The Flood-Tide (42 page)

‘Grandmother spoke very highly of you,' Henri said, drawing Allen aside from the press of guests. 'I know she valued your friendship and your judgement, and I suspect she probably confided in you her disappointment in me.' Allen murmured something polite. Was this what was at the bottom? Did the man think Allen would recommend the pension to be stopped?

‘Yes, yes, it is true. It is useless to deny it. I caused my dear grandmother much unhappiness, which grieves me now to think of it. But I loved her dearly, sir, and I beg you to believe it.'

‘I have no reason to do otherwise,' Allen said cautiously. ‘I'm sure you have every reason,' Henri replied, with that disturbing smile. 'I cannot doubt that Grandmother told you of my wicked ways, of how I gambled and drank and accumulated debts and generally attempted to ruin myself, and her with me. But I have been trying to make up for it in the past few years, and as I hope you may be able to discern from my appearance, I have found the means to keep myself respectably, and to provide for my child.'

‘Your child?' Allen felt a twinge of dismay at the words. So there was a sprig, was there, of this renegade branch? He knew how Aliena had felt about it, how she had hoped the twist of the thread would end with her daughter, how distressed she had been when that daughter produced a bastard of her own. And if, now, this bastard had done likewise - for he spoke of keeping a child, but not a wife - the twist might never be unravelled. He pulled himself together. 'I was not aware, sir, that you were married.'

‘My wife is dead,' he said bleakly. 'She died in childbirth of a son, who also died. My daughter is all I have. Would you do me the honour of coming upstairs now and seeing her?'

‘Upstairs? And now?' Allen could not conceal his surprise.

‘The de Murphys are my greatest friends, and since my wife died it has been most convenient for my daughter to live under their roof. They know that I mean to ask you, and have no objection to our leaving the company for a few minutes.’

There was nothing Allen could do, in that case, but bow his assent, though as he followed Henri from the room he was wondering why Henri wanted him to see the child, and coming up with no answer but the pension.

On the second floor at the back of the house, a suite of rooms had been put at the disposal of the little girl, and Henri knocked on a door, listened, and led Allen into a very pretty sitting room all done out in blue and white, and far too formal an environment for the little girl who was led forward by a starched maid, and who dropped a very practised curtsey to the two visitors.

eloise, ma chère, viens ici. veux to presenter a Monsieur le Chevalier de Morland.'
Henri held out his hand, and the little girl came and took it and looked up solemnly at Allen. She was five, going on six, a diminutive, self-possessed woman, for the more liberal attitudes to children had not yet reached France, dressed in a stiffbodiced, wide-skirted, much ruffled version of a grown woman's dress. Her hair was dark, and curled and ringleted elaborately; her features were strongly marked, too much so for prettiness at this age, though Allen thought she would grown into her looks; most startling to him were the large, dark eyes, so dark they looked almost black, and oddly melancholy. He had seen those eyes before, in life, and in many and many a portrait. Here, five years old, brought up in obscurity, and destined, he hoped, to remain so, was perhaps the last small sprig of the Royal House of Stuart.

‘Monsieur de Morland,' Henri was saying, translating the introduction into English, 'may I present to you my daughter Henrietta Louisa Stuart? Owing to the difficulties she had in pronouncing her own name when she first learned to talk, she has come to be known as Héloïse.' The child curtseyed again, and continued to cling to her father's hand and to stare at Allen with those sad-monkey eyes. 'She does not yet speak very much English,' Henri had continued, 'though I am at pains to teach her, for I think it is an accomplishment that will be of use to her.'

‘Languages are always useful, sir,' Allen said, wondering if they were coming to the nub of the matter. ‘Certainly,' Henri assented, still in English, 'and I hope that when she is older, my daughter may be able to visit England - now, thank God, our two countries are at peace again.’

He sent the child back to her nurse, and turned away with Allen for privacy, relasping into French as he sought to be eloquent.

‘You have been patient, sir, and no doubt you have been wondering why I brought you here, what it is I want from you. Simply, it is this: I want a family. My grandmother isolated me from her own people, as if I were a disease that might infect them.' He shrugged. 'I understand her feelings, though I do not agree with them. But consider, sir, that innocent child you have just seen. Should she be punished for something not her fault, over which she had no control?'

‘But how is she punished?' Allen asked.

‘She suffers with me. I have no brothers or sisters, aunts or uncles, no cousins - at least, none that will own me. And so, neither has my daughter. That is a sad thing for a child - I know from my own experience how lonely a life she will lead.’

Henri turned his head to look at the child, and irresistibly Allen looked too. The little girl stood watching them with those sad Stuart eyes: great-grandchild of a King, grandchild of Marie-Louise, whom he had loved long ago. She looked very small and vulnerable, dwarfed by her elaborate clothes and the too-elegant room.

‘And what is it you want me to do?' Allen asked at length.

‘Make representation for me to the family; help me to be reconciled with them, so that, when she is a little older, my daughter may go to England and be received by them.'

‘You don't know what you are asking,' Allen said. No-one knows of your existence, except for your grandmother's cousin, who pays your pension. It would involve explanations which would be painful, difficult, perhaps even destructive.'

‘The story is an old one,' Henri said persuasively. ‘There cannot be anyone alive now who would he directly affected by it.'

‘There are many such,' Allen said shortly.

‘Sir, I ask you to consider my request, to think about it, perhaps to discuss it with my benefactor. That's all. That would not be against your conscience, would it?'

‘It would have to be discussed with Lord Chelmsford,' Allen said. 'But I cannot say—'

‘Please, sir - just think about it. Now you have seen my child.'

‘Very well,' Allen said at last. 'I will consider it. I cannot promise more.'

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.' He sounded genuinely grateful and relieved, and Allen began to think that perhaps he had misjudged the man, perhaps he really had turned over a new leaf. The idea was strengthened when they left to rejoin the party below and Henri turned back for one last look at the little girl, for the smile he exchanged with his daughter was one of real love.

*

The news of the January treaty was known in America in March 1783. Independence was granted to the thirteen United States; Canada was to remain British, Florida Spanish, the Mississippi was to be open to British and American ships and traders; the British army was to be evacuated with all convenient speed; the American army was to be paid and disbanded. Peace had come to America at last.

But there had been many who suffered: fishermen who could not ply their trade during the blockade had lost their livelihood; rising prices had afflicted those on salaries, and the poor who did not grow their own food; patriotic landowners who had supported the army had suffered, and the debilitating paper currency affected everyone. Only the merchants and financiers had done well out of the war, and in Maryland some merchants had done so suspiciously well that the Assembly ruled no merchant could represent the state in Congress.

And then there was the question of what to do about those who had remained loyal to Britain through the war. A clause in the treaty provided that they should not be put to death, but otherwise they were at the mercy of the victors, and loss of all civil rights, confiscation of property, and summary banishment from their state was their lot. The Patriots regarded them with bitter hatred, and it was an uneasy time, when it was only natural that some came to feel the end had not been worth the gaining.

Charles's feelings about the end of the war were mainly relief that it was all over and that there would no longer be those terrible decisions to make, that tore him in two. He might even, he realized, renew contact with the family, now that England was no longer the enemy. He could write to Jemima, find out what had happened to Flora; contact Angus and perhaps even arrange for his portion of his father's estate to be realized and sent to him. Money - more especially gold - would be more than welcome at the moment, and if Angus had been doing well, which seemed likely, he might be only too glad to buy Charles out.

He thought of these things as he trudged along the riverbank in the heat of a June morning, with his gun under his arm, in case he spotted anything worth eating, and his gun dog at his heels. Everything looked very beautiful at this time of year, before the greens had burnt out to brown. The tall trees were deep in blue shadows, swaying gently against the copper-blue sky, and across the river there were perpetual scurryings and dartings, as life reached its crescendo. A heavy splash was probably an otter slipping away from the sound of his dog brushing the reeds; that small circle of spreading ripples would be a water rat. The river had a heavy, peppery smell which for him was the quintessence of summer, a smell of mallow and weed and rich mud - it must be that smell which intoxicated the ducks at this time of year. Here and there clouds of tiny insects jigged madly on the spot, and sapphire dragonflies quivered in the sunshine and joined their hinder ends delicately.

They had come through a bad time, he thought, but it was over, and now, as the river creatures stated and restated with the insistence of the stonechat's knock, it was the time for renewal. He would make it work, he decided. He would do better at managing the estate. That overseer, Benskin, he didn't trust him an inch. He would keep a firmer eye on Benskin, and if he had the opportunity, he would dismiss him, find someone better. There were plenty of poor men looking for work - a man who had lost his smallholding and had a family to feed might work harder and more honestly than that fat, arrogant bully, who had never known the touch of hunger in his life.

And he would do better at market, too, and not let those sly-eyed merchants cheat him, as he knew perfectly well they did, but somehow shrank from acknowledging. If Angus did sent him money, he could take in that low piece of ground at the northern end, and drain it and fence it. He might also rent a warehouse in St Mary's, so that he could keep his crop until he got a good price, rather than being rushed into a sale.

He would be kinder to Eugenie, too. She had had a miscarriage last year, and was feeling unwell, and had been hankering after a visit to her cousins in Martinique, which he had briskly told her was out of the question. Thinking about her, he realized that her life must be as lonely as his - more lonely, for women needed a female companion, to spend their long hours of idleness and solitude with. Perhaps there might be some little cousin in the West Indies who would like to come out and live with them, as Eugenie's companion, for a few years until Charlotte grew up. He would make inquiries, and try in the meanwhile to be a better companion to Eugenie himself. They had been married seven years, and it was time he settled down and made the best of things. Seven years! And in seven years more it would be time to think about young Philip's education. Should he send him to England for it? And when Philip was a little older still, and able to take charge, he, Charles, might be able to get away for a while, and go back home and visit He stopped himself abruptly, having been trapped into thoughts of England and home by allowing himself to wander. This was home, he told himself firmly. No looking back! No hankering! He gave himself a shake by way of rebuke and, calling the dog, turned away from the seductive river and headed back for the house. Perhaps he ought to allow Eugenie her visit. The largest of the boats would be adequate for a coastal run. He could take her along the coast as far as Savannah, and get her a passage from there - that would save money. That His train of thought was interrupted by a sharp barking from Sally, the gun dog, who raced forward towards the landing stage, drawing his attention to the masts of a pinnace tied up there. His stomach turned over in sickening recollection of the time the Virginia Patriots had made their first call, and his hand tightened on his gunstock. But no, he told himself, the war is over. He forced himself to breathe deeply until his heart stopped racing, and then turned to walk firmly and calmly up to the house.

The visitors were in the drawing room, sitting on the edge of their chairs as if they were not sure of their welcome, four men in the snuff-and-bottle colours of well-to-do but serious-minded citizens. Not Virginia men, anyway, he thought with relief - he recognized John Chase and Judge Morris, both prominent men of St Mary's City. As Charles came in they all stood, but before anyone could speak Eugenie came running to him -Eugenie, running! Her face was white and distressed, all trace of her languor gone and as he caught her in his arms he felt the premonition of something terrible.

‘Oh, Charles, Charles, thank heaven you have come -these men - oh Charles—!' She clung to him with small, hooked hands like claws, while the four visitors stood up and regarded him solemnly - like executioners, he found himself thinking.

‘Hush, Eugenie, it's all right,' he said vaguely, patting her shoulders with a useless gesture of comfort, more suited to a dog than a wife, while his mind raced over the possibilities of bad news and came up with no answers.