The Flood-Tide

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  He straightened up, smiling broadly. 'Now really, Jemima, do you see me as a sultan?’

  She was forced to laugh at the idea. 'Not really. What is it you are working on there?'

  ‘Ah, yes, I'm glad you came in, because it is something I want to talk to you about.' He went back to his table, and she heaved herself out of the chair and went with him. 'Sit down in my chair, and I'll shew you,' he said. She took her place behind the table, and he spread the papers in front of her, and leaned over her shoulder while he explained.

  ‘Enclosure?' she said. All the old prejudices she had heard voiced over the years echoed in the word. 'Is it really necessary?'

  ‘It is essential,' Allen said firmly. 'It is impossible to bring about any real improvement while we keep on with the open-field system, and improvement there must be. Do you realize, we could increase our yield anything up to twenty times, and our rents too? The price corn is fetching, with the war on, and the growing demand for meat and milk and other foods in the towns make it essential to improve. There are so many things I want to try - crop cleaning, for instance. With the open-field system, it is merely wasted effort, but cleaning the crop can double or treble it.’

  Jemima felt the claims were a little exaggerated, but she had to make allowances for enthusiasm. 'Very well - but won't it be difficult to bring about? Isn't an Act of Parliament necessary?'

  ‘Yes, but that is not a problem. It is a formal matter, unless there are objections from interested parties, and with my contacts I should be able to get it put through without delay. The Government are all for enclosure, you know, so they would not put anything in the way of an Act.'

  ‘But you said unless there are objections. How do other people feel about it? Won't they object?'

  ‘All that's needed is the consent of two-thirds of the interested parties, but in fact I anticipate almost all of them will be in favour, once I've pointed out the benefits. I've been talking about it for years now, you know, at every-tenants' meeting, and they've grown tolerably used to it. The benefits go to the tenants as well as to us. The only people who are likely to object are the cottagers with rights of commons, and grazing on the fallows.'

  ‘And what happens to them?'

  ‘We make them a payment in compensation for their loss of rights. In theory, they could go to law to object, but in practice of course they couldn't afford to. But if they did go to law, the law would simply allow them a payment in compensation, which is what we'll do anyway.'

  ‘I see.' Jemima frowned, deep in thought. It was her duty, she felt, at this stage to voice any objections there might be on the part of her people, and she was trying to remember what she had read about enclosure from time to time. 'I seem to remember hearing it said that after enclosure there was less work to be done on the land, so that the labouring people lost their livelihood. I should not like that to happen to any of the people we employ.’

  Allen stroked her head affectionately. 'That is an objection where land that was under the plough is enclosed for pasturage. That has happened in some places. But the sort of enclosure we are planning gives rise to more work, not less. At the moment, our labourers have nothing to do for long periods in between ploughing and sowing, and harvest and shearing. But once the land is enclosed there will be work all the year round, in tending the hedges and fences, digging and maintaining ditches for drainage, cleaning crops and so on. And with more stock being kept there will be more work tending them, too.'

  ‘Then with all this extra work needed, which we will have to pay for, won't the profits be eaten up?'

  ‘My darling, I don't think you have grasped the enormous increase that enclosure will bring. There are some initial expenses, such as the fencing of land not previously fenced; and then the rigs and baulks will have to be ploughed up, and the land levelled; and new drainage ditches will have to be dug, to take the place of the baulks. And the compensation payments, of course. But after that, it is all profit. No more wasteful fallow years - we grow clover or turnips in the fallow year, which gives us winter feed for our stock. More stock overwintering means more manure for fertilizing the land. Keeping the stock fenced at breeding time means we can begin to improve the animals by breeding only from the best and healthiest. Crops can be cleaned, without fear of another man's weeds spreading onto your own piece of land. And I've a mind to try drilling the seed, rather than sowing broadcast.'

  ‘Now that is going too far,' Jemima smiled. 'What, you would scatter your seed one by one from a pepper-pot, like a courtier at a banquet? And waste all the land in between?'

  ‘It is not like that at all, and you know it,' he retorted. ‘Sowing in lines means you can get between to clean them.'

  ‘Well, I'm not so sure cleaning crops is a good idea either.'

  ‘If you had seen, as I have, the difference between wheat growing strongly in clean rows, and the feeble crops struggling for existence with weeds half-choking them, which is the norm, you would not hesitate.'

  ‘I don't know,' Jemima said doubtfully. 'It has never been done that way. The old way has been good enough for our forefathers—’

  Allen kissed the top of her head. 'That is exactly what the tenants have been saying every time I mention enclosure, but they're coming round to it, and so will you. It's the difference between making do, and doing one's best. Don't you want to be rich?’

  She tilted her face up to him and laughed. 'No,' she said. He looked shocked.

  ‘Heresy! Well, then, don't you want some improvements in the house? Don't you want more servants? Don't you want to build a new stable block at Twelvetrees?'

  ‘Ah, now you are bribing me with things I can't resist,' she said, standing up. He helped her, and she turned to face him, suddenly serious. 'I know you wish to do the best for us and for the land, and that is good, and I will support you in it. But I don't want any of my people to suffer. Promise me that they won't.'

  ‘Of course not,' he said firmly. 'As I said, enclosure is for everyone's benefit, not just ours. No one will suffer.' ‘Good. Then what is the first stage?'

  ‘A meeting of the tenants. I should like to have it here, because as you are the landowner I want you to be present. As I said, I have been talking about it to them for years, so none of the ideas will be new. The meeting will place the plan before them, and get their consent to draw up the proposal for the Act of Parliament.’

  Jemima nodded. 'I see. And when?'

  ‘As soon as possible. Let me see, not tomorrow or the day after - they are both holy days. The day after that, the day after All Souls, will that suit you?'

  ‘Perfectly,' Jemima said. 'And now I think I had better go and see Abram about the feast tonight.'

  ‘Surely he will have everything organized by now?' Allen said.

  ‘Of course he will, but he loves me to ask him, so that he can tell me so,' she replied.

  She crossed the staircase hall and the great hall, and was passing down the dark passage between the pantry and the buttery when a pain doubled her up, taking her breath away. For a moment she bent over, supporting herself with a hand on the wall, thinking only that it was too early, that she had not been prepared for it. The pain eased a little, and she straightened and tried to call out for help, but it gripped again, and her breath was expelled soundlessly.

  The wall of the passage was cold and rough under her hand, and the darkness was swelling and receding in a way that made her feel dizzy. And then she heard Allen's voice.

  ‘Jemima! Are you all right? What is it? Is it the baby?’

  His hands were on her shoulders, he was turning her, taking her weight, and she gripped him by the arms, feeling, as the pain ebbed, the wetness on her inner thighs as the waters broke.

  ‘Coming - very soon,' she gasped. 'Get me to bed.’

  He got her arm over his shoulder, his other arm round her waist, and half-carried her back along the passage. When they reached the great hall, there was, thank God, a footman crossing it, whom Allen could send with a sharp
order to fetch the women and get the bed prepared. 'How are you feeling?' he asked her anxiously.

  ‘Better. Pain's easing for the moment,' she said. Then, something that had been puzzling her. 'Why were you there? Did you follow me?’

  He was frowning with concentration as he helped her to the foot of the staircase.

  ‘You cried out to me, so of course I ran to see what it was,' he said.

  The stairs were ahead of her like a cliff to be scaled, and it was going to take all her concentration to get to the bedchamber without dropping the baby on the staircase, so she had no effort to waste in speech. But it was something she stored to talk about to him later, for she knew she had not made a sound as she stood there in the pantry passage.

  *

  Two hours later, Allen stood by her bed, holding her hand and gazing down at her with great love and not a little relief.

  ‘How do you feel now?'

  ‘Wonderful,' she said. 'That was the quickest delivery I ever heard of.'

  ‘She was in a hurry to get here,' he smiled. ‘If she goes on in that way, she will end up as Secretary of State or First Lord of the Admiralty one day.'

  ‘You talk such nonsense,' Jemima said contentedly. 'I think she looks like you, don't you think so?'

  ‘She's lovely. What shall we call her?'

  ‘I hadn't begun to think of names. I thought I had two weeks more at least.'

  ‘I rather like the idea of Lucy,' Allen said. Jemima thought a moment, and then nodded.

  ‘Lucy it shall be. I'm sorry about your enclosure meeting.'

  ‘Oh, that doesn't matter. It can wait a few more weeks. I'm sorry about the Hallowe'en feast.'

  ‘But you will go on with it all the same? I don't want Edward to be disappointed. And after my hard work to persuade Flora to come down—'

  ‘Oh, we'll go on with it, as you insist, but I'm sorry you won't be there.'

  ‘I shall probably be able to hear the fun, if you leave the long gallery doors open.’

  He stooped to kiss her. 'I will. And I'll come in to see you every quarter of an hour.’

  She kissed him back. 'I love you,' she said.

  ‘I love you, too. I'll leave you to sleep now.'

  ‘Yes. Don't forget to talk to Alison, though, about the wet nurse. I want her to come up here to the house. I don't want Lucy sent away to suck.’

  *

  Madeleine gave birth to a son in October 1778, and Henri, in an effort to make amends for last time, was in the house at the time she went into labour. He left for an hour or two to get something to eat when the midwife told him it would be a long job, and when he came back he found Madeleine's parents in the house. It was an embarrassing meeting with Monsieur Homard - Madame Homard was upstairs in the bedchamber. The old man grew scarlet in the face, hemmed a good deal, walked about the room with his hands behind his back, and then came up to Henri with the evident intention of tackling him man to man.

  ‘Now, sir,' he began.

  Henri interrupted him smoothly with a bow, and said, ‘I am glad to give you meeting, sir. Our differences, I hope, are now at an end. You must forgive me for stealing your daughter away in the beginning, but it was my love for her that prompted it. And now we have given you a fine grandchild - two grandchildren very soon. Will you give me your hand, sir?’

  Homard opened and shut his mouth once or twice as he tried to find the fault in Henri's reasoning. Then he coughed again, shook hands awkwardly, gave a little bow, and said, 'Well sir, well sir, I daresay you are right, sir. Ahem. A thirsty business this, don't you think? Women's business, eh? What do you say we slip out round the corner for a glass of brandy, until it's all over?’

  Henri suppressed a smile of triumph and said, 'I think I had better stay, for she must be near her time now. But don't let me keep you.'

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,' Homard said hastily, 'I'll stay, by all means. I only thought - we'll both stay, of course.’

  But in the end he had to go to open his café, for the labour went on, hour after hour. Henri grew restless, then bored, then alarmed, and quite forgot supper. It was dark, and he had been sitting in the fireglow without noticing it for a long time, when Madame Homard came downstairs with a candle.

  ‘Oh, it's you,' she said but was evidently too weary to feel much resentment.

  ‘Your husband went away to his business. How is she? Is the baby born yet?'

  ‘It's a boy child, but very weak. I do not know if it will live.’

  That explained why he had not heard it cry. 'And Madeleine?' he asked.

  ‘She has had a very hard time of it,' Madame Homard answered. 'I have come down to get her some wine. Have you any in the house?'

  ‘Yes - I'll get it at once. Can I go and see her?' Madame Homard looked doubtful, but having won over the father, Henri thought he knew how to fix the mother. 'I have been so worried about her,' he said. 'Let me take up the wine to her. I must see her, to ease my mind.'

  ‘Very well,' she said at last, her expression not softening in the least. 'But you had better not stay long.’

  Henri fetched the wine and climbed the stairs in the dark, and pushed open the bedroom door cautiously. The candlelight left dark shadowy places in the corners and on the sloping ceiling. The midwife was standing by the bed feeling Madeleine's pulse. The smell in the room was dreadful, like a butcher's shop, he thought, but there was, thank God, nothing bad to be seen. The bedsheets were clean, Madeleine had been tidied up, and there was a well-swaddled bundle in the little crib in the corner.

  ‘I've brought the wine,' he said, almost in a whisper, and walked over to the bed. The midwife took the bottle and glass without comment, and Henri leaned over the bed, his face fixed in a tender smile. 'Madeleine,' he said.

  But at once all his play-acting was stripped away from him when he saw how ill she really was. She opened her eyes and looked at him, but he could see she was too exhausted even to smile. Her skin had a cheesy pallor, her eyes seemed sunken in her face. He had never seen anyone look so utterly done in.

  ‘Madeleine,' he said again, in quite a different voice. ‘Henri,' she said, her lips hardly moving. 'I am so glad you came.'

  ‘I have been below all the time. I have been so worried about you,' he said, and now that he really was worried, he felt it had been so all the time. 'Are you all right?'

  ‘She has lost a lot of blood,' the midwife said. 'Here, Madame, you must have some wine. It will give you strength.'

  ‘I'll do it,' he said, taking the glass from her. It took him a moment to work out how to lift her head and support it and tilt the glass, but he managed it neatly.

  ‘Thank you,' she whispered as he eased her head onto the pillow again. 'I shall be better by and by, when I have slept.’

  He took her hand and pressed it between his, and there was no answering pressure. It was limp and cold, like a corpse's.

  ‘You must rest and get well, and not worry about anything,' he said.

  ‘Have you seen the baby?' she said, trying to raise her head.

  The midwife said sharply, 'Don't you move, Madame. You must not move. I'll bring the baby.’

  Henri stared unwillingly at the tiny crumpled face revealed when the midwife drew back the shawl. It seemed hardly human. So much effort, for so little. But it was a boy, his son. He tried to feel pleased about it.

  ‘A boy,' Madeleine said, echoing his thoughts.

  ‘Yes,' he said, and roused himself to make an effort. ‘He's very small.' Her lips twitched, acknowledging the reminder of the last time. 'And very red.'

  ‘Give her some more wine,' the midwife ordered, taking the baby away again.

  ‘Henri—' Madeleine said, when he laid her down again, ‘the baby—'

  ‘He's lovely, my darling,' Henri said dutifully. ‘He must be christened,' she said.

  She looked at him searchingly, and he understood what she was saying. That mute and wizened little creature, too weak even to cry, might not have the strength to cling to life. He mus
t be christened as a matter of urgency, lest he die unbaptized and go into limbo for ever.

  ‘I'll see to it,' he said.

  ‘Now,' she said.

  ‘Yes,' he said. 'I'll go at once.’

  She closed her eyes with relief, and a tear - only one, all she had strength for - caught the light under her eyelashes.

  ‘I'm sorry, Henri,' she whispered, and he pressed her hand tighter, not knowing what she was sorry for, too afraid to ask.

  ‘Madeleine, I love you. Rest, my darling, get well,' he said, and it sounded like a plea.

  The priest came and christened the baby that evening -Henri Jean Clement Maria. He did not move or cry when the water touched his face, and Henri, in giving him so many and such resounding names was acknowledging that they might be all the child would ever have of life. Madeleine seemed easier when it had been done, and sank into a deep sleep, which her mother said was the best healer. She remained in the house that night, and Henri made up a bed for her on the sofa downstairs. He sat in a chair by the bedside, dozing sometimes, waking with a start, wondering where he was. Early in the morning he woke, chilled to the bone, stiff and confused, to find Madame Homard beside him.

  ‘Go and take my bed,' she said. 'I will watch with her until morning. You have done what you should.’

  It was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him.

  In a day or two Madeleine seemed better. She was still very weak, and had little appetite, but she was cheerful and rational, and Henri, who sat beside her bed for most of each day, held her hand and talked to her and felt happier about her. The baby, on the other hand, had not improved. Madame Homard had decreed that Madeleine must not suckle it herself, for it would drain her strength, and she had taken it away and found a wet-nurse for it, but it fed poorly, and still slept too much and cried not enough. Madeleine, to Henri's surprise, did not object to it being taken away, and afterwards never asked after it. He thought sometimes that she had forgotten she had given birth at all, and though at first he was relieved that she was spared the distress he had expected for her, after a while he began to worry that it was not right.