She did not ask after Henriette-Louise, either. The child had been taken to a neighbour when her mother began labour, and was still there, being cared for and fed. Henri asked Madeleine on the third day if she wished the little girl to be brought to her, but she only looked blank, and said no.
On the fifth day Madeleine was feverish and weak, and the midwife came back to examine her, shook her head and muttered, and gave her a dose. All day the fever mounted, but in the evening it went down again, and Henri, who had been alarmed, congratulated the midwife on her medicines.
‘Don't you know, sir?' the midwife asked, though less sharply than she might have done five days ago, for she was impressed by his devotion. 'That's the way it goes - up and down.'
‘The way what goes?' Henri asked, dry-mouthed.
‘The childbed fever,' she said, shaking her head again in pity at his ignorance. 'It comes and goes, sometimes for weeks. Sometimes they cry out, delirious, and don't know where they are. Other times they are as rational as you or me.'
‘And - in the end?' he hardly dared ask.
‘Some survive, some don't,' she said abruptly. 'One can only pray. Madame is a good, strong, healthy lady. One must pray she fights it off.’
Henri went back into the room a little later, with a bowl of soup, sent over from the neighbour's house, and Madeleine, propped up on her pillows, met his eye, and gave a small, rueful smile.
‘I'm quite hungry now, Henri,' she said. 'I will—'
‘Yes, my darling?' he asked her, controlling his voice.
‘I will try,' she said. He stared, wondering. 'Yes, I know. I have seen it before. I will try and live, Henri, for your sake, and the children. Give me the soup.'
‘Oh Madeleine,' he said.
‘No, hush, it's all right,' she said, and it did not seem odd that she should comfort him.
For a week she tried, and he watched helplessly as she struggled to win the battle with her sickness, losing a little ground every day. As the midwife had said, at times, when the fever was high, she raved in delirium, and he held her, trying to restrain her from wasting her strength in her wild struggles. Sometimes she would lie, half-conscious, tossing and muttering, unaware of him or her surroundings. But at other times she would wake, clear-eyed though weak, and would talk rationally to him, of the future, of being well, making plans for Henriette Louise. Of the boy baby she never spoke, and it was as well, for he gave up his unequal struggle on the sixth day and died as silently as he had been born.
On the fourteenth day she lay quietly, panting like a spent animal, holding his hand, her face flushed with fever, but her mind clear. Henri was talking to her, unaware of what he was saying, merely trying to keep her with him, awake and aware. Suddenly she gripped his hand tightly, as if a spasm of pain had seized her.
‘What is it?' he asked anxiously.
‘Henri,' she said, 'Henri,' and he saw that she was trying to make sure of his attention.
‘Yes, I am here, I am listening.'
‘Henri, you must get a priest. Bring me a priest. I want - him - to come while I still know it.'
‘Oh, my darling—'
‘It will not be long now. Please, Henri.’
Yes - yes - if it is what you want - but—'
‘One more thing.' She still held his hand, so tightly that it hurt him, and he was amazed that she could have so much strength left. It was the mark of her determination.
‘Anything. What is it?' She turned her head painfully to look at him, held him with her gaze.
‘When he comes - please - will you ask him to marry us?’
He was utterly dumbfounded, and could find no words to answer her. She nodded slowly.
‘Oh yes, I knew,' she said, with the faintest ghost of her old rueful smile. 'I knew your servant, you see. I had seen him waiting for you, outside the café.'
‘But then, why did you—?' he asked in astonishment. She closed her eyes for a moment, and there was pain in her face.
‘I wanted you too. I loved you, and I was weak. But now—' the eyes opened again, 'please, I beg you, let me die your true wife. I will not long be a burden to you. Please, for my sake, and the child's.’
He lifted her hand to his lips, and found himself in tears, all his strength gone out of him, all his duplicity and self-pride, everything that held him upright, so that he was as weak as a drowned puppy. He could not even say he was sorry, for the words would have been pitifully inadequate for everything he had done to her, and everything he felt now. He could only plead for her strength and comfort.
‘Madeleine, don't leave me. Please don't leave me.'
‘I'm sorry,' she said, and felt his tears on her hand as he clutched it to his face. 'I have nothing left.' She sighed, her strength ebbing. 'Don't let me die in sin,' she managed to say.
So it was in that tiny, dimly-lit room that Henri Maria Fitzjames Stuart, Earl of Strathord, finally took a wife. The priest who married them gave Madeleine the last rites, forgiving her her sins and annointing her with the holy oil. Everything was growing dim for her, an unpleasant reeling blackness coming and going in her consciousness, through which she could still feel Henri's hand clutching hers as if trying to anchor her to life, but she was too tired now, she no longer wanted to stay. She had done what she must -she could not now remember - but she knew it was all right. She had only to say goodbye now. Her lips moved, but she made no sound.
Henri leaned closer. 'What is it? I can't hear. Madeleine, what is it?' He pressed her hand, trying to urge her to speak, but she did not respond, only with a faint smile let the breath ease out of her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He was lost, lost, utterly lost and deranged. He moved in a daze, and sometimes things impinged on him with the mad clarity of a dream, so that he seemed to be outside himself, watching himself moving in that dream. There were other people, too, coming and going inexplicably, as if emerging from a mist and disappearing again. Duncan was there, God knew how, arranging things, talking to him, though Henri could not understand the words. There was Madame Homard, looking horribly old and broken, as if some plug had been pulled inside her, and the life was draining out. There was Monsieur Homard, weeping like a child, and then rushing at Henri with his fists flailing absurdly, crying out and abusing him; and Henri could only stand and let him strike, not minding the blows, unable to tell him that he could not hear or feel him, until Duncan took him away.
There were the two old women who came to do things to Madeleine's body, and then for a moment Henri broke through the mist, and pushed them away, and tried to lift Madeleine in his arms to keep her from them. It was Duncan who restrained him, unclasped his hands, led him away and gave him brandy, talking, talking all the time but never saying anything. Neighbours came and went, and a priest, and an old priest who was Madeleine's godfather, whom Henri tried to thank, but without making any sense.
The strangeness lasted until the day of the funeral. Duncan must have arranged all that, too, for Henri knew nothing about it until he found himself inside the church with the coffin, black-palled and flower-decked, standing on a trestle before him. There was Duncan at his elbow, as always.
‘What church is this?' he asked.
‘St Germain-des-Pres,' Duncan told him, and Henri heard him, though for a moment, in his confusion, he thought of the Chateau of St Germain, and his grandmother, and he thought it was her funeral. Then he understood.
‘Madeleine,' he cried out suddenly, and Duncan held his arm.
‘Hush, the guests are arriving. Everything is all right.’
Henri tried to take hold of himself. The confusion had dispersed like mist, he knew everything, remembered everything, and the pain was terrible. Madeleine had removed the bulwark he had placed between himself and the chaos within him, and then had removed herself, leaving him alone with the knowledge of what he was. His grandmother had not needed to remind him of his shameful birth. All his life he had struggled against the knowledge that he was unlawfully got, that he
had been his mother's shame and her death, his grandmother's burden, the family's dark secret, hurried away into obscurity; he was ignominy; he was an outcast. She had warned him again and again, thinking his fault was too much pride, not realizing that he had built up an edifice in which to live because the truth was too hard to bear. It had been a good façade, it had deceived everyone, even himself - everyone except Madeleine.
‘Oh Madeleine,' he whispered. 'Don't leave me.' She had known what he was, always, all along, but knowing him, she had still loved him. Now she had left him. He turned his head sideways, to try to ease the pain in his throat, and saw to his amazement that two of the mourners filing in down the aisle were Meurice de Murphy, and Ismène. He fumbled for Duncan's arm.
‘Duncan!'
‘Yes, my lord,' he said gently. 'I thought you would need them. I told them everything.’
Everything? How could he face them if they knew everything? But they came towards him, and Ismène took the place beside him, and put her hand over his in a gesture of sympathy, and Meurice's face was grave and kindly.
‘We have come to help you, Henri,' Ismène said. 'You should not be alone at such a time.’
Ismène?'
‘I wish I had known her,' she went on. 'She must have been a wonderful person.’
If he could cry, he thought, the pain might go away; but the tears would not come, not yet.
*
After the funeral Henri went back to the Rue St Anne, and there he stayed like a convalescent, crouching by the fire, eating and sleeping, while Ismène tended him. Meurice looked in from time to time, but he knew it was Ismène who could help his friend. He and Duncan did their part by arranging matters at the Cour du Commerce. It was not for another two days that Henri was able to cry. Duncan, who had been disposing of Madeleine's clothes, brought her few ornaments to ask Ismène what should be done with them. Ismène intercepted him at the door, but Henri, turning dully to see what was happening, caught sight of the things Duncan held in his hands, and at last the flood broke free.
Ismène sat on the floor in front of the fire, cradling him in her arms, while he wept and wept, rocking him and speaking vague words of comfort, knowing that this was good and right, and would ease him. Afterwards, when it was over, he told her everything, forgetting that she knew it already from Duncan; told her the story without shame or fear, remembering every detail of the four years in which he had known her. Then, for a while, he was silent.
‘Poor Henri,' Ismène said at last, and freed herself to attend to the fire, rather than summon a maid to do it. It gave him time to compose himself and remove the outward signs of his weeping. Then she sat down again on the chaise, and he came to her knee as he had so often done, but this time not amorously.
‘I loved her,' he said. 'I truly loved her.’
No, my dear, I don't think so,' she said gently. 'Your need to be loved is so much greater than your need to love. You are not yet able to give love, and without giving it, you cannot receive it.'
‘I loved her, and I loved Grandmother—' he began resentfully. She leaned forward.
‘Don't you see how you wanted them to love you, how you plagued and tormented them, so that they could prove to you that they loved you in spite of everything, because only then would you know they had loved you enough? But it could never be enough.'
‘I don't understand,' he said.
No, I don't think you do, not yet. But you will. You are capable of loving. I will tell you this, Henri, though you will not believe it yet - that only when you love enough to give it without hope of receiving will you really know what love is. And you will be loved, too.’
The words comforted him by their intention, for he could not accept their sense. 'Ismène,' he said suddenly, ‘do you love me?'
‘I am your friend,' she said. 'Oh yes, I might once have loved you in that way, but fortunately for my peace of mind I was immune to it.'
‘What made you immune? he asked, disappointed. She smiled at his transparency.
‘My love for another man - a deep and strong love, which he returns.'
‘Meurice?' he asked in astonishment.
‘Oh Henri,' she laughed, 'of course Meurice. What a simpleton you are.'
‘Oh,' he said in a small voice, and she knew it was necessary to change the subject, to salve his pride.
‘And now,' she said, 'we must talk about something of great importance - your daughter, Henri. What is to become of her? What is her name, again?'
‘Henriette-Louise,' he said, and frowned. 'Well, I suppose her grandparents will bring her up.'
‘Is that what you want?'
‘No,' he said at once, and then more emphatically, as he thought about it, 'No, not at all. She is—'
‘All that is left of Madeleine?'
‘Yes - and, after all, she is mine. I don't want her brought up as a café-owner's daughter.’
Ismène concealed a smile at the first revival of his pride.
‘Very well, then, I have a proposition for you. Meurice and I have no children, and it has been a little of a disappointment to us, to have no little ones growing up around us. I have talked with him, and he agrees that if you wish we will have Henriette-Louise here, and give her a home while she is growing, but on certain conditions.'
‘You want to adopt her?' Henri asked, not sure if he liked the idea.
‘No, I did not say that. Meurice would be happy enough to adopt her, but I do not think it would be a good thing - for any of us. No, she shall be given a home, but on condition that you adopt her and legitimize her, and on the further condition that you behave as a father to her.'
‘And what does that involve?' he asked, and she saw gladly how much more cheerful he looked already.
‘You must visit her, interest yourself in her, see to her education; you must, when the time comes, provide her with a dowry and arrange a match for her. You must, above all, my dear Henri, become respectable, so that she shall not be ashamed of you.'
‘I see,' he said, eyeing her thoughtfully as another question rose in his mind. 'And when you say respectable, does that mean—'
‘That you and I are no longer to be lovers? Yes, it does.’
‘But Ismène—'
‘I am flattered that you protest. But come, you mustagree. You will like me much more as a friend, I promise, than you ever did as a mistress.'
‘I'm not sure I believe you,' Henri growled. 'Well, if that is the way it must be—'
‘It must. You know it must.'
‘Then so be it.' He kissed her hand formally, and felt a lightening of his heart at the thought of the future. His daughter, to bring up and shape and watch grow, he thought, and to love - above all to love. And here would be a person who would belong to him entirely, and if he never gave her cause to do otherwise would she not love him, at last, as he wanted to be loved?
*
Captain Thomas Morland of the Isabella finally saw ship to-ship action in December 1778 when the British took the island of St Lucia, and beat off the attack of the French fleet under Estaing. There were so many Caribbean islands that it was impossible to garrison them all, and several of them had already changed hands more than once, but St Lucia was close to the French headquarters of Martinique, and a good base from which to harass the French fleet, which was superior in numbers to the British.
In the autumn before and the winter afterwards there were inconclusive skirmishes around the islands, neither fleet taking any decisive action or causing any serious damage to the other. Thomas took some prizes - American merchantmen - and was at last able to reckon some prize money to his account; the weather in the Caribbean in winter was a great deal more pleasant than in most other places; and there was time ashore to enjoy the society of Kingston, Port Royal, and Spanish Town. As a handsome frigate captain in the prime of life he was much in demand whenever he did set foot on the shore, and he enjoyed the parties and dinners. He met the Admiral, Sir Peter Parker, at some of them, and was gratified b
y his friendliness. William was still serving as midshipman in his flagship and Thomas was able to exchange a few words with him once or twice when he came on shore. Thomas was also interested to meet the nephew that the Comptroller had mentioned to him, a young man of twenty called Nelson, who was first lieutenant of the flagship as a result of the most rapid of promotions. Thomas met him taking tea one day at the Governor's house, but didn't really like him. He thought him a little mad, and too pushing for one of his extreme youth and lowly rank.
In February 1779 letters which had been on their way for some time finally caught up with him in Port Royal, and he learnt of the birth of his son the previous September. For a while he contemplated the news in silence, torn painfully between pleasure at the thought that he had a son and heir to follow after him, and sadness at the thought that it might yet be years before he saw him. The war had been dragging on for four years already, and did not look any closer to being settled. Indeed, it looked very much as though Spain was about to enter the conflict in support of France, and in the defence of her Caribbean and mainland territories, and if she did, every ship of the Royal Navy would be needed to maintain Britain's mastery of the seas. Before he saw his home again the boy would be running around, talking, taking his first lessons perhaps. And if the endemic Spanish fever got to him first, he might never see his son at all.
In April the Isabella was involved in an unsuccessful attempt to retake Dominica from the French, and in June she saw action again when Estaing took Grenada, and received enough damage to necessitate docking at Kingston to refit. Thomas was in Kingston when the news arrived that Spain had indeed declared war on Britain. As it was no more than he expected, it was eclipsed in his mind by the surprise of the news that Suckling's nephew, Nelson, had been made post after only two years as a lieutenant.
‘I suppose it's only what one expected while his uncle was Comptroller,' he muttered ungraciously to himself.
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