The Flood-Tide (5 page)

‘The chapel caused a great deal of hostility of first,' he told Charles. 'My grandfather built it at the time when England was busy ejecting James II from the throne, and there were several anti-Catholic riots. The chapel windows were broken again and again, and "No Popery" was daubed on the walls with pitch. But these things die away, given time. Catholicism is frowned upon, but we are left alone, and no one suspects us of drinking the blood of murdered infants any more.’

Again the flashing white smile, and then de Courcey said, 'But my dear cousin, here I am boring you with a display of my meagre treasures and you are probably fatigued from your journey and longing for some refreshment. We shall dine in—' he drew a beautiful little gold watch from his pocket and studied it, 'in an hour, but perhaps you would like to take some wine in the meantime?’

Charles, though not in the least fatigued, consented, and was soon established in the drawing room with a passable claret in a fine Italian cup, his eye roving round the strange collection of worthless and valuable. De Courcey, having seen him comfortable, settled himself on the sofa opposite and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

‘I was wondering how you managed to acquire pieces from so many different parts of the world,' Charles said. ‘You must have very good trade here on the Chesapeake.'

‘We do, as good as anywhere in America, but in fact most of these pieces were brought here by my grandfather. I had better tell you the story. Our common ancestors, who came here from England, left behind them only one daughter, who inherited the original York Plantation. Before they died, they arranged her marriage to a neighbouring planter, Noel Chanter, and the addition of his land made York one of the best properties on the bay.

‘But the Chanters had no son, only three daughters, Maria, Louisa, and Philippa. Philippa was much younger than her sisters, and was only a child when her parents died, so it was left to the elder girls to bring her up. This they did, and between caring for her and running the plantation, they never had time to marry. Then one day my grandfather, Gaston de Courcey, arrived. He was the younger son of a rich sugar planter from Martinique, and, being the younger son and having no inheritance to look forward to, he had to make his own way in the world. He had become quite an adventurer. He had a ship of his own, and traded in this and that, and was known to be very rich - rich, moreover, in gold, which was then, and is still, a rare commodity in America. I'm afraid,' the white smile was apologetic, 'that many people said he was no better than a pirate.

‘At all events, he heard about the beautiful - and unguarded - Chanter sisters, and managed somehow to make their acquaintance, broke the hearts of the elder two, and ran away with the youngest. I believe he truly loved her. At all events, he would not be parted from her. For ten years she sailed with him, living on shipboard and sharing all hazards, until finally ill health drove him to seek reconciliation with the sisters. They returned to York with an infant son - my father - and a hoard of gold and furniture and other valuables, made their peace and settled down. My grandfather built this house for my grandmother, and died very soon after it was finished. I fear, you see, that it may have been pirate's gold that bought the bricks.’

It's a wonderful story,' said Charles, not at all minding that he had heard it already from his landlady, though in a spicier form. 'And the house is a wonderful monument to it.'

‘Thank you. I wish its future did not hang by so slender a thread, however. I have but one daughter to leave everything to, my wife being dead. That's her picture, over the fireplace. Beside her is my sister Eugenie. Both died of the swamp fever thirteen years ago.'

‘Your sister was very beautiful,' Charles said. De Courcey nodded.

‘She was only twenty-five, poor child. She was much younger than me, all the children born between us having died; York has not been a lucky house. I named my daughter after her.' He smiled, and added, 'She is my
first
greatest treasure, you see. Or rather, you will see. She is resting upstairs but she will be down for dinner very soon.’

Only moments later the door opened, and Eugenie-Francoise de Courcey came in. The two men stood, and Charles was introduced, bowed over her hand, looked into her eyes, and was lost. She was all in white - white lace over white silk, and white roses in her hair - a fit setting for her ephemeral beauty. She seemed to move as though drifting a little above the ground, her face as serene as an angel's, her gestures languid, as though she moved in an element apart from the common air. Her skin was transparently white, her glossy curls black, her features perfect, her eyes grey as rain, fringed with dark lashes.

Charles was no fool. He was twenty-two, he had travelled the world and known women in many different countries. He could guess how much artifice went into the creation of an appearance of such simplicity, how much practice was needed before a woman could move with that natural grace, but it made no difference. She looked up at him gravely as he took her hand, and her lips moved a little, as if she was not sure whether it would be proper to smile, and his senses were ravished, his heart taken as neatly as a snared bird.

*

At Morland Place, that October of 1773 was unexpectedly warm and sunny, and the family were enjoying it by taking a long, leisurely Sunday walk about the gardens. Jemima, her hand tucked through Allen's arm, was savouring the bliss of having him back again. He was talking about Paris and Versailles, mostly for the benefit of Charlotte, who hopped about at his side asking questions; for Jemima it was enough that he was there, and while she felt the sound of his voice on her skin, she cared little what he talked about. William had drooped in the sunshine, and had been sent to sit in the shade, where Mary, with unexpected kindness, had joined him in exile and was telling him a long, involved story that required a great deal of gesticulation. Behind her, Jemima could hear Edward telling little James about school; ahead Flora walked on Cousin Thomas's arm, her enchanting little face tilted up to his in rapt attention, like a bird drinking from a flower. Jemima strained her attention for a moment to hear what Thomas was telling her that was so enthralling.

‘They're doing away with the old beakhead now, and
Ariadne's
to have a hull all in one piece. You can't conceive how it's been argued about, but to my mind there's no question that the new design is better, and in a few years they won't build ships any other way.' Flora nodded agreement, as if she had come to the same conclusion herself. Encouraged, Thomas went on. 'She can carry more sails on her bowsprit this way, and with headsails and staysails, and with her bottom coppered, there won't be a ship of her class she can't outrun - and she'll hold the wind better, and come round in half the time, which is most important.'

‘Most important,' Flora echoed, having only the vaguest idea of what he was talking about, but loving every word of it. ‘But can you be comfortable in your ship? Do you have your own room? And how does your cook dress your food? I suppose you must eat your meat cold when you are away from the shore?’

Faced with such enchanting ignorance, Thomas drew her closer and set to with a will to tackle it, and their steps soon took them out of earshot. Charlotte had just dashed off to tell William what Father had been saying, and Jemima took the chance to say to Allen, 'What do you think of a match between those two? I think Flora is determined upon it. She makes herself a little obvious. I do hope he will be kind to her.'

‘Yes, I saw that he was under fire,' Allen said. ‘But don't worry. He is an open-hearted young man, and just back from two years at sea with no female company. That will do his business for him, if her sweet face and pretty ways do not. I suspect he will propose to her before the
Ariadne
sails.'

‘You would approve, then?' Jemima asked.

‘I think it quite suitable. He is an energetic young officer, and doing well in his career. She will have a little money from her father's estate, and they are equal as far as rank is concerned. And though he is some years older than her - well,' with a smile, 'you and I have not minded the discrepancy.’

The young couple turned at the end of the walk and came back towards them.

‘From the expression of Flora's face, you would think he was proposing to her this very minute,' Jemima said. A moment later Thomas's voice became audible again.

‘And I' must tell you,' he was saying to his eager audience, 'what an interesting thing they are doing with the lateen on the mizzenmast.'

*

 William seemed definitely ailing that evening, low and uncomfortable and admitting to a headache, and Alison, the nursery maid, called Jemima up to the nursery for a conference, shook her head and sucked her teeth and finally pronounced that she thought he was sickening for something.

‘You don't think it's just the heat?' Jemima said anxiously. 'He was walking in the sunshine for almost an hour today.'

‘I don't like the look of him, mistress. I think he should have a dose.’

Alison's doses were uniformly repellant, and William having such a delicate stomach, Jemima thought it would likely do him no good. 'I think he should have some rosemary water and honey. I'll order it to be sent up when I go downstairs,' she said firmly, in the voice that the servants as well as the children had learnt not to argue with. She went to say goodnight to her son, felt his damp forehead, smiled into his anxious eyes, and said, 'I shall send up something for you. It won't taste bad, I promise.'

‘Thank you, Mama. I shall be better in the morning,' William promised anxiously. 'I'm sorry—' His voice trailed off. Jemima, who had straightened to leave him, stooped again.

‘What for?'

‘I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you,' he said very low. Jemima was arrested by the sadness in his voice, too adult a sadness for one only ten years old, and she suddenly realized how little she knew about her children. There had never been time to spend with them, in the frantic years of work and worry. She had supervised their bringing up from a distance, and though they had never been forced to observe the formality with their parents that she had with hers, she had seen very little more of them. The King, a great family-lover, was making it fashionable for parents to have their children around them, to go for outings with them, even play with them, but it was too late for Jemima's family.

She touched his cheek with a forefinger, and tried to smile at him.

‘Not a disappointment, William. Naturally I worry about you, and wish you were stronger, but I'm not disappointed in you. You mustn't think it. Settle down and go to sleep now. Sleep is the best thing for you.’

He gave her a pale smile, and she left him, aware that she had done nothing to reach him, that she had had too little practice for her words to sound natural or reassuring.

She left the nursery and walked back along the passage through what had come to be called the Bachelor's Wing, because it contained the three small dark bedrooms that the young men of the family occupied until they married. As she turned the corner by the Red Room, she came face to face with Flora, scurrying in the other direction. They both stopped short, and there was a moment of wildly-waving candle-shadows.

‘Oh, you surprised me,' Flora exclaimed. 'I was just going to see how William was.'

‘Not well. Alison thinks he is sickening for something. I am going to send him up some rosemary water.'

‘I thought he looked as though— poor little man,' Flora said tenderly. Jemima looked at her with dissatisfaction.

‘Yes, it seems you are more of a mother to my children than I am,' she said. 'Certainly Jamie loves you far better than me.’

Flora reddened. 'Why, ma'am, it's only because I have the time to play with them. They love you very much, and respect you, but you are too busy to—'

‘Exactly,' Jemima said. 'I am not blaming you, Flora, or criticizing. It is only natural, and I am grateful that they should have had your love and guidance.'

‘You mustn't blame yourself either,' Flora said shyly. It was a great thing for her to offer comfort to her elder, the head of the house. 'You do so much. No one could do more.'

‘When the mare was sick at Twelvetrees I went at once, and stood and petted her, and though there were no symptoms, I knew by her preoccupied look that she was ailing. When Artembares sprained his fetlock, I was there every day, and Humby had to oblige me not to change his bandages myself.'

‘But Artembares is so valuable,' Flora protested, and then stopped, seeing where that led. 'You can only do so much,' she finished instead. Jemima was silent, sunk in thought, and Flora thought it best to change the subject. ‘I did want to speak to you, as well, if you have a moment?'

‘Of course,' Jemima roused herself. 'Shall we go to your room?’

Flora had the West Bedroom, the smallest of the principal bedrooms, but Jemima thought the prettiest and most comfortable. Annunciata, the Countess of Chelmsford, had always used it when she lived at Morland Place, in preference to the great bedchamber itself. The walls of the West Bedroom were panelled in a warm, honey-coloured wood, and its drapes were blue, matching a pale blue Chinese carpet on the floor. Flora slept in Eleanor's Bed, older by half a century than the Butts Bed in the great bedchamber, but smaller and more delicate, with slender fluted posts and fine carving at the head and foot; and the basin and ewer were of chased silver, fine Elizabethan work, the gift of a past Thomas Morland when he married his cousin Douglass two hundred years ago. They were amongst the very few pieces of old plate that Jemima had managed to save from her first husband's depredations.