Easter 1750 also marked the end of the period of deep mourning for Jemmy, and for the first time on Easter Sunday his widow and heiress were able to put off their black bombazine and Norwich crape, and deck themselves in the black silk and charcoal-grey tabby of second-mourning, signalling to the world that they might now again be invited out. They went to the Minster accompanied by Edmund – who since the peace had scarcely been away from Morland Place – and Augusta and the girls, Robert and a very sulky Frederick, and Uncle George. Cousin William was in London, to Jemima’s great relief, and Cousin Rob was staying with a friend’s family for Easter. Frederick was extremely cross that he had not been invited anywhere, and thus had to spend Easter under his father’s eye. He was now at Christ Church too, where he was enjoying himself so much that only the threat of being taken away by his father curbed his excesses.
When they came out into the sunshine the whole world seemed to be gathered in the gardens to parade along the paths, and the blooming spring flowers and the pink and white blossom on the trees were hardly brighter than the clothes of the Easter communicants. Many people bowed or nodded to Lady Mary and Jemima, but there were few whom Lady Mary did not think too vulgar to be associated with, and for some time they walked alone. Frederick quickly sloped off to raise his hat to a party of giggling young ladies; Robert stopped to talk to one of the Cathedral clergy; and Edmund and Augusta fell in with a group of fellow-officers and their families; so for a time Mary and Jemima walked with only Uncle George stumping silently along behind them like a large, old dog. Jemima cast one or two glances at her mother, wondering whether to open a conversation, but Lady Mary’s expression was cold and inward-looking, forbidding communication.
Mary was confused. She had expected to find Jemmy’s death a release, and yet when it had happened she had been shocked, and worse, she missed him. There was an emptiness in her life, for everything she had felt and done for a quarter of a century had been directed towards him, either in love or in hate, and without him she had become purposeless. She was confused about Jemima too, for though she hated her still, she was dependent on her for her status. It was necessary for Jemima to be admired and respected, to reflect credit on Mary; to that end, it was essential that she make a good marriage, and Mary had so often said to herself that it must be nothing less than an Earl that she had come to believe her words as an unchangeable rule. But she did not want Jemima to be happy: if possible she would like her to be as unhappy as she had been all these years. Where to find a husband for her daughter who would appear to do her credit, yet would make her miserable?
More recently, the question had refined itself into, where to find a suitable husband, and soon? Jemima was almost eighteen, and in three years would attain her majority. Though Mary did not doubt that lifelong habit would keep her obedient to her mother in most things, she was aware that it would be hard to make her marry against her will once she was legally free and in possession of her fortune. Moreover, the marriage market was a fiercely competitive one. Even though they had been in mourning, Mary had made delicate enquiries in a number of directions, but had found titled bachelors hard to interest. They wanted to marry tided heiresses, not the daughters of Yorkshire gentlemen, even though rich, and Mary’s status as the half sister of Lord Newcastle, though it lifted her high in political circles, cut little ice with the nobility.
Since Jemmy’s death, because of the period of mourning, nothing much had changed about the house. Mary had been, perforce, biding her time. Normal routines continued, except that where Jemima had assisted Jemmy in his duties as Master, she now performed them alone, with the aid of Clement, the steward, Cradoc, the bailiff, and Harvey, the agent. Father Andrews still cast the accounts and kept the coffers, making his report to Jemima. Fortunately there had not yet been any major decisions to be made, for it was a delicate point who would have been asked to make them.
Jemima was extremely glad, as they began their second circuit of the gardens, to be approached by Mrs Micklethwaite, who had been Miss Pobgee, the lawyer’s daughter and once beloved of her brother Thomas. Jemima liked Mrs Micklethwaite very much, and as she had married the son of Sir George and Lady Micklethwaite, and was accompanied by her parents-in-law, whose acquaintance Lady Mary acknowledged, Jemima was able to walk and talk with her friend while her mother talked to the older people. Sir George was a magistrate and a member of parliament as well as a knight, which redeemed him from being too vulgar for Lady Mary’s acquaintance, and as he and his wife were quite willing and ready to acknowledge Lady Mary’s superiority in every department, of birth, breeding, and consequence, she was even able to find them acceptable company. Talk at once veered to political matters, in which Lady Mary could enjoy all the consequence of a superior right of understanding; and as Mr Micklethwaite was loitering somewhere else in the gardens with his friends, Jemima and Sally Micklethwaite had soon linked arms and outstripped the others, and were having a comfortable chat.
Jemima could hardly have been more eager to hear the latest gossip than Sally to impart it.
‘We have been shut away, you must remember, with none but relatives visiting,’ she said when Sally expressed surprise at her ignorance of the details of Miss Hatter’s elopement. ‘Only my cousin Frederick has come recently, and he from Oxford, and with nothing but his own affairs to impart.’
‘I doubt whether he would want to impart those in your mother’s presence,’ Sally said slyly. ‘He has not been idle since he got home. Have you not heard that he is courting the Atkinson girls, and not even they can tell which amongst them he really favours.’
‘I can tell you the answer to that one – it is none of them,’ Jemima said. ‘Frederick prefers to do his courting in the military style, by platoons. He thinks it is safer so.’
‘Well it may be – he can hardly be accused of compromising one of them, if they are always all three present.’
‘Surely their mother …?’
‘Oh certainly she remains in the room, but she is so deaf and short-sighted that it hardly counts as being chaperoned. Well, and what do you think of the news at Shawes?’
Jemima shook her head. ‘I cannot tell you. I have heard nothing about Shawes. As far as I know it is empty.’
Mrs Micklethwaite raised her eyebrows. ‘Well! I made sure you would have known that at least. Shawes is to be opened up again. The caretaker was in town last week hiring women-servants and ordering food and candles, but all the men-servants are to be brought down from London. We are all so looking forward to a little gaiety with Shawes opened again. The Earl will have all the London fashions to shew off, and his guests will certainly be people of fashion.’
‘The Earl?’
‘Why yes, the Earl of Chelmsford is coming to live at Shawes again, it is to be hoped for the whole summer. I cannot think he would open up the house for less. It was thought he was going to let it, and we have all been looking forward to a tenant, perhaps a rich young man in need of a wife, but this is even better. I cannot tell you, my dear, how excited the mothers of York have been at the prospect of an unmarried Earl from London living on their doorsteps. The moment he is known to have arrived they will be calling on him by dozens! Is not he a relative of yours?’
The question could hardly have been ingenuous, but Jemima treated it as such.
‘A distant cousin, nothing more. The connection is very far back.’
‘Well, but as your nearest neighbour, I am sure your mother will be calling, or rather one of your uncles.’
‘Perhaps. My mother does not go out much, you know. She has never been fond of society. But tell me, did you not go to Harrogate last month? I have often wondered what it is like to take the waters. Do tell me all about it.’
Mrs Micklethwaite suffered the conversation to be redirected, though not without a thoughtful look. Jemima decided not to mention the matter to her mother, and wondered what could have brought the Earl to Yorkshire at a time when people of fashion were still in London: even those gent
lemen accustomed to spending the summer on their estates did not usually go into the country before June, and this particular gentleman had never shewn any desire before to be anywhere but London.
York’s curiosity was not suffered to be stretched for long, however, for the Earl appeared at the evening service at the Minster, having arrived that very morning. It was thought to be a great compliment to society that he had made a public appearance so soon, and there was immediate extravagant talk of the balls and suppers he was intending to give, and what a gay summer York was going to have of it. There was no doubt that he would be a valuable addition, for he appeared in the very best of fashion, and smiled affably as he left the Minster, loitering outside as if he had no objection in the world to being approached. There was much less standing around and chatting after evening service but all the same Jemima heard enough to know he was thought extremely handsome, in need of a wife, the most charming man in the world, and come to Yorkshire for the racing.
‘He will certainly be calling on you, Miss Morland,’ one young man said slyly. ‘I hope you have some good colts to shew him, for he is sure to want to race a few horses of his own. He spends a fortune at Newmarket every year.’
It was a new thought to ponder, and at least provided some sort of reason for his presence, albeit a slender one. Jemima caught her mother’s frown and hastened to join her to walk out of the Minster, where they were at once approached by the Earl himself, who gave the most respectful bow to Lady Mary, and begged to be allowed the favour of calling upon her the following day.
Lady Mary was gracious, and Jemima could see she was pleased. If he had been anyone else, she would have been furious at his impertinence in suggesting to everyone that he was an old acquaintance, but as he was the man everyone was talking about, and an Earl, it was rather flattering than otherwise to be thus distinguished. He made another bow, repeated more formally in Jemima’s direction, and she responded with the slightest inclination of her upper body. In the carriage on the way home, Augusta chirruped and fluttered like a little bird about the handsome Earl and how he had approached them and no one else in such an intimate way. Social memories were short, Jemima reflected, shutting her mind to the chattering effusions; and in any case, Augusta had two daughters without dowries.
The Earl made his formal visit, and followed it up with another, and another, and then, in the most correct form, gave a ball, preceded by a dinner to which the best of York society was invited. As there were to be thirty at table, of whom seven would be Morlands, the compliment was very pronounced. Jemima was puzzled by it all, for the Earl seemed a different person. He dressed in the height of fashion, but with a restraint that made him acceptable to all the stuffier elements; his manners were impeccable, a nice mixture of graciousness, propriety, and affability. Had he been a famous actor asked to perform the part of a great nobleman who was free of all pride and hauteur, he would have behaved in exactly that way.
Lady Mary seemed curiously excited by the invitation, and insisted that Jemima should have a new dress for it, though she had two which would have done admirably. ‘I shall not be able to dance, Mother, remember that. And I cannot be too fine, it would not be proper.’
‘I do not think you need to tell me what is proper, Jemima,’ Lady Mary said coldly. ‘If the Earl is intending to entertain, there will be many occasions on which you can wear the new dress, and the two you mentioned are too close to undress to be complimentary to the occasion.’
Mildly puzzled, Jemima allowed herself to be fitted with a new sack. It was exquisite, more delicate than anything she had worn before. It was of dark grey lutestring, open both in bodice and skirt, with a wide stomacher and matching petticoat. The sleeves had treble ruffles of silver lace, which matched the handkerchief and ruff – ruffs were the coming thing, and convenient at a time when mourning made jewellery inappropriate – and the stomacher and robings were decorated with serpentine ruchings with trimmed edges, also of silver lace. It was a beautiful dress, one which Jemima would have been happy to wear at any time, though it would have been impossible for anyone to have pointed to it as improper for half-mourning. A small cap with violet ribbons completed the effect, and Jemima had to admit that her mother was extremely clever.
The ball was enormously well-attended, as was to be expected, and it was plain that the dressmakers of York had had a wonderful time of it in the past fortnight. There was so much and such relentless fashion being paraded in the room that Jemima was actually glad that mourning had prevented her from being obliged to compete. As it was, when she entered the room there was a small and resentful silence that she should have appeared, even in mourning, so absolutely fashionable and so very elegant. A half glance sideways revealed to Jemima that her mother was smiling complacently as she accompanied Jemima to their seats.
The Earl danced with all the principal young ladies of York that evening, and the occasion was a great success, certain to be written up in glowing terms in many a journal; but he distinguished Jemima by sitting out with her during the two first after supper which, for a man who ought to be dancing every dance, was a compliment indeed. Jemima was again puzzled by him. He chatted to her and her mother easily all through the dances, and his conversation was witty and amusing, but not scandalous. His manners also were gentle and attentive, and she could see that her mother was affected by it: at one point she even laughed.
The ball was inevitably followed by others, and as spring turned into summer, Jemima found herself leading a gayer and more social life than she had ever anticipated. Race-week was an extraordinarily jolly one, and Lady Mary, who had not attended a race for years, was in the grandstand every day, and even learnt the names of the Morland horses. Jemima was in a difficult position that week, for as Jemmy’s replacement she ought to have been in the paddock and amongst the breeders and owners, but as a lady, and a lady still in mourning, she had to be more retiring. She compromised by employing Pask as her go-between, and by dressing in a rather severe grey riding habit. The two colts she had highest hopes of did well, and she sold one immediately after the race at a good profit. The other she was keeping to put to stud, something which was very difficult to explain without using language which would have been indelicate in a lady in mourning.
And everywhere, there was the Earl. It was impossible any longer to deny that he was distinguishing Jemima: at balls and dinners he sat by her and talked to her, at the races he was always near at hand, asking her opinion, placing her bets for her, applauding her good fortune and mourning her bad. He behaved exactly as York wished him to, enjoyed everything, accepted almost all invitations, lost a large amount of money on the horses with a gracious laugh, danced with all the daughters of York at all the assemblies of York; but by the end of race week there could not have been anyone who did not consider Miss Morland his first object.
Lady Mary was confused. She knew she ought to have nothing to do with this man, who had killed hor sons; she knew him to be a reprobate, suspected him of being vicious. Yet he was not only an Earl, but The Earl, York’s darling, and his manners and behaviour were so impeccable that she even found herself liking him. Could it be that time had changed him? Could he have come to repent his former recklessness? Was he, even now, trying to make up to her for the harm he had done her? He never mentioned the past, yet she felt she detected a tenderness and solicitude towards her which suggested he thought about it. It was also balm to her pride, wounded over so many years of being neglected by Jemmy: he made her comfort his first concern in public.
And she had no doubt that he was also paying attention to Jemima in a particular way. It was this consideration which finally cleared her confusion: here was the husband she had sought for her daughter. It was a match to reflect credit on her and on the family, it would bring Jemima a title; the only danger was that it was too good a match, would not make Jemima unhappy enough. But at the back of her mind was the lingering doubt, the memory of what she had thought him to be. If there were a shadow on his c
haracter, he might make Jemima very unhappy indeed.
Jemima was married to the Earl of Chelmsford in October, two weeks after her mourning ended. The marriage took place in the Minster, which made Jemima a little uneasy, for it meant she was the first Morland heir to be married other than in the chapel at Morland Place, which she felt was almost ominous. Apart from that, she was not unhappy, only a little dazed, for things seemed to have happened so fast and so confusingly. It was after the races that Rupert, as she must now call him, had begun to pay serious court to her, visiting Morland Place more frequently and more informally until he was coming and going almost like one of the family. He identified himself with her interests, discussed the farming and the cloth-making intelligently, read the books she was reading and sang the songs she played on the harpsichord. He rode out with her when she went round the estate, providing her with a welcome companion and escort, and gave her some sound advice about investments.
He had become so popular with her mother as to lift the cloud of odium from Jemima by association. Her uneasiness about his character had faded until she forgot about it, for in the months he had been in Yorkshire, he had behaved so perfectly that she had to think she had been mistaken before, or that he had changed radically. No one could keep up a perfect pretence month after month, she told herself. Most of all, he had made himself indispensable to her. Since her father had died, she had had no one with whom she could converse sympathetically, as an equal; except for Allen, she had never had a companion before who was so interesting, so kind, so conversable, so understanding. Her life had always been lonely; now at last she had a friend.
When he finally declared himself, it was in the most proper manner. Her personal charms and merits he said, had rendered him so in love with her that he could not conceive of any happiness for him in the future unless it were with her by his side. He loved her almost to distraction; he begged her to allow him to speak to her mother for her hand. Jemima asked for time to consider, and in the most delicate way he consented and changed the subject, not pressing her for an answer. It was this which finally convinced her. Had he been in any way designing, he would not have been so patient, so unconcerned by her apparent hesitation.
Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty) Page 36