Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty)

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  The Duke could do no more than bow assent and change the subject. Implicit in the Countess’s words was the reminder that Maurice Morland and George Handel were both favourites of the Elector, who admired their work, and that Annunciata herself was the Elector’s cousin as much as the King’s. The conversation flowed on, and the moment was past, but Jemmy was more sure than ever that the Countess was plotting something. He was also sure that plotting would not be as easy now as it had been when the Countess first developed her taste for it. Newcastle was already suspicious of Maurice and would have him watched, and no doubt the Countess’s correspondence would be scrutinized. Would she be sufficiently on her guard? Jemmy wished he could warn her.

  The first course was cleared, and the second was laid, and Jemmy tried to take note of all the dishes for Charlie’s sake. He was reciting the green custard and the partan pies, the roast pigeons with fried marigolds and the lemon pudding, in his mind when he realized that Lady Mary, sitting next to him, was looking at him strangely. He felt his face grow hot, and he turned to her, searching his mind for some piece of polite conversation he could make.

  She certainly was very small, and very plain, with no more figure than a child of nine. Her dress of pink brocade had an echelle bodice of large pink gauze bows, presumably to hide the lack of importance of her figure, and Jemmy thought the colour ill became her, for she was sallow-complected with dull brown hair and light brown eyes.

  Jemmy smiled at her – a false, ill-at-ease smile he knew it was – and said, ‘We are honoured by your presence here at Morland Place, madam. I hope you find yourself comfortable?’

  Lady Mary did not smile. After a while she said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and that was that.

  Talk at the table revolved around politics and paintings, architecture and the army, always with the Duke and the Countess leading the way. Tom’s good fortune in being taken into the Agrippa was touched on – Captain Went-worth’s reputation praised – the good chance of prizes on the West India station mentioned. The conversation flitted like a butterfly from the navy to the army – a comparison of the strength of each – the army in Hanover, and the Elector’s annual visit there – the valuable contracts for providing cloth for uniforms which Yorkshire clothiers had won – uniforms for the Russian army – Peter the Great – and at that point it took alarm and flew right away to the safety of food and drink and the comparison of different wines. The dinner being consumed was amply praised, and there were kindly murmurs of future benefits that might be bestowed upon the Morland family following its connection to that of the Pelham-Holies; and then the second course was cleared, and the desserts were brought on.

  Whatever Monsieur Barry’s temperamental disadvantages, he had certainly produced an impressive display, and the servants laid it all out in the most elegant manner. The centrepiece, on a high china dish so that it was raised above the rest, was the jelly-castle, striped in four colours, its turrets disappearing into a cloud of spun sugar. Around it was a ring of dishes raised to an intermediate height, on which were syllabubs, flummeries and possets; and the outer and lowest circle of dishes displayed ratafia cream, chestnuts, cheeses, celery, butter, oranges, elderflower fritters, naples biscuits, apples, orange cream, and pistachio nuts.

  Whatever the Duke and his sister were used to in fashionable society, Jemmy thought, they could not but be impressed by such a wonderful spread. He turned proudly to Lady Mary and said, ‘May I help you to anything, madam? Do you see what you like?’

  Lady Mary surveyed the table in silence, and eventually her chaperone, Lady Dudley, the hard-faced widow of an impoverished knight who evidently resented her dependence, leaned forward and answered for her.

  ‘Lady Mary will have a small dessert apple. I will peel it for her.’

  They sat so long over dinner that it was almost time for the tea to be brought when Sabina finally nodded to Matt that they should rise.

  The Duke, intercepting the look, said, ‘We have not yet drunk the King’s health, sir.’ Matt nodded gravely.

  ‘Of course, Your Grace. I was just about to propose it.’

  They all stood and raised their glasses, and Jemmy instinctively looked towards the Countess, as he felt the Duke must also be doing.

  ‘The King!’

  ‘The King.’

  Jemmy drank, concealing a smile. Beside the Countess’s place was a silver fingerbowl filled with water, and as she repeated the toast, she held the glass above the fingerbowl so that she was drinking the health of ‘The King over the Water’. It was an old Jacobite trick, and Jemmy inwardly shook his head. Oh great-grandmother, he thought, do you think it will pass unnoticed, in this company?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Leicester House was one of Maurice Morland’s regular resorts in London. It was the home of Prince George and Princess Caroline – the Prince and Princess of Wales, as Maurice had no objection to calling them when he was away from his mother – who had set up house there in 1718 when Prince George had quarrelled for the last time with King George, and had been forced to quit St James’s Palace, leaving his children behind. Father and son had always hated each other, and when the open breach finally occurred, King George made it known that anyone who was a friend of his son was no friend of his. This meant that anyone out of favour at St James’s, or unable to gain a foothold on the ladder, was naturally attracted to Leicester House, where soon a rival and much gayer Court flourished, under the aegis of Princess Caroline.

  Princess Caroline was a great patroness of the arts and all intellectual pursuits. She was fat, handsome, witty and shrewd, and Maurice liked and admired her enormously: she reminded him in many ways of his great-aunt, Sofie of Hanover. Around her gathered many of the wits and rakes and artists, as well as out-of-office politicians such as Walpole and Townshend, and of course all the ambitious young women to whom the Court of St James’s, lacking a Queen, could offer no position. Whenever Maurice strolled in, which he liked to do on most days, for it was here he gathered the most topical news and the spiciest gossip, there was sure to be someone amusing, chattering, flirting, and drinking endless bowls of chocolate.

  Maurice was one of the few men in London who was welcome at both Courts, and he cultivated the image that made it possible, that he was vague, brilliant, improvident, utterly devoted to his music, and perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy. He lived in his mother’s house, Chelmsford House in Fall Mall, for which he paid no rent; he had a small pension from King George, and otherwise earned his living from his playing and conducting and composing; he had a wife, Nicoletta Scarlatti, the youngest daughter of the composer, his old friend, and three small children by her, together with a grown-up daughter, Alessandra, by his first wife. Much of the house was left shut up and gathering dust, and it was assumed that Maurice could not afford to run it, for they had few servants and his wife often did the cooking. He had an enormous acquaintance, travelled a great deal, dressed eccentrically, and gave the best and most popular supper-parties in London.

  It was in Leicester House, in April 1722, that Maurice first learned of the Jacobite Plot. Secret information had been sent to Sir Robert Walpole, who had tried to keep the matter quiet, but it had leaked out nonetheless, and within an hour panic had spread and the streets were filled with crowds, and the Bank of England was besieged by people anxious to withdraw their assets in portable gold.

  Maurice had been at Leicester House all morning, enjoying the company of the Princess’s two most attractive and acerbic ladies, Mary Lepell and Mary Bellenden, who were eating apricots and complaining of the boredom of a maid-of-honour’s life. The poet Pope was there, leaning against the back of Lepell’s chair and looking as though he wished to take notes, as was Ashe Windham, a common friend of his and Maurice’s, who owned an estate at Felbrigg in Norfolk and was Lord Townshend’s nearest neighbour.

  Mary Lepell, who at her birth had been made a cornet of horse in her father’s regiment, said, ‘When I tell you, dear Maurice, that the most amusing part o
f our day is when we ride upon decrepit and hard-mouthed hirelings for an hour or two in the morning, you may conceive how boring it really is.’

  ‘I wish all those women who envy us might be forced to change with us for a week,’ Bellenden agreed. ‘Then they would see how fortunate they really are.’

  ‘Even the wives of country squires, with a new child every year and a new gown only once in two years?’Maurice asked.

  ‘Even those,’ Bellenden said, running her fingers across the back of his hand. ‘If you are thinking of retiring to the country, I should be glad to come with you to try the experiment.’

  ‘Are you tempting him to bigamy?’ Ashe Windham said, trying to look shocked. Mary Bellenden shrieked with laughter.

  ‘Lord, no, I was thinking we’d poison his little wife first.’

  ‘Not possible,’ said Lepell. ‘Don’t forget she’s an Italian. They know all about poison.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Maurice, ‘I could never afford to live in the country. It’s only because I pay no rent that I can afford to live at all.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Pope, ‘I noticed last time I was in your house that those great mirrors were missing from the hall. Who did you sell them to?’

  ‘Grafton,’ Maurice smiled unconcernedly. ‘He’s the only rogue in London who never quibbles over a price.’

  ‘One day,’ Windham said severely, ‘your mother is going to enquire after her furnishings. Still, Morland, if you ever get around to selling her Rembrandts, be sure to give me the first refusal.’

  ‘You have no chance,’ Pope said. ‘Walpole would be sure to outbid you.’

  ‘I think the Rembrandts are safe,’ Maurice said. ‘My new opera opens next week, and it is sure to be a success. I expect you all to be there at the opening performance,’ he added severely. ‘Ah, here’s Burlington. He’s looking devilish flustered about something. Burlington! Over here! Where have you been? Campbell was here looking for you an hour since, with the plans of your little school in his hand and an anxious look on his face.’

  ‘What, are you all sitting here so calmly?’ Lord Burlington said in amazement. ‘Have you not heard the news?’

  ‘What news? We have heard nothing interesting this hour, but Morland’s state of finance,’ Ashe Windham drawled.

  ‘There are such crowds in the street, I thought I should not get through,’ Burlington said, dropping onto a brocaded sofa whose inadequate legs trembled at the shock. ‘There’s talk of calling the Guards out, and closing the Bank.’

  ‘What, has the South Sea Company revived itself?’ Mary Lepell said. Lord Burlington mopped his brow.

  ‘Not a bit of it. It is a Jacobite plot, to seize power and execute the King and all his ministers. It is supposed to come about in June, when the King goes to Hanover, but of course the mob have got hold of the idea that it is all happening now, and they are out to save their skins and their fortunes at any cost.’

  Maurice did not go straight home, but wandered around the streets for a while, enjoying the stimulating atmosphere of mingled panic and excitement, and then he went to the St James’s Coffee House, a Whig stronghold, to hear what was being said. Reports were amusingly conflicting. Troops and arms were to be supplied, he learnt, by the French, or as one man said, the Spanish, and the Bank, the Tower, and the Royal Exchange were to be seized. The Pretender was to lead the attack, and to join the troops in London when it was all over. It was to happen in May, before the King left for Hanover, and in June, when he had gone; and the King and the Prince and Princess of Wales were to be executed, imprisoned, and given a safe passage back to Hanover.

  From there Maurice went down to the Cocoa Tree to get the Tory version of the story, and then strolled thoughtfully home. He found Chelmsford House in chaos, and was just in time to witness a collision in the great hall between a footman with his arms clasped round a marble statue of Mercury and a maid staggering under a blanket filled with most of the silver that had not yet been sold.

  ‘What the deuce is going on? Put that down at once. Careful! Stand still, all of you! Now, where is the mistress? What is happening here?’

  The surprised servants froze at the sound of his voice, and Nicoletta came running in from the dining room, with Rupert and Apollonia clinging to her skirts like kittens enjoying a game, and two-year-old Clementina tucked under her arm and bawling deafeningly.

  ‘Oh Maurice, Maurice, thank heaven you have come home!’ Nicoletta cried. ‘There is the most terrible news, and the streets are full of people, and they say that the Guards are being marched out of the Tower this very minute to arrest the conspirators. Oh Maurice, what shall we do?’

  ‘My dear Nicoletta, calm yourself,’ Maurice said, detaching Apollonia from her mother’s skirt and lifting her into his arms. ‘What on earth is the matter? There is no need for all this panic. What is Mary doing with the silver?’

  ‘But Maurice, we must leave at once. If we can get down to the coast, we may be able to get a boat for Italy. We can go to my father’s—’

  ‘Hush my dear, we are not going anywhere. Go back to your duties, all of you. There is nothing to fear. Sam, bring us some wine in the drawing room. Come, Nicoletta, my dear, there is no need for all this. Come and sit down and take some wine with me, and we’ll talk about it quietly.’

  Under the soothing of his voice, order was restored, and Nicoletta went upstairs with him to the drawing room where he sat her on a sofa with the children and gave her a glass of wine and petted her like a child.

  ‘You must not allow yourself to be agitated,’ he said, stroking her hair gently. ‘Remember you are with child.’ She sipped the wine and spluttered a little and sipped again, looking up at him with frightened but trusting eyes. He had married her, against his own better judgement, for this quality of innocence, just as he had married twice before. He had a fatal propensity to fall in love with child-madonnas, pure and perfect little models of his mother. But of course their perfection never lasted. He discovered all too soon that they were human and faulty, and that his possessing them marred their purity. After the death of his second wife he had sworn he would not do it again, but he had not been proof against his own absurd longings.

  He had once said to his mother that she had ruined him for ordinary love, and it was at least partly true. Well, now he must take care of this flawed madonna he had stolen from Italy, as Burlington and Ashe Windham, and all the other young men on their Grand Tours stole paintings and statues to bring home. Nicoletta was silly and young and ignorant, and was therefore all the more entitled to his protection and at least the outward appearance of his love. He wished that she still had Alessandra to help her, for Alessandra had grown up into a sturdy and sensible young woman, and would certainly have prevented this absurd and dangerous panic. But when Aliena had left Shawes to enter a convent in France, Annunciata had taken Alessandra home to be a companion to her and a governess to Aliena’s daughter. Maurice had objected, of course, but what his mother wanted, she got, and Maurice, living free of charge in her house, was in no position to argue.

  ‘Now I will tell you all about it,’ Maurice said when Nicoletta was calm again. ‘There has been news of a plot just uncovered, to remove the Elector and restore King James to the throne. Walpole has been to see the Elector, and he has closed the Bank, to prevent everyone from trying to take their gold away at once, and he has marched the Guards down to Hyde Park in case the crowds get out of hand. Now what is there in all that to make you so afraid?’

  Nicoletta clutched Clementina closer to her bosom in an automatic gesture and said in a low voice, ‘I wish your name was anything but Morland. They are bound to suspect you, and then they will come and take you away.’

  Maurice laughed aloud. ‘Suspect me? My dear girl, what nonsense! Do you know where I have been all morning? Why, at Leicester House. I am a favourite of Princess Caroline’s. The Elector pays me a pension. I am Maurice Morland the musician, that’s all. Why should anyone suspect me of plotting against my own b
est patrons?’

  ‘We live in your mother’s house. They are bound to think we knew about it all along.’

  ‘Knew? Knew about what?’

  Nicoletta stamped her foot. ‘Oh Maurice, don’t be so stupid! You know perfectly well what she was doing while she was staying here the winter before last. Why else did she stay so long? What about all those strange people she saw? It will all come out, and we will be accused. At the very least, of concealing the plot.’

  Now Maurice did not smile. ‘My dear, you must not say such things, not even to me. Why should you think my mother is involved in this plot? She was here in London on business, as everybody knows, as were a great many other people at that time. If you say otherwise, you are endangering us all.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Maurice said firmly, ‘it is Atterbury they want, Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester, friend of King James, darling of the Tories, figurehead of the English Jacobites. They are already calling it the Atterbury Plot. They have no evidence yet but hearsay, but I promise you it is his head they are after. My mother had nothing to do with it. Trust me, we are quite safe, unless you let the servants think we have something to fear. Servants are the worst gossips in the world. And now, let us send the children back to the nursery and see what there is for dinner. I have been walking about the streets, and it has given me quite an appetite.’

  He went to the door to pass the word for the nursery maid, while Nicoletta smoothed the children’s dresses and hair with an automatic hand. Three-year-old Rupert, a stout, handsome, high-coloured little boy, scowled furiously and sidled away from the hand that brushed at his skirt.