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

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  A fractional pause, and then the storm of protest.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘You can’t just make a decision like that on—’

  ‘Naturally, you would say—’

  ‘Why your son, for Heaven’s sake?’

  Robert raised his voice above the roar. ‘I am the next oldest. In the failure of the eldest son to provide a male heir, the natural line of succession is to the second son and his male heirs. Fortunately,’ he added smugly, ‘I have not one, but two sons—’

  There was another babble of protest, and when Jemmy could make his voice heard again, he merely said quietly, ‘The estate was not entailed.’ The noise died down and everyone looked at him. He went on, ‘Had my father wished things to go as Robert describes, he would have left the estate entailed—’

  ‘But you don’t know that for sure,’ Robert began, but Jemmy held his hand up for silence.

  ‘Pobgee was quite clear as to my father’s intentions in willing his estate as he did. It was to prevent any of you, or your heirs, from ever having part of the estate. There is no use in your arguing or protesting. My mind is made up and my will has been drawn up and I am satisfied that I am carrying out my father’s wishes.’

  It was useless to hope that the argument would stop there, but Jemmy felt, looking from face to face, that he had convinced them, and that they were arguing for form’s sake rather than in the hope of changing his mind. Robert and Edmund had met each other’s eyes and looked hastily away again. In each of them was born a new thought, that Jemima was an important heiress, and that she must marry one day. Robert had two sons, Edmund one, and what could be more natural than that she should marry a cousin with whom she had grown up?

  The talk began to break up into small conversations, and Jemmy took the opportunity to walk away from the centre of the room to the window where Allen was standing, an onlooker. He had nothing to hope for or to lose: he was the merest pensioner, but he had also taken on so much of the day-to-day running of the estate that whoever inherited it was likely to want him to remain and continue the task. He gave Jemmy a look of sympathy as the latter sighed wearily, staring morosely round at his wrangling brothers.

  ‘There’s one advantage in leaving the estate to a woman that my father would certainly have approved of,’ he said sotto voce to Allen. ‘At least when she has children, there will be no doubt that they are her children.’

  Allen smiled a little at the wry jest, and then said, ‘I suppose, now that you have definitely made her your heir, you will want to do something about her education.’

  ‘Jemima’s?’ Jemmy said in surprise. ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘Then you should,’ Allen said firmly. ‘It is a tremendous responsibility you are burdening her with.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ Jemmy said. ‘But after all, I shall still be doing the running of it—’

  ‘You will not always be here,’ Allen reminded him.

  ‘And then there’s you,’ Jemmy added. ‘I venture to hope that you will not desert her.’

  ‘Again, I may not always be here. She must marry one day, and unless she is educated, and understands her business, she is likely to lose control of the estate to her husband, and that surely cannot be your intention.’ He was watching Jemmy’s face, as he had watched it all through the preceding argument. ‘I doubt whether you are really leaving everything to Jemima to please your father’s ghost, but you ought at least to see she is equipped for the heavy task.’ Jemmy turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow, and Allen, reading his thoughts, smiled and said, ‘Yes, but Lady Strathord was educated from childhood for the business, as was her grandmother before her. That’s why they do it so well.’

  And Jemmy grinned. ‘You’re right, of course. Well, I shall consult Father Andrews about drawing up a plan of education for her. Provided she has the ability to learn such things.’

  ‘She has the ability, and the desire,’ Allen said. ‘I have been teaching her the rudiments for some time past.’

  Jemmy stared in astonishment. ‘The Devil you have! And I thought you only took her riding.’

  Maurice thought it wise to send Rupert a day’s warning that he was returning to wind up his affairs, for Rupert had been alone at Chelmsford House for over a month, and there was no knowing what or whom he might have installed there. The journey from Dublin was tedious and uncomfortable, and to be greeted by Rupert’s sulkiness might have annoyed Maurice, had not his righteous indignation at the news amused him.

  ‘You cannot be serious, father! I simply refuse to believe it. To marry this woman – such a woman! – and my mother hardly cold in her grave. It’s indecent. I simply cannot believe that you are not making a horrible jest.’

  ‘A jest? What can you find to amuse in it?’ Maurice asked mildly, examining his son’s make-up minutely, and trying not to breathe too deeply because of the heavy perfume he was wearing.

  ‘Amuse? Well, father, that is the kindest reaction one can have to such a scheme, and really, such a woman as Mrs Estoyle—’

  ‘But Rupert, my dear, you have never met her,’ Maurice smiled.

  ‘I do not need to, so fast her reputation runs before her.’

  ‘Oh, you must not heed gossip, my son, especially gossip that originates in Ireland.’

  ‘Nevertheless, father,’ Rupert said firmly, ‘I must point out that this woman is not of gentle – hardly even of respectable – birth, that she is known to be vulgar and mercenary and to have lived a life of great intemperance. They say she has had a hundred lovers—’

  ‘Oh it must be more than that by now. It was a hundred before me,’ Maurice said. Rupert pursed his lips angrily.

  ‘You may joke about it, but for the life of me, father, I cannot see what you can hope to gain from this marriage. You cannot love her. You cannot believe she loves you. Are you infatuated? What can you be about.’

  ‘Truly, Rupert, I am not entirely sure myself,’ Maurice said, sitting down rather wearily. ‘I do not love her, and I don’t think she loves me, though I may be wrong about that. I have frequently been wrong about women’s feelings. I have nothing to gain from the marriage, if you mean materially—’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Maurice said slowly, ‘I wish just for once to marry a woman for her advantage instead of my own. Molly would dearly like to be Lady Chelmsford, and in return she will certainly pretend to be in love with me for the little time I have left.’ He looked up, and seeing that Rupert had not understood any of that – and indeed, why should he? – he added with his more usual expression of wry cynicism. ‘Or perhaps it is that I wish to go out with some éclat, end a reprehensible life with one last resounding piece of scandal. My wife dies mysteriously, and I contract a hasty and disgraceful marriage with a woman of evil repute. That will give them something to gossip about, eh, boy?’

  Rupert rolled his eyes. ‘Oh it’s no use talking to you when you’re in this sort of mood. Well then, if you are quite determined to make a spectacle of yourself, may I know what you intend to do about me? I have to live, you know, and I’ll be damned if I will go and live in Dublin. One might as well be dead.’

  ‘Your friend Garrick has a very good opinion of Dublin,’ Maurice reminded him, ‘but don’t worry. I should not at all like to have you there witnessing my amours with disfavour. You shall stay here. I shall continue to pay your allowance. This house is far too big for you,’ Maurice went on, looking about him sadly at the evidence of decay. ‘I shall rent it to some rich merchant, and you shall have enough of the rent to take a good apartment for yourself wherever you wish – Drury Lane, I imagine, would be your choice.’ Rupert was silent, not being sure how to take the last remark, for Drury Lane was the site of the theatre, of course, but was also a street famous for prostitutes. ‘You may have any of the furniture you want for your new home. The rest I shall rent with the house, or sell, if it is not wanted.’

  ‘Won’t you be taking anything?’
Rupert asked.

  ‘Molly’s house is fully furnished, and it would not be worth the trouble of taking things all the way to Dublin. Only one thing I want – that portrait.’ He nodded towards the picture over the fire, the wedding portrait taken of him with his first wife, Apollonia, more than forty years ago in Naples.

  ‘And where will you stay when you come back?’ Rupert wanted to know. Maurice shook his head.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think I shall be coming back,’ he said.

  When his affairs in London were dealt with, he drove down to Windsor to see his other son, Charles, who was fourteen.

  ‘I feel rather guilty about you,’ he confessed, ‘since I have sold your home without even telling you. We shall have to decide what is to become of you now, Karellie.’

  ‘I am very happy here, father,’ Charles said sadly, ‘but of course now that my voice is breaking I shall not be able to stay on as a chorister.’ Charles was the image of his mother, and Maurice found it difficult to look at him without the tears coming to his eyes. ‘I suppose if they thought I was good enough, and if you could speak for me, I might be able to become one of the gentlemen of the chapel.’

  ‘Is that what you want? Or would you like to go to University? Or have you some other life in mind? The law – you could train for that, you know, or go into the church. And I need hardly say that you have a home always with me and your step-mother. I don’t,’ he added with a frank smile, ‘expect you to love her, you know, but she is a pleasant woman, and not in the least difficult to share a roof with.’

  Charles smiled shyly at being included in his father’s confidence in such a way, and he said, ‘Music is really all I care about, Papa. To sing, and play music, perhaps one day to write it, like you and my grandfather – that is what I want.’

  Maurice nodded, pleased. ‘It is in your blood. I am glad it is also in your heart. Well, Karellie, if you want to be a musician, you must go to Italy.’

  Charles nodded, not yet old enough to oppose his father’s opinions, though he knew that the idea that the only good music came from Italy was old-fashioned, and that many people were opposing it nowadays.

  Maurice went on. ‘That will be very easy to arrange, I am glad to say. You could go to Venice, to the Palazzo Francescini, or to Naples, where your cousins live, or I could write to the King, in Rome, and have you attached to his household, just as you please. Yes, I think perhaps that is the best idea. You are a little young still to be out alone in the world, but the King would take care of you, and in a royal household, even an exiled royal household, you will learn many things besides music. And you will grow up with the young Princes, which is important. I shall write to the King and ask him to appoint you to the bedchamber. King James is very musical you know, and will be delighted to have one of your talent. Will that suit you?’

  And Charles, whose best friend was going to Prague to study, and who had had his heart set on Prague or Leipzig if he could not stay in England and study with Dr Arne or William Boyce, nodded and smiled gratefully. He worshipped his father, and not for worlds would have admitted even to himself that he found his music hopelessly outmoded and limited.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the July of 1743, the magnificently aged Cardinal Fleury, first minister of France, died, to be replaced in office by Cardinal Tencin. The news was received at the exiled Court in Rome with great joy, for Tencin owed his cardinal’s hat largely to King James’s good offices, and could be expected to be grateful. Only a month earlier, it had been reported with great glee that English Foreign Minister Carteret’s policies were making George II ever more unpopular, for the tax-payers resented financing expeditions to protect the Duchy of Hanover against France. The leader of the politicians out of office was the vociferous Pitt who made vitriolic and widely-reported speeches of condemnation. George himself had not helped matters, for when he led the combined English and Hanoverian troops to victory at Dettingen in June, he chose to do so in Hanoverian rather than English uniform which, it was said, had caused deep disgust and anger amongst the English people.

  The pace of the plotting picked up, and letters and messengers came and went in an atmosphere of restrained excitement. Young Charles Morland observed it all with a mixture of puzzlement and exasperation, yet he could not remain unmoved himself. His year at the Court of King James had affected him in many ways. He had always been puzzled at the vehemence of the Jacobites in England, for he had been born into a world which seemed so securely Hanoverian that the desire to change it seemed as unrealistic as a desire to make the sun rise in the west and set in the east. Now, though he still thought it unrealistic, he could understand their longing. King James had received him kindly, had pressed him courteously and eagerly for news of England, and had frequently asked his opinion of the veracity of various reports he received. Was the Usurper really so unpopular? Charles was forced to admit that he was, but could not bring himself to add that he did not think the unpopularity would bring the people to rebellion. King James, he could see, was a man of all the virtues: noble, truthful, just, generous, high-minded, selfless, pious and hard-working. King George, as far as he knew by report, had no detectable virtue of any sort. It would be wonderful to have a King such as James, to have a country inspired by his example to emulation, to live in a world where truth and honour inspired men to beautiful thoughts and noble deeds.

  But the world simply was not like that any more, and Charles knew it in a way he could not express in words. The atmosphere of the exiled Court, however, affected him until he was aware that his mind and his heart were believing exactly opposite things. James was King of England, and that was a fact, unquestionable and unalterable. He had been taken from England as an infant, and had never seen it since; his father was half-French, a quarter Danish and a quarter Scots, while his mother was wholly Italian; yet he never thought of himself as anything but completely English. And though he had never been crowned or annointed, he was King in a strangely holy way which impinged itself upon Charles whenever he was in the King’s presence. Strip George II naked and turn him out into a strange street, and you would have thought him at best a wealthy country farmer. Strip King James naked, and anywhere, amongst any people, you would have known he was a King.

  And that, Charles knew, was as outmoded as all the rest. The world simply was not like that any more, and it frustrated him almost to the point of screaming that he could not tell anyone so, even while another part of him was slowly but surely being absorbed into the extraordinary, dreamlike assumption that it was. After the first Christmas he no longer struggled against the enchantment, and apart from the cool, practical observer who stood aside in his mind and judged everything almost with cynical amusement – a faculty he had surely inherited from his father – he was the King’s man of life and limb. The King had been very kind to him, had made him a gentleman usher, had arranged for him to continue his musical studies, and had praised and encouraged his performances. The King always had music played during meals, and often it was Charles who was asked to play to him. But he also kept Charles by him at other times, to ask his judgement of letters and sometimes of men, to question him minutely about life in England and particularly at Court: Charles, as a chorister at the Chapel Royal at Windsor, had had frequent opportunities to observe King George and his immediate circle. Charles also had a number of useful contacts: his father in Dublin, his aunt Aliena in Paris, and his many relatives in Italy, all of whom were sympathetic towards King James, and many of whom were willing to help, by carrying letters or raising funds.

  The most active of them, Charles soon discovered, was his cousin, the opera singer Karelia. He met her the first autumn, when she came to Rome to sing for the Holy Father, and was afterwards a guest at the King’s table. She greeted Charles with interest, openly acknowledging their kinship, speaking kindly of his father, and Charles was quite prepared to talk music with her – he had heard her performance before the Pope, and was deeply impressed – but soon discovered that p
olitics interested her more.

  ‘My father fought in the ’15 rebellion,’ she said simply, as if that explained all, but after some time in her company Charles formed a different opinion. It was the excitement she wanted. She had conquered the musical world: there could be few people who would not acknowledge her the world’s finest soprano, and so there was no challenge left for her in that sphere. She was certainly a very useful tool to the Jacobite cause, for it was the most natural thing in the world that she should come and go, travelling from one Court to another, visiting St Petersburg and Versailles, and who would dare attack her or search her baggage or question her movements? She was in Rome again shortly after the news of Fleury’s death, and was going from there to Versailles, where she was to persuade Tencin to talk to King Louis about an invasion of England – and talk to Louis too, if the occasion arose. She spoke to Charles alone before she left.

  ‘I have been in Dublin again – in May – and seen your father. He continues well, I am sure you will be glad to know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Charles, a little bewildered, as always, by her beauty and energy.

  ‘More especially he is being active, my dear cousin, and he is very sure the time is coming soon. He charges me to tell you so, and bid you do everything you can to aid the endeavour. He and Lord Clare have been making friends with the shipowning community – there are many of them who use Dublin to avoid English port taxes – and there is one in particular, Antony Walsh, who is very eager to help, not only with ships but with money and arms. So you see you must be ready when the time comes. Your father says so. It is your duty to your father as well as to your King.’