*
On 25 March Annunciata gave a party at Shawes to celebrate her sixty-seventh birthday. Shawes was virtually completed - even the gardens were laid out pretty much as they were meant to be, and she had compromised between the traditional and the Marlborough notions by having planted a mixture of mature trees and saplings. The damming of the stream, which had led to some unfortunate incidents, had at last been adjusted successfully, and the terraced gardens now led down to a small ornamental lake, and the weather being clement, Annunciata had arranged a water-pageant for the diversion of her guests. Vanbrugh declared himself well-satisfied with the house, and claimed that, next to Castle Howard, it was his favourite child. He was still working on Blenheim, though he and the Duchess of Marlborough disliked each other so well that he foresaw a time when he would have to abandon that project to someone else. Thornton, the architect of the new house at Beningborough, had been visiting both Castle Howard and Shawes, and Beningborough would have the best features of both when it was finished. The Bourchiers were amongst the guests at Annunciata's celebration, and try how she might, Annunciata could not conceal every trace of delight that her house was finished first, and was therefore the model and not the copy.
Another guest was Henry Aldrich, whose pet scheme for pulling down the old Peckwater Inn and replacing it with a modern building, had now been under way for some years. Three sides of the new quadrangle were almost completed, and the design was all his own. Annunciata had been to inspect it, and had praised him highly.
‘You have been a heavy drain on my purse,' she said, ‘but I don't begrudge a penny.' The Dean promised he would have the new quad finished in time to be occupied by the first of her great-grandsons to attend Christ Church, and in return she invited him to her birthday party, and to stay for as long as he liked as a house guest.
Vanbrugh teased her about him, saying, 'You should put the poor man out of his misery and marry him at once. Don't you see to what lengths he is going to gain your attention. If you do not accept him, he will be forced to pull down Wolsey's quadrangle next, or perhaps even the cathedral.’
Annunciata laughed, pleased at the idea. 'Now, Van, I am too old for love,' she chided him. Vanbrugh looked her up and down judiciously.
‘You may be too old to fall in love - that is a matter which only you can decide - but you are certainly not too old to be fallen in love with. I doubt if you ever will be. You put your younger relatives to shame, aye, and most of the rest of York society. If I weren't in too much awe of you to ask, I'd offer you my hand.’
It was all pleasant nonsense, but indeed Annunciata was feeling younger, stronger, and more cheerful than for many years before. When her first grandson had been born, she had hated the idea, for it made her aware that she was losing her youth; but now the mathematical sum of her years troubled her not at all, nor the increasing age of her great-grandchildren. Her relationship with Aldrich, her friendship with the inner circle of distinguished architects, her building of Shawes, had all given her a new lease of life. It was more than twenty years since Martin had died at the Boyne, and she had longed to die also.
‘We live long in my family,' she would say to Chloris when they talked, as they did more and more frequently, of old times. 'There is so much to be interested in.' Chloris, who was ten years younger than she, seemed older, and Annunciata, full of vigour, would sometimes chide her for wanting to sit in her chair by the fire rather than walk or ride with her mistress. She was bone-thin now, and becoming rather bent, from her habit of stooping her shoulders over her work as her eyesight deteriorated. Her hair was grey, and sometimes Annunciata in absent-mindedness would call her Birch. Father St Maur was dead now, and Annunciata had a new young priest, a lively man of just one-and-twenty, who had been a pupil of Edmund's at St Omer. His name was Renard, and Annunciata found him very stimulating. They would argue fiercely for hours on end, and sometimes Renard, who was fiery and quick tempered, would stamp away in a rage, only to return a while later and apologize laughingly and give himself a penance. Chloris disapproved of Renard, for she thoughtthat he behaved towards her mistress with a lack of respect. The two of them could also behave in a way that Chloris thought indecently sentimental between priest and mistress, and she said so to Annunciata, but Annunciata would not even be annoyed.
‘There is no harm to it,' she would say. 'It is merely pleasant. It makes us both feel happy.'
‘If he were not a priest, and you were not so old, you'd be lovers,' Chloris said roughly, and Annunciata laughed.
‘But that is the whole point, dear Chloris. It is simply because we can't. Don't you see?' Chloris didn't. 'One of the delights of reaching my great age is that I can have love affairs with all the young men without having to do anything about it. Love, as you have so often pointed out to me, is a difficult and dangerous thing and brings terrible troubles upon us. Now I can have the sweets without the troubles. You should be happy.’
She could say so now, though it had been a long time before she could adjust to the idea of never being able to have another child. Architecture, she had come to realize, replaced that aspect of her life. With Shawes she had been able to create something as much her own and as intensely satisfying as any of the ten babies she had borne, and far more enduring. All the same, the letter from Karellie about Aliena moved her in a way she had not thought to be moved again. When she had read it she sat a long time in solitude, thinking of that last and dearest child of hers, trying to imagine her a young woman of twenty-four, wondering whether she would be able to endure the sharp pain of seeing her again. But she had always intended to leave Shawes to Aliena, and it was obvious that her career at St Germain was over. She wrote back to Karellie, and sent at the same time a letter to Aliena, bidding her come home.
‘Everything can be arranged,' she wrote. 'I can send servants to fetch you if necessary. Your future will be secure here, and you will be able to marry if you wish, though whether you do or not, you will be mistress of Shawes after me. The political situation here should not trouble you - we are left alone by those in power, and I have no reason to suppose that will change. Remember you are the Queen's cousin as well as the King's.’
In fact, though Annunciata did not say so in her letter, things were more hopeful in England, for the Whigs had been replaced in power by the Tories, and many of the men in the highest places, like Oxford, Ormonde, Bolingbroke, and Mar, were known to be pro-Jacobite in sympathy. The Queen loathed the idea of being succeeded by George Lewis, and the only bar to James regaining his throne was his religion. Every 10 June James's birthday, brought celebrations and demonstrations, and Scotland had never stopped rumbling since the Union. It was this hope almost as much as everything else that had made Annunciata feel so young and strong over the past year or so.
That things were not going so well in the other branches of the family was known to her, though it affected her very little. Both Sabina and Frances had suffered a string of misfortunes with their children, miscarriages and infant deaths, and though Sabina's firstborn, Hamil, had now reached the age of seven, Frances was left, by the death of her sons John and Arthur in successive years, without an heir. Arthur Ballincrea had not remarried since Clover's death, and seemed to have no intention of disturbing his bachelor round of clubs, coffee houses, London for the Season and the country for the shooting. His work occupied him just sufficiently to prevent him from becoming debauched - three of his houses were at present in the process of being built - but he seemed to prefer the company of other architects and gentlemen to any woman's, and appeared not at all troubled by the idea of leaving no heir.
And then there was the situation at Morland Place. Annunciata had been shocked and horrified at the news of India's suicide, and though she had seen the letter the girl had left, she had always felt that there was a great deal more to the matter than was admitted, even to so privileged a public as herself. There was, for example, the mysterious disappearance of Matt's 'friend', Davey, who had left Morland
Place the same night and hadn't been heard of since. That was three years ago, and Matt, like Arthur, had shewed no signs of wanting to marry again, though as he had six healthy sons there was no immediate necessity.
Annunciata had not been to Morland Place since the tragedy, and if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she had rather avoided the idea. When in Yorkshire she had plenty to occupy her at Shawes, and her polite letter announcing her arrival was generally answered by a polite acknowledgement, leaving her free to carry on with harassing the gardeners, rearranging her furniture, riding out on Phoenix with big Kithra bouncing along at heel, arguing with Father Renard, and visiting acquaintances in the city. The one occasion when she might have expected to see Matt was during race week, and the fact that he was never there she excused to herself for other reasons.
The horse racing which Ralph had begun so many years ago had been so popular that it had become an unofficial annual event, looked forward to by everyone in the district, not only those owning horses, but those who liked gambling, which encompassed many, and those who simply liked an excuse to parade in their best clothes and meet their friends, which included nearly everyone else. In 1709, therefore, when Matt, deep in despairing grief, had declined to hold the races, a committee had formed itself amongst the eminent people of York. They had come to the decision to hold official racing for a week every year, and they had been held in 1709 for the first time on Clifton Ings, the stretch of common land beside the River Ouse, close to the site of Watermill House, which had belonged to Kit Morland's father and had been destroyed during the civil war.
Since then race week had begun to assume a great importance in the social calendar, and every evening during race week there would be balls and parties and assemblies given by the great hostesses of York. Many an eligible daughter had been disposed of favourably as a result of race week assemblies, and last year there had even been an elopement. It could have generated business for the horse-breeding side of the Morland estate, but in the three years no one from Morland Place had even attended, still less entered a horse in a race. Annunciata was not surprised when her invitation to her birthday party was politely refused, and if she noticed that the refusal was only signed by Matt, not written in his hand, she thought nothing of it, knowing how many letters had always gone out from Morland Place in a week.
She was walking about her terrace, enjoying the sunshine one morning at the beginning of May, and throwing a stick for Kithra, who was disposed to be puppyish, when Gifford came out of the house and approached her with more than his usual diffidence.
‘My lady, there is someone here asking for an interview with you,' he said, as if that were an unusual thing.
‘If it is not important, send them away,' Annunciata said genially. 'It is too early. You know I don't see people until at least eleven.’
Gifford hesitated. 'My lady, it is Clement -'
‘Clement the steward? From Morland Place?' Annunciata said, frowning. 'It is not bad news, I hope? No one is ill?'
‘He has not come with news, my lady. He asks for a private interview with you, and will not tell me the matter.’
Annunciata shrugged. 'Show him out here, Gifford. I am sure Clement would not trouble me with something trivial. And when you have brought him, make sure we are not disturbed.’
Clement had been Annunciata's steward when she was mistress of Morland Place, and was grey-haired now, though otherwise he seemed unchanged to her. They had gone through the siege together, and knew each other pretty well, and Annunciata, as she studied his face, recognized in herself that she would trust him perhaps more than anyone else she knew. The office of steward at Morland Place had been with his family for generations, and each successive Clement had grown in dignity and responsibility, like a kind of aristocracy. If this Clement had not been born a gentleman, there was nothing about him which would have revealed it to a stranger.
‘It is good of you to receive me, my lady,' he said.
She took in the anxiety and weariness in his face, and said abruptly, 'Let us walk in the gardens, and you can tell me what is wrong. We shall not be disturbed or overheard.’
Clement gave her a look of gratitude, and when they were strolling along the formal walks, with Kithra, quiet now, sniffing interestedly under every hedge, he responded to her openness as man to man.
‘Things are not well at Morland Place, my lady. I have done my best to mitigate them, but it has gone beyond me now, and I don't know anyone but you who can help. The master was deeply affected by the death of the mistress -that was natural enough. It was a great horror to us all. But in three years he has not come back to himself. He does nothing; he neglects the business; he sits all day in the steward's room with the shades drawn, and sees no one, and eats barely enough to support life. The only time he ventures out is after dark, and then he walks about the grounds in the dark like a ghost.'
‘Do you think his reason affected?'
‘I don't know, my lady. He hardly speaks to anyone, so it is difficult to judge. Often when I ask him a question, he will not appear to hear, but if I persist he grows angry and tells me to leave him alone and decide for myself. Well, my lady, there is a limit to the things I can decide. Without a master, the household is breaking up. Orders are not given that should be given. The servants - the older ones are very loyal, but it is human nature to take advantage of slackness, and some of the younger ones are worse than useless to me.'
‘Yes, I can see that,' Annunciata nodded. She, who had run so many large households, could easily picture the growing chaos of a house run without either master or mistress.
‘Then there's the children, my lady. They have no tutor, and their father does not interest himself in them at all. The nursery maids do their best, but boys need firmer handling than they can give. Jemmy and Edmund run wild, and it is setting a bad example to the younger ones.'
‘What do you want me to do?' she asked frankly when Clement had finished. She stopped and faced him. They were standing beside the little lake, and Kithra began to race up and down foolishly, chasing the ducks and barking.
‘Speak to the master, for a beginning, try to reach him. Make him see that he has a responsibility to us all. And if that doesn't work -'
‘If it doesn't?'
‘Then take over yourself. You have done it before. I know that you have not wanted to interest yourself in Morland Place since - since -'
‘Since Martin died,' she finished for him, quietly. Clement met her eyes.
‘You are a Morland, my lady, you were mistress of Morland Place, and you are the master's grandmother. We need you, and your place is with us. If it is hard for you, I am sorry, but duty is hard.'
‘Harsh words, Clement,' Annunciata said with a little smile. 'You are bold to remind me of my duty?'
‘My lady, you have known me long enough to know what is in my heart. I would give my life for Morland Place and the family.'
‘I know; and knowing that, I should not be surprised that you would give mine too.' She sighed, looking across the lake and around at her gardens, where she had been enjoying peace at last. 'Very well, I shall come and speak to Matt, and do what I can. You did right to come to me, Clement. And you are right about my duty. We can't change the blood that runs in our veins, either of us.’
Despite being forewarned, Annunciata was shocked at the change in Morland Place. It looked deserted when she arrived, and though Clement hurried out when he heard her horse in the yard, she noticed that the windows of the house were dirty, and most had their shades drawn, and that there was refuse and dung lying about the yard, as if no one had bothered to sweep it for a day or two, and an unnatural quietness where there should have been bustle and activity.
‘The stables are mostly empty, my lady,' Clement told her in a low voice. 'We keep only a few horses here for messages. I had the others turned out, for there was no one to exercise them.’
A young man, whom Annunciata recognized, belatedly, as Clement's gra
ndson, took the reins from her and led Phoenix away, and Clement took her into the house. There was the same air of desertion; everything, while not precisely dirty, looked dingy and neglected, and it was very quiet. There should have been servants trotting back and forth on errands, and the sounds of cleaning and the smells of cooking. The house had a musty smell. While they were crossing the great hall, there was a noise behind them, and a rough-looking boy of about six came running from the passage leading to the kitchen, clutching something in his hands, dashed past them and was heard clattering up the stairs. A maid appeared at the end of the passage, evidently in pursuit, but when she saw Clement and the Countess she slid to a halt, dropped a frightened curtsey, and disappeared whence she had come before anything could be said.
‘Who was that boy?' Annunciata asked.
‘Master George,' Clement said. 'I think he must have stolen a pie from the kitchen.’
Annunciata glanced at him. She saw that it pained him to admit such things happened in his house, but that he wanted her to know the worst. 'Where is Matt?'
‘In the steward's room, my lady. I told him you were coming, but I don't know if he heard me.'
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