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

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Do you play, madam? I am astonished!’

  ‘Why should it surprise you, sir?’ Lady Dudley snapped. Jemmy bowed in her direction.

  ‘I beg your pardon, madam, I meant only that I am astonished she has never mentioned her talents during our musical evenings.’

  ‘Lady Mary is not accustomed to parade herself like a public performer. She has been used to playing only for intimate friends and close family.’

  The tone of her voice was so insulting that there might well have been unpleasantness, had not Matt looked up at that moment and said abruptly, ‘play, child, if it will not weary you?’

  ‘With pleasure, sir,’ Mary murmured. His abruptness did not offend her, since she knew it was not directed at her, but the result of his unhappy temper and the constant pain she suspected he bore. She walked over to the spinnet and opened it, and Allen leapt forward obligingly to place a chair for her and fetch out the bundle of music. At nine he had grown into a slender, wiry, handsome boy, with a sensitive mouth and an air of strong quietness about him. His eyes were grey-blue, large and rather beautiful; his butter-gold curls had darkened to a golden-brown. He spoke rarely, and kept himself in the background, as was suitable to his position, but he had a way of making himself silently useful which made people look about vaguely for him when he was not there.

  ‘What shall I play?’ Mary asked when she had seated herself. Her voice was so quiet that only Allen heard, and so he answered her, by silently placing a piece of music before her. At the first notes Fand yawned noisily and came and flopped down at her feet, and she suppressed a smile and played on.

  After the first piece Charles came and joined Allen in leaning against the spinnet, and when after the second piece Jemmy joined them, Charles said, ‘Can you play madrigals or glees? Then we could all sing.’ Mary obliged, and in this way they spent the rest of the evening.

  Mary went up to bed later than usual, where Rachel was waiting sleepily to undress her. She was in her shift when Lady Dudley came in, simply to say, ‘I hope I do not need to warn you, Lady Mary, against too frequent a repetition of this evening’s activities. The way to retain the respect of these people is not, I think, to match them in vulgarity.’

  Trembling all over, Mary said as firmly as she could, ‘These people, Lady Dudley, are my family.’ Lady Dudley stared at her, nostrils quivering, for a moment, and then went away without another word.

  Rachel undressed her, put her into her bedgown, brushed her hair, and helped her into bed, and went away silently, leaving the candle burning. Mary lay for a while, smiling at the flickering shadows on the bedcurtains. Rachel’s silence had been as expressive as three hearty cheers. She had only just blown out the candle when Jemmy came in and after a moment got into bed beside her. It occurred to her that this was the first time since their marriage that they had spent the evening doing anything together – the first time, too, that he had come sober to bed. After a moment she felt him turn over and place an arm across her. This time she did not flinch.

  ‘Mary,’ he said softly, ‘I think it is time for us to become husband and wife in truth, don’t you?’

  Her mouth dried, and she felt her body tense with apprehension, but he seemed waiting for her answer, and she was sure if she said no, he would turn over and leave her alone. At last all she could manage was to say in a very small voice, ‘Will it hurt?’

  ‘I will be very careful,’ he said. He had not said ‘no’, and she appreciated his honesty.

  ‘Very well,’ she whispered, bracing herself. He laughed, silently, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek.

  ‘Oh, not that way,’ he said, and she could hear from his voice that he was smiling. ‘I’ll shew you.’

  And he took her in his arms and began kissing her. It was an extraordinary experience and, she found, very pleasurable, and she was glad to discover that there was some part of the process, at least, that she could like. It was quite a long time before he came to the difficult part.

  It did hurt, and she was hard put to it not to cry out with the pain. But it was not anywhere near so bad as she had expected, or as Lady Dudley had told her, and after some time the pain went away, and it began to be pleasurable. It was all rather baffling, but eventually she gathered that it was over, and that Jemmy was satisfied. He took her into his arms and cradled her on his shoulder, and that part she found very agreeable.

  ‘There,’ he said, kissing the top of her head with affection. ‘Now you are my wife, and nothing can ever part us. And I promise you that it will never hurt like that again. The next time, you will like it much more.’

  He understood! Gratitude swept warmly through her, but she was very sleepy and very comfortable, and she could not rouse herself to answer. Her last thought before falling asleep was, if I am with child, I won’t have to go riding any more.

  For the whole of race-week, Mary was happy. A shyness as deep-rooted as hers did not melt away all at once like spring frost, and she still smiled and spoke very little, and was dumbfounded by company or too much attention. But Jemmy looked kindly on her, and at night led her gently through the stages of intimacy. She still did not quite understand it all, and the doors of pleasure did not open for her more than a tiny crack, but it certainly did not hurt, and Jemmy’s enjoyment and kindness were quite sufficient for her to think that it was a pleasant thing.

  By day there was all the excitement of the races and the dinners and balls. Every day she drove down to Clifton Ings in an open carriage, from which she had a splendid view of the races. Jemmy himself placed her bets for her, advising her which was the best horse, and after one or two races she became so taken up with the excitement that she chose a horse for herself and even shouted out with excitement when it came near to winning. Everyone behaved in a very friendly and informal manner during race-week, and etiquette was almost set aside, and only the disapproving presence of Lady Dudley prevented Mary from being taken quite into the bosom of local society. As it was, they looked kindly on her, and were as friendly as the dowager’s frozen looks permitted.

  On the first morning after race-week, Mary woke feeling especially happy, for Lady Dudley had left early that morning to visit a friend in Harrogate, an elderly lady to whom at least so much respect was due. Jemmy was, as always, up and gone before she awoke, and she lay stretching comfortably in the bed and thinking about him until Rachel came in to wake her. She was in a fair way to being in love with him, which she knew Lady Dudley would think scandalous. But I shall hide it from her, Mary thought, ignoring for the moment the fact that she had never been able to conceal anything from her stern duenna for long.

  Rachel almost smiled when she came in, so much did the atmosphere lighten when Lady Dudley was absent. With great cheerfulness she helped Mary dress, and then the housemaid came in with a tray containing Mary’s breakfast – toasted cheese, and a pot of chocolate. Mary sat down to it by the window with a great appetite.

  ‘Where is Mr Morland – my husband?’ she asked the departing maid.

  ‘He’s over to Twelvetrees, m’lady,’ the maid said, curtseying. ‘I heard him tell Davey he would be back in an hour, though.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mary said, and the maid departed. Rachel came behind her to dress her hair while she ate. ‘I think I shall go for a walk in the gardens, until Mr Morland returns,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, m’lady,’ Rachel replied, understanding that it was to be imparted to the other servants, so that when Jemmy came back and asked, he would be told his wife was walking in the gardens waiting for him. She hoped so much that Lady Dudley would stay away for a few days, so that her mistress might have a chance to be happy with her husband, but knowing Lady Dudley, she thought it unlikely. Lady Dudley had only gone with the greatest reluctance, and had left at an unholy hour that morning with the intention of returning the same day if possible.

  Fand joined Mary in the rose garden, and trotted along by her side, leaving her every now and then to bury his nose perilously in a bush or f
lower. She was glad of his silent companionship, and began to see how a man could take such pleasure in horse and hounds. She was even growing fond of Leppard as her fear decreased. During race-week she had managed to have two brief, secret lessons with Davey, and his patience had helped her greatly. She passed two gardeners, an old man and a very young boy, and they bowed respectfully to her and then returned her cheerful greeting with pleasure and faint surprise.

  A little while later she sat down on a stone bench under a tall hedge to rest, and heard their voices on the other side of the hedge from her. She listened idly to their conversation for a moment before she realized what they were talking about. They evidently had no idea she was there.

  ‘T’dog seems to ’ave taken to ’er, any road,’ said the boy. The old man grunted.

  ‘Aye, well, he allus was a woman’s dog. He were supposed to be for the little girl, but he pined so when his mistress went away, that the master took him back.’

  ‘He seems right fond of the little girl,’ the boy said.

  ‘What, t’young master? Well might he be.’ A silence, and then the old man spoke again. ‘I reckon he loves that dog for her sake, and the little girl as she’s the only thing left to him of the woman he loved.’

  Mary got up quickly and walked away, more puzzled than upset. There was a great deal she did not understand. Fand trotted along at her side, and when she stopped to look down at him thoughtfully, he smiled up at her with his wolfish yellow eyes and butted her hand impatiently. When she got near the house, she saw Clement coming out on some errand, and called him.

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Clement, whose dog is this?’ she asked. Clement looked puzzled. ‘I mean, whose was he?’

  ‘He belonged to Mistress Aliena, the Countess’s daughter, over at Shawes, my lady. When she went to become a nun, the dog pined for her, so the young master took him in.’

  ‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully. Clement was watching her alertly. She asked with apparent casualness, ‘Is my husband returned yet?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, he’s in the stable with Davey. I heard his voice as I passed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mary said, and walked on. As she went into the courtyard, Fand left her, running ahead into the stable where, she supposed, Jemmy must be. In fact he was in Auster’s stall, leaning on the horse’s black rump, and talking to Davey, who was grooming the horse.

  ‘She’s been getting on much better with everyone since I gave her the horse,’ Jemmy said. ‘Do you know, I think all her coldness and aloofness might have been shyness after all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Davey said, pushing Auster’s face away as he tried to chew Davey’s hair. He was keeping Mary’s riding lessons secret, of course. Better Jemmy should think she liked horses than that she had learnt to bear them.

  ‘It seems to me,’ Jemmy said, ‘that much of the trouble is that lady companion of hers.’

  Davey grunted agreement. It was at that point that Mary came near enough to overhear them.

  ‘I hate her,’ Jemmy was saying. ‘Haughty, frozen-faced creature. She thinks herself too good for us. When she gives me one of those sour looks of hers, I wish to God I could send her away.’

  Outside Mary stood rigid in the sunshine, feeling the words sear her, feeling her cheeks burn with shock and shame.

  ‘You know that’s impossible, sir,’ Davey answered.

  ‘Aye, I suppose I must do my duty, and put up with her. All my life seems to have been spent doing my duty.’

  Mary’s feet unfroze, and carried her towards the house at a stumbling run. Like a hurt animal she sought privacy, running up the stairs to the bedchamber. Well was it said eavesdroppers heard no good of themselves! She had lived in a fool’s paradise, but thank God she had found out soon enough, before she had made too much of a spectacle of herself. Lady Dudley had been right to warn her not to be friendly with her husband. How could she have been such a fool as to think she could love him, or him her? He had loved someone else, and had married her out of duty. He ‘put up with’ her, that was all, and put a good face on doing his duty.

  She lay down on her bed, and hot tears coursed helplessly down her face, though she struggled against them. She must not cry so much as to be unpresentable at dinner time. She must do her duty. But she would never, never again risk her heart, her affections. She longed for Lady Dudley, the only safe rock in a stormy sea; Lady Dudley who had known her since earliest childhood, and would never leave her, who had her best interests at heart all the time.

  In the stable, unaware that his words had been over heard, Jemmy had continued by saying, ‘Besides, I am sure my wife is fond of her, and I would not grieve her. Hey-day, here’s Fand. What have you been doing, old fellow?’ He rubbed the hound’s head between his hands. ‘Where is your mistress, then? It is wonderful, isn’t it, Davey, how Fand has taken to his new mistress.’

  A message came down that Lady Mary had a headache from walking too long in the sun, and would stay in her room, and later another message came for Jemmy, asking whether he would be kind enough to sleep in the bachelor’s wing, as Lady Mary felt a little feverish and needed an undisturbed night. Jemmy sent an obliging message back, asked if he might see her, and was politely denied. That night the servants discussed what appeared to be a lovers’ tiff, and laid odds on its being resolved before the next day’s ending.

  Indeed, the misunderstanding might well have been resolved, had not Lady Dudley arrived back the following morning, heard the news of Mary’s ‘indisposition’, and rushed upstairs in alarm. It did not take her long to discover the true state of affairs, and though her heart rejoiced, she wisely hid her glee, and managed not to say ‘I told you so’, which would have lost her Mary’s confidence. Instead she was kind and sympathetic, and only said, ‘You know that you have me to rely on, child. I am always here, whenever you need me.’

  Jemmy was puzzled, when he met Mary, at her coldness, and thought it was the result of her illness, compounded by Lady Dudley’s return. But Mary insisted on sleeping apart for the rest of the week, saying she still did not feel well, and when they met during the day she treated him with a coldness that at last roused his anger, and the breach widened until it was impassable.

  At the end of that week, Mary’s flux was due, but did not appear, and she was sure she was pregnant. She told Lady Dudley, who concurred: her fluxes had sometimes been early, but never late. When Lady Dudley went away to fetch her some cold buttermilk, and some Elsham ginger against possible nausea, Mary buried her face in her pillow and cried; but after a while her tears stopped, and she began to feel rather pleased about her pregnancy. For here, at least, would be a creature who was bound to love her, and whom she could love without fear of rebuff, at least while it was small. A son or a daughter – it would be someone of her own, of her very own. Perhaps if it was a daughter, it might grow up to be a friend.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the stone barn at the far end of the orchard, the cider-making was in full flow, and every boy in the neighbourhood had been pressed into service to gather up the apples and bring them in, sound and windfall together, to be thrown into the apple-crusher. The red-and-white spotted ox trod patiently around his circular track, blindfolded so that he would not get dizzy, his breast against the outer end of the long pole that turned the crushers’ blades in the huge oak hopper, into which the boys tipped their basket-loads of cider-apples. The boys had to perch on the raised waist of the hopper to reach its mouth, and if they were still balanced there when the pole came round, they had to jump over it. It was a favourite game of the older boys to wait until a younger one was perched precariously, holding on with one hand while he heaved the basket up with the other, and then whack the ox with a stick to make him break into a trot, so that the pole would come round too soon and knock the young boy over.

  Jemmy had done it himself when he was younger, and he watched, grinning secretly, from his adult fastness, wondering if there was any adult pleasure to co
mpare with those forbidden sports of childhood. He was at the other end of the barn, where the press was. The process had always fascinated him, and though there was not the least need in the world for his presence, he told himself he ought to look in. The press was hand-carved of oak by some long-dead estate carpenter, and was a thing of beauty, its long handle decorated with an ambitious pattern of leaves, flowers and fruit in raised relief, only the hand-hold being left smooth, and polished to a deep patina by generations of hands. Onto the base of the press had been laid a foundation of oat straw, on top of which had been spread a six-inch layer of crushed apples. Then came another layer of straw and another of apples, and so on until the pile was three feet thick. Then the top of the press was lowered into position, and the handle put in place.

  Knowing his preferences, the bailiff, Cradoc, who was supervising the business, offered Jemmy first turn at the handle, and Jemmy, smiling sheepishly, pushed at his sleeves, and stepped forward to take it. At the first turn the pressure came on and the first of the golden apple-juice went trickling noisily into the stone cistern below. The men let out a cheer, and after a moment the first of them came gently to take the handle from Jemmy, and under his more vigorous action the trickle increased to a splashy flow. When no more could be wrung out, the press would be opened, and the cake of pressed straw and apple-pulp would be taken out and a fresh one built up. This straw-and-apple leaving was given to the dairy-maids, who chopped it up and gave some to the milch cows and some to the poultry. Geese were particularly fond of the confection, and at cider time it was wise to see they were shut up somewhere, for they were not above coming into the cider-shed and demanding it with threats and menaces. No man can concentrate on his work with an angry goose biting his calf.