‘I don’t want to go back to the nursery,’ he cried. He had been having the most wonderful morning, and the thought of the nursery and the horn-book charmed him not at all. ‘I want to stay here,’ A thought crossed his mind and he sidled back to his mother and smiled winningly. ‘I want to stay and protect Mama from the soldiers.’
Nicoletta beamed at him with love, but Maurice regarded him with an indifferent eye. ‘There are not going to be any soldiers from which to protect her. And I am not in the least interested in what you want. Ah, nurse, take the children away.’
The little nurse had come running in and curtseyed, and now took Clementina from her mother and held out her hand to Rupert. Under his father’s stern eye, Rupert could only allow himself to be led away, but as soon as the door had closed behind them he avenged himself by kicking the nursemaid’s shin as hard as he could with his small boot. She flinched, but suppressed her cry. She was often black and blue from Master Rupert’s rages, but it was a good job for a girl of her background, and besides she was terribly in love with the Master.
Maurice refused to be alarmed, and under his calming influence the household returned to normal and Nicoletta felt she had been foolish indeed and that there was nothing to worry about after all. But underneath his calm exterior, Maurice was anxious. He was not, and had not wished to be, in his mother’s confidence, but he had no doubt that she was involved with the plot, and that Nicoletta was right in assuming that that was why the Countess had come to London and stayed all winter.
He knew they were in danger, for his mother was a Jacobite of known pedigree, and his brother Karellie, the Earl of Chelmsford, had been convicted of treason for his part in the last rising. If any evidence could be found to link his mother with Atterbury, it would be hard to convince anyone that he, Maurice, had been innocent.
And of course, he had never been entirely innocent, as Walpole and Newcastle perfectly well knew, though they had no proof. He had been at pains to establish himself as being neutral in the Hanoverian-Jacobite argument, as being an apolitical artist, interested only in aesthetic things. His frequent visits to Italy – Venice, Florence and Rome – and his recent trip to Russia; his constant correspondence with his brother, and with his brother’s mistress, the opera-singer Diane di Francescini, ‘the Divine Diane’; his sale of plate and furnishings: these things could all be reasonably explained, but would nevertheless arouse suspicion if attention were ever directed towards him.
He had been careful, yet he had also been a fool. He had carried letters, he had raised sums of money, and he had asked no questions, and part of him despised himself for becoming involved with the sordid and temporal business of politics, the absurdities of who had the right to what title. The eternal beauty and universality of music ought to have taught him better. Yet though his intellect knew it was folly, and condemned him for it, his heart had driven him on. He was a Morland, and his blood would not be denied.
In May Atterbury’s secretary was arrested, and in August there was deemed to be enough evidence to arrest the Bishop himself. Others soon followed him to the Tower, and in October when the new Parliament met, Walpole persuaded it to suspend the law of habeas corpus and to impose a severe penal tax on Roman Catholics. The trials were to be held in November. Maurice continued to live normally, dropping in at Leicester House, and his three favourite coffee houses, visiting Handel and Burlington and Vanbrugh and his other friends, conducting concerts at the Vauxhall Gardens and the opera house, playing for a few rich patrons who could afford him – and behind his casual mien he listened, and watched and waited.
He knew Chelmsford House was being watched, and he surmised that his letters were being intercepted and scrutinized before delivery, and as the same thing would certainly be true of Shawes, he had no way of getting in touch with his mother, nor she with him. Still there was no word of her implication or arrest, and there was no sign of his being shunned by anyone who might be supposed to know what was going on in the inner circle of government, and he began to hope that they would escape after all.
At the end of October, Jemmy came to stay for a few days on his way home to Morland Place. He had been sent abroad eighteen months ago, on Annunciata’s advice, for an abbreviated Grand Tour, in order to take his mind off Aliena and his betrothal, and to cure his natural restlessness. Annunciata’s chaplain, Father Renard, had accompanied him. Maurice had been surprised that she felt willing to be parted from her priest, and had naturally suspected ulterior motives, though it had been said, and with truth, that she could more easily spare him than Matt could spare Father Andrews, who had Charles and Allen still in his care, as well as the accounts of the whole Morland estate to keep – along with all the other numerous duties a domestic chaplain was expected to undertake.
Maurice was much interested in Jemmy’s recital of his adventures, and amused that he bore all the marks typical of the returning traveller – the tanned skin, the ultra-fashionable clothing, the cosmopolitan manners, the sprinkling of foreign words and phrases in the speech. He also had the inevitable trunk full of art treasures, purchased at miniscule prices from the uncaring Italians who had so much they could never care about a quarter of it. But as well as his Madonnas and Roman Gods and Greek Horses, Jemmy had gained a maturity in his year-and-a-half absence. He listened in attentive silence as Maurice told him what had been happening, his face growing graver by the minute.
At length he said, ‘I see. I understand a number of things now. This was the cause of great-grandmother’s desire for us to be connected with the leading members of the Whig party. And that she has not been arrested suggests that it is that which is protecting her now.’
‘Protecting us, too,’ Maurice reminded him. ‘As long as she is safe, so am I, and my family, and yours.’
‘Oh yes, that too.’ Jemmy was silent a moment, and then said, ‘I saw your brother, the Earl, in Venice. He said that he had visited Aliena at Chaillot, and that she was very happy.’
Maurice nodded. In one way and another, he had learned the whole story of Jemmy’s unfortunate passion. He said gently, ‘She was always a nun at heart. I always felt she was too good for the world.’
Jemmy looked at him gratefully. ‘I was afraid she had done it—’ He hesitated.
‘To protect you?’ Maurice suggested. Jemmy shook his head.
‘To expiate. I hated great-grandmother for a while. Now—’ He shrugged. ‘I am so glad Aliena has found what she wanted.’ He sounded so bleak that Maurice wished there was some way he could comfort him. Maurice had always been glad he was not the eldest son. It seemed a thankless row to hoe. ‘So,’ Jemmy said at last, ‘have you heard anything of any evidence against great-grandmother?’
‘There was mention in the correspondence of a Mrs Freeman – obviously a pseudonym, like all the Joneses and Illingtons. Some think Mrs Freeman is my mother, because it was a name she used once before. Of course, so did every other woman going to an assignation in the days of King Charles, so it means little. But I heard today that the judges have been directed to suppress any mention of Mrs Freeman at the trials next month.’
‘Newcastle?’
Maurice nodded. ‘I am sure of it. Of course, the Elector may also be protecting her. He has done so before, because she is close kin to him, and he knew her in his youth. He pardoned my brother, you know.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Jemmy, ‘but one could not take the risk of it not being Newcastle. He has done a lot for my family. There’s Tom in the navy, and Edmund’s ensigncy – and in a popular regiment! And Father was able to buy Robert a living at a very favourable price, much less than it was worth. And now here’s great-grandmother, not in the Tower. And what has he had in return?’
‘Your father’s influence in the county, to be sure,’ Maurice said. ‘The seats were not even contested.’
‘Well enough,’ said Jemmy, ‘but I can see my duty. I must become Lord Newcastle’s brother-in-law before he has time to repent of the contract.’
> His words were sturdily spoken, but his face was bleak, and Maurice could do nothing but look his sympathy. Jemmy looked up, and seeing the kindness of the eyes – so like Aliena’s! – he said in a low voice, ‘Love is over for me now. I must shut that part of myself away. My family depends on my doing my duty.’
‘There can be great satisfaction in that,’ Maurice said. ‘Perhaps you may find that it will be enough.’ He knew better than to suggest to this passionate young man that he might come to love and esteem his chosen wife in time.
The wedding took place at Whitsun, 1723, when Lady Mary was seventeen. It had been planned for January, but had been put off because of the serious illness of Jemmy’s brother Charles, who had taken to his bed with a fever after the St Stephen’s Day hunt. Everyone had thought that he had taken a chill, and would soon be well, but the fever had settled on his lungs, and for a time his life had hung in the balance. He had taken to growing in the last autumn – Sabina said that he had grown too fast for his strength – and he had certainly presented an overstretched appearance, being nearly six feet tall, and very thin.
The illness, of course, had made him even thinner. Even after it was certain that he would not die of the present fever, the doctor shook his head pessimistically over the chances of Charles reaching twenty. But when the spring weather came, he revived, and sunshine and better food restored both his spirits and his strength. He remained painfully thin, though the dark shadows had gone from his eyes, but the doctor spoke of him as still being delicate, hinted that his lungs must always be taken great care of, and recommended plenty of open air, always provided he avoided dampness and night humours, which could be fatal.
So Charles had spent every warm, dry moment out of doors, and since his strength was not at first equal to much riding, he came to know the gardens very well, and began to take an interest in the plants. The gardeners, who had a sentimental affection for someone who had almost died, were very patient with him and answered all his questions, but he was soon probing beyond their knowledge, and sought further information from books. The walk across to Shawes was a pleasant and easy one, and the Countess’s library was better than Matt’s; and the Countess said in the most obliging way that he should come and go as he liked, and not trouble to present himself formally.
This suited Charles’s rather retiring manners, and he did not suspect that the little maid, dusting away at the books, to whom he chatted, was passing back information to her mistress; nor was his delight touched by suspicion when he discovered that the Countess’s library contained a number of books on gardening and botany, from Garard’s Herbal and Stephen Hales’s work on vegetable physiology, to a number of surprisingly recent pamphlets from the Royal Society.
During Charles’s illness, Jemmy had discovered how much he cared for his youngest brother. There had also arisen a strong affection between Charles and his stepbrother Allen, and during his restless, feverish fits, it had been Allen he had called for, and Allen alone who could soothe him, sitting by him for hours, talking quietly and wiping his brow with cold cloths. When Charles was well enough to go out, and the garden seized his interest, he forgot about his stepbrother, and Allen receded quietly into the background again, but Jemmy honoured him, and determined that when he was Master he would reward the boy for his faithfulness.
The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear, a perfect May day, and even Jack, who came to wake him, could hardly predict rain. The most he could manage by way of gloom was to hint at the effects of an early drought on the crops, and to complain that his teeth were troubling him again. Jemmy managed to ignore all this as he dragged on his breeches and shirt. He had asked to be called very early, for he had decided that he would go out alone before the dew was off the grass and have one last, glorious, wild, bachelor ride on Auster before the prison gates closed on him. It was not long after five when he got to the stables, and the grooms were still mucking-out, watched from the eves by a flotilla of sparrows waiting to dart down for the treasures of spilled oats which the process revealed.
Auster nickered an excited greeting to him, and fidgeted about, all excited eyes and ears, as Jemmy tacked him up. He was a most gratifying horse to ride, because he always shewed such interest in his surroundings.
‘Come then, old boy, we’ll see how far we can get, and have one last gallop together. This time tomorrow I shall be a married man,’ Jemmy said, clapping the glossy black neck as he led the horse out into the early sunshine. Auster made a noise that sounded like laughter, and Jemmy realized how gloomy and apprehensive he had sounded. ‘As if I were going to the scaffold!’ He put a foot into the stirrup and swung up as Auster started forward, and as soon as they were across the drawbridge the horse broke into an irrepressible canter.
They went out towards Hessay, rounding the Whin, and across High Moor, scattering the sheep. The lambs stuttered on their absurd knuckly legs in a panic, torn between flight and suckling, and eventually dived underneath their dams, butting for the udder as a safeguard against all ills, presenting a woolly rump and a fast-twitching tail to Auster’s dancing hooves as he passed. They made a long loop, coming along the nearside of Wilstrop Wood, and then galloped across Marston Moor. Jemmy crouched forward over the neck and whispered in Auster’s ear, and they flew, faster than Jemmy had ever gone before, the soft wind stinging past his cheeks and taking his breath away. It was a wonderful ride, and Jemmy came back in through the barbican at a sedate pace, feeling that all his restlessness had been burnt away.
Now the house was astir, crowded with strange voices and strange smells. George, Edmund and Robert were all home; Tom was still in the West Indies with the Agrippa; cousin Frances had come down from Northumberland with her ten-year-old son John, recently become Viscount Ballincrea on the death of his uncle; and of course the bride, with her chaperone, and Lord Newcastle were in the house. Maurice and Nicoletta and their children were staying at Shawes, and would arrive for the wedding with the Countess, but Marie-Louise and Alessandra were staying at Morland Place because Jemmy had asked permission for Marie-Louise to be Lady Mary’s flower-girl.
Jack had a bath ready for him in his bedroom when he arrived, and while he soaped his master’s back, he gave him the latest bulletin on the state of his teeth, and recounted the trouble there had been downstairs because Lady Dudley had sent for a number of obscure toilet preparations for Lady Mary, of which there were none in the house, seeing as the mistress was bedridden and there were no young ladies. Finally, one of the maids had had to be sent over to Shawes to enquire there, which had put everyone in a bad mood because the maid was wanted for other duties and the boy on duty outside Lady Mary’s door had been sent down every five minutes to ask why the things hadn’t arrived yet.
When he was out and dry, Jemmy said, ‘I think it would be a good idea if I were to ask my brother Charles to dress me. I know it would please him, and it would be a reminder of other times past. Go and ask him, will you, Jack?’
‘If you really think so, sir,’ Jack began with deep offence. Jemmy clapped him on the shoulder.
‘I do. He has been so ill, that I think he would take it as a kindness. I’m sure you will be generous enough to give up the honour.’
‘It isn’t so much the honour, master, but will he be able to manage the laces? Ten to one but he’ll put your sword belt on upside down.’
‘I’m not such a cuckoo I don’t know which way up my own belt goes. Go, now, run and ask him, there’s a good fellow. And then you can see if my older brothers need any help.’
‘Very well, master,’ Jack said, in a tone that suggested no one should blame him if the whole wedding was ruined, and went. Jemmy grinned to himself, and when the coast was clear, sent the boy outside for toast and hot chocolate. Charles arrived before the breakfast with Allen in tow, both of them delighted at this change of plan, and the three of them set about transforming Jemmy into the bridegroom with the greatest good humour.
In the West Bedroom Lady Dudley had been wo
rking for an hour on Lady Mary’s face with white lead and Spanish paper and kohl and a battery of brushes and tweezers and scissors which Rachel, the depressed and timid maid, handed to her like a reluctant jailor’s assistant handing over instruments of torture. The only voice to be heard during that hour had been Lady Dudley’s, and she had been giving Mary advice and warnings about the state of marriage which had increased the younger woman’s apprehension to a dull terror. She wished she could have gone in happy ignorance to her wedding, for it was bad enough having to wed at all, without all Lady Dudley’s gloomy and savage prognostications, as she wrenched rogue hairs from Mary’s brow with a chastising zeal. Lady Dudley’s husband had done her the double disservice of going bankrupt and then dying, obliging her to fall back on the charity of distant relations, and his perfidy had left her with a poor opinion both of men and of matrimony.
‘Being a young man, he will probably want to trouble you that way a good deal at first. But if you endure it, and shew your disapproval as a gentlewoman should, simply in your bearing towards him, I daresay that you will gradually be able to lead his mind towards better things. Most importantly, you must never cry out, however much it hurts. It would be exceedingly improper to make a sound of any sort at such a time, and it is a woman’s fate to endure pain in silence.’ She wrenched another hair away, and Mary bit back a cry, and blinked the tears away. Lady Dudley peered at her suspiciously, and then said, ‘There, it has bled! I knew it would be so. Mary, my dear, you really must try to sit still. It is extremely ill-bred to wriggle about in such a fashion, and it makes my task so much harder.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mary said. She caught Rachel’s eye and looked away again quickly, lest sympathy should overcome her control of her tears. She and Rachel shared their fear of Lady Dudley, but Rachel was too timid and Mary too shy to express it, and they could do no more than give each other silent and unacknowledged support.
Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty) Page 6