She did consult a lawyer, secretly, about the marriage contract, and was told that what Rupert said was right. If Rupert died before her, and they were childless, her own property, the tide, and the Chelmsford inheritance would go to his brother Charles and his children, though she would have the right to the title of Countess dowager. When he is dead, she thought to herself fiercely, I shall never use his title.
She was puzzled at his evident desire for the outwards trappings of respectability. Though he was not prepared to give up his vices, he seemed to want to carry them on with a certain amount of discretion, and to be received in the best places and at Court as a respectable married man with a beautiful and charming wife. She considered refusing to play the part, but he had too much power over her, and he had told her again that her being allowed to go home depended on her pleasing him. So she appeared with him in public, both of them beautifully dressed, and though she could not pretend to like him – she was not a skilled actor like him – she treated him civilly, and never let anyone see her true feelings about him. He, in public, treated her respectfully and attentively, though he did not try to pretend the warmth and gentleness he had shewn her in Yorkshire, and few people could have thought she had any grounds for complaint. He allowed her no money, but denied her nothing in the way of comforts and clothes, though he still shewed a desire to sell her family jewels. But she persuaded him to sell other things first, and hoped that it would not become necessary.
Her life in London would have been a happy one, if it had not been for her loneliness. There was a continuous round of public and private engagements, and when they were not being seen together, Rupert left her in peace. She often sat in the garden under the cherry tree when she was alone, and thought about her childhood, and about Allen, whose image was never far from her mind. His kindness, compared with Rupert’s cruelty, seemed a golden and distant thing, like a vision of Paradise, granted once and snatched away.
They were a strange two years in other ways. In March, shortly after their arrival in London, Frederick, Prince of Wales, died, and King George ordered six months’ public mourning, which meant slight mourning on informal occasions and full mourning for public and Court appearances. Jemima found it odd to be back in mourning, after such a brief respite, and for a man she had never known nor ever seen in her life. Rupert was evidently affected by the Prince’s death – he had been one of ‘poor Fred’s’ Patriot Boys since the early days, and had shared many a debauch with him. The Princess of Wales, Augusta, was pregnant when her husband died, and in July gave birth to a posthumous daughter, which gained her great public sympathy: it was her ninth child, all surviving. And hardly were they out of mourning for Poor Fred than they were back into it for his sister, the Queen of Denmark, who died in December 1751.
Apart from the royal death, the talk in December was all about Lord Chesterfield’s plan to change the calendar. England and Russia used the Julian calendar, while the rest of Europe used the Gregorian, and on official papers both dates had to be recorded. Now there was an Act before Parliament to say that the new year was to start on 1 January, instead of 25 March, Lady-day, as it had from time immemorial, and after 31 December 1751 the next day was to be called 1 January 1752, not 1751. It caused enormous confusion, and even more enormous resentment, amongst the people. In vain did the government point out the convenience of having the same system as the rest of Europe: still the pamphlets raged about the ungodly tampering with ancient law, and still the people said they didn’t want to be like the rest of Europe. They were English, and English ways were good enough for them, and if the rest of Europe wanted to be the same they could change to English ways. It was widely called a Popish plot, the first stage of a ploy to place England under French sovereignty, and they were convinced that England was done for.
Later that year there was even more confusion when the second stage of the Act came into force. The Julian calendar had been eleven days behind the Gregorian, and so it was necessary to advance the date to catch up. Thus the day after 2 September was to be called 14 September, the eleven days in between being dropped, and at that there was open rioting in the streets, and people marched on Parliament with banners crying ‘Give us back our eleven days!’ They had lost eleven days of their lives; they were eleven days nearer the grave; they were horrified and outraged.
Only two days after the new 14 September, Jemima learned that the other Prince of Wales, Prince Charles, the Young Chevalier, had landed in England: not this time to lead a rebellion, but to visit friends in London and to convert from Roman Catholicism to the Church of England, which he felt was the best way to aid his plans to regain his father’s throne. It was an extraordinary thing to do, and the public reaction to it was even more extraordinary. Everyone knew he was in London – he was staying at Essex House, just off the Strand, with Lady Primrose, widow of a Jacobite who had been executed at Carlisle in ’46 – but nothing was done to arrest him. The Court, the King, the government, simply ignored the fact, even though he was walking quite openly about London, seeing the sights – for it was his first visit to his father’s capital. He was received into the Church of England at St Mary-le-Strand a week later, and afterwards a dinner was given for him in the house next door to Chelmsford House by the Duke of Beaufort and the Earl of Westmorland. Jemima and Rupert were invited, partly, she thought, because they were neighbours, but mostly because Rupert’s father had helped the Prince in the ’45.
‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ Rupert said as they prepared to leave for the dinner. ‘I’m being asked to honour the man for whom my inheritance was sold. But for him and his attempt, I would have inherited a handsome property, and I should never had had to marry you, and you would never have had to part with your estate. I hope this dinner does not choke us.’
‘But if it hadn’t been for him, Lady Strathord wouldn’t have died, and then you wouldn’t have inherited anything. She might have had children herself, and then you would only have inherited the tide and Chelmsford House.’
‘True,’ he said. ‘In that case I shall eat all I can.’
Thus it was that Jemima met Prince Charles, the Young Chevalier, something she could have looked forward to telling her children about one day, if she had been able to anticipate ever having any. He was tall, very handsome, with brown eyes, wearing a blond wig which, it was said, matched his own hair. He looked faintly familiar, but she could not quite think who it was he resembled. Perhaps one simply grew up knowing what a Prince looked like. His manners were charming and courteous, and he made himself very pleasant to Jemima, but she found him cold. She was amused that before the evening was out he was making up to Rupert in the hopes of borrowing money from him, and indeed Rupert did look as though he was very rich, and he was Maurice Morland’s son. The Prince’s money-problems were very pressing, Jemima had heard, but she did not think he had the least chance in the world of getting money out of Rupert.
She did manage to ask him in the course of the evening if he had any news of Allen Macallan, and the Prince said that as far as he knew he was still serving with the Royal Ecossais.
‘I do not, as you know, go to France any more, and so I have no closer news of him. But he must be happy, must he not, madame, or he would come home?’
‘Come home?’ Jemima stammered, staring at him. ‘How could he come home?’
The Prince raised his eyebrows. ‘There has been a general amnesty, surely you knew that? It does not, of course,’ he added, shewing his teeth in a grin that was part ironic, ‘extend to me.’
‘Perhaps he does not know about it,’ Jemima said. She could not believe that he would stay in France, if he could come home. ‘Perhaps I should write to him. I wonder—’
The Prince bowed to her. ‘If you wish to write, madame, I may be of service to you in sending the letter. I have communications with some ladies in Paris, loyal ladies, who would pass the letter on for you.’
She wrote that evening, telling Allen about the amnesty, about her marriage,
and adding that there was a home for him at Morland Place, even though she herself was not living there at present. She gave the letter to Jane to take round to Lady Primrose’s, for she could not trust anyone else. A few days later, the Prince left for Antwerp.
For a time Jemima lived in hope. Surely he would come back – and if Allen were in England, she would have a friend. Even if she could never see him or speak to him, the knowledge that he was there would comfort her. She thought she could persuade Rupert to let him stay at Morland Place, since he knew more about running the estate than anyone, and would be of the first usefulness. But he did not come, nor reply, and she had no way of knowing if the letter had reached him, so after a while she let the hope quietly die.
In the March of 1753 she asked Rupert if she could go home.
‘I have done everything you asked,’ she said.
‘True,’ he said, ‘but you are useful to me here. I need you to come to Court functions with me.’
‘I can be more useful to you at home,’ she said persuasively. ‘You need a good, steady income, and Morland Place can be run more efficiently with its mistress there than it ever can through hirelings. You know that is true. I am needed more at Morland Place than I am here.’
Still he hesitated, and finally she said, ‘Let me just go home for the summer. I find the summers in London trying, and my health is suffering.’
Finally he agreed. ‘You can go at the end of April. I need you until then – there’s the birthday ball, for one thing, and that party at the Warwicks’ – but you can go home for the summer, and to check that everything is all right, and I shall even join you later on, perhaps in July. You are right about London being trying in the heat, and I have a fancy for some country air and some good racing. Yes, a happy thought of yours. I shall have the summer months on my country estate!’
He evidently liked the sound of the words, and could already hear himself saying them to his friends. Jemima’s heart sank a little – she had not wanted him to come with her when she asked to go home – but nothing could quite extinguish the joy at the thought of seeing Morland Place again. On the last day of April, in spite of the most inclement weather, she set off, her heart lifting with every mile she travelled northwards.
*
Her mother seemed somehow smaller than she remembered; grim, but not so frightening. She and Father Andrews seemed, in the confused memories of that homecoming, always to be standing together, side-by-side and silent; oddly faded, as if the strength of their colours had bled away in the darkness of their oblivion in Jemima’s mind. The people who were vivid were dear Risk, and Clement, whom she greeted with real affection.
Uncle George was pleased to see her too, and his watery old eyes grew more watery still as he attempted to lower his bulk into a bow over her hand. Robert and his sons were not there, and Edmund was from home, but Augusta and the girls welcomed her with mild enthusiasm. Young Augusta was eager to boast about her betrothal to a cornet of horse, and Jemima listened gravely and then congratulated her cordially.
‘I hope you will be very happy,’ she said, and added in her heart, happier than I am. The odd thing was that no one knew she was unhappy. Pask, of course, had not revealed anything of the true state of affairs, and for everyone at Morland Place, the Rupert they had seen that summer was the only one, and they still thought her lucky to have married a man who was not only rich and tided, but handsome, kind and pleasant into the bargain. Her mother, indeed, was sourly convinced of Jemima’s good fortune, which she equated with her luck in becoming her father’s sole heir against all the odds; her only relief was that there was evidently no sign of a child coming. Perhaps Jemima’s perfect fortune would fail her in that one respect, at least.
As soon as she decently could, Jemima escaped to the stables, where William, the groom, had Jewel waiting for her, groomed so that he shone like black glass.
‘He’s been turned out since you went away, m’lady,’ William said, ‘but as soon as I heard you was coming home, I fetched him up, and I’ve been working on him every day since then.’
‘I can see that you have,’ Jemima said warmly as her horse investigated her hands and pockets with his soft, enquiring lips. ‘He looks wonderful.’
‘You might find him a bit fresh, m’lady, after so long turned out, but you should manage him all right, you being such a fine horsewoman, if you’ll excuse me saying so, m’lady.’
In a very short time, she had had him saddled, and with Pask to accompany her, she rode out to look at her country. They ranged far afield, galloped the fret out of the horses’ feet and their own minds, and then walked and trotted more quietly back towards the house. At the top of the last rise Jemima drew rein, and they both sat for a while looking down towards the house.
‘It looks so timeless,’ Jemima said, ‘as if it grew up out of the ground. It is hard to believe that men built it, that there was a time when there was nothing here but green fields.’ Jewel sneezed, and thrust his head down to rub his muzzle against his knee. The clink of his bit was a sound that blended so naturally to her ear with the sound of the wind in the grass, a distant dog barking, a lark shrilling far, far up in the blue heaven, a collar-dove cooing throatily in the chestnut tree behind them, a bee working somewhere near Jewel’s feet. In the stifling London nights she had been able to close her eyes and conjure effortlessly the sounds of her own place; and the smells – the warm, chalky smell of earth, the ripe greenness of grass and trees, the sweetness of horses, the tang of sheep, the thousand different delicacies of flowers; the smell of apples in autumn, and woodsmoke, and cooking blackberries. The pleasures of London were many, and exciting, but what could compare with the pleasure of eating a plum warm from your own tree, or throwing a stone into your own moat and watching the silvery ripples spread and rock the exotic gold-and-white boats of the waterlilies?
‘It is so hard to believe that it is not mine any more,’ she said at last. ‘I love it so – surely that ought to count for something? Surely—’ Pask gave her a swift look of sympathy, and she could not go on, for fear of being disloyal. That her home should be drained, perhaps even destroyed, to finance his luxury, his vice, that it should be drunk away and gambled away by a man who cared nothing for it, seemed so hard that she could have cried out with frustration. ‘Oh Papa,’ she said aloud. Why had he died when he did, leaving her helpless? Pask bit his lip. He had been servant to her father and her grandfather, and whatever their faults as men, as husbands, as fathers, they had loved Morland Place, they had been its servant as well as its master, and faithful to it.
‘All I can do, is endure,’ Jemima said. She was like someone marooned on a rock, waiting to be rescued – but there would be no rescue. A maiden, marooned on a rock – the mermaid should be my badge, she thought with bitter irony. Pask longed to comfort her, and dared to offer what blinked on an impious remark.
‘They say that people who live – irregular lives, don’t live long.’
Jemima met his eyes, and he blushed. ‘But then it will all pass to his brother,’ she said.
After a silence he said, ‘I never heard any ill of Mr Charles, my lady,’
‘No,’ Jemima sighed. ‘At least he will be a Morland.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In 1760 King George II died. His death was as bizarre and horrible as his wife’s had been, for he collapsed of a stroke one morning while straining in his water-closet. In his will he ordered that his body should be buried next to that of his wife, and that one side of each coffin should be removed, so that his remains would mingle with hers in death. She had died twenty-three years ago, but he had never stopped loving her which, Jemima thought, was the best, the only good thing you could say of him.
He was succeeded by his grandson George, who was twenty-two, and had lived a life of such retirement that nothing was known about him, either good or bad. There was no question about the succession: the Jacobite cause was lost for ever. King James still lived in Rome, Prince Charles still wand
ered round Europe in search of a pension or an army, and Prince Henry had entered the church and was a well-loved and well-respected cardinal. Neither Prince had any legitimate offspring: the sad and unlucky Stuart line would end with them.
The past few years had been lucky for England, for Mr Pitt was now at the peak of his career, and his forcefulness counterbalanced Newcastle’s wavering. The name of Morland had had its share of the glories. William had been at Quebec with General Wolfe when the resounding defeat of the French had settled Canada’s fate. The richest of the French sugar islands, Guadeloupe, which was also a rendezvous for French privateers, fell to the West India fleet, in which Thomas was still serving, a captain of twenty-five years’ seniority now, and close to the top of the list: it would not be long before he hoisted his flag as an admiral. Even Edmund, lazy, cowardly Edmund, had found his glory at last: he had fallen at Minden in 1759, when the army’s victory over the French had wiped out the memory of the defeat at Fontenoy back in ‘45.
Both of his daughters were married, young Augusta to her cornet, John Akroyd, in 17359 and Caroline, shortly before her father’s death in 1759, to a distant cousin, Captain Ernest Pratt, a more senior officer than young Augusta’s husband, which caused a coolness between the sisters. Their widowed mother divided her time between the two households, but infinitely preferred Mrs Pratt’s boasting to Mrs Akroyd’s complaining. She mourned her husband sincerely, and comforted herself with the knowledge that he and his children, though not inheriting Morland Place, had at least done better than Robert and his children.
Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty) Page 39