The Chevalier

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

‘I'll go in alone, Clement. Stay within call, in case I need you.’

  She gave him a gentle shove of encouragement and left him in the staircase hall. Outside the steward's room she paused, wondering whether to knock, and then decided to go straight in. It was gloomy inside, for the shades were half drawn, and there was no fire or candle lit. The room looked shabby and unkempt. There were ashes uncleared in the grate, the sconces were crusted with melted wax and in one holder the stub of a candle leaned out drunkenly, its wick overlong and black, suggesting that it had guttered out for lack of trimming. There were books and papers everywhere, and on the hearth two empty bottles and a plate containing a neglected supper of bread and meat cried mutely for attention. Nearby India's greyhound, Oyster, an old dog now, was lying down, its paws and tail tucked in. It looked up at her with anxious eyes, but did not lift its head. It still wore the diamond collar, and the gems glittered in a way that seemed to emphasize the squalor of the rest of the room. Kithra, seeing Oyster, tried to thrust past her to inspect him, and she shoved the big dog back, and said, low and sharp, 'Sit down. Stay.’

  Matt was sitting at the table, his head in his hands, and he looked up when he heard her voice. He was unshaven and unkempt, and for a moment did not seem to recognize her; but to Annunciata, in the gloom, he looked so like Martin that her heart turned over in her, and she was transported on the instant twenty, thirty years back, to the days when Martin had ruled Morland Place and her heart. This, more than any, had always been his room; here, in the days before they were lovers, when he was younger than Matt now was, she had always sought him out, looking for comfort, for cheer, for amusement, and he had sat at the table, in that chair, and looked up at her over the mountain of work with a wry smile knowing that she was about to torment him into neglecting it for her amusement. She had intended to be stern with Matt, but she was seeing Martin, not him, and she could not be other than gentle.

  ‘Matt, I have come to recall you to your duty,' she said. ‘You must not grieve in this useless way. We need you. Your children need you.’

  He stared at her as if he had not understood her, but in a while he answered, in a voice that sounded harsh with disuse, like a door rarely opened, whose hinges have rusted. 'I have no children,' he said. She walked across the room to him, and saw him flinch back from her. She knew he did not want her to touch him, and deliberately, letting him see her hands as she would approach a frightened horse or dog, she put her hands on his shoulders, and then gently stroked his head.

  He shuddered under her touch, and she said, even more quietly, 'I know how you have suffered, and it is right that you should grieve. But all things have their season. It is over now, and you must come out into the daylight and live your life.’

  He met her eyes, and the dead look gave way before such an expression of loss that she quailed. What had he to live for? She knew what was in his mind as clearly as if he had spoken the words. What comfort was there?

  ‘Matt, listen to me. I am nearly seventy years old. I have lost, through the course of my life, everything I cared for. Time and again I have made a new start, only to lose again. My husbands, my children, the man I loved, all have gone. I have known grief like yours.’

  He was listening to her, his eyes on hers as if he could draw sustenance from them. She went on stroking his head while she spoke.

  ‘I should have come to you before. I left you alone, and that was wrong. My duty was to help, and I neglected it. But I have come now, to help you do your duty. Come, Matt, come.’

  She stepped back and took his hands and drew him to his feet. He was taller than Martin had been, two or three inches taller than her.

  ‘The sun shines as brightly, the air smells as sweet. Life can still give moments of pleasure, though you are filled with pain.' She drew him a step closer. There were tears in his eyes. In the half-light, he looked so like his father that her senses were confused. He came the last step towards her, and she put her arms round him, and he rested his face on her hair, and she felt him trembling.

  ‘I've come back,' she said. 'I won't leave you again.' Her eyes were closed, and tears escaped from under her lids, too, for there was no going back, despite her words. She had come back to Morland Place, but Matt was Master, and Martin had been twenty years in his unmarked grave in Ireland.

  BOOK THREE

  THE LION AND THE UNICORN

  God bless the King, I mean the Faith's

  Defender; God bless - no harm in blessing - the

  Pretender; But who Pretender is, or who is

  King, God bless us all - that's quite another thing!

  John Byrom: To an Officer in the Army

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The change for the better did not happen all at once, but from the moment that Annunciata stepped across the threshold of Morland Place, the household breathed a sigh of relief. Even those servants who had willingly taken advantage of the situation to be idle and dissolute found themselves happier for firm orders and certain discipline. Gradually routines were re-established, the house became clean and comfortable, run-down stocks were replenished, and in the atmosphere of purposeful busyness, Matt began to revive.

  He did not soon resume his normal occupations, and it was therefore necessary for Annunciata, once she had the house in order, to find subordinates to run the estate and the wool and cloth business. She could not quite bring herself to move into Morland Place permanently, now that she had finished her perfect house, and so she kept most of her personal staff there, and made a point of visiting frequently and sleeping there as often as possible, maintaining the fiction that it was at Shawes that she lived, and that her presence in Morland Place was that of a visitor. But she took with her Chloris, without whom she would not have felt comfortable, and Father Renard, and the latter, in his brisk, efficient way, solved many of her problems.

  Once again Mass was said in the chapel at Morland Place. Under India's rule, and by her example, there had developed a slackness about attendance, and many of the servants had claimed to belong to some or other dissenting sect in order to stay a little longer in bed. Annunciata changed that. The decree went forth that every member of the household was to attend Mass twice a day, and any whose religious conscience prevented them could leave at once and find another position. Moreover, everyone must be properly dressed and washed when they entered the chapel, and must behave in an attentive and respectful manner throughout. She had only to dismiss one girl for appearing with her clothing hastily thrown on and her hair unbrushed, and fine one footman for yawning during the service, and her point was sufficiently made. After a few weeks, Matt began to attend also, and Annunciata sighed with relief that the cure had at last begun.

  Father Renard, in consultation with Clement, helped Annunciata to divide up the other jobs until such time as Matt took the reins into his own hands again. Clement was perfectly accustomed to doing the accounts, and Annunciata appointed herself treasurer, with Father Renard her secretary, and one of the footmen, who was quick and good with figures, was brought in to assist with all the written work. The bailey was interviewed and found reliable, and was given charge of the farm management, reporting to Clement, with an ultimate reference to Annunciata if necessary.

  Several factors had to be found to cope with the businesses, reporting to Father Renard, and it took some time to interview and select the right people. It took even longer to find an agent in London whom Annunciata at all trusted, for in her mind London was full of anti-Jacobites, Whigs and Dissenters; but the most difficult task turned out to be finding someone to take care of the horse-breeding end of things. There were horsemen in plenty in Yorkshire, and indeed the head man at Twelvetrees was well able to manage the day-to-day running, but the overall management was another matter. For the time being she had to take it on herself, which added greatly to her burdens, for there were other matters which the master should have been attending to which could not properly be delegated to hirelings, such as dealing with the personal problems of
the tenants. She longed for some adult Morland relatives to share these tasks, and appreciated at first-hand how busy Matt had always been, and his father before him. If Matt was slow in resuming these tasks, she did not know that she could blame him.

  Father Renard took one enormous burden from her shoulders, which was the management of the nursery and schoolroom. The little boys had grown wild and wicked in the years of their neglect, especially Jemmy, by whose example Edmund and George had become quite corrupt. Rob, the second-born, was another matter, and the maids called him the best of children and sang his praises. Annunciata doubted that it was virtue that made him docile, but rather a want of spirit, and a sly ability to make profit of a situation; being the pet of the nurse-maids gave him certain advantages in the matter of sugar-plums and other little gifts that his wild brothers missed.

  Father Renard changed all that, instituting a rigid discipline and daily lessons, combined with an adequate amount of running about in the fields, riding, swimming, and playing games. He gave the opinion, startling to Annunciata, that the boys, particularly Jemmy, had been beaten too much, too young.

  ‘But Father, how can you control them without beating them?' Annunciata said. 'Children are not amenable to reason.'

  ‘I do not advocate absence of all chastisement,' Father Renard smiled, 'but you see, when a high-spirited boy like Jemmy is beaten hard from an early age, he grows accustomed to it, and it loses its effect. For the moment I am obliged to beat him with a quite remarkable degree of savagery in order to make any mark on him at all - in the spiritual sense, you understand. That is not good for me, and can only harden his heart if it continues.'

  ‘Then what can you do?'

  ‘I have to gain control of him first, madam. But when I have control, then I hope gradually to reduce the beatings until they can take what I believe to be their proper place - punishments for the worst crimes only.’

  At first there was little sign that this revolutionary plan was working, for Jemmy continued wild and wicked. and continued to be beaten 'like a mule, madam' as Flora put it; but gradually, as the younger boys came under discipline and found contentment there, Jemmy began to feel left out of things, and to wonder whether learning under ‘Father Fox' might not be more interesting than his solitary delinquency. One morning, instead of having to be dragged unwillingly to the schoolroom by two large footmen, Jemmy strolled in of his own accord and was there first, waiting for Father Fox when he arrived. The priest wisely made no comment upon the unexpected pleasure of Jemmy's company, but treated it as a matter of course and thereafter there was little more trouble. By way of recreation, and out of curiosity about her great-grandchildren, Annunciata gave one or two lessons herself, and found the six boys a curiously mixed group. The discovery naturally made her uneasy, for it was evidently Matt's belief that he was father to none of them, and the character of their mother made it likely that at least some were not Morlands at all. But Jemmy, in Annunciata's eyes, was quite definitely Matt's son, having already a great look of Matt about him, and something, she fancied, of herself. She liked Jemmy's spirit, and discovered that his mind was alert and quick of apprehension, and it became one of her pleasures to take him riding and tell him stories of her own past and of the history of the Morlands. He loved to hear about the Civil War, and was immensely proud that Prince Rupert was his great-grandfather, and in that first summer Annunciata took him on horseback out to Marston Moor. His questions soon outstripped her knowledge, and on their return he asked permission to have access to one of the books on the subject. Annunciata gave him Martin's copy of Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, and the bond between them was firmly forged.

  She found the others less interesting. Rob she thought weak and sly - he was a big-boned, fat, pale boy, with fair hair that tended to reddishness, and she suspected him of torturing small birds and animals, a thing with which she had no patience, though the servants tended to think it unimportant. Edmund and George were small-built, wiry boys, dark in colouring like their mother, and very alike in looks. George was harder and rougher than Edmund, who could be charming when the occasion warranted, and was already a talented thief. Annunciata predicted the gallows for him with no great sorrow. Thomas, who was five and ready to be breeched, a matter Annunciata had attended to quite soon, was idle and inattentive, easily swayed by the last speaker, forgetful of everything that did not please him, and passionately fond of sleep. If he were wanted, a servant would be sure to find him curled up somewhere like a dormouse with his arms over his head. Charles, who was only four, and therefore to Annunciata a baby and indistinguishable from other babies, nevertheless had a certain distinction about him, being already taller than his brothers at the same age, dark as a Frenchman, and of a solemn, thoughtful disposition that made him seem, in his petticoats, older than Thomas in his breeches.

  One thing Annunciata found she could not improve, and that was Matt's feelings towards the children. To all intents and purposes, they were orphans. Matt would not acknowledge their existence, grew angry if they were talked of in his presence, and gave orders that they were never to be allowed into a room in which he was sitting, or to be in the part of the garden he was occupying. They were never brought, like other children, to receive his blessing, and in chapel they were sat as far from the Master as possible, and if they made the least noise he flew into a rage.

  His temper, Annunciata found, was quite spoilt by the tragedy. He had been a pleasant, light person, she remembered, innocent and childlike in his temper. Now he was sullen, moody and savage; suspicious of everyone, resentful of kindness. He never laughed or played, saw no company, spent his leisure hours alone and in solitary reading, or riding across the moors. Even as he began to come out of his retreat and resume his normal occupations, he did them in silent gravity, shunning all human contact. His horse and the little dog Oyster were his only friends, and the only other exception he made was Annunciata. He treated her, not with friendliness, but with respect, and would listen to her, allowing her to be his go-between with the outside world. But even she must keep a certain distance, and if she ventured into forbidden topics he would first turn his face away, and then leave the room. He had remained a child, she thought, for so long, that his sudden growing-up had spoiled him; but despite that, her affection for him grew, and though she had never been a patient person, she found herself taking great pains with him, and believed that in time she would win him round.

  *

  In the summer of 1713 Karellie went to Venice to make a visit to the Palazzo Francescini. The Peace of Utrecht had left him temporarily without employment, and a restlessness drove him from place to place without his knowing quite what he intended to do with himself from now. At the Palazzo, Diane received him with a cool dignity that concealed her genuine pleasure at seeing him, for she was extremely bored. Maurice was away, having gone to Naples where Scarlatti was again Maestro di Capella, in order to collaborate on some works with his father-in-law.

  ‘He is no company even when he is here,' Diane complained to Karellie. 'Since his wife died, he has become more and more disagreeable.'

  ‘Maurice, disagreeable?' Karellie said disbelievingly. 'To you?' Diane tossed her head.

  ‘Disagreeableness is a matter of degree, my lord. When he will not converse, nor play, nor sing, nor even notice that a person is wearing a new gown, I call it disagreeable. And on my birthday he arrived late at dinner, and was wearing a suit of clothes that I had seen him wear at least three times before.'

  ‘Oh villainous!' Karellie cried solemnly. Diane's brows drew together in a frown.

  ‘Do you mock me, sir?' she enquired imperiously. ‘Madame, I assure you that adoration is the only emotion I am capable of in your presence,' Karellie said. He said it half as a joke, but in fact it was strangely true. The little girl who had commanded him had become a young woman of eighteen, tall, fair, haughtily beautiful, one of the most toasted of all the Venetian beauties, and a singer of note in addition to her physical attra
ctions. She was in great demand for special occasions, and she had frequently been asked to perform at banquets in the company of the celebrated violinist, the red-headed Vivaldi. Vivaldi, also a composer of note, had been so impressed with her that he had recently written a cantata for soprano and continuo especially for her, which she had performed at the feast given by a nobleman on his daughter's taking the veil.

  Karellie had grown used to offering her adoration when she was a child; without his noticing, the game had become reality..

  ‘Well, my lord, and what have you brought me this time?' she proceeded, the first principles established. Karellie's gifts had become part of the ritual of his visits, and it had become a point of pride to outdo himself each time.

  ‘Your gift is in my travelling-bag, my lady,' Karellie said. 'I'll send Sam for it.' He made to rise and go to the door to call his servant, but Diane halted him with an upraised hand. 'No need,' she said. 'Giulia will go.' And she nodded to the child, who jumped up eagerly enough and trotted off on her errand. It amused Karellie to see how she had absorbed the two little girls into her 'court', and how willing they were to act the part of her ladies-in-waiting. Giulia was now ten, and handsome in a dark, Italian way, looking very like Maurice; Alessandra was fourteen and unexpectedly plain, her features seeming too big for her small face. With his usual unemphatic kindness, the duke had continued to take care of them, even through Maurice's increasingly frequent and lengthy absences, and the little girls repaid his kindness by acting as suitable attendants to his daughter. Karellie wondered, however, what would happen to them in the future, when Diane should be too grown-up to need them, and they themselves grew too big to be ignored as denizens of the nursery. Maurice did not seem to care much about them, except in the bland, careless way that he cared about anyone who actually forced his attention from his music for a moment. Karellie tried to be kind to them, but they were both very shy and reserved, a natural consequence, he thought, of growing up in Diane's shadow.