The Regency (110 page)

He was shouting now, but she remained icy-calm, though
her eves were burning with intensity.

‘
I will marry him. You will give your consent, because if
you do not,
I
will force your hand. I want no-one else, and I
will make sure that no-one else will have me.'

‘Fanny —!'

‘
Listen to me, Papa, I love him! There's nothing you can do
about it.
I love him!’

James stared at her, appalled, bewildered, afraid. There
were tears on his cheeks now, tears of pity and of loss. His
little girl, his lovely Fanny, whom he had adored since birth,
had watched grow, had cherished and nurtured until she
became a lovely and accomplished woman, was looking at
him with the calm certainty of a martyr about to go to her
death at the stake. His grief for her was like grief for her
death. She would marry this utterly worthless man, and be
destroyed, her heart broken, her loveliness wasted into dust.
The strong, single-minded, devoted passion which had been
his all her life was now turned in another direction, and
poured out for another man, one so wholly unworthy of it,
that nature itself protested at the idea, and he cried.

‘It's madness,' he sobbed. 'Fanny, it's madness!’

She took a step forward and touched him, and he felt that
she was trembling lightly, like a leaf vibrated by the wind. He
flung his arms round her, and they hugged each other for an
instant convulsively, and just for that moment she was his
little girl again. But it was she who drew back.

‘
I will marry him, Papa,' she said softly. think it would
be best if you accepted that, and made the best of it. There
will be settlements to arrange. His debts must be paid, and he
must have an allowance until I am of age. I'll leave you now to think about it. But if you try to part us, I shall see him in
secret, and that would be worse, wouldn't it? Think about
that, Papa.’

She left him, closing the door quietly behind her, leaving
James numb, as though he had just suffered a bereavement.

*

A public face had to be presented, The Morlands of Morland
Place had to be visible in their box on every day of the races,
or the world would conclude that something was seriously
amiss. The first day was always a very social one, with friends
and neighbours coming to pay their respects, to discuss
the prospects for the week, and to try to wheedle some information that might give rise to a profitable wager.

Edward, James and Héloïse, Mathilde, Fanny, Sophie, and
the little boys with their nurses were all present, dressed in
their best, smiling and nodding to their acquaintance, chatting
to their friends. It was a fine day, though a little windy,
with clouds running across the sun, throwing fast shadows which dimmed and then brightened the sunlight, as though
someone were lowering and raising the wick of a lamp. The horses pranced, their manes and tails blowing sideways, the jockeys in their bright-coloured silks soothing them, patting
their necks.

Of the party, only the children were wholly happy. James
brooded silently. He had told no-one, not even Héloïse, the
substance of the letter he had received, or of his interview with Fanny. He wanted time to think and devise a strategy
before revealing even to his wife the extent to which Fanny
had been corrupted by contact with this man. Héloïse
glanced at him from time to time, concerned for him, knowing
him unhappy. She looked at Fanny, and saw her bright
and triumphant, glowing with some inner light that made her beautiful, and she could not draw any conclusions as to what
had occurred between them.

Edward and Mathilde were also preoccupied, though that
had become a normal state for them when in company with
each other. Mathilde had returned from her visit to Lizzie
Wickfield ill at ease and uncertain what to do for the best.
She felt angry with herself for having doubts about her love
for Edward, for her own inconstancy; and yet there seemed
no prospect, now or in the future, of their love prospering.
Edward was feeling equally despairing, knowing Fanny's
sentiments towards him, and had determined that when
Mathilde returned, he would speak to her, tell her that there
was no hope, beg her to find someone else and not think of
him again.

When they saw each other, however, neither found it in
them to say what was necessary. Mathilde looked at Edward's
grey head and lined face, and felt all the force of Lizzie's
comments; yet he was so dear to her, and how could she hurt
him by telling him she no longer wanted to marry him?
Indeed, she didn't even know if that were true. It was hard to
know precisely how she felt, when everything was hypothetical.

If it were in their power to be married, the answer might
become clear to her. She felt a certain restraint with him, and
she was aware that he knew it.

Edward looked at Mathilde, and loved her as he had
always loved her. She was the only comfort he had in a grey
world, the only pleasure, and he could not bring himself
to cast her away. She had scolded him before for making
decisions on her behalf, and he saw how wrong that was. But
what right did he have to ask for her love when he could not
offer her what she deserved, an establishment, security? He
didn't know what to say to her; and he felt a certain restraint
with her, and he was aware that she knew it.

Since then they had avoided being alone together, and
when it was inevitable, they had behaved in a friendly, polite
way, like old friends, rather than lovers. It had become a habit over the weeks, which, if not precisely what either
wanted, at least made life in the same house tolerable. Yet
they were both aware that it could not go on indefinitely.
Sooner or later some decision was going to have to be made.

*

The Ansteys joined the Morlands in their box, with some of
their vast brood of children. Little John was still at sea, of
course, and Alfie and Ben, the next two sons, were strolling about somewhere with their contemporaries. The three little
girls, Louisa, Mary and Charlotte, clustered round Sophie,
their favourite, and admired every aspect of her appearance
in an embarrassing chorus, which Sophie bore with good-
naturedly, while young Henry, a hopeful sprig of six-and-ahalf, headed straight for Nicholas, his exact contemporary,
and bore him off to the back of the box to admire his new pet
snail, which was concealed in his pocket.

Louisa sat down beside Héloïse, and dumped baby Aglaea
on her lap — almost four and not quite such a baby, but a
delight to Héloïse all the same — while John lounged against
the front rail and chatted about the local news, and about
Danby Wiske's preferment, which had just been announced.
At that moment John Skelwith and his mother strolled past,
and each gave a comprehensive bow of the head to .the
company. Half a dozen steps further on, Skelwith spoke a few
words to his mother, and left her to walk on, while he
 
 
returned to pay his respects more fully.

He was looking very drawn and weary, and was still in
mourning, of course, for his wife, but he spoke cheerfully.

‘
I think we shall have a good day,' he said, addressing his
remarks quite correctly to Héloïse, though his eyes strayed to Mathilde, sitting beyond her at the end of the row. 'I hope so, anyway, for I've persuaded Mother to come on the promise of
it, and if the entertainment fails her, I shall never be able to
get her out again.’

It was said in jest, but Héloïse could guess how much was
behind the words. 'How is your mother, Mr Skelwith?' she
said with sympathy. 'This sad business must have been a
strain for her.’

His eyes met hers for a moment, and she read all the pain
that he could not speak aloud. 'It has been very hard for her.
She was fond of Patience, of course, but worse than that, I
think, have been the unkind things that were said.'

‘
She must not —
you
must not, regard the wagging of
spiteful tongues,' Héloïse said warmly. 'The only way to deal
with loose talk is to ignore it.'

‘
Yes, ma'am, I know,' he said, wearily. 'But I'm afraid
Mother cannot always be — rational — about such emotional
subjects.’

Louisa spoke up. 'Is your mother in your usual seat, John
dear? Then I shall go and speak to her. I'm sure she would
like a little company.'

‘
Thank you, ma'am, I'm sure she would,' Skelwith said,
though a trifle doubtfully. The truth was that he believed his
mother's mind to have been unhinged by Patience's death
and the talk which followed. Looking after her, coping with
her unstable moods, was proving an increasing strain for him,
more wearing than any grief he might have felt for the death
of his wife. Indeed, looking after his mother in the immediate
aftermath of Patience's death had prevented his feeling any
thing very much. He had not had the chance properly to
mourn her.

Héloïse felt he would probably like the subject to be
changed, and said, 'Tell me, Mr Skelwith, what do you fancy
for the first race? You may speak frankly, for though I shall
be obliged out of loyalty to place my shilling on James's colt, I
would be glad to hear an unbiased opinion for once.’

He smiled. 'That makes it difficult for me, ma'am, for if I
say I think he will win, you will think I am only being polite.'

‘
No, I promise I shall not,' Héloïse laughed. 'Ingot is a
handsome fellow, isn't he? Such a lovely colour! I am never
allowed to say that at home,' she confided, with a sideways
glance at James, who was talking to Edward, 'for they call me
a simpleton, and say that — how do you say it? — "handsome
is as handsome does"?'

‘
I think he will perform handsomely enough to satisfy
everyone,' Skelwith said, 'and I don't think you should be
shamed out of admiring his looks. Between us, ma'am, I have
always had a preference for that particular shade of chestnut
myself.’