James does not write to her father, for if he once takes a hand in it, it will be bellows to mend with all of us!’

The thought of Mr Hobsbawn was one jest of fate too
many. She buried her face in her hands, and from the noises
she made, Ned did not know whether she was laughing or crying, and could only put his arm around her and pat her
kindly, hoping that the gesture would be appropriate to
either case.

*

 
When Jemima came up to her room, Mary Ann fended her
off, made a cold response to her offers of sympathy, refused
all comfort, and finally, triumphantly, drove her away. But
left in possession of her solitude, she wondered why she had
done it, and gradually with the cooling of her ardour she began to see that she had been at fault. Pride and anger had
been her sins that day: anger at the affront to her pride of
her husband's actions; hurt pride which led her to reject human sympathy; anger that she had been made to appear ridiculous; pride in standing alone in her martyrdom.

Contemplation led to self-reproach and tears. When she
could cry no more, she washed her face, and went to seek
out Father Thomas in his room, and he heard her confes
sion, shrove her, and gave her the sacrament. She left his room spiritually comforted, but lonely for human contact. Now was the time to go to her mother-in-law, she thought, to apologize for her coldness, and perhaps, at last, make friends with her. It was a golden opportunity, for not only
was Lady Morland in the house and without occupation, but
she was also unhappy and troubled, and perhaps needing a companion and confidante as much as Mary Ann.

She looked for her mother-in-law in all the usual places, and finally, as she came out of the steward's room, noticed that the door to the chapel was not properly closed. She
pushed it open and saw Jemima and Ned in the Lady-
chapel, sitting silently side by side, his arm around her
shoulder. A bitterness touched her for a moment: of course Lady Morland did not need her! She had her sons and daughters, and no doubt at this moment was wishing Mary Ann had never been born, so that her precious James could have married the Frenchwoman and stayed at home. Then
everyone would have been happy, for it was a plain fact that
no-one at Morland Place had ever welcomed Mary Ann, or
shewn her the least affection. If it were a choice between her and James, everyone without hesitation would choose James
and wish her at the devil.

She caught her thoughts up sharply: she was newly
shriven, and in a state of grace. She offered a brief inward prayer of apology and retreated from the chapel as silently as she had come.

She didn't know what to do with herself. She wandered
into the drawing-room, sat down and picked up a book, and
turned a few pages without the least idea of what she was reading, and was glad of the diversion when Edward's dog
Leaky came wandering in from the hall, presumably looking
for his master.

‘
Leaky! Come here, good fellow,' Mary Ann said,
holding out her hand. He came out of politeness and
nudged her hand, and swung his iron cable of a tail a few
times. Normally that would have been all he allowed her, for he was an exclusive dog, and did not care for the caresses of
anyone but Edward. But at the moment he was missing
Brach, who was in retirement in the kennels where she had just whelped, and he was lonely. When Mary Ann spoke nonsense to him, and began rubbing the place behind the ears as she had seen Ned do, his soul stirred, and he leaned against her, smiling.

A little more of the same, and he forgot his dignity so far as to place one huge paw on her knee, and made the strange
whistling noise that Edward called 'talking'. Mary Ann
cupped his face, and pulled his ears.

‘Yes, you miss her, don't you, old fellow? You're lonely too. Poor Leaky, I understand.’

Leaky yawned and whistled simultaneously, which made
him sneeze, and then he put his other paw on her knee for good measure, and tried to climb onto her lap. She hugged
him, and he licked her face, and then went on licking,
because it was agreeably salty. Mary Ann cried, not the hot
tears of passion this time, but the gentler and infinitely more
painful tears of the heart, given to the dog because no-one
else wanted them; cried because, like Leaky, she had lost
her mate, whom she loved, and how ever little he cared for her, she missed him.

 
James met Durban alone at the door on his return, and led him immediately upstairs.

‘
You managed to pack the valise, then,' he observed.
‘Let's see what you brought. Ah, my painting-box, thank
God! And what's this book?'

‘It was beside your bed, sir. I had very little time - I had to take what was to hand.'

‘
Lord, yes, I remember, it was
Torn Jones.
Well, if I am
to start a new life with only one book to my name, I suppose
that is as good as any. Shirts, cravats - my blue coat, good! Was there any difficulty about bringing my things? What disposition have you made about the rest of them?'

‘I left instructions with Mr Oxhey for everything to be packed up and sent on, but I do not know if they will be carried out. There was some resistance to the idea.'

‘Well, it doesn't matter, anyway,' James said. 'Here is
enough to be going on with, and I don't know what I will
need more. We shall be living very quietly, her ladyship and
I, quite a country life. I shall not need Court-dress in
Coxwold!’

It was intended as a joke, but James's attempt at laughter
faltered and failed as he met the terrible sympathy in
Durban's eye. A silence fell, in which he could hear the light
murmur of women's voices downstairs.

‘
I'm afraid they won't leave you alone, sir,' Durban said
at last, very gently. James tried to smile.

‘Well, after all, they can't bring me back by force, and what else - ' He stopped. Was my mother - was she very upset?’

It was on the tip of Durban's tongue to tell his master
that she had cried, but he thought better of it. All too soon
the world would come surging back like a tide, but it was
not his business to hasten it.

‘She sent you this letter, sir,' he said, drawing it from his breast. James looked as though it would bite him, and then
took it reluctantly, as if in spite of himself. The voices downstairs rose and fell, and there was a sudden burst of laughter. He thought of his mother and his wife and his sisters, and in
a moment of irritation felt beleaguered by women; and then
thought of Héloïse, and shook the idea away.

‘I'll read it later,' he said firmly, and folded it inside the book for safety.

*

He dismissed Morland Place from his thoughts, and was happy. There followed a time of great and extraordinary peace, as if something restless and searching in him, something beaked and taloned, had put its head under its wing and gone to sleep. The anxious, craving feelings which had
never let him rest were gone, and in their place was a simple
joy which greeted him like the sun when he woke in the
morning, filled his days with ease, and sealed his dreamless
sleep at night.

Everything in the world seemed somehow closer, more vivid, more immediate; colours were brighter and clearer, sounds and smells sharp and delightful; food tasted extraordinarily good, and he sat down to his simple meals with a clean-edged and healthy hunger.

Every day was full of delight, and every moment was spent with Héloïse, doing perfectly ordinary things, which
he would never before have considered as sources of
pleasure. He picked fruit, and helped with the jam-making; he worked in the garden, pruning shrubs and planting out next year's wallflowers; he mended things about the house,
and with Stephen's help, began to learn carpentry and started to make a cabinet. He caught from Héloïse her
interest in cooking, and the hours before dinner were spent
in the kitchen with a great deal of noise and occasional
hilarity, all six of them chopping and mixing and stirring,
arguing pleasantly, experimenting, and getting in each
other's way.

He and Héloïse went for long walks, and he taught her
the names of the English plants and creatures, which he had
hardly known he knew until he discovered the pleasure of instructing her. They drove out in the phaeton, and went to
see the nearby places of interest, the ruins of Byland Abbey,
and the great white cliff at Sutton Bank. They went fishing
together, and never caught anything. Sometimes they would
simply find a field with a view, and sit all day, conversing while he drew. In the evening he worked on what he hoped would be the definitive portrait of her, while she talked or read to him.

‘
I never have time to work on my memoirs,' she
complained happily one evening. 'Before you came, I wondered sometimes how I would fill my days. I thought I ought to get a little dog, for company. I even considered
adopting a child. Now, the days fly past, and every minute is
filled with treasure.’

On the day they drove to Sutton Bank and stood on the top of the scarp, looking out over the great plain of York,
with its patchwork fields and little silver rivers, he said, 'It's only when we are silent for a moment, as now, that I realize
how much we talk to each other.' She glanced at him
enquiringly. 'I mean, in the time since I have been with you, we have hardly stopped talking for a moment, and we never
run out of things to say, and yet when I think about it, I
can't remember anything we have said.’