The Emperor (36 page)

‘Perhaps he is,' Edward muttered. Jemima threw him a quelling look.

‘
The young woman, Mr Hobsbawn, my niece, was
engaged to be married to James some years ago. It was a
love-match. She had fled Paris during the Terror, and
believed her husband to be dead. But shortly before her
proposed marriage to James, her husband arrived in
London, which, as you can imagine, was a great shock to everyone. She and James naturally parted —'

‘Naturally,' Hobsbawn echoed, bewildered.

‘And James married your daughter instead. But now my
niece is a widow and —' It was impossible to go on.
Hobsbawn, who had hardly followed the intricate tale,
grasped only this much.

‘
And your son has run off with her, slighted my daughter,
insulted me! By God, Lady Morland, that boy should be thrashed, he should be horse-whipped, he —' He spluttered in his rage. 'What has been done? Why have you not made him come back?’

Jemima looked at her hands in her lap, and said with difficulty, 'I have written to him, and my son Edward has been to see him, but these approaches have failed.'

‘
But you must
force
him!' Hobsbawn repeated in
outrage. ‘To the devil with asking him!'

‘I'm afraid there is no pressure that can be put to bear on him,' Jemima said, her volume diminishing as Hobsbawn's increased.

‘Cut off his allowance!'

‘
He has received no money from Morland Place since he
left, naturally. But Lady Henrietta has private means, and they live very simply. It is to be hoped that — '

‘
By God, he'll not touch a penny of my money,'
Hobsbawn growled. 'I'll cut him off, sharp, like that!' He made a chopping movement of his hand.

‘But if you remember, sir, he has never received any
money from you,' Jemima said gently. 'Your daughter's
dowry was paid to the estate, not to her husband.’

Hobsbawn's eyes bulged dangerously. 'I'll change my
will,' he cried hoarsely. 'He won't see a farthing from my estate. I'll leave it all to — '

‘Fanny,' Edward finished for him. 'Your will, sir, leaves everything to your granddaughter.' He let that sink in, and then added. 'You see, there is nothing we can do to force James to come back, but — '

‘You could go up there, sir, you could go up there and thrash him!' Hobsbawn cried, his voice cracking more with anguish than rage. 'You could drag him back by the hair of his head.’

Edward didn't pursue this line. He waited for Hobsbawn
to stop, and then said, 'We are not without hope that he will
come back of his own accord. I think he is suffering from a
kind of madness, and I am sure it will pass, and he will
realize the enormity of what he has done, and come home again of his own will. It's the only way, you know, sir —forcing him would do no good. You must see that.'

‘It would do me good to see it,' Hobsbawn said more quietly. He thought a moment. 'What does Mary say? Where is she, by the by? Is she all right?'

‘She is in her chamber. You shall see her in a little while,
but she wished me to interview you first. The situation is
very embarrassing and upsetting for her, as you can understand,' Jemima said.

Hobsbawn's face twisted with sorrow for his child. 'I'll
take her home with me,' he said. 'She shall come back to her
Papa, aye, her and the child, too! I'll look after them. We'll divorce that worthless, heartless, slack-twisted — ‘

He broke off at that moment as the door opened, and
Mary Ann appeared on the threshold, neatly clad as always,
her face pale and composed, her hands folded nun-like
before her.

‘
Mary — my little girl!' Hobsbawn cried, getting to his
feet. Mary Ann crossed the room to him, and disappeared
in his bear-like embrace. 'Pack thy bags, love — tha s'It come
home with me right away, and our little Fanny, too. We'll
shake the dust of this place from our feet. They shan't have
a penny of my money, child, I'll see to that. We'll get a
divorce for you, and — '

‘
No, Papa,' Mary Ann said calmly, withdrawing herself
from his arms. He looked stricken.

‘
No? Why not, my lamb? You don't want to stay here,
do you?'

‘It's my home now, Papa,' she said, meeting his eyes steadily. 'And more than that, it's Fanny's home. She is to
inherit Morland Place one day, and I can't take her away from that. As to a divorce — ' she shrugged. 'Even if you
could get one, what good would it do me? What good
would it do Fanny? Better to try to keep this business quiet, live it down for her sake.'

‘But what about your husband?’

Her gaze wavered and moved away. 'If he comes back,
I'll forgive him. For Fanny's sake.’

Hobsbawn was lost for words. He stared at his daughter,
and then cast around the room, as if looking for words of
fire on the walls. 'I don't understand any of this!' he cried suddenly.

Jemima felt it was time for her to intervene. 'Mr Hobs
bawn, it has been a great shock for you, as it was for us
 
when we first knew about it; but we have had time to
consider and, like your daughter, we feel that Fanny is the important one now. Morland Place goes to her when I die:
that has not changed. Now you may change your will, and in
the circumstances I don't think anyone would blame you;
and if you feel strongly about it, the estate will repay Mary Ann's dowry to you, since she has been wronged by her husband. We do not try to defend James, you see; but there is very little anyone can do in this situation.’

Hobsbawn sat down again, and resumed mopping his face. 'By God, it beats all, does this. You're all so calm, I
can't get over it. But — what you say makes sense, all right.’

Jemima drew an inward sigh of relief that the worst
seemed to be over. 'Let me send for some refreshments for you,' she said gently. 'The journey must have been most disagreeable.’

*

Golden September faded into October, and though the sun still shone, the strength seemed to have gone out of it. The
mornings were sometimes quite sharp, and James and Héloïse were glad to draw the covers around them; the
evenings were often misty, and there was that haunting
smell of woodsmoke and blackberries in the mist, which told that autumn was coming.

In the middle of the day it was still warm enough to sit
out of doors with pleasure. James had finished his portrait
of Héloïse, and had taken to making quick sketches of her in the garden; drawing and re-drawing hungrily as he had done in those few weeks she had spent at Morland Place. She did
not prevent him, but it made her nervous.

As the days shortened, their need to talk lessened, and
their need to be near each other grew. They were often
silent, doing nothing more than sitting together, hands intertwined, watching the cloud shadows drift across the garden. They did not go far from home any more, needing nothing outside their kingdom. The last autumn fruits were ripening against the warmth of the crumbling old wall, and the leaves were beginning to take on tints of gold and red and bronze. A sadness was with them, called up by they knew not what,
making them lean closer together, loving each other the
more, appreciating what they had more keenly.

They had been left alone since Edward's visit, except for'
the letters – an angry one from Mary Ann's father, a sad one from Jemima, harder to bear – but the world had other ways
of shewing its disapproval. The tradesmen would not call; and there had been the distressing day when Peg had come to them, weeping, to say that she must give her notice.

‘My Pa says I'm not to work for you any more, m'lady. He says I'm to go home at once. Oh m'lady, and he says he wants you to take your horses away, too!’

Héloïse had comforted her as well as she could, and over
the weeping girl's shoulder had met James's stricken eyes. The Charlocks were a respected local family, and strong church members. Durban had fetched the ponies and the phaeton and had taken them to be stabled at the inn, where
they could afford more liberal views. Peg's sister-in-law did
not come in any more, either; but Stephen ignored local opinion and stayed on.

‘
What do we care what they think of us?' James had said robustly, and Héloïse had smiled and agreed; but it had hurt
them. Before there had been only sunshine; now there was light and shade.

Héloïse began work on her memoirs, and James would sit
in the room with her while she worked, drawing her, or just watching. He could never get enough of looking at her. Her
face seemed to change every moment, like the sky, thoughts
and feelings passing across it like clouds and light.

‘I wish I had my journal,' she said one day. 'I kept it day
by day all through the bad years, and it would be so valuable
to me now. Papa gave it to me when I went with him to Chenonceau. I went to my very first ball there.' She smiled at the memory.

He came over to stand behind her, and kissed the nape of
her neck, where her hair grew in little feathery curls which he found extremely distracting. 'One day, when the war is
over, shall we go back there, for a visit? To France, I mean.'

‘
I should love to see it again,' she said, and then she
sighed. 'Ah, but it would not be the same. I should be afraid that they had changed it so much it would not be my France
any more. One hears such things about the destruction and the burning and the poverty. War is a terrible thing, James.'

‘So I always understood,' he said, gently teasing. She glanced up at him.

‘You were a soldier once.'

‘
Only so long as there was no danger of having to go and
fight. As soon as the war began, I sold out.'

‘Then why be a soldier at all?'

‘Because, my precious angel,' he said, kissing her neck again, 'I looked so very handsome in a red coat!'

‘
Oh, you are never serious,' she exclaimed as he laughed.

‘I'm sorry, darling,' he said resting his cheek against hers
and putting his arms around her shoulders. 'I know how
much you lost. You still miss him, don't you – your father!'

‘Poor Papa,' she said, and automatically reached for his
last letter, which was growing worn with frequent handling.
‘He used to say he had no drop of French blood in his veins,
and yet when it came to it, he could not leave France. This letter – when I think that he wrote it in the last moments before they arrested him –'

‘
Tell me again what it says,' James said. 'I can't read
French handwriting.'

‘The writing is bad,' she agreed, 'but he was writing in a
hurry, and having to think what he could say that would not
make the authorities tear it up, if they found it. That's why
it sounds a little strange, I think.' She read it to him again.

‘What are those words underlined, at the end –
bonheur toujours
is it?'

‘Yes – "I wish you happiness always" he says.'

‘But why did he underline just those two words?'

‘I don't know. Perhaps he –' Héloïse stopped. After a moment of silence, James removed his cheek from hers to
look at her, and was alarmed for she was staring fixedly
ahead of her in the most extraordinary way.

‘
What is it, Marmoset? What's the matter? Are you ill?'
Bonheur toujours –
how can I have been so stupid?' she said.

‘Darling, what is it? What do you mean?'

‘He had to write in code, of course, in case the letter fell into the wrong hands,' she said, as though to herself. 'But he had told me very clearly what he would do, only I was so
stupid I forgot it. Listen, James,' she turned to him sud
denly. 'On the day I was married to Vendenoir, we went back to the house Papa had bought for me in the Rue St
Anne, and while the guests were assembling, he took me to
the room he had fitted out as my boudoir. He shewed me
the furniture he had bought for me, including this writing
desk, and he told me that there was a secret compartment in
it. He made a point of shewing it to me, and said there
might come a time when I would be glad of it.'

‘A secret compartment?'

‘Yes, love. I thought it strange that he should make such a point of it on my wedding day, but now I see –’

James was there. 'Bonheur-du-jour! Of course, the code!
He was telling you – but what do you think he has hidden
there? Where is it? Open it quickly, Marmoset! I must see!’

Héloïse was pale. 'I am afraid – ' she began.

‘Oh, darling, don't be foolish. How can it hurt you? Whatever it is, he meant you to find it, didn't he? Do you remember the trick of it?'