The Flood-Tide

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  The Honourable Horatio Morland was whisked off to be examined by the best surgeon in York, while plain Miss Charlotte Morland was taken to her home to be bathed, annointed, and put to bed by Alison. While everyone was dressing, a message came from Shawes to say that Horatio was not considered to be in danger, and that the ball would therefore take place as planned, but that the children's part of the entertainment was cancelled. William would not in any case have gone without Charlotte, and Edward and Jamie had never much cared about it, so they were not too disappointed, but Mary was furious, and by a fine piece of illogic, blamed Charlotte for the whole thing.

  ‘Naturally they cancelled it because they heard Charlotte is sulking in bed. It isn't fair. Why is everyone against me? I shall never forgive her for this, never!' she cried through tears of rage.

  Rachel, the under-nursery-maid, threatened her with a whipping, and Abram sent up a special batch of cakes for consolation, but as Edward said unconcernedly as he set off to find a book for the evening, 'When Mary sulks, she likes to do it for a good, long time.’

  When Jemima emerged from the closet, where the powdering was always done, dressed except for her gown, Allen, preparing resignedly to take her place, said, 'I don't wish to be vindictive, but I rather resent that the boy didn't hurt himself more seriously. If he was going to cause so much trouble, he might at least have got the ball cancelled, and saved me the trouble of flouring my head. Darling, must I really powder?'

  ‘You really must,' Jemima said, not without sympathy, for her own hair was tortured up over a horsehair 'piece', stuffed full of pins, larded, and powdered according to fashion. 'It would be quite an insult to your hosts - and besides, you are Sir Allen now, and must keep up appearances.'

  ‘Well, I suppose we must suffer to be beautiful,' he said with a whimsical smile, and Jemima stepped closer and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Besides again, you look so handsome in powder, I am almost in sympathy with the fashion. It makes you look so young, and so dashing - what are you doing? Darling, you'll get it all over you! Allen!'

  ‘For two pins,' he murmured, kissing her again, ‘I'd send word that we're both ill.'

  ‘No pins!' she cried, extricating herself laughingly. ‘What, sir, would you shock the whole world by proclaiming that you are in love with your wife? Your wife, sir? No, no, go and powder. I must go and see my poor Charlotte before we leave.’

  Charlotte was lying hunched face down in her bed, one hand clutching a wet handkerchief beside her towselled head on the pillow. Jemima thought she was asleep, and was about to tiptoe away, when Charlotte said in a dull voice, 'Mother?’

  Jemima sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked the rough hair, and after a while Charlotte rolled over and looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘It isn't fair,' she said after a while, not passionately this time, but in a low, tired voice that affected Jemima much more.

  ‘So many things in life seem unfair,' she said.

  ‘But why did Mouse have to die?'

  ‘Because we can't set horses' legs, darling, you know that. I wish we could.'

  ‘I know that, but I mean why? It wasn't fair. He didn't do anything wrong. Why would God make him die like that?'

  ‘Oh Charlotte, I don't know,' Jemima said, sighing. ‘Animals' deaths always seem so hard, much harder than humans'. I suppose because they don't understand. But God knows even when a sparrow falls, and He has His reasons for everything.’

  There was a silence. Charlotte stared past her mother at the flickering candle flame, bowing in the draught from the doorframe. At last she asked, 'What happens to animals, after they die?'

  ‘What do you mean, after they die?' Jemima asked, puzzled. Horses were always cut up for dog food, but she had already promised Charlotte that Mouse would be buried honourably, though she had not had time yet to consider where such a grave could be dug.

  ‘Father Ramsay says that horses have no souls. So that means they can't go to Heaven, doesn't it?’

  Here was the heart of her trouble. Her eyes came reluctantly back to her mother's and she swallowed, trying to look grown-up and unconcerned.

  ‘I don't know, darling. Father Ramsay ought to know best - but then, he has never known horses, the way we do. And I don't think God would let anything true and brave and faithful perish, do you?’

  Charlotte did not answer, and in a moment Jemima pushed the damp hair from her forehead, kissed her, and stood up. The eyes followed her up, and Charlotte said in a voice shy with unaccustomedness, 'You look very pretty, Mama.' Jemima smiled down at her, and turned away. As she reached the door, she heard her say, almost too low to heard, 'I don't think I'd want to go to Heaven, if there were no horses there.’

  *

  Jemima enjoyed the ball. Though she was past forty, she was still pretty, and had a lively eye and a neat figure, and was evidently considered young enough to be asked to dance every dance, though some she refused for decency, in case there should be not partners enough for the young women. When she sat out, she enjoyed looking round the great ballroom, with its magnificent chandeliers and its mirrored wall, modelled, it was said, on Versailles, and its little gilt chairs and sconces. It had all once, for a little while, been hers, but she had never felt ownership of it, of the graceful house called ‘Vanbrugh's Little Gem'. To her it always seemed to belong to the woman for whom it was built, the Countess Annunciata, whose portrait by Wissing hung over the fireplace at the end of the ballroom.

  Jemima had met her only once, just before her death, when she was an old, old woman, but she remembered that interview vividly. Annunciata had given her, in her will, the magnificent diamond collar, gift of King Charles II, much to the annoyance of her granddaughter who had expected to have it herself. Jemima had thought then, 'I am her real heir,' though she had not entirely understood the thought. But it had turned out to be true. She had become, in her turn, Countess of Chelmsford, and mistress of Shawes, though she had not kept it long. But she saw now that it was in being mistress of Morland Place, and guardian of the family as Annunciata had been before her, that she was truly Annunciata's heir.

  ‘If you would not think it improper to dance with a married man, would you come to the set with me?' Allen's voice broke her reverie. Jemima shook herself and smiled.

  ‘A fig for convention. Let us shock them all,' she said, putting her hand in his.

  ‘You were very pensive, my love,' he said as they stepped to the bottom of the set.

  ‘I was thinking about the old Countess,' she said.

  ‘Annunciata? Yes, she does seem particularly present here,' Allen said, smiling round as if she stood behind him.

  ‘I don't think she would like the Fussells much, do you?' Jemima said, behind her fan.

  ‘Nor the Chelmsfords,' Allen grinned. 'She was an exceedingly particular old lady. But I must say I find them very good sort of people. Lady Ann has been overwhelming me with her gratitude on behalf of her son, which has extended beyond poor Charlotte to a sort of generic virtue. We are all heroes by contamination. She is determined to show her gratitude, as is your brother.'

  ‘And what form is this gratitude to take?' Jemima asked, amused.

  ‘They beg leave to honour Flora's wedding with their presence, to offer Shawes for the wedding party, if we want it, and to have Flora and Thomas stay at Chelmsford House when they are in London. Lady Ann offers to chaperone Flora, and to introduce her at Court, and to have her to stay for as long as she likes when Thomas is gone to sea.'

  ‘All very well for Flora and Thomas, but what of Charlotte?' Jemima asked.

  ‘Charlotte was mentioned at the very beginning of the conversation, but was soon swallowed in the general flood of gratitude. Now here is the part that needs a decision, my love: young Horatio is to go to Eton in January, and Chelmsford offers to do all the right things in order to send William there as well.'

  ‘William!' Jemima said, aghast. Allen nodded.

  ‘Yes, my own reaction w
as the same. But, you know, it may be that we protect the boy too much. One would not like to make him soft, through over-indulgence.'

  ‘But I have heard how the boys live at public schools. William would not survive a week there. Besides, how could we part him from Charlotte? He would grieve terribly.’

  Allen nodded. 'Well, on the whole, I think you are right. My notion was to suggest that Edward takes William's place in the scheme. He was to go to school in any case, and Eton will be so much more of an advantage to the boy than St Edward's. It doesn't matter so much what he learns, it's who he will meet. Your brother has remained friends all his life with the boys he knew at St George's.'

  ‘Yes, Edward would take it in his stride. I don't think that boy ever notices anything. Do you think Charles would agree?'

  ‘I think so, if I speak while the plan is still hot in his mind. I'll do it after this dance.'

  ‘We are only half-way up the set. Do it now, if you like. I will sit down again,' Jemima said, and then saw the couple at the top turning to dance down. 'I must say, I am surprised to see Flora dance a third time with Lord Meldon. I sometimes think Thomas takes good nature a little too far. But they look happy enough. Lord Meldon has quite lost his sulky look.'

  ‘I should think he would,' Allen said. 'He is dancing with the second prettiest woman in the room. And since I am dancing with the prettiest of all, the scheme must wait. I would not have you sit down for the world.’

  *

  Flora's wedding took place on 3o December, in the chapel at Morland Place. The Chelmsford family came to the service, and the Fussells to the wedding breakfast, which was held at Morland Place, Jemima refusing the more elegant surroundings of Shawes on the grounds that it would break Abram's heart, but really because she wanted it to be a simple family wedding, as her own to Allen had been.

  There had not been time for a grand wedding dress, but Jemima and Alison and the two sewing maids had got together over Jemima's best blue silk, and Jemima had lent the wonderful Brussels lace from her first wedding, and the pearl half-hoop headdress which was one of the family heirlooms, and everyone agreed that Flora could not have looked lovelier if there had been six months and twelve London dressmakers to prepare for it.

  The young couple set off for London in the Chelmsford coach, accompanied by Lord Meldon and Lord Chelmsford, who left Ann and the children to finish their holiday at Shawes and who, Jemima thought, looked secretly pleased to be going back to civilization. The families parted on the best of terms, with the promise of a great deal more intercourse in the future.

  ‘I feel as though nothing exciting will ever happen again,' Charlotte said mournfully when the coach had gone. Jemima put an arm round her shoulder.

  ‘Here's something exciting already for you - I have decided that you and William are to have proper horses. So you can help me choose, and school them. It was time you were properly mounted - I thought so even before the accident.’

  It was successful in cheering Charlotte, though William took it as quietly as if it was nothing to him. Jemima noticed from time to time that he was out of sorts, but between all her usual tasks, and trying to guide Charlotte away from unsuitable horses, and trying to find out what Edward would need for Eton, she had little enough time for observing children's moods. She did, however, witness the goodbye between William and Edward when the coach was ready to take the latter away to the south.

  ‘I'm sorry it's me instead of you,' Edward said gravely as the brothers shook hands.

  ‘Yes, I am too,' William said. 'But - well, you know.' ‘Yes, I know. I'm sorry.’

  Jemima went indoors thoughtfully as the coach passed out of sight, wondering why William should be sorry not to be going. She would have liked to ask Allen about it, but he had gone with Edward, to take him on the first part of his journey, and by the time he came back, she had forgotten the incident in the busy press of her days.

  *

  Edward was miserable from his first day at Eton. He and Horatio lodged with a sour, hard-mouthed woman called Dame Weston, whose parsimony meant privations for the boys in the way of food and coals which came hard to growing youngsters. Edward was a quiet, hard-working, obliging boy, who made no particular enemies amongst his fellows, but by the same token made no particular friends. Horatio made it clear from the beginning that he resented sharing a name with a farmer's son, and had no intention of being friendly with him: indeed, he took the lead in deriding Edward's peculiar habits, such as washing, and saying his prayers night and morning, and writing home, and reading books. Like all boys, Edward wanted to be inconspicuous amongst his peers, so he soon modified those aspects of strangeness, and once Horatio tired of baiting him, the other boys let him alone.

  In his lessons Edward did well, for he had been well taught by Father Ramsay. Being by nature obedient and willing to please, he avoided the most savage beatings by the masters, though flogging and birching were so much part of education at Eton that it was impossible to remain entirely unscathed. Eton was only the width of the river from Windsor, where King George liked to spend much of his time. King George had a great interest in education. When he rode across the river to Eton, he would cry cheerfully to any boy he met, 'Well, well, my boy, when were you last flogged, eh?' If there happened to be a master about, the King would enjoin him to put the boy's name on the list for the next round of punishments. It was no comfort to the boys that the young princes were flogged as savagely, or that it was all done for their own good.

  Lessons consisted mostly of Latin grammar, construing and composing, with a little writing and arithmetic on alternate days. The many other subjects Edward had been taught at home - French and Italian, astronomy, history, geography, theology - were quite neglected, but he soon learned not to talk of them, for to be highly educated was considered ungentlemanly, suitable only to 'ushers and Jesuits'. With the ill will of Horatio to help rumour along, he might have become unpopular, but he did his best to hide his education, and showed a willingness to help the others with their 'construes', and was soon put down as being 'clever', which was an epithet of pity rather than contempt. A man could no more help being 'clever' than being blind or crippled.

  But even if a boy avoided being beaten by the schoolmasters, he might still be beaten by his fag-master when he returned to his boarding house. Edward was unfortunate in being assigned to fag for one of the worst of the seniors, a boy called Stevens, who was lazy and vicious and brutal, and as arbitrary and whimsical as any tyrant. Edward had no particular wit or charm to defend himself against such a person. Even before he had learnt what his duties were, he was being beaten for failing in them, and if he managed to get something right, Stevens would change the rules and beat him just the same.

  Even the other boys, hardened to physical punishment and receiving a good deal of it themselves one way and another, pitied Edward, and were grateful Fate had not assigned them to Stevens. Sometimes when he had been beaten for a speck of mud on Stevens' boot, or because his fire smoked when the wind was in the east, they would gather round Edward with a certain rough sympathy to examine his wounds.

  ‘Two of 'em are bleeding, Morland. I will say Stevens knows his stuff.'

  ‘That one's a bit low.'

  ‘His aim is never up to much after the second bottle.' ‘Thank God I've got Crosby. Crosby can't flog for anything.’

  The toast was Edward's worst trial. It was his duty to toast Stevens' bread and cheese for his supper, and it had to be done perfectly, not undercooked or burnt, and ready fresh and hot at the exact moment that Stevens wanted it. Moreover, Stevens would not allow him to use a toasting fork, and in order to get the toast near enough the flames to brown at all, Edward had to subject his fingertips to severe burning. At night in bed he wept from the pain of them, and when the blisters burst they festered. At times he could barely hold the toast without dropping it - another beatable offence. At first he prayed nightly to the Lady, and St Anthony, patron of the oppressed, to help him; but as time went on
he prayed simply and desperately to God to let him die.

  It was on a day in spring that Edward first caught the eye of Chetwyn, the House Captain. He had been out picking flowers for Stevens' nosegay, and had passed the senior boy with no more than a scared duck of the head, when Chetwyn called him back.

  ‘Morland - from York, aren't you? Any relation to the Morlands who breed the racehorses?'

  ‘My mother and father, sir,' Edward said, wondering what new derision or imposition was coming. But Chetwyn lounged gracefully against a windowsill, and seemed to be looking at him with kindly interest. 'Well, my mother mostly,' he added, encouraged.

  ‘Your mother, eh? Well, well. Know anything about horses, boy?'

  ‘A bit, sir. Our stallion, Artembares - I helped Mother hand-break him, sir.'

  ‘Artembares - yes, I've seen him run. Know what your mother's sending down to Newmarket this year?'

  ‘Yes, sir, we've a good colt called Persis, by Artembares out of a mare called Dawn. Mother thinks he's bound to do well, sir.'

  ‘Don't call me sir, Morland. Oh, it's all right, don't look so scared, I won't eat you.' He paused thoughtfully, while Edward moved from foot to foot, worried that the flowers would wilt, or that Stevens would be looking for him. Suddenly Chetwyn smiled. 'Listen, Morland, I've got two horses over at Biggs' stable, and they need exercising. My damned groom is laid up with some sickness or other, so I need someone to ride my second horse for me. I'm taking them over to Dorney Common for a run - care to come along and help me?’

  Edward stared, torn between his terror of Stevens and the inadvisability of refusing a house captain. In the end he managed to stammer, 'But S-Stevens—'

  ‘Oh, I'll square it with Stevens, don't you worry. All right, Morland, I'll see you at Biggs' in half an hour.’

  It was for Edward a blissful day. To be riding a horse again, to be away from the terror and torment of Stevens, would have been enough for him, but in addition there was the completely new experience of the kindly interest of an older boy. Chetwyn was charming to him, praised his handling of the horse, expressed an interest in all Edward's family, and displayed a knowledge of racing and breeding that made Edward feel at home. They took dinner together in Datchet, and continued to chat amicably about the stud at Twelvetrees.