The Chevalier

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  When Clovis's will was read, it was discovered that his wealth had been far greater than anyone had supposed, but the disposal of it came as no surprise. Apart from various pensions to old servants, and a large legacy to The Girls' Charity School, and another to St Edward's School at York, the whole estate was left to Clover, now Lady Ballincrea, to be held in her own right and disposed of as she pleased. It gave Clover an extraordinary freedom, for normally a married woman's property all belonged to her husband, and thinking it over in the dark days of winter, Annunciata wondered whether Clovis was thus expressing a distrust of Arthur, and giving Clover the power to withstand any ill-treatment her husband might inflict on her.

  Annunciata spent Christmas quietly at Chelmsford House, subdued by the loss of another old friend. Christmas at Morland Place was also subdued, for India had her third child on Christmas Eve, and the labour went harder with her than before, leaving her very weak for the whole Christmas season. It was another boy, and they called it Edmund. Father St Maur performed the christening, and at New Year Annunciata received a letter from him asking her if he might leave Morland Place and come to London to become her chaplain once more. For reason he gave only that he felt too old to be a proper tutor to the boys growing up at Morland Place, and that he wished to end his days peacefully in the service of the person whom he had always regarded as his mistress.

  Annunciata had no objections - indeed, she was delighted, stipulating only that Matt must give his free consent - and at the end of January, despite the weather Father St Maur travelled to London. He arrived grey and pinched with cold, and Annunciata hurried him to the fire and plied him with hot wine.

  ‘This haste argues some more urgent reason for leaving than your age, Father.’

  The old priest shook his head. Later, when he was able to speak, he said only, 'I was eager to come home. my lady. Having been given my leave, I could not bear to wait any longer.’

  He took no ill-effect from his journey, and Annunciata was happy to have her own confessor, and to be able once again to converse with a man who not only knew her, but had largely shaped her mind. But there remained in her mind some small doubt as to why he had left Morland Place so precipitately. She was sure that something had happened, but since he did not tell her, she could not ask him.

  *

  In the spring of 1704, John Francomb came to London and presented himself at Chelmsford House, requesting an interview with the Countess. Annunciata received him kindly, having always had a distant respect for the steward turned-master, and he wasted no time, but came straight to the point.

  ‘My wife has had a letter from her aunt Cathy, to say that she has made a match between her daughter Sabina and young Allan Macallan of Braco, and it brought me to think of my own daughter. She is fourteen, going on fifteen, and if it has your approval, I am minded to make a match between her and your grandson John McNeill. What say you to that?’

  Annunciata raised her eyebrows at such bluntness, and said mildly, 'Fourteen is young to be wed, Master Fran-comb. And John is still at university, has not even had his Grand Tour yet. What reasons do you have for thinking I might approve of the match?’

  Francomb leaned forward, rested one elbow on his broad thigh, and fixed her with his bright blue gaze.

  ‘My lass is an heiress of a large estate. Life being so uncertain as it is, the sooner she gets wed and with child the better. She'll be fifteen in December, woman enough for the job. Now, my lady, there will be no shortage of suitors for her, rich as she is, and pretty into the bargain. But I thought of young John first, so I'm making you the first offer.’

  Annunciata smiled to herself and said, 'Your reasons, sir?'

  ‘Are simple enough, madam. First, the lad is a likely enough boy, and he has at title, and the reversion of his brother's. Second, I am not so unjust as to ignore what's proper between me and your family. The property was all my wife's, and ought not to go to a stranger. Now there's no Morland lad of good age, so the next closest is your son, you being a Morland by birth. And third, the young people know each other, have grown up together, and I think are very fond of each other. I have spoken to my own little Fanny about it, and she says she would like to marry John. And on my way here I stopped off in Oxford and sounded out the lad, and he was cheerful enough to it.'

  ‘Do you think it important that the children should like the idea?' Annunciata said. Francomb nodded vigorously. ‘In this case, I do, my lady. It might not signify so much when the couple lives in London or some part of the world like Morland Place where there's plenty of society. But up in Northumberland, at Blindburn or even at Emblehope, it's an empty, lonely kind of country, and it can be a bleak sort of life, with no seeing of a new face for months on end. Now two young people not caring for each other, but shut up together with no relief, not even to get out of the house when the snows are down - well, put it to yourself. It would be a bad sort of life, would it not?’

  Annunciata acknowledged the justice of the argument. Francomb sat back as if his work were done.

  ‘You say the young people like the idea?'

  ‘Fanny's all for it, and the boy - well, he's a shy lad, but he looked right pleased with it.' He looked at her shrewdly for a moment, and said, 'You got that other grandson of yours off your hands cheaply enough, but here's an even better bargain, for I'll make the match for nothing. Fanny will have everthing of her mother's, and they'll not need more than that.’

  Annunciata laughed at that. 'You drive a very easy bargain, sir! I find it hard to resist you.'

  ‘Don't then, madam,' he said, and there was a caress in his voice and eyes that she knew was part of his performance, part of the way he won people to his side. 'Shall we shake hands on it?’

  She knew she ought to think about it, to argue over terms at the very least, send him away with a cool appointment for a week's time; but there was something in his bluntness that called to the masculine side of her nature. With a smile that shewed her white teeth, she reached across and struck his brown palm with her own, and he grinned triumphantly back at her.

  ‘We'll seal the bargain with wine,' Annunciata said, calling for a servant, 'and you must stay and dine with me.'

  ‘I shall be delighted to stay as long as you like,' he said, with a calculating look. Annunciata looked into his blue eyes and felt his attraction. It would have been pleasant, she thought, just for a little while to be a serving woman, so that she could take advantage of that mute offer; as herself, it could not be done. But there was no harm in indulging in an evening of his masculine company and discreet flirtation. The servant entered, and she sent for claret.

  *

  The next day, after first Mass, Father St Maur asked to speak to her privately. He seemed ill-at-ease, and when they were alone, he asked her, 'My lady, it may seem to you a strange question, but I would like to know what that man is doing here, why he has come.’

  It did seem strange, but there was no reason why the priest should not know, and frowning a little, Annunciata said, 'He has come to make a marriage settlement, between his daughter and my grandson John. What is your reason for asking?’

  Father St Maur's face was red, and he seemed to have difficulty in phrasing an answer. 'I - I have a reason, but it is not one I can readily tell you. But I would recommend you - ask you - not to have anything to do with him. I do not think an alliance between your grandson and anyone of his family would be advisable. I have reason to think - to think any contact between our family and him a thing to be avoided.’

  Annunciata stared at him in astonishment. 'You have reason to think ill of him?' St Maur did not answer. ‘Father, I insist on an answer. You cannot, surely, think it consonant with Christian feeling to cast doubt on a man without naming your reasons? A priest, Father, ought to have more charity.’

  St Maur turned desperate eyes on her. 'My lady, I cannot tell you. Child, I ask you to trust me. You have known me for most of your life, and I hope in that time I have given you good advice. Can you n
ot accept my word without question?'

  ‘No, I cannot. I have judgement of my own, which you amongst others have taught me to use. I cannot hear a man condemned without reason.'

  ‘I cannot tell you what appertains to the secrets of the confessional,' St Maur said, his cheeks trembling with emotion. Annunciata stared at him coldly.

  ‘Then you should not have spoken. Leave me now, and never speak of this again.’

  The old priest left her, his face red and his eyes moist. Afterwards she was sorry she had spoken so harshly to him, but she could not regret her action. It was monstrous to offer accusations against a man without stating the reasons. Besides, even if St Maur knew something to the man's detriment, it did not make the match any the worse a match. And besides again, she had struck hands on it, and not for anything would she go back on her word.

  *

  Work on the new house at Shawes was progressing steadily. That summer, when she went to Yorkshire, Annunciata stayed only a fortnight at Morland Place before moving to a rented house in the city, for she felt, as she had not felt last year, that her presence caused a certain amount of tension. Perhaps it was because Birch and Father St Maur had both deserted Morland Place for her household. It could not, she decided, be due to any antipathy on the part of the new mistress, for after she had moved to York, India visited her there very frequently, though she never stayed long. Annunciata gathered that she also visited her mother in the city quite regularly, which accounted for Annunciata's bumping into her so often in different streets all over town.

  Annunciata stayed less than three months in Yorkshire that year, for in the middle of August the news arrived from London that General Marlborough had won a great victory over the French at a village in Bavaria called Blenheim. The French, it was said, had been completely routed, and had suffered heavy casualties, one report putting the numbers as high as forty thousand. There was great rejoicing over the news, for the French were the old enemy, and generations had grown up believing that the French army could never be defeated on land. Marlborough was the hero of the day, and toasted in every tavern; the Queen was 'good Queen Anne'; Agincourt was on every lip; England's fortunes were to rise to a pinnacle of glory.

  Annunciata felt herself alone in not sharing the joy, though there must have been others as well as her who thought of the King, living by the mercy of the French. But the forty thousand French dead must include many friends, and she feared lest the number include Berwick or Karellie. She hastened back to London. She had inherited from Clovis the correspondence with his brother Edmund, her former protege, at St Omer, and if there were bad tidings, they would come from him, and she would receive them more easily and privately in London.

  Edmund wrote at length. Karellie and Berwick were safe, though twenty-three thousand French had fallen and fifteen thousand been taken prisoner. Annunciata witnessed the great procession which carried the Queen in a splendid coach to St Paul's cathedral for a thanksgiving service in September. She rode, jewel-bedecked, quite alone in her coach save for Marlborough's wife Sarah, proof, if any were required, of the esteem in which the Churchills were held by their mistress.

  Matt's interest in the victory at Blenheim was overlaid by a more domestic crisis. He had been aware of a certain restlessness on the part of his wife during that summer, and though her health had been good, and she had not been forced to go away during the hot months as in previous years, she spent a great deal of time away from him in one way or another, visiting in the town, at Beningborough, and simply riding around the estate. He was afraid that she might be unhappy, for she seemed to spend an unusual amount of time in the chapel for one who had never before been punctilious in her devotions. The new priest was a tall, thin, sandy individual, with pale eyes and a protruding Adam's apple, who had only recently been ordained and had never had a living. Matt had interviewed him on Father St Maur's recommendation, and had thought him sincere and well-educated, finding him willing to fall in with all the other tasks that a domestic chaplain usually inherited.

  It was only towards the end of the summer that Matt began to realize that India did not altogether take to Father Byrne. Her manner towards him was cold, and on one occasion, when she and Matt were alone, she burst out with a passionate request that he should not be allowed to dine with them.

  ‘But, my dearest wife, the chaplain always dines with the family. What can he have done to incur your wrath?' Matt asked anxiously. India walked rapidly up and down the room.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. It is simply that I wonder if he is the proper person to have charge of our dear children. I do not think him at all a superior person, I assure you.'

  ‘He is very well educated,' Matt said doubtfully. 'And Father St Maur recommended him -'

  ‘Oh if the sainted Father St Maur says so, then undoubtedly he is perfection itself,' India cried shrilly. Matt went to her to try to soothe her.

  ‘My love, tell me what he has done to upset you.' ‘Nothing. Nothing at all,' she said, and gave a strange, sarcastic laugh. 'He is most correct in every way.’

  She would say nothing more, and so Matt had to drop the subject, and after that he thought she must be trying to overcome her antipathy, for she seemed to spend more time than ever in the chapel, as well as going to the priest's room at odd times to 'confess herself' or 'seek spiritual guidance' as she put it. But in August, shortly after the Countess had left hurriedly for London, India came to Matt in the steward's room where he was writing letters, her face very flushed, her eyes strangely bright, and her hair a little awry.

  ‘Husband I must speak to you at once,' she cried without preamble. He stood up, dropping his pen in his surprise. ‘My dear, what is it? What's happened?’

  India began walking rapidly up and down the room, holding her skirt back with one hand and turning with an angry swish at the end of each four steps. She was evidently much agitated, but she did not speak at once. Matt watched her with apprehension. 'My dear, tell me. I cannot help you unless you speak.'

  ‘I hesitate to speak, husband,' India said, 'because it goes against my nature to say ill of anyone, particularly someone for whom you have a regard. I have the greatest horror of appearing malicious or petty, as you know -'

  ‘My darling, if one of the servants has been insolent -’

  She interrupted him with a harsh laugh, and he went on, ‘You know that your happiness is the most important thing to me. You must not think that I would put a servant before you. That would be a very misguided loyalty.'

  ‘It is not a servant,' she said, and then clapped her hand over her mouth as if she had not intended to give away so much. Matt's heart sank.

  ‘It is Father Byrne,' he said. She did not deny it, turning her eyes away, her cheeks burning. 'What has he done? Come, dearest, it is your duty to tell me, even though you hate to speak ill of someone. Think of our children. We have a responsibility to them and to the servants not to house anyone unsuitable. Has he been insolent to you?’

  India appeared to make up her mind. She stopped her pacing and turned to him with bright, intent eyes. 'Matt, I have tried to like him, truly I have.'

  ‘I know - I have seen it. You are magnanimity itself.’

  She laughed again, the same harsh, sarcastic laugh. It pained him to hear it. 'Yes, I have been generous, and this is how he repays generosity. I do not mind for myself - it is for you. That he should so abuse your kindness to him, quite overcomes my natural modesty. Otherwise I should have spoken sharply to him and said nothing more, trusting there would be no recurrence. But I love you so much, my dearest Matt, that I cannot endure that his - his ingratitude should go unpunished.'

  ‘But what has he done?' Matt asked patiently. She lowered her eyes.

  ‘I - I hardly like to tell you.' He waited in silence, and she went on, 'I went to him a little while ago, to ask his advice about a spiritual matter. While I sat there, talking to him, he - he - he flung himself to his knees and avowed himself in love with me.' There was a short a
nd breathless silence, and she hurried on as if to prevent him breaking it. 'I bid him be silent - I chided him as gently as I could - my modesty was offended, and I wished only to hear no more of it. Then he seized my hand and kissed it, and cried that his love could not be concealed any longer, that he must speak of it. I reminded him that he was a priest, and I a married woman. I told him that he must be silent and never utter a word of it again, and I got up to go, but he pursued me on his knees. A ridiculous sight!' Her voice rose and her face flushed as if the memory of it outraged her still. 'I flung him off and ran out of the room, and went, I know not whither, until my heart had stopped pounding. Then I knew I must come to you.’

  The silence was longer this time, and during it the colour faded from India's cheeks and she became quite pale by comparison, and sat down abruptly in the chair by the fireside as if she would faint. It galvanized Matt to action. He crouched beside her and rubbed her hands.

  ‘My love, my dearest, I am so sorry. It must have been the most terrible shock to you. Have no fear, you will never see him again. You did right to come to me. Go out into the garden now, and walk until your spirits are refreshed. Before you return to the house, he will be gone, I promise you.’

  India looked up at him with tears in her eyes and an expression of such relief that he realized all at once how the priest had terrified her. He escorted her to the door, bid the servant waiting outside to send Millicent to her mistress in the rose garden, and to send Father Byrne to the steward's room at once.

  The priest came in five minutes. He stood before Matt looking paler than ever, but shewing no apprehension or guilt in his face. His brazenness stung Matt to anger.

  ‘Well, what have you to say for yourself?' he demanded. ‘I may add that the mistress has told me everything, so there will be no use in your adding untruth to your other crimes. How dare you behave so, to one whose shoes you are not fit to untie? Do you know, that she would have concealed your wickedness out of the kindness of her heart, had not her loyalty to me forced her to speak. You are not worthy of such generosity. What can you say in your defence?’