The Flood-Tide

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  William was the prize that night, naturally so, on account of his only just having arrived. He was a naval officer, which was exciting, and he had been in the war, which was thrilling, and he had a long pigtail of silvery-blond hair, which set them all wriggling. On the other hand, Jemima gathered as she drifted about the room overhearing whispers, his very weather-tanned skin told against him, and the young women allowed, with some puzzlement amongst themselves, that there was something just a little cold and frightening about him. They were not sure what it was, for he smiled a great deal, danced every dance, and said all the right things, and paid very graceful compliments. All the same, they murmured, all the same .. .

  Jemima thought she understood. He was too much a man for them: he had sailed the seas, faced danger, seen death close to, while they had never been further from their homes than an hour in the carriage could take them. His mind, like his body, was grown-up, and strong, and toughened to life, and it frightened them. She also noticed, again with faint unease, how much he drank that evening, although never once appearing to be the worse for it. That was part of his adulthood that would alarm these soft and silly girls.

  And then there was James, handsome, smiling, wicked James. She noticed that at his approach the girls giggled madly, and clustered together, rather like, she caught herself thinking, a group of mares when Artembares was turned into their field. He was the best known to them of the Morland brothers; he said outrageous things, danced divinely, was incomparably the handsomest; and despite being only sixteen, he seemed to be able to have any of them he wanted, just for the asking. But he danced with each of them in turn, quite impartially, leaving them at the end of their pair flushed and flustered, while he remained smilingly cool. A piece of caution, Jemima thought, that sat strangely on such a young man's shoulders.

  But towards the end of the evening she happened to see him dancing again with Mary Loveday, with whom, she now realized, he had danced more often than any of the others, and his demeanour was quite different. Mary Loveday was more than three years older than him, besides having a reputation for cleverness, and as they danced together, James's expression was pleasant and serious, and they seemed to converse on quite a different level from the normal light chatter and laughing repartee of the ballroom.

  She was still watching them when Edward came up beside her. They exchanged a smile of greeting, and watched together in silence for a while.

  ‘Not dancing, my love?' she said after a moment.

  ‘I slipped out of the room just before this pair began,' Edward said with a wry smile. 'Not very gallant behaviour, I admit, but I have done my duty tonight with good grace, and felt I deserved a rest.'

  ‘What, does dancing tire you? At your age I could have danced all night, every night.'

  ‘It doesn't tire me, it bores me,' Edward said. 'No doubt you had an object in dancing - and perhaps young men were interesting to talk to. But to spend half an hour with any of those little gigglers, Mama, is a penance to me. Why must they breed girls so silly?'

  ‘Speak low, my darling,' Jemima said, amused, 'or you will call down the wrath of the whole of York on your head. Not like silly girls? That is purest heresy.'

  ‘I don't much like girls at all,' Edward said, and immediately wished he had not, but his mother did not seem to notice it. She was still watching James and his partner.

  Presently she said with a nod in their direction, 'There is one girl who isn't silly - or at least, so reputation has it. Could you not like her?'

  ‘I do like Mary Loveday very much,' Edward said. 'She talks rather like you, Mama, only softer.’

  He hoped she would not ask the next most obvious question for a mother, and was relieved when she said, ‘I'm surprised that James danced with her so often tonight.'

  ‘James has always liked women older than himself,' he said cautiously. 'Besides, he probably knows he will not have the opportunity to dance with her after tonight.'

  ‘Why is that?' Jemima asked.

  ‘He has probably heard that she is to become engaged tomorrow to John Skelwith.’

  Jemima's attention was successfully seized by this.

  ‘John Skelwith? You can't mean the builder, who lives in Stonegate? But he must be twenty - no, thirty years older than her! I swear he's fifty if he's a day, and - well, one should not judge people by their appearance, but really, it seems a horrible thing to wed a young girl to a little, crooked man like that.’

  Edward shrugged. 'He's very rich, and the Lovedays aren't. It's a good match for Mary, though I dare say if she had been handsome, they might not have closed with him so readily. But she's nearly twenty, and difficult—'

  ‘She's a perfectly nice-looking, well-behaved girl,' Jemima said indignantly. 'A good match, you call it! What does she think of it herself?'

  ‘I hardly know, Mama,' Edward said. 'Her parents have not your liberal views, and I dare say they have not asked her opinion. But don't you think she looks happy enough? For Mary, that is - she never smiles as the other girls do, without cause.’

  Jemima looked at him carefully for a moment, and then said, 'You say you like her very much,' she said diffidently. ‘Would it not be possible—'

  ‘No, Mama,' he said firmly. 'I have no intention of marrying Mary Loveday, or anyone.'

  ‘At present, you mean,' Jemima said, and he let it pass. ‘But you must think about it soon, Edward. I know it is not urgent for a man as for a woman, but don't forget you are the heir, and you must get an heir yourself, and it does not always come so easily as you might think. The sooner you begin, the better.’

  Now it really was necessary to distract her. 'I'm glad you brought up the subject of James,' Edward said desperately, 'because I'm a little worried about him.'

  ‘Worried about James - whatever for?’

  Yes, that had done it. 'Since William came home he has been copying his habits somewhat.'

  ‘He could not do better, surely. William is so neat and tidy, and—'

  ‘Mama, perhaps you have not noticed how much William drinks? It does not matter so much for him, because he is used to it, and in any case, he has had a life of responsibility.'

  ‘Yes, I have noticed, but he never seems the worse for it, so I have let it pass,' Jemima said.

  ‘But it is not the same with James. He is not such a steady character. He has wild enthusiasms over things. Too much wine is not good for him.'

  ‘Not good for anyone, my love, but I cannot say that I have seen anything of it in James. After all, when can he have access to wine? Only at dinner, and he is under our eyes then.'

  ‘You did not know, then, that William and James have been sitting up late at night, talking and drinking? I joined them for the first few nights, but it doesn't suit my digestion, and I soon left off. I thought James would too, but he admires William so. He has been drunk to bed many a night, and it worries me.’

  Jemima frowned. 'That is bad,' she said. 'That must stop. Where do they get the wine from?'

  ‘Oxhey gives it to them. He says he has no orders to deny William what he wants.'

  ‘I'll speak to him, and to William. William can have what he wants, but he must not lead James into bad habits. Thank you for warning me, Edward.' She patted his hand. ‘It will be a passing thing with James, I'm sure. He has his father's example before him. Once he gets used to William's being home he will leave off. And I've never seen him look ill in the morning, so he can't be drinking very much, even now.’

  Edward said no more, though he was not so sanguine as his mother. He had seen James very drunk, and knew that at sixteen one could drink a great deal and still rise fresh from one's bed in the morning. But he did not want to make too much of it, and it had served in any case to turn his mother's mind from the question of his marrying. One day they would have to understand and accept it, but he hoped the knowledge would come upon them slowly, given time, and that he would never have to explain who it was he had given his heart to, long ago.

  CHAPTER SEVE
NTEEN

  The summer of 1785 brought the return to England of Lord and Lady Meldon from their honeymoon tour, and pausing only to pay respects to Lord and Lady Chelmsford, they came at once to Yorkshire, to bring Mary home, and to spend the summer themselves at Morland Place, while they decided where they would live.

  ‘If you will have us, that is?' Charles added, but with a smile that suggested he did not doubt they would be welcome.

  Seeing how happy Flora was, and how well he had looked after Mary, Jemima was ready to forgive him the past, and said warmly, 'Of course you must stay, as long as you want. It will be lovely for the children to have the chance to get to know you, and for Mary to have you here. And in August, you know, Allen has his seventieth birthday, and we 'are planning a big celebration for it, so you should be here for that.’

  The reunion of Flora's children with their mother and stepfather was not an immediate success. Louisa was nearing eleven, still as quiet and shy as ever, deeply attached to Allen and quietly so to Jemima, and had neither the high spirits nor the beauty to make much impression on Flora. Charles tried to be kind to her, but she shrank back from him as from her mother. Her great fear was that they would take her away from Morland Place, which had always been her home, and from Allen and Jemima, who had brought her up from infancy and were her parents in everything but name. Had she been of the temperament to own it, frankly and openly, there would have been no problem, for Flora was as little inclined for her daughter's company as Louisa was for her mother's; but Louisa rarely spoke, and never about herself.

  Little Jack was more of a success, for at almost seven years old he was handsome and lively and bold-tempered. He did not remember his father at all, and hardly remembered his mother, and like Louisa he regarded Morland Place as his home, but he was glad of the distinction that having a returning mother gave him over Harry, and was quite willing to play up to them, for the sake of the limelight. He showed off his accomplishments to his stepfather, claimed his mother's embraces, demanded to know what they had brought him back from Abroad, and where they would live, and whether they would send him to school and buy him a horse of his own. But it was all superficial, and once his point had been made to his playmate, he returned happily to his normal daily pursuits, and completely forgot Flora and Charles's existence.

  Jemima was delighted with the improvement in Mary. She had gone away pretty, but she came back quite beautiful, her figure more womanly and graceful, though perhaps a trifle thinner; her face fined into true, classical beauty, the sort of beauty that made a room go quiet for a moment when she entered it. But more than in her looks, Jemima found her improved in her character and manners. She seemed much more grown-up and sensible, had lost her tendency to languish and giggle, and had quite outgrown her petulance and her inclination to think herself hard done by. Moreover, the travelling and the experience of society in foreign places had informed her mind and her taste, and Allen remarked agreeably to his wife that it was now actually possible to have a conversation with Mary.

  The greatest improvement of all, as far as Jemima could see, was that, though she would soon be twenty-one, she did not seem at all anxious about marriage, and behaved herself in company with grace, neither seeking nor rejecting male attentions. She asked after her old friends, was glad to hear of Augusta Anstey's good fortune and noncommittal about Mary Loveday's but evinced no triumph that John Anstey and Tom Loveday were both unwed. Jemima wondered whether she would welcome a renewal of John Anstey's attentions, but since Mary had apparently learned discretion, she did not like to broach the subject.

  On the third day after their arrival, Flora and William walked apart from the rest of them when the family were taking their exercise in the gardens. Jemima and Allen exchanged a glance, and Allen prohibited Jack, who was still in his showing-off phase, from following, to allow them privacy. She would want to know about Thomas, Jemima thought, and it was now far enough in the past for both of them to be spoken of. Then there was also the fate of her brother Charles to be recounted. They were gone a very long time, walking at a distance from the party, up and down the pleached walk of the rose garden, and when they returned, Flora looked a little pale, and had her handkerchief screwed up in her hand. She wrote to her brother Angus that night, and a fortnight later received a reply from him, as a result of which she announced one day at dinner that she and her husband proposed travelling into Scotland to visit Angus.

  ‘Oh, I thought we were to have the pleasure of your company all summer,' Jemima said. 'I know a number of people will be very disappointed. You cannot imagine the balls and dinners that are in the planning for Lord and Lady Meldon. You are quite a celebrity you know, Flora.’

  shan't disappoint them, ma'am,' Flora said, smiling at the idea. 'We shall be gone, I suppose, a month, first and last. We shall be back at the latest by the end of July, and we shall certainly not leave you until September. Not for anything would I miss Allen's birthday feast. But there are certain matters of business—'

  ‘My dear, you don't have to excuse yourself to me. It's perfectly proper and natural that you should want to visit your brother. I was being selfish, that's all.’

  Mary did not go with Flora to Scotland, but she seemed contented enough at home. She renewed her acquaintance with William, though they had surprisingly little to say to each other, in spite of their being both so widely travelled. But it may have been because William was growing more morose as the months passed, for he continued to apply for a commission, without success. The only time she struck any warmth in their conversation was when she suggested that Lord Meldon might be able to use his influence on William's behalf.

  ‘Do you think he would? Does he know anyone in the Admiralty?' William asked eagerly, but Mary could give him no definite encouragement. 'I'll ask him as soon as they come back from Scotland,' William decided.

  ‘At the end of the summer they will certainly go to London,' Mary said, 'and it might serve if you went with them. I suppose we shall make our home in London - I cannot imagine that Lady Meldon will be happy to rusticate in the country - and then you know we shall be often at Court. Something will be done, I'm sure.'

  ‘We? Do you intend to go with them, then?' William asked. Mary raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It is not discussed, but I'm sure Lady Meldon cannot want it otherwise. We have been together for some time, now, and I know she is fond of me. And I do not want to leave her.'

  ‘But won't you miss home?' William asked curiously. Mary shrugged.

  ‘It is well enough for a holiday, but one meets no one here. Once one has been at Court, the simple life of the country has little charm.'

  ‘That is how I feel about the sea,' William said, 'but I'm surprised anyone can feel it about the town.’

  And each looked at the other with a certain pity, wondering how they could be so unsophisticated. There was no likelihood of a deep friendship between William and Mary.

  For the rest, Mary occupied herself happily enough, taking her walk in the garden or orchard, riding when the weather was fine, visiting and being visited by her old friends. Shawes was at a convenient distance either for a walk or a ride, and she was often there at the invitation of Amelia and Caroline Fussell, who could never have enough of Mary's recollections of the courts of Europe, even if her mention of the various counts and princes she had danced with galled them. And when she could have the carriage, she liked to go into York, and see her friends there, take tea, wander around the shops with them and sigh for the shops of the metropolis, attend a play or concert with them.

  Her dealings with the Anstey family were bound to be a little delicate, but she had the fortune to meet Augusta Anstey - now Augusta Keating - in a milliner's in Stonegate one day. Mrs Keating, eager to show her card with her married name, especially to one who had always been more handsome than she but was not yet married, made the first move of reconciliation, which Mary met gracefully. The following day Mary called to leave her card with Mrs Keating, and as luck would h
ave it she called at a moment when John Anstey had just arrived, bringing his sister Celia to visit Augusta. There was a moment's embarrassment, and a moment's stiffness; but Celia, who had heard nothing talked of amongst her friends for weeks but Mary Morland's clothes and Mary Morland's hairstyles and Mary Morland's experiences abroad, longed to be reconciled; and John Anstey, besides being a genuinely kind-hearted man, was still in love with her. Mary's cosmopolitan polish smoothed the way, and they soon thawed, and then warmed, and by the end of the twenty minutes there might never have been any cause for coldness between them. When Mary took her leave, John Anstey's eyes followed her as wistfully as they had done since she was twelve years old.

  At John's request, Sir John and Lady Anstey invited Mary to take tea at the new and elegant house on the Lendal, and though they, mo e than their children, resented the slight she had put upon them in refusing their son, and were reluctant to receive her at all, Mary's good manners and her sincere praise of their new house won them over. They were sorry to see all the symptoms in John of being as much in love as ever; but hoped that, as Mary was still unwed herself, they might come to an understanding in time. Young Alfred, the second son, who was normally considered quite a rip, and who had been boasting privately to his sisters that he might cut old John out, was reduced to a most abnormal silence by Mary's beauty and manner, and on that first visit found his tongue only once, to ask her, stammering, if she would take another dish of tea.

  *

  James came scurrying into the hall one day in July when Mary was standing there drawing on her gloves.