*
Passage up the coast was slow, and in New York Charles found it so difficult to get a passage to England that it was December before he was on board a merchant ship bound for Liverpool. The boxes he had sent on ahead were in the hold, for he had found them held up in New York harbour because of a shipping-clerk's error. Angry though he was at their delay, he was not sorry to have the precious things under his own eye again.
The merchantman was old, slow and unwieldy, and made no speed when the wind was not astern, and Charles was not surprised one day in the middle of December to see that they were being rapidly overhauled by a small cutter, which clung to the wind like a limpet. She came up alongside, and trimmed her sails to keep pace with the merchantman for a while, while her captain, a young, dark, active man, wearing gold earrings like a gypsy, came aboard to talk to the master of the bigger ship. Charles watched with interest from the taffrail, until the young captain reappeared upon his own deck and the graceful little cutter shook herself loose from restraint, leaned again to the wind and sped away.
Within minutes the talk was all over the ship, and a seaman found Charles with the express desire of having someone to whom to tell the amazing news. The cutter had come out of Boston, where there had been trouble over the East India Company's tea, and serious violence barely avoided. Three Company ships loaded with tea had come into Boston at the end of November, ready to undersell the smugglers and provide cheap drink for the colonists. But some radicals feared that the Company was being given a monopoly in order to destroy trade and subjugate the colonists. The Town Committee had refused to allow the tea to land, while the Governor of Boston had refused to allow the ships to depart.
‘You see, sir,' the sailor said, 'the duty has to be paid within twenty days of arrival in port, or the goods must be seized. Now if the Governor was to seize the goods, he'd have to land them, which the Town wasn't going to allow, nohow. The Governor had troops, not far off at Castle William, and the townsfolk had arms, all ready for the militia, and there looked like to be a terrible bloodshed over it. Then on the nineteenth day, a great party of men, dressed up as Indians, to disguise them, like, boarded the ships, and broke open the holds, and tipped the tea over the side. The captain of that cutter, sir, he's on his way to England to tell about it. There'll be a terrible to-do, you mark my words. Worth twenty thousand pound, he reckons, that tea was.’
By the time the slow old ship had made her journey to Liverpool, the news of the Boston 'tea party', as it was being called, was all over England, and was a matter of wonder and outrage. Other news had already reached England, too, of similar incidents up and down the coast, where tea was refused landing, and sometimes destroyed. From the dock hands Charles learnt of tea being tipped into the harbour at New York, into the river at Charleston, and burnt in Maryland to the strains of a rebel song called the 'Tea Deum'. He thought, anxiously, of York Plantation.
‘There'll be trouble over this,' everyone said. 'This won't be the last of it. Those colonists will have to be taught a lesson.’
The words 'trouble' and 'Eugenie' attained an unpleasant proximity in his mind as he travelled, just before Christmas, across England to Morland Place, and he wished, more than once, that he had not so stubbornly refused to stay in Maryland.
CHAPTER THREE
November had been a miserable month at Morland Place, for Thomas was recalled to London, throwing Flora into despair, and William came down with the measles. Allen did his best to comfort Jemima who, though she had nursed more sick horses than she could remember, was completely unnerved by the illness of her children. He told her that it was certainly not smallpox, of which he had had enough experience both at home and abroad to be sure; that the measles were rarely fatal, that strong and healthy children shook them off with no ill effects.
‘But William is not strong, he has never been strong,' she cried. Allen took her hands.
‘He may look frail, my darling, but just think - he has lived to be ten, through every illness known to childhood, so there must be some kind of inner strength to him.' As an attempt at lightness it failed, for whatever Allen might say, he was deeply worried himself. William was very sick, and for three days the household moved about on tiptoe and spoke in hushed voices while his temperature climbed and climbed. Father Ramsay made a special intention for him, and the chapel was haunted at all hours of the day by members of the family and servants slipping in to pray for the 'poor little boy'. Only Alison remained robustly unmoved by fears, declaring that if it did not get to his ears or lungs, and did not make him blind, she dared say he would be none the worse for it in a month's time. But even she was seen to dab her eyes with the corner of her apron when his fever finally broke.
Though cross and crotchety in her ways, Alison was a fine doctor, having been brought up amongst sheep people, and having a great deal of common sense. She rubbed William's chest with goose grease, and bound it with raw sheep's wool, to protect his lungs, and gave him marshmallow tea and heather honey to ease the cough which was the most wearying thing about the disease. Jemima's favourite rosemary water she discarded with a sniff for a nauseous brew of willow bark for the headache, cinchona bark and hyssop for the fever, and camomile and strawberry for the rash. When the fever went down and he was able to eat again, she fed him on barley bread seethed in ewe's milk, which she considered more wholesome than cow's milk.
‘She said,' Allen reported with a smile to Jemima, who had been forbidden the sickroom, 'that though she could not stop us drinking cow's milk, she was perfectly sure no child in her nursery was going to drink it.'
‘How is it she lets you in so readily?' Jemima complained, and Allen looked smug.
‘Oh, she thinks I have a "deal of sense" and that if God had fashioned me on a more rational plan, I'd have made an excellent mother. But William is so much better she will let you in to see him tomorrow, if you promise not to excite him. Thank God ideas have changed since my childhood. Truly terrible things used to be done to the sick, in the ignorant belief they were cures.’
No sooner was William pronounced out of danger than Charlotte and Mary both became sick. Mary had it so lightly that she did not even feel ill, but she made a bad patient, fretting all the time that she would be marred for life, and demanding that Charlotte should be nursed separately from her. Charlotte's attack went to her ears, and though she bore the pain with astonishing stoicism, barely whimpering, she cried dreadfully at being parted from William.
But December brought better things. Sickness left the house, and Thomas returned, with the news that there were delays in the building of Ariadne, and that he was not wanted in London again until January. Even then, he said, she would have to be fitted out and manned, and then there would be trial sailings. He should be able to be in London tolerably often, and probably would not receive his orders until mid-February.
Flora's brother Angus arrived at Morland Place from Edinburgh for Christmas, and on the same day a footman brought a note over from Shawes, which was at that time let to Sir John Fussell, his wife Marjorie, and their five children.
‘Well, here's something that will add to our pleasure this Christmas,' Allen said as he read the note. The family was gathered around him in the drawing room, where they had been listening to Angus's tales of undergraduate life in Edinburgh, and all looked at him expectantly. 'Mary, here will be excitement enough even for you. My dear,' to Jemima, 'it seems your brother and his family are all come to stay at Shawes for the Christmas period.'
‘I did not know they were so intimate,' Jemima said. Allen shrugged.
‘I dare say they are not. But all the great families go into the country at Christmas, and since Charles has still not bought himself a country estate to replace this one, he must either stay in London - which would be intolerable - or depend upon an invitation. They have arrived today.'
‘Well, it was very courteous of them to let us know,' Jemima said.
‘Ah, but that is not all - the exciting part is stil
l to come,' Allen said, smiling round at his family. 'They are to give a grand ball on St Stephen's Day to which we are all invited, in return for allowing them to join our hunting parties.'
‘I am sure he could not have said anything so improper,' Jemima smiled.
‘Oh no - from what little I know of Sir John Fussell, he is incapable of impropriety. It is very properly worded, but the meaning is clear enough. He speaks regretfully of the fact that Shawes has no estate attached, and therefore no hunting, and of the splendid hunting to be had on our estate, and then goes on quite innocently to mention the ball. We could not be so indelicate as to ignore such a cri de coeur, could we, my darling?'
‘But Papa, Papa—' Mary was almost jumping up and down in her anxiety. Allen took pity on her.
‘Yes, little one, you are invited to take tea with the Fussell children, and to watch the opening of the ball from the gallery. That, I imagine, is to remind us that the little Fussells will want to hunt as well,' he added to Jemima. ‘Well now, how shall I reply to this? Do you think I ought to refuse their kind invitation? To be sure, we hardly know them.’
There was a chorus of agonized pleas from the younger ones, and Jemima, joining gravely in the fun, said that the presence of the Chelmsfords would naturally increase their intimacy, and advised him solemnly to accept.
*
The sudden return of Flora's brother Charles on the day before Christmas Eve brought more excitement, and great joy to Flora, for, once he had unpacked his specimens, mourned over those damaged beyond hope, and satisfied himself that the others were being properly cared for, he readily granted her permission to marry their cousin Thomas. And when pressed a little further, he even saw the necessity for an immediate marriage, so that Flora could be with Thomas in London for the last six weeks before he went to sea.
‘But won't you mind not having the grand wedding you must always have dreamed of?' he asked her. 'There will be too little time for anything but a quiet ceremony and private dinner.'
‘I don't care,' Flora said rapturously. 'I want to marry Thomas - I don't care about the wedding.’
So Christmas passed in its accustomed way, but with the added happiness of Flora's approaching wedding, and the added interest of the families from Shawes. On Christmas Eve, Allen and Jemima gave a dinner party for the adult members of the families: Flora and Thomas, Charles and Angus, Sir John and Lady Marjorie, Lord and Lady Chelmsford, and Chelmsford's son from his first marriage, Lord Meldon, back from his first term at Oxford. Jemima was sorry to see a certain amount of uneasiness, even hostility, between her brother-in-law and his son, and during the course of the evening traced it to its source -Meldon resented the second wife and the new family, felt he was being neglected by his father. And indeed, judging by how often Chelmsford mentioned his wife and their children, who were, it seemed, more clever and handsome than any other two children who ever lived, Jemima could hardly blame him. She placed him opposite Angus at dinner, as they were more or less of an age and both in their first year at university, and made a point of talking to him herself during the evening, to make sure he knew he was welcome.
Christmas Day was always busy at Morland Place, being not only a day of Holy Obligation, but quarter-day too. They rose early for first Mass, then, having broken their fast, rode or drove into the city for the morning service at the Minster. Then they came back to Morland Place to receive the tenants, collect the rents, pay the servants' wages, and hand out spiced wine and cake to all. Then came dinner, featuring the Christmas goose, well stuffed with apples, sage and onions. Dinner lasted from four until six, when it was time to repair to the chapel again for sung Mass, which many of the tenants and villagers traditionally attended. By the time they had been wished well and sent on their way, there were but two hours left of the day in which to gather round the fire or the harpsichord and sing the traditional Christmas songs.
On St Stephen's Day, first Mass was even earlier, for there had to be time enough to eat and dress before the traditional hunt. The whole party from Shawes came over, and everyone at Morland Place was hunting - even Mary, who preferred her horses as near stationary as possible, was going out rather than miss the illustrious company. There was such a crowd, and so many of them on doubtful looking hirelings, that Jemima was afraid Poppy would get kicked in the crush in the courtyard, and decreed that the meet should take place outside, and ordered the food and drink be carried across the drawbridge and set up on trestles. There was mulled wine and plum brandy for the hunting folk, and jugs of mulled ale for those who had come to watch or follow on foot, and Abram's irresistible mincemeat pies for all.
Jemima, walking Poppy about, for she was too excited to stand still, watched the scene with interest - it was always the best part of Christmas for her. Best of all, there was Allen on his black mare, looking a well-schooled rather than a natural horseman, but master of his own hunt again after so many years. His eye met hers whenever she looked at him, however many people were between them, and they exchanged smiles of perfect accord. There was Flora, looking exquisite, talking to young Lord Meldon, who rode one of his two hunters, brought with him from Oxford, a wicked-looking chestnut with a dangerous eye. The other he had lent to Angus, which seemed a kind gesture, had Jemima not suspected he did it mostly to avoid having to lend it to his father. It was a bay of equally uncompromising aspect, and Angus, who was no horseman, looked as if he wished he was mounted on one of the cobs, like his brother Charles.
Lord and Lady Chelmsford were both mounted on hirelings, and Jemima got her first sight of their younger children. Eight-year-old Sophia, plump and pale with surprising yellow ringlets, was on a fat grey pony which slept determinedly through all the excitement, its leading rein in the hands of a groom, who grasped it as though it were likely to take off at full gallop at any moment. Her brother, Horatio, who was ten, was on a hireling horse too big for him, which he had been cantering about so continuously that it was already sweating and rolling its eyes. This, Jemima guessed, was mainly for the benefit of Mary, who, demure and dainty on her pony, was already surrounded by a group of swains, including John Anstey and Edward, all vying to bring her refreshments and offering to show her the best line when hounds ran.
A movement beside her made her turn her head, and there was Charlotte, with William just behind, looking neat and horsemanlike on her pony.
‘Such a lot of nonsense,' Charlotte snorted, watching the crowd round Mary. 'If they hang around her, they'll miss the hunt, for Mary never went out of a trot in her life. I know exactly what she'll do. She'll ride to the first covert, follow at the back of the field until we come to the first jump, and then call for a groom to take her home.' It was so perfect a picture that Jemima could only smile. 'And look at the stupid Horatio person,' Charlotte went on. 'His horse is nearly knocked up already, and we haven't even moved off. He doesn't deserve to have a horse at all. Look at it frothing! Mother, why do we have to have people like that at our hunt?’
It was not a question, as Jemima knew quite well. 'You and William had better try and stay at the front,' she said instead of answering. 'There are some strange horses out today, and I'm afraid you may be kicked. And stay together, won't you?'
‘Yes, Mother, I'll take care of William,' Charlotte said, answering the thought rather than the words.
It was a wonderful hunt, with one of the longest gallops Jemima remembered, so long indeed that all but the best horses got left well behind. Jemima found herself at the front, for there were few horses who could outrun Poppy over her own country, with no one but the huntsmen in front of her and only a handful of hard riders nearby. A few yards to her left was Lord Meldon on his wicked-looking chestnut, and as she turned her head, he gave her a challenging smile and tried to urge an extra ounce of speed from his mount. Jemima smiled back, glad to see him so cheerful. Angus was not far behind, more from the determination of his bay to keep up than any desire of his own, and a little way behind them were Thomas, Flora and Allen, comfortably toget
her. Half a dozen well mounted neighbours made up the rest of their company, and the rest of the field was out of sight.
Thus Jemima was in at the kill, but missed all the drama. Horatio's mount, brought to a pitch of near-hysteria before the first covert, took off like a catapult shot as soon as the first run started. Charlotte and William had at first thought this all of a piece with his previous behaviour, but when the animal passed them with its head up, its eyes white, and froth spraying from its rigid jaw, they realized that young Horatio was out of control. They were coming up to a stout but jumpable hedge. The horse swerved violently sideways and galloped off into the wood, and under Charlotte's leadership they swung away in pursuit.
A wild pursuit it was too, through a tangled wood at full-pelt, but where the tall horse could go, their shorter ponies could follow. The path led to a thick thorn hedge, its top smashed through in a welter of broken twigs. Charlotte in the lead pressed her pony on; it jumped boldly. On the other side the hireling lay thrashing, tangled in its reins, with the boy half under it, caught by his foot in the stirrup. All this Charlotte saw in mid-air; she wrenched at the reins and her pony twisted its body sideways in a desperate attempt to avoid the fallen horse. They landed awkwardly, her pony fell, and she was thrown clear.
William was in time to avoid the jump, hearing the cries from the other side. A little further along was a lower place in the hedge, and he jumped there in safety, to find that Charlotte, unperturbed by her fall, had flung herself onto the hireling's head and was struggling to free its feet from the reins.
‘William, William, come and hold a leg,' she panted.
By the time help arrived, they had got the hireling to its feet, stiff and trembling, and freed young Horatio who, though very shocked and bruised, was not seriously hurt by his escapade. It was only then that Charlotte saw her pony, standing beside William's, holding off the ground a foreleg that dangled horribly and uselessly.
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