The Reckoning (28 page)

A little further along was the swan-window, low down near
the water's surface, with the iron bell-chain hanging down
beside it. The water level was so high, the swans no longer
had to reach up for the ring of the chain to pull it.

‘If it rains any more, the water will come in through the swan-window, and we shall have the kitchen flooded,' Héloïse
remarked. 'It happened once before, I believe, when there had
been a very hard winter, and the snow all melted at once. I
read it in the Household Book.'

‘
Good lord, is that still going? It must make fascinating
reading! You ought to write a history of Morland Place, you
know, Héloïse.'

‘
I?'

‘
You're the obvious person. You've had all that practice
writing your
History of the Revolution.'

‘
Which I have never yet finished,' Héloïse pointed out.

‘
You will one day, and then you can begin on Morland
Place. Meanwhile, you should start to take notes. Not every
thing gets put into the Household Book, does it? It would be a
pity if some of the incidents were forgotten.'

‘It would all be bad news now, I'm afraid,' she sighed. 'The
hay-harvest is ruined, and the wheat is still green in the fields
– I don't believe it will ripen at all. And in spite of all this
rain, the fish have not done well. You would think, wouldn't
you, that they at least would have been happy? But I've never
seen so few carp in the ponds as this year.’

He smiled sympathetically. 'Everyone has troubles. We
shall none of us be sorry to see the back of 1816. But never
mind – there's consolation in this wonderful sunshine, even if
it doesn't last long.' He looked around him and sighed with pleasure. 'God, how I love this place! I spent so much time
here as a child, it was like a second home to me. I was always
happy at Morland Place. It seems to have a very special
atmosphere about it – safe and unchanging.'

‘
That's what Father Sparrow says. He says he can't
remember ever living anywhere else, now.’

Anstey looked at her curiously. 'Ah yes, your wandering
priest! James tells me you mean to take Nicholas out of school
and have him educated at home again. Is that true?'

‘
But of course! That is what Father Moineau is for. It will
be better for Benedict to have his brother at home with him,
to set an example; and there is no point in paying school fees
for what is to be had at home. Even we,' she added, 'need to
save money where we can.'

‘
But Héloïse, is it safe? I mean, what do you really know
about this man? He just turned up, out of the blue, practically
a vagrant – and a Frenchman too –'

‘We are no longer at war with France,' she said quietly.

He reddened with embarrassment. 'I'm sorry, I didn't
mean to be insulting. But you know there are different kinds
of Frenchmen. You and your kind fled France when the
Jacobins took over.'

‘
Well, so did Father Moineau also. He is
Old French,
John.
He calls himself a citizen of the world, now. As to what I
know about him – he has not been with us long, but I know
him inside and out, as well as I know myself. Would I entrust
my precious children to him, if I did not?'

‘
True enough. Well, God knows, if you are satisfied, I
should be – it's none of my business.'

‘
Ah, but I hope it soon will be,' Héloïse said with a smile. 'It
is what I wanted to talk to you about, John – why I asked you
to walk with me.'

‘
And I thought it was just for the pleasure of my company.'

‘
Your company is always a pleasure to me,' she said gravely
‘but conversation flows better for some subject matter. Now,
dear John, I must tell you straight away that I want you to
send Henry to us, and let him be educated with my boys by
Father Moineau. Nicholas loves Henry dearly, and will miss him very much when he leaves school; and it is not good for
little boys to be without others of their own age.'

‘
Then don't take him away from school,' Anstey said
simply.

Héloïse frowned. 'The school is very well, but they do not
learn much there. Only Latin and Greek, and mathematics
once a week. It is too narrow – even James agrees. We wish
them to study other things as well – history and philosophy
and astronomy, and more of mathematics, and French and
Italian besides. A gentleman,' she pronounced firmly, 'should
be able to speak and read French and Italian, and know the
main works of literature well enough to discuss them.'

‘
And you think your priest will be able to teach your boys
all those things?'

‘
Bien stir.
And as it can matter not at all to him whether he
teaches two boys or three, and as Nicholas would be lonely without Henry, it is sensible for Henry to share the lessons.
Now is it not?’

He looked a little uncomfortable. 'You're very persuasive,
but —'

‘
But what? What do you fear?'

‘
I'm afraid your priest might take the opportunity to stuff
Henry's head with papist ideas. I'm sorry, Héloïse, I don't
mean to offend, but you know we are not of that persuasion.’

She smiled. 'I'm not offended. And I promise you there will
be no conversion. Why, Father Moineau even carries out a
modified form of service in our chapel to suit our Morland
Place peculiarities. He is no bigot, and no missionary, and I
swear to you that he shall not attempt to change Henry —
other than by the shining example of his goodness. There
now, what do you say?' He still hesitated, and she added
cunningly, 'You might send Aglaea too. It will be good for the
boys to have a female's gentle influence on them.’

No, no,' he said hastily, 'Louisa would never part with her
"baby". You know how women are over their last-born. Well,
of course you do — I'm being unusually clumsy today, aren't
I?’

Héloïse smiled. 'Dear John, send Henry to us, and I shall
forgive you everything. Come, what is there to fear? You said
yourself that you were always happy at Morland Place —
would you deny Henry the same happiness? And if you are
not satisfied with his progress, you can always take him away
again.'

‘I'll have to talk to Louisa about it —'

‘
Consult your wife? What a modern man you are! James
would simply tell me his decision,' she said demurely.

Anstey laughed aloud, 'James command you? That will be
the day!’

*

The short period of sunshine in mid-August was too late and
too little to help the harvests. It did, however, give a pleasant
journey home from Eton for Lord Aylesbury and his two
companions, especially since Lady Theakston had had the
foresight to send an open carriage for them, instead of the respectable-but-dull travelling chaise.

‘
I say, Peg, this is something like!' Maurice Hampton
exclaimed as they bowled along the excellent new surface of
the Windsor-to-Oxford pike. The speed of the four high-fed
bays, put along by a professional hand, obliged him now and
then to make a grab for his best beaver lid, which in confor
mity to college fashion was tall enough to provide plenty of wind-resistance.

‘
Your mama must be a trump card — a bran-new barouche,
and four prime 'uns to go!'

‘
Oh yes,' said Aylesbury. 'Mama knows what's what when
it comes to a turn-out, don't she, Tough?’

Thomas Weston brought his thoughts back from a distance
and grinned agreement. 'Better than Stevenson's pater's gig,
ain't it?’

Hampton giggled. 'Poor old Stevenson! He looked blue as
megrim when he saw us driving off in style. Good thing we
were driving off, too, or he'd have found some excuse to give
us toco! Let's just hope he's forgotten about it by next half.'

‘
He won't be there next half,' Weston said. 'Didn't you
hear? His governor's taking him away — putting him into the
family business.'

‘
By Jupiter! Poor old Stevenson a sugar-merchant!'
Hampton said, struck by the awfulness of this fate even to
pity the house bully who had made his life miserable for the
first month of his school life. Hampton was a small, pale,
delicate-looking boy, further cursed with a slight stammer,
which had earned him the nickname of 'Polly', and brought
all manner of persecution on him — until Weston had taken
him under his wing.

Though only a month older than Hampton, Weston had
already earned himself a reputation, and the right to be left
alone by the bigger boys. He had performed the various feats
of hardihood — and of fool-hardiness — beloved of schoolboys
with the required mixture of courage and stoicism. He had risked his limbs climbing the flagpole to hang a cap on the
top. He had courted pneumonia breaking ice to swim in the depths of winter. He had 'hunted the squirrel' in a hired gig
along the Ascot pike, broken bounds at the risk of a flogging
to go to the races, and drunk brandy punch at every inn
within running distance. He had endured being tossed in a
blanket, and used as a bride in Gretna Green races by seniors,
fagged for them without complaint and with just sufficient
energy, and taken sundry beatings without blinking or
shedding a tear.

So much did many boys; but Weston had displayed a
certain cool detachment all his own, a disregard of his
personal safety and comfort and, more, of other boys' ridi
cule, which had earned him the admiring but puzzled
sobriquet of Old Tough. All little boys at some time or other
cry out 'I don't care!' as the final defiance when faced with
extreme adversity; but there was a general feeling in the
school that Tough Weston really didn't care.

He was regarded by his fellow students as a 'rum 'un'. He
was older by far than his years and knew things he shouldn't
have known; he went his own way and stood the nonsense
unflinchingly if it led him into trouble. He had a way of
laughing at the wrong things which made some boys suspect
him of being 'satirical'. He was a promising batsman, but
admitted preferring reading a book to playing cricket. He had
a taste in wine beyond his years, and it was rumoured
amongst the seniors that this handsome, well-grown boy had
already had a man's experience with the daughter of the
landlord of The Crown at Clewer.