The Reckoning (12 page)

Farraline bowed his head. 'Yes, we've rented Lady
Culvey's house for two months. I should be honoured if you
would allow me to bring Mama to call on you, ma'am. I think
she finds it rather lonely here, having no acquaintance in
Scarborough, you understand.'

‘Is your mother here to take the waters?'

‘Oh no, ma'am – it's I who am the invalid.’

Hawker broke in. 'He's so modest, ladies, that he'll never
tell you himself, but he is not recovering from measles or
influenza or any other undignified civilian ailment. The fact
is that Jes was most honourably wounded in the final defeat
of Boney's forces outside Paris. The wound didn't heal
properly, and he has had to undergo a further operation, the
details of which, of course, I wouldn't mention before ladies.'

‘
Dear me,' Rosamund said, her eyes dancing with amusement at Hawker's style. The pronouncement had had an im
mediate effect on both Sophie and Miss Rosedale, she could
see: Farraline was now a Soldier Hero, and Hawker a Soldier
Hero's Friend. 'I hope the operation was a success, Mr Farra
line?’

He bowed to her, his eyes responding to the amusement in
hers. 'Thank you, Lady Rosamund, I am almost completely
recovered.'

‘
But the sands are growing disagreeably crowded,' Hawker
broke in. 'Shall we move on? Were you walking to the Spa?
Will you permit us to escort you a little way? Miss Rosedale,
do me the honour, ma'am, of taking my arm. This sand is
very tiring for a lady to walk over. We can talk about my dear
Fanny,' he added in a low voice. 'Apart from Lady
Henrietta's kind letter, I know nothing about her last weeks. I
have no-one in the world with whom I can talk about her.’

It was well done. Miss Rosedale, nursing only a subsiding
spark of suspicion, could not refuse him, and in taking his
arm implied a consent to walking a little behind the others
and conducting a
tete-a-tete.
Jesmond Farraline, with
perfectly grave courtesy, offered an arm each to Sophie and Rosamund, and as they walked along ahead, opened an unex
ceptionable conversation about the weather and the remark
able facilities Scarborough had to offer.

*

John Skelwith and Mathilde were invited to take 'family
dinner' at Morland Place on Sunday. It was not the first time
they had eaten there since their marriage, but the occasion
was bound to be marked with an unusual tension. It was the
first time Skelwith had entered Morland Place as the openly acknowledged fruit of James Morland's loins.

‘
Openly', of course, was a relative term. Even though, after
Héloïse's talk with James and Edward, they had agreed there
was no purpose in further concealing from each other the
knowledge that they all knew what they knew, they had also
agreed that it would be foolish and unseemly to broadcast
it to the neighbourhood at large. Mathilde was enough of a
daughter of the house to make John's acceptance as a son
unremarkable, and as for those who guessed – let them keep
their guess to themselves.

Even that degree of openness, however, needed courage.
When Skelwith walked in through the great door with
Mathilde on his arm, to be received by the family standing
formally in line in the hall, there were difficult feelings to be faced by all of them. Héloïse noted, as she always did, John's
likeness to James, and felt again the complicated mixture of
affection, jealousy and regret which she always felt on seeing
him, ever since the truth about his parenthood had first been
revealed to her. She loved him because she loved anything that was part of James; but he ought to have been her son,
and the knowledge that another woman had borne a child to
her man filled her each time with a futile, jealous rage.

She stepped forward, embraced Mathilde, and then took
John's hands. Looking into his face, she saw that it was far
more difficult for him, who was part of it, than it could ever
be for her, an outsider. She was ashamed of her selfishness.
‘Dear John,' she said, 'I am glad! Now I may love you openly as I have always done secretly. If I can ever be anything of a
mother to you, I shall be happy.’

His eyes filled abruptly with tears. He had loved his
mother, difficult as she had been. Héloïse put her arms round
him and hugged him, hard, to allow him to conceal them.
‘Thank you,' he said, muffled, into her hair. 'I'm glad too.’

It was enough for now. Edward watched the exchange and
the embrace and struggled against the hard feelings inside
him. It was not John Skelwith's fault, none of it; but still he
remembered the pain Skelwith's birth had caused Edward's
parents – his mother's grief, his father's shock. And old Skel
with – his misery and humiliation at being cuckolded by a
careless boy of nineteen. It would have been better, far, if this
young man had never existed.

And John Skelwith had married Mathilde, which was hard
to bear, and had now got her with child, which was harder.
Again, it was no blame on him – Edward had given her up
quite freely, and acknowledged that Skelwith would make her
a better husband than he ever could. But feelings had little to
do with reason and logic: he had loved her, and was jealous.
And Edward liked John, too, for a plain, decent, pleasant sort
of chap, which was hardest of all. It would be nice simply to
be able to hate him.

But no, it wouldn't, for here was his lovely, his darling
Mathilde, coming to him to be embraced, all bright eyes and
bright cheeks and silken, healthy skin; enceinte with his,
Edward's, great-nephew. He and this child would share some
little of the same blood: it was, he supposed, a kind of way of
possessing her. He and Mathilde were joined, now, for ever with the bonds of kinship. He must remember, too, that but
for the accident of his illegitimacy, Skelwith might even now
be heir apparent to Morland Place, might have been running
it himself these nine years, taking precedence over Edward as
the young stag does over the failing one. Things might have
been worse.

All these thoughts tumbled through Edward's mind in the
time it took Mathilde to reach him. He embraced her and
kissed her forehead, and she looked at him with the overspill
of her love and happiness in her eyes and on her lips, and
whispered, 'Dear Edward! Be happy for me!’

He said, 'Yes. I am glad you're happy, my dear.' Then he
and Skelwith shook hands in a grave and manly sort of way,
and nothing needed to be said between them.

Then John Skelwith approached James, and Mathilde fell a
little back, seeing it was not her meeting that would be diffi
cult. James looked at the tall young man, the first of his
children, whom he had long, long ago given up in his heart;
the child he had been denied the right to rear. Was that why,
he wondered, he had afterwards been able to care only for his
daughters? He had loved Mary passionately, had been bitterly hurt by her refusal of him, her acceptance instead of old Skel
with. He had been young then, vulnerable, and she had hurt
him so badly – was that why he had hurt all the other women
in his life? Great with his child, she had refused to come to
him, to let him care for her and for his son. Was that why he
had so signally failed afterwards in responsibility as a
husband and father?
Things had gone wrong for him early in his life, and after
wards he did not seem to be able to get right again with the
world. Even now, after all their sufferings, when he and
Héloïse had finally reached a place of safety together, John
was coming out of his past to threaten that fragile equilib
rium. For despite her generous response, he
knew
that it hurt
Héloïse. Oh yes, it was better by far to have the thing out in
the open and acknowledged, but still his first grandchild
would not be hers, and whether or not she had any right to
mind it, he knew that she did.

The fruit of my loins, he thought. Six children – that he
knew of – had come out of his body, and what kind of a
father had he been to any of them? Had his existence made
any difference to them, for better or worse? But John Skel
with was standing before him, looking at him with pained
embarrassment, with apprehension, with curiosity, and some
thing must be said, to get them over this moment and into the
social haven of dinner. Should he call him
son?
No, perhaps
that would not be tactful at this point.

‘
Welcome, my boy,' he said at last. 'We'll – we'll talk
together later. For now, I'm glad there are no more secrets.
I'm glad you're here.’

It was little enough to have said – the least he could say,
perhaps – and John's reaction shamed him. Skelwith's eyes brightened with genuine emotion, as though James's words
had been everything he wanted to hear. He said warmly, 'I'm
glad to be here, sir. I'm glad to be –' But he couldn't say the
word
son
either. ‘I'm glad to be here,' he finished lamely.

Mathilde laughed, breaking the increasing tension. 'Oh,
how solemn we all look, as though it were a funeral, instead of
a happy occasion! We've come home,' she said, going up to
James in her turn and putting up her face to be kissed with
such confidence that he kissed her more in automatic
response than spontaneous affection. 'We've come home, and
I'm going to have a baby!’

And then James smiled too, irresistibly. ‘So you are. It
seems almost improper, now I come to think of it. It seems
like only five minutes ago that we were having your birthday
ball, and scratching about for young people to invite to make
the numbers even.’

There was a palpitating moment in which Héloïse held her
breath: it was at Mathilde's ball that Fanny first met Fitzher
bert Hawker: he had been one of the extras invited to make
up the numbers. Would the same memory occur to James?
But Mathilde had turned to Edward, and was saying, 'Oh yes,
and you powdered for the occasion, didn't you? I remember
thinking how elegant you looked!'

‘
No need to powder now,' Edward said wryly, shaking his
grey head. 'Nature has done it for me.’

Mathilde laughed with him, and they all seemed to be
moving naturally towards the drawing-room, the atmosphere pleasant now, and growing easier. Edward offered his arm to
Mathilde, and James walked on the other side of her. 'Come
and have a glass of madeira,' he said. 'We've a new Boal I
think you'll like.'