And she kissed him goodbye, and left in a flurry of skirts and expensive perfume. Charles watched her go with some amusement. His father had written to him only last week, and had said nothing of this, and Charles knew, moreover, that even if his father was being active he would never ask Charles to do so, rather wishing to leave it to Charles himself to decide. But Karelia, he had come to understand, was ruthless, and would employ any means, even lying, to get her way.
He was sorry to see her go. Now that the Queen was dead – she had died eight years ago, long before Charles came to Rome – there was no female household and a very noticeable lack of young women about the Court. Charles regretted it for his own sake, but the cool, noticing part of him thought it a very bad thing for the young Princes, who were thus brought up in a completely male atmosphere. With Prince Henry it did not matter so much, for he had more of his father’s temperament, and was, by very consequence of being second son, a more stable and levelheaded young man. But the Prince of Wales, tall, handsome, with a startling combination of blond hair and brown eyes, had his mother’s wild, passionate, unbalanced nature. He was proud, vain and hot-headed, with a fierce and unpredictable temper, and these traits were not helped by being brought up entirely by male tutors who filled his head with his own importance as heir to the throne and with stories of heroic deeds, glorious battles, dashing charges, and noble last stands. All the energies of his youth were chanelled into those thoughts and feelings, and he seemed barely to realize that women existed, other than in the purely practical sense of laundresses and scrubbing-women. A love-affair or two, Charles thought, might well cool that hot blood a little; a languid dalliance around the gardens and fountains might be better for him than martial exercises on horseback and mock battles with his fencing masters.
Charles himself was managing quite nicely, with the daughter of a long-term exile, Lord Cutler, with whom to exchange sentimental sighs. The Cutlers had a tiny house in the Via Veneto to which they were always eager to invite Charles when he could be spared from the King’s table. They approved of him, on the one hand as the handsome and well-mannered son of an Earl, and on the other, since they were great music lovers, as the talented grandson of Scarlatti, cousin of the great Karelia, and son of Maurice Morland. His dalliance with Molly was of course kept on the most public and decent of levels, and he had only to be careful not to lead any of them to suppose he wanted to marry her.
The other half of his love-life was also well taken care of in the shape of a buxom young serving-maid, Lisa, also from the Cutlers’ household. She was two years older than Charles, and he was sure he was not her first lover, but that was so much the better. She took his virginity and then proceeded to teach him everything she knew, a process as delightful as it was informative. What he did not suspect and had no way of knowing was that Lisa told Molly all about it afterwards, when she came in early in the morning to make up the mistress’s fire or empty her slops. It gave Molly plenty to think about during her otherwise tedious days of attendance on her mother, a Catholic of enormous piety and no imagination.
In December 1743 things seemed so promising that King James issued another of his proclamations to the English people, in which he promised to maintain the existing form of government and named his son Charles Prince Regent, to lead his troops in his absence. He promised that any foreign troops used in the regaining of his throne would be kept under strict discipline while in England and sent home as soon as Parliament judged public tranquillity would allow – in this, Charles thought, he knew the temper of his people. He also promised safe conduct to the Hanoverian royal family back to Hanover, promising not to harm a hair of their heads and adding, ‘I thank God I have no resentment against anyone living, and shall never repine at their living happily in their own country after I am in possession of my Kingdom’. Knowing how much King George loved Hanover, and how little he loved England, he thought the Elector might even be tempted by the offer. But of course, as Charles knew, and the King apparently did not, it was not the Elector that had to be persuaded, but the politicians who could hope for far more material benefit and power under an indifferent George than an active James.
However, France was evidently willing to help, and in January 1744 the Prince of Wales and Lord Dunbar set off, in disguise, for Paris. They left in such secrecy that no one at Court knew of their going until they were well on their way; then the King announced that King Louis was assembling ships and twenty battalions of infantry along the French coast between Dunkirk and Gravelines for an invasion of England, and that the Prince of Wales had gone to join them and lead them in the King’s name.
Ill-luck had always dogged the Stuart cause, ever since James II first fled from England; storms in the Channel wrecked a substantial number of the assembled transports and the scheme had to be abandoned. King Louis wrote to say that he had by no means turned away from the Stuart cause, but that the right time must be waited for, and that secrecy was of the essence. The Prince of Wales could stay in Paris, but he must remain hidden and therefore unacknowledged. King James saw the reason in that, for Hanoverian agents were everywhere, and surprise must be the chief element in any attack on them; but Charles, knowing the Prince of Wales’s temperament, wondered how wise it was to leave that hot-headed and proud young man in Paris, in idleness, and in obscurity.
Jemima’s thirteenth birthday, in May 1745, was one of those perfect early-summer days when the sky was such a pure, clear blue that is seemed almost to sparkle, like polished crystal. After early Mass, Father Andrews took her to one side to say that as it was her birthday he excused her lessons.
‘You will have a last fitting for your dress this morning, I know, so why don’t you take your ride early? If you go straight away you will still have time, and I think you ought to have the exercise, since you will be much confined later on.’
Jemima curtseyed dutifully, glad enough to obey though she thought it an odd way to describe her birthday dinner and ball – ‘confined to the house’. She supposed as a priest he was above enjoying such things. As she left the chapel Allen caught up with her.
‘If you are going to ride at once, I shall accompany you,’ he said. Jemima looked pleased.
‘Oh, thank you! It is so much better to have someone to ride with, especially—’ She paused, her cheeks reddening, though Allen, who was looking elsewhere, did not seem to notice.
‘Especially what?’
‘Especially on such a lovely day,’ she finished lamely. ‘I had better go and change. Will you speak for the horses?’
‘Yes, but don’t be too long. Father Andrews may have excused you lessons, but I do not. I have a book of poetry I wish to read with you, so we must not waste time.’
Jemima nodded and hurried away. Since she had become heiress, her life had changed, to her mind for the better, though there were times when she felt weary and frustrated with things. Father Andrews had taken over her education, and taught her all the things, according to Jemmy’s instructions, that he would have taught her had she been a boy. But she had come so late in life to education that she often found it difficult – difficult to concentrate, difficult to understand, but most of all difficult to remember. Her own stupidity frustrated her, particularly with languages, for though she was given lists of words to learn almost every day, she could rarely remember more than a few of them, and those she did remember were generally ousted by new ones from the next list. She was stupid with figures, too – Father Andrews said she was careless, but she knew she was not, and in a way that was even worse.
Her lessons with Father Andrew were carefully arranged so that other things could be fitted into her day as well. Her mother had insisted that she should not neglect her music, dancing, and needlework, and the needlework in particular she found irksome, for it was a time each day when she must sit still under her mother’s eye and suffer her mother’s conversation. She did not understand why her mother insisted on supervising her sewing in person, since she evidently disliked J
emima, and often complained that her dog was better company. Jemima set her teeth and sewed to a litany of her faults, as Lady Mary criticized her looks and her posture and her character, all of which had undergone a change for the worse since Father Andrews had begun teaching her. She was idle, inattentive, clumsy, careless, dirty, disagreeable, and above all, worst of all, unladylike. Since no reply was possible to any of these charges, Jemima could only try to endure it in silence, whereupon she would be accused of being sullen.
‘For Heaven’s sake, Jemima, try to look a little more pleasantly,’ her mother would expostulate. ‘As you have so few personal advantages, it is more than ever important for you to try to cultivate a serene expression. I cannot imagine what sort of a man would marry a girl who looks so sour.’
Her father did not interfere with her life or education, except to insist that she take exercise each day, either walking or riding, so that had to be fitted in as well. She still rarely saw her father, for his life was busy; and she did not yet dine downstairs, so except for morning Mass her encounters with him were brief and accidental. He would smile pleasantly but vaguely as she dropped a curtsey when they passed in the hall or on the stairs, and sometimes he would pat her shoulder and say, ‘And how is the little Mistress today?’ or ask her if she was being a good girl, but his preoccupation was always elsewhere.
Her greatest comfort was in Allen, and she now regarded him as her only friend, for even had she felt inclined to be friendly with her cousins, she never saw them. William, Robert and Frederick all went to school, and Augusta and Caroline, of course, did no lessons. Allen, though he was nearly as busy as Papa around the estate, found time to interest himself in her progress, and it was to him she took her problems when she could not understand her work, for he had a better way of explaining things than Father Andrews. Often, in the evenings when they were sitting in the drawing room or the long gallery, he would look up from his book and catch her beseeching eye, and come quietly across to her to see if he could help. And though their clandestine lessons had ceased, he still sometimes accompanied her on her morning rides, and when he did he would often bring along some book, or instruct her out of his head as they rode along. He sometimes made a joke about it, as he had this morning, but he always expected her serious attention, and could be quite severe if he felt she was not giving her mind fully to what he was saying. Jemima always worked hard for him. He was the person she loved best in the world, and besides old Jacob and Jane Chort, the only person in the world who loved her.
Up in her room, Jane now helped her out of her linen day dress and sash, and lay it over her bed saying. ‘Well, miss, this will be the last day you will wear a frock. When you put your best dress on for dinner, you will be a grownup woman at last – and not before time, I say.’
‘Do you, Jane?’ Jemima said, stepping into the petticoat Jane held out. ‘Why, don’t you want me to be your little girl any more?’
‘Little girl? Why, miss, you’ve got so tall in the last year, I wonder you can get in the door without bending. You’re no little girl any more, and it’s good and time you were put into grown-up clothes. No, I shan’t be sorry to see the old frocks taken away.’
Jemima made a face. ‘That’s all very well, but sitting for hours at my studies in a corset and busk does not sound like fun.’
‘You know what I think about that, miss,’ Jane said, lacing the petticoat. ‘You shouldn’t be doing all that study. It isn’t right for a girl.’
‘But I have to be educated if I am to be Mistress one day,’ Jemima said.
‘Nor that isn’t right, neither. Your father’s a good man, I’m sure, and Morland Place is his to give away as he likes, but it isn’t right to give it all to a girl, and deprive the young gentlemen. That isn’t the way things are done.’
‘It’s the way they are done here,’ Jemima said, holding out her arms for her jacket. ‘And what about Shawes?’
‘Shawes is Shawes, and nothing to do with us,’ Jane said robustly. ‘And though it’s not my business, you make me say it, miss, that Lady Strathord is a horrid mannish lady, and I should be very sorry to see my young miss grow up like that.’
Jemima laughed and kissed her on her disapproving cheek. ‘Too late, Jane, I’ve already grown, as you just told me. Oof, this bodice is tight!’
‘Aye, so I see – you’re growing other ways as well as up. You ought to have a corset under this, I’m sure, but I suppose you’ll be getting a new habit after today, so once more won’t hurt. Now, then, miss, don’t go galloping about and getting yourself heated, and be sure and tell the groom to have you back here sharp at eleven. If you’re late for your fitting your mother will have the vapours.’
‘I’m going with Allen,’ Jemima said carelessly. ‘He’ll look after me.’
Jane Chort studied the averted face carefully, and after a moment said, ‘Aye, well. I suppose.’ She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then dismissed the thought. ‘Now take your hat, and keep those gloves on! It’s bad enough having ink stains on your fingers, without blisters as well. Why God saw fit to make you a girl I don’t know, but I daresay. He had His reasons.’
‘Oh He did, you’ll see,’ Jemima said, kissed Jane again and whirled out of the room and away down the stairs.
Everything was burgeoning that day. They rode beside the orchards, where the plum and cherry trees were heavy with blossom, and past the curdled milk of mayflower bushes and through patches of gleaming buttercups to the river at Clifton Ings, and then rode along the river bank under the trees, tender with their young leaves, the horse chestnuts laden with their fragrant white candles of blossom. Then they turned away from the river and hayfields and across the open fields, where already the oats were tall and green, and they cantered along the turf baulks between the cultivated rigs until they got to the fallows in North-fields, and then they galloped right up to Harewood Whin.
Where they pulled up, Jemima was breathless and laughing, her cheeks bright and her eyes brighter. ‘Oh, that was lovely!’ she cried as they waited for the groom to catch up with them. ‘But please don’t tell Jane Chort. She told me not to gallop and get myself heated.’
‘Are you heated?’ Allen asked solemnly. Jemima shook her head.
‘Not at all.’
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I was going to suggest we sat down on the bank for a while to rest, but of course if you don’t need to rest—’
Jemima laughed again, and without waiting for the groom she freed her foot, swung her leg up and over the pommel, and jumped down. ‘I do, I do, I swear it! I’ll rest all you like, if you promise to go on educating me.’
Allen jumped down too and took her reins. He handed both horses to the groom as he arrived, gesturing him to lead them away a little and graze them. Then he went to where Jemima had flung herself down on the bank and stood looking down at her. He realized suddenly that the little girl was growing up, that under the cloth of her uncorseted jacket were the soft mounds of growing breasts. It made him feel tender towards her, and strangely sad, too, for when she was really grown up, there would be no place in her life for him. She would fall in love, perhaps several times, and then they would marry her to some suitable person, and she would be his no longer. Oh, he did not accuse her of having an ungrateful heart: he was sure she would always think kindly of him; but he would be Allen Macallan, the poor relation, the dependant, perhaps even ‘Uncle’ Allen – and she had not called him uncle for many years.
‘Well, what have you got for me today?’ she said, and he forgot about her age, for with her hat off and her hair tousled by the wind, she was Jemima the child again. He drew out the book of poetry from his pocket and sat down on the bank beside her.
‘Father Andrews may teach you mathematics and Latin, but he neglects the more spiritual things in life,’ he said. ‘So I must make good the deficiency.’
‘Strange to accuse a priest of being unspiritual,’ Jemima said, and he frowned at her with mock severity.
‘Be si
lent and attend. Keep your frivolity for the ball tonight.’
It was a mistake to mention the ball: he saw her attention fly away at once. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest.
‘Oh the ball! Oh Allen, I can’t believe it will really be for me, my own ball, in my honour! And my dress—! And a new way of dressing my hair—!’
Allen sighed and shook his head. ‘I see you are a woman after all, despite all we have done to make a man of you. Dresses and hair? Is that the highest level you can raise your mind to? When I am offering you poetry—’
‘Oh I know, but just think,’ she said apologetically. ‘Do you really think anyone will want to dance with me?’
‘Everyone will want to dance with you,’ he said firmly. ‘After all, you are an important heiress now.’
It was the wrong thing to have said, as he realized when he saw the smile disappear.
‘Of course, I was forgetting,’ she said dully. ‘It will be the heiress to Morland Place they will be dancing with, not Jemima.’
He was stricken, and took her hand and pressed it between both of his.
‘If I were a young man, the greatest joy of my life would be to dance with Jemima,’ he said gently. Her fingers curled round his, and then she pushed her other hand in too, and looked earnestly into his eyes.
‘Would you?’ she asked. ‘Will you? Will you dance with me?’
It was all suddenly too serious for him, coming so soon after his thoughts about her growing up. He avoided the full gaze of her eyes and said lightly. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t want to dance with an old man like me, especially an unimportant old man.’
Had she been a few years older, she would have been rebuffed, but at thirteen she still had some of the directness of a child. She said, ‘You aren’t old. And I would rather dance with you than with anyone else.’
Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty) Page 24
