A surge of relief came over Jemima that the subject had been broached. 'Oh Edward, what do you know about that - situation?’
Edward looked at her consideringly, his head cocked a little, and he looked so like his father for a moment that she wanted to hug him. 'Little enough, though perhaps more than you. It was never as bad as you have probably thought, Mother. There was talk - inevitably - but they behaved in public—' he hesitated, seeking the right words - 'not improperly, in the strict sense, though they displayed more intimacy than society allows between two people not married to each other. But it was more the intimacy of brother and sister. They were very close.'
‘Were they lovers?'
‘I think - not,' Edward said deliberately. 'Has she had letters from him?'
‘She has had letters, but since I did not examine them before they went up, I cannot tell if they were from Lord Meldon,' Jemima said. Edward grinned suddenly.
‘Mother, you are a truer gentleman than most of the gentlemen I know. Anyone else would at least have looked at the handwriting.' Jemima blushed at the compliment, and Edward went on, 'Well, I shall see if she will receive me tomorrow. She may be glad to talk to someone who knows a little of what was happening.'
‘And talking of gentlemen,' Jemima said, 'what of your friend Chetwyn? We thought you would spend Christmas at Wolvercote again this year, and I was so pleased when I heard you were coming home.'
‘Chetwyn is gone to Venice, for the carnival, as the start of his Grand Tour,' Edward said a little abruptly. 'He will be gone two years at least.'
‘I see,' Jemima said. 'That will be pleasant for him. Will he—'
‘Mother, I want to talk to you about Oxford,' Edward interrupted her. 'I want to ask you if you would mind if I did not take my degree.'
‘Well, I—'
‘The fact is that I'd like to leave Christ Church. I'm not really learning anything there, and I feel it's a waste of my time and your money.'
‘Taking the degree isn't of the first importance,' Jemima said cautiously, 'but it is meant to be of use to you, in making you the right sort of friends, and introducing you to society.’
Edward smiled ironically. 'I don't really have any close friends there, except Chetwyn. And besides, I can't believe that that sort of society is going to be much use to me in the future. My life lies here, Mother, at Morland Place, and I'd be far better employed learning about the estate and the business, and taking over from Papa. Now don't you think so?
‘Are you unhappy at Oxford?' she asked, and he shrugged.
‘No, not unhappy. I enjoy it really. But it is a waste of time, as far as I can see. I am the heir, Mother, and I should be here.'
‘Well, my darling, I should love to have you here, of course, and I have no particular wish for you to finish your course at Oxford, if you don't want to be there. As long as you are sure—'
‘Quite sure.'
‘Then we shall ask your father tomorrow, and see what he says. There is certainly always more to do about the place than we can easily manage, and to tell the truth, I'd be glad to have you take some of the strain from him. He has not been well this winter, and though he keeps so hale and hearty as a rule, he is well past sixty, and I'm sure he made himself ill with doing too much. But for heaven's sake, don't press that as your reason for wanting to leave Oxford.'
‘Trust me,' Edward smiled. 'No, I shall say the truth, that I want to come home, and have nothing to keep me at Oxford now.'
‘Won't you miss it at all?' she asked curiously. There was a shadow in his eyes for a moment as he answered.
‘No, there is nothing there for me now.' But the shadow passed as quickly as it came, and she felt no invitation from him to pursue it. And he went on in a perfectly cheerful voice, Now what of Mary's affairs? Tell me the latest development. Is my friend Anstey still leading the field, or have the outsiders made ground?’
Jemima laughed. 'Whatever you do, don't speak in those terms when she's about, or there will be terrible storms. It's bad enough to have James teasing her, though I must say she's such a little popinjay I can hardly blame him. But he gets her into such a passion, and stays so cool and calm himself! That boy is so wicked.'
‘He takes after you, Mama, it must be so,' Edward said.
Now don't believe the stories your father tells about me,' she retorted. 'He only does it to tease.’
*
Mary's preference for her childhood knight, John Anstey, had grown so marked over the past year that Jemima was not at all surprised to receive an invitation to dinner with Sir John and Lady Anstey which pretty well necessitated a return invitation to dine and spend the day at Morland Place.
Sir John was in the coal way, a trade which had increased so enormously in the past twenty years that the Ansteys were rising rapidly in the world, and they were in the process of moving from their shabby old house on Skeldergate, handy for Queen's Staith where the coal barges unloaded, to a new house being built for them by John Carr on the Lendal, handy for the Assembly Rooms and the Mansion House.
Sir John had stood for Parliament, had been presented at Court, and knighted for his trouble, and was altogethera modern man and in a state of as much improvement as his fortune. Lady Anstey, on the other hand, was in the older style, a large, motherly woman, comfortably rather than fashionably dressed, who could neither read nor write, and had no conversation beyond her children and her servants. After the dinner in Skeldergate, when the ground was tested and the air snuffed by the Ansteys, a fine spell of weather persuaded Jemima to issue the return invitation without delay, and so at noon on the shortest day the massive Anstey coach rolled into the yard bearing Sir John and Lady Anstey, young John, and the next two eldest children, Alfred who was seventeen, and Augusta, who was sixteen.
The weather was fine enough and the ground dry enough for Jemima to suggest a walk in the gardens before dinner, and the four parents made a leisurely circuit or two while the young people were borne away by Edward and Mary for more vigorous exercise. The nursery maids followed at a distance with the youngest children, under Allen's instructions that they must have some fresh air every day unless it positively rained, while James, poised as always between the beginning and the end of the family, disappeared about his own mysterious business.
They dined at two, for they kept early hours except on special celebrations, and the Ansteys were used to it. Flora went so far as to appear for the meal, though she did not speak, and excused herself after desserts. After dinner, the whole party removed to the long gallery, and there remained pleasantly occupied until tea, the older people sitting about the fire and talking, the younger ones grouped about the harpsichord while Mary and Augusta played and sang, the little children playing quietly under Alison's eye.
Allen and Sir John discussed politics for a while, until the subject sank them quite naturally into silence, and Jemima, knowing what the next thing to be discussed would be, looked down the room to where Mary was seated at the harpsichord, accompanying herself in a pretty, old-fashioned song. It was a graceful performance, for Mary knew what she could do well, and polished her accomplishments to make the best of them, and did not attempt what she knew was beyond her.
But today she was looking more than usually pretty, in a dress of grey-blue that made her eyes look bluer. It had deep ruffles at neck, waist, and hem, and a deep square décolletage, filled in with a neckerchief of snowy muslin, against which her dark ringlets curled softly, making a picture both simple and effective. She really was pretty, Jemima thought with pleasure, and noticed that there was more colour than usual in her daughter's cheek, and that her eyes were very bright as she looked up for a moment at John Anstey, who was leaning on the harpsichord with eyes for nothing but Mary's face, and probably not hearing a word of the song she was singing.
‘Well, Sir Allen, well ma'am,' Sir John said, and cleared his throat to indicate that their attention was required for what followed. 'A pretty picture we see yonder, don't you think? And I don'
t know where you'll find a prettier picture than Miss Mary, not if you search all England for a twelvemonth.’
Allen shot one quick, smiling glance at Jemima, and she replied for them both.
‘Thank you, Sir John. She has grown exceedingly pretty of late, I must own.'
‘Aye, and I'm not the only one to notice it,' he said, smiling and nodding. 'Though of course, my boy John has had the same idea in his head since the first time he came to Morland Place to visit. It's no secret, ma'am, that he has always had a tender spot for your daughter.'
‘Indeed, sir,' Jemima replied, going along with the play, 'and his constancy does his heart credit, I'm sure.’
Sir John nodded again, looked from Jemima to Allen and back, and then got to the point as he was accustomed to do in business.
‘Well then, ma'am, what d'ye say to a match between'em? It's been in the wind this twelvemonth, and I don't suppose you'll be surprised to learn that my John has come to me and asked right out if I will speak to you and Sir Allen, and apply to make the business official. Now then, what d'ye say to't? I know Sir Allen well enough to know we cha'n't quarrel about terms. Everything open, and handsome, that's my way. I can't abide to be paltry, and secrecy serves no-one but the Dark Gentleman, I always say.'
‘I agree with you entirely, Sir John,' Jemima said, suppressing her amusement, and giving Allen his cue in a glance. They had already discussed the matter of the match, well aware that it would be broached today.
‘I have no objection to the match in principle,' Allen said, 'provided you are in agreement and the young people like it. We have known John for a very long time, and he is a good, steady young man, and I'm sure will do well. And as you say, I'm sure we shall not quarrel about terms.’
These of course were not the words Jemima and Allen had used when talking privately to each other about the matter. Jemima had said that the boy was steady, and would be good for Mary, if he could control her, and Allen had said that Sir John and Lady Anstey were not elegant people, and their company would add little to the enjoyment of family parties, but they were perfectly good, decent sorts, and one could not object to them, if it was what Mary wanted.
‘Well then, sir,' Sir John prompted, while Lady Anstey beamed at what she thought was the conclusion of the matter.
‘But I do feel,' Allen went on, 'that Mary is still a little young to be marrying - she is but seventeen.'
‘Many's a lass marries younger than that,' Sir John put in. 'Sixteen or even fifteen is old enough. Marry 'em quick, before they get notions into their heads, that's my policy. Our Augusta is to be engaged next year, certain sure.'
‘All the same, sir,' Allen said firmly, 'we are willing to agree to an engagement between them, and for the marriage to take place when Mary is eighteen.’
Sir John was not a moment in thinking about it. 'Right enough,' he said heartily, holding out his hand. 'So be it. Here's my hand on it, sir, and right gladly.’
Allen shook his hand, and said, 'We shall speak to Mary tonight, but I think we should say nothing now, lest we embarrass her in front of the other young people. May I ride into York tomorrow, sir, and discuss the settlement with you?'
‘Certainly, certainly, whatever you say, Sir Allen. She's a right pretty little maid, is Miss Mary, and my John worships her, you can see that. It'll be a pretty match, and a credit to all, I'm sure of it.’
And looking at Mary's face as she sang to John Anstey, Jemima said, 'I am too, Sir John.’
*
That evening Jemima went in to the East Bedroom, which Mary shared with Louisa, to speak to her about the engagement. The East Bedroom was often called the Red Room, because the hangings were all of a heavy red damask. It was not a bedroom Jemima had ever liked much, finding it rather gloomy and sombre for her taste. In the early years of her marriage Uncle George had had it, and it seemed to her too masculine a room for two young girls. But Mary seemed to like it, relishing the space after sharing the nursery so long, and there was ample room for her to share with Louisa without minding, and for Lucy later to come in with them, if Flora was still using the West Room by the time Lucy grew too big for the nursery.
Louisa was already asleep, so Jemima could have privacy with Mary, and as she found her daughter brushing her hair before the glass, she stood behind her and took the brush from her hand, and took over the task. Mary submitted, gazing at her reflection with a half-smile onher lips, evidently deep in some daydream, as Jemima drew the brush through the long, soft curls and turned them round her fingers.
‘You looked very pretty tonight, my dear,' she said at last. Mary did not answer, only intensified the little secret smile with which she regarded herself. Jemima watched her with some curiosity. She had never really felt close to Mary, never understood her, or had any very personal affection for her; but still it was gratifying to have raised something as attractive as Mary, and to have the means of making her happy now with the news.
‘While you were playing the harpsichord, Sir John Anstey was saying something very particular to us,' Jemima went on. 'Would it surprise you to know what it was?’
She smiled at Mary's reflection in the mirror, and Mary's attention came back from some distance, and she met her eyes with an expression of inquiry.
‘Sir John was telling us that young John has asked permission to apply formally for your hand in marriage.' Mary's expression did not at once show the pleasure Jemima expected - indeed, she looked surprised - and she went on, 'It was very proper of him to approach the matter in that way, though you may think it unromantic. But believe me, it shows him to be a very steady young man, with a proper regard for your comfort and propriety, and no doubt he will say all the right romantic things when he has permission to approach you.’
Mary jumped up so abruptly that the hairbrush was knocked from Jemima's hand and flew across the room to clatter against the foot of the bedstead.
‘What? What is it you are saying, Mother?'
‘Mary, my dear!' Jemima protested mildly. 'I am saying that John Anstey has asked for your hand in marriage, and your father and I have agreed that you may become engaged to him, and marry next year when you are eighteen.’
Mary's face slowly darkened with anger, to Jemima's astonishment.
‘Without even asking me?' she cried in evident fury. ‘You agreed to that without even asking me?’
The noises had woken Louisa, who raised herself sleepily on one elbow and said, 'What is it? What is wrong? Mama—?'
‘Hush, Louisa, all's well. Go back to sleep, sweetheart,' Jemima said hastily, and went across the room to quiet her. When she returned she gestured Mary to be quiet and drew her aside to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘Now then, Mary, please speak quietly, and tell me what is the matter. John did quite right to ask formal permission first, but I'm sure you and he had already come to an understanding—'
‘Then you thought wrong!' Mary hissed angrily. Jemima coloured.
‘You will not speak to me like that, Mary. I won't tolerate insolence.'
‘What right had you to go engaging me to John Ansty?' Mary went on, too upset even to heed the rebuke. 'I don't want to marry him.'
‘But - but we have all seen how fond you are of him. Of course, years ago, it was only a joke, but this last year, you have seemed to be growing in love with him. Surely we could not have been mistaken?’
Mary rubbed her face with her hands in what was for her a touchingly unstudied gesture, and she said more quietly, No - yes - oh, I don't know. I am fond of him, of course. I think perhaps I even love him. But I don't want to marry him. Please, Mother, don't make me marry him.’
Jemima was taken aback. ‘Child, of course I wouldn't make you marry anyone against your will. God knows, I suffered enough myself from an arranged marriage. I should not have agreed to it at all, had I not thought - as your father did too - that you loved the boy. But you shall not marry against your will.'
‘Promise me!'
‘I promise, of
course.' Jemima bit her lip. 'But tell me, child, what is it you object to?'
‘Oh Mother, he's so common! I couldn't marry him -his father's a coal merchant. And his mother - I'd be ashamed to call her mother. I know John is a nice boy -I like him very much - and I know he's fond of me - but really, Mother, I'm not so desperate as to have to take him!’
Jemima now bit her lips, in an effort not to laugh, even though inside she was angry too. But she said, 'I can't understand you, Mary. Where could you get such ideas? The Ansteys are not elegant people, but they are good folk, and John is well educated, and will be rich—'
‘He will be nobody! To think that I should be a mere Mrs Anstey!' and she made an indescribable sound of disgust. Jemima began to see the light.
‘When you would sooner be Lady Something, I suppose, or the Countess of Somewhere?'
‘Well, why not?' Mary said crossly. 'I am pretty enough, and I don't see why I should waste myself. Your mother was a duke's sister—'
‘Mary, I'm ashamed of you,' Jemima said. 'I should have thought that you would have learnt better than that, even if only from the stories of my marriage to an earl. The ten years of my life when I was a Countess were utterly miserable. A title does not necessarily bring either happiness or respectability. A man's character is what is important, not his rank. I don't understand you—'
‘No, why should you?' Mary said, colouring. 'You never cared for me, I know that well enough. One of your horses meant more to you than I ever did. It was Charlotte you loved. You took her about with you while you left me to the servants. Well, they've brought me up with a proper understanding of my expectations. I can easily get a lord, if I wait. I don't see why I should take any tradesman's son who asks for me.’
Jemima stood up, feeling brittle with anger, and sadness that she had failed so badly with this daughter. 'That's enough,' she said quietly, but firmly. 'You are upset, and there is no point in discussing this matter further tonight. In the morning your father shall speak to you about John Anstey.'
The Flood-Tide Page 28
