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

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Jemima looked at him sadly when he straightened up. So it had not been an entirely selfless gesture, the giving of the guinea! But it was something to discover that there was someone in the house who had more to fear than she did, and it made her feel suddenly grown up and strong and protective towards him.

  ‘While I live, you shall always have a home here,’ she said stoutly, and he nodded and went away, comforted. But her own words were an unhappy echo of her father’s, and she realized that Uncle George would not have said anything unless he, too, thought that her father might not have much longer to live.

  Her birthday ball the next day was a much quieter and more private affair than the one two years before, held in the long saloon, and with only a few outsiders invited. Despite what had happened at the previous one, Jemima enjoyed this one less. She hated to see her father sitting down instead of dancing; she did not even have the prospect of a dance with Allen to cheer her; and the fact that only a few families had been asked meant that she had no excuse for refusing to dance with her cousins, who were laying siege to her with an almost military grimness. She did not know which one she hated most – William with his self-conceit, his contempt of everyone else around him, and his father’s brutality of mind; or Robert, with his stupidity and peevish jealousy; or Frederick, with his wandering hands and his shallow viciousness. When they danced with her they blackguarded each other in a manner worthy of their fathers, and tried to interest her in schemes to be alone with them or to do down their rivals. Oh Papa, she thought despairingly as she walked up the set with Robert, who hardly ever even looked at her because he was so busy glaring at his brother and cousin, and whose hand was both cold and clammy, like a week-old fish, oh Papa, why can’t you see? You would never have left Marie-Louise to such a fate; you would have paid more heed to her wishes. Why can’t you love me as much as you loved her?

  She caught her mother’s eye upon her, and had a rare moment of sympathy with her; for Lady Mary had hated the Princess too, and with some reason. Jemima did not so much hate Lady Strathord as envy her, for the two men Jemima cared most about in the world had both been devoted to the Princess, and had both destroyed themselves in her service. No wonder Lady Mary was bitter. For a sweet moment Jemima daydreamed about running away and taking ship for France, where Allen was an officer in the French army. That was another source of pain to Lady Mary, of course. If only she didn’t hate me so much, Jemima thought, we might have a great deal to say to each other.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sight of the Master and the little maiden riding together along the village street on their matching black horses was such a familiar one that children no longer ran to the door to watch them go by, though everyone who saw them waved cheerfully and called out to them. The Master was a good man, and well liked; he always had time to talk, and remembered everyone’s name. Besides, with his game leg he was always glad to stop and sit for a while, and chat, and take a little something. And his daughter, they reckoned, was another of the same cast – growing rare pretty now she was sixteen – quick to learn, and always asking questions, sensible ones that shewed she had her wits about her.

  Tab Fuller was sitting outside the door, as it was such a fine day, with a basket of raw wool beside her, her leather hand-carders in her lap, working the wool between them. She was so skilful that she never needed to look, but was able to keep an eye on her two youngest bairns, one of whom was shelling peas into a basin, and the other of whom was just inside the doorway spinning his daily quota. The bobbin lying beside him shewed he was spinning for his father, and would later wind the spun yarn ready for weaving. She waved to Jemmy and Jemima as they approached and called out a greeting.

  ‘Good day, Master – will you come and take a sup of something?’

  They drew rein and Jemmy leaned over his saddle and smiled at her. ‘Well, good day to you, Tab – keeping the bairns busy, I see. How’s that leg of yours?’

  ‘It’s well enough, Master, while the sun shines. It’s only the rheumatiz that aches me. And how’s your leg?’

  ‘Take your own answer for mine,’ Jemmy laughed. ‘Your Master’s above, I can hear. Not working for me today, by the sound of it.’

  ‘No, Master, he’s weaving broadcloth today,’ Tab said, and blinked against the sunlight up at Jemima. ‘How did he know that then, miss?’

  Jemima bent her mind to the problem. Lots of the people liked to test her in little ways – her education had become a kind of game in the village. ‘He heard him weaving,’ she said, hearing for herself the creak and thud of the loom in the attic which, as the cottage was so low, was on a level with her head while she was on horseback, ‘but I don’t know how he knows it’s broadcloth.’

  Tab cackled with glee at having bested her, and Jemmy said, ‘By the rhythm, of course. Broadcloth is too broad for the weaver to throw the shuttle from hand to hand – he must pass it to a helper, which is slower. Who’s passing the shuttle for your man today?’ he asked Tab.

  ‘Our Billy,’ she said. ‘I can better spare him from the spinning than little Jackie here – he spins too soft, does our Billy. Lord knows how he’ll get on in life – a good boy, Master, I don’t say contrary, but slack-twisted.’ She shook her head sadly, as if Billy, whom Jemima knew to be only five years old, or six at the most, was so hardened in sin he was beyond saving.

  ‘Wouldn’t your man like to have one of these flying shuttles?’ Jemima said eagerly. ‘I saw them using it over at the manufactory at Leeds, and it’s much quicker, at least for broadcloth-weaving.’

  Tab’s brows drew down, but she only said, ‘Well enough, miss, but my John weaves mostly fancy-weave for Master here, so it’d be no use to him. We like the old ways best. That manufactory—’ She said no more, but her lip jutted in clear disapprobation. Jemima saw from the corner of her eye that Jemmy was giving her a look of warning, but Tab was much more reasonable to talk to than the other women, and she really wanted to know, so she ploughed on.

  ‘What’s wrong with the manufactory, Tab? Why does everyone talk about it as if it were Newgate prison?’

  ‘Well, miss, you’ve said it. It might as well be Newgate, when a person has to go at this time or that time, and stay till someone says he may go home.’

  ‘But you all get up at the same time in the village anyway – the hornblower comes round at five or six o’clock, I know that.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but that’s not to say we’ve got to get up, every day, whether we want to or not. And another thing, if a person’s away from home, how’s a person to tend their garden or their field or their beasts? Or keep an eye on the bairns? No, miss, it’s well enough for work’uss children to go to a manufactory, but not for decent folk. I’ll bid you good day now, miss, and Master. You’ll want to be getting on, I’m sure.’

  They were very firmly dismissed, and when they had ridden out of earshot Jemmy laughed at Jemima’s crestfallen face.

  ‘Well, chick, what did you expect? You mustn’t tease them, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t teasing, I really wanted to know. Why do they hate the manufactory so much?’

  ‘I don’t know that I blame them,’ Jemmy said. ‘You heard what she told you – at home they can work when they like, and fit in all the other tasks, the cooking and washing and tending their field and beasts. They have their children and their own familiar things about them, they can work at their own pace, and if one day they don’t feel like getting up at all, or they want to go out and pick mushrooms in the wood, why there’s no one to say ’em nay. A little freedom is as precious to a weaver and his family as to any man.’

  ‘But they’d do more work and earn more money at the manufactory,’ said Jemima. ‘The work is so ill-regulated when it’s done at home, and it does seem silly to have the wool travelling about from one place to another to have things done to it.’

  ‘Better the wool should have to travel about than the people, don’t you think? The wool doesn’t care one way or another. You�
��ve been listening too much to Ibbetson’s complaints! Of course the manufactory system is better from the clothier’s point of view, but the people don’t like it. I’ll tell you something, chick, why you shouldn’t talk about it to people like Tab. The Morlands used to have a manufactory years ago, down by the water-mill.’

  ‘Did we?’ Jemima was astonished. ‘I never heard tell of it.’

  ‘Oh, this was long, long ago, a hundred, maybe two hundred years ago. Back in history, you might say. But the legend has never died. They tell it to each other generation after generation, and it loses nothing in the telling.’

  ‘But what happened?’

  ‘The river flooded, and destroyed it. People were killed, drowned; how many depends on who is telling the tale; but since then it’s been looked upon as an act of God, or a curse, or something of the sort. You’d as well tell a Morland worker to go to Hell as to a manufactory. And now we must go and see how old Widrith is doing.’

  ‘Must we?’ Jemima wrinkled her nose. Widrith was a comber, and lived in an outlying cottage with his sister and their three sons. Combers’ cottages were noisome anyway, but Widrith’s wife-cum-sister was slightly mad, and sometimes forgot to use the privy. Jemmy was firm, however.

  ‘We must – he hasn’t been well. But we won’t stay long.’

  The cottage stood with its windows open, and the smoke and fumes from the charcoal stove billowed out into the clear air. It was stiflingly hot inside, as could be seen by the rivers of sweat running down the eldest son, but the stove was necessary for the job, for both wool and combs had to be heated. They did not have to go in, however, for Widrith himself was sitting on the bench outside the cottage. One of the combing posts was set up outside too, and the second son was working there, throwing the wool onto the comb that was nailed to the post and working it off onto another comb held in his hand. The third son was doing the same thing, but at the post inside the house. Watching him through the open door, Jemima wondered if they drew lots for, or took turns at, the favoured outdoor post.

  Her father had dismounted to talk to Widrith, who was indeed looking very ill, his face an unhealthy cheesy white, with blue circles under his sunken eyes. Jemima remained mounted, for fear anyone should invite them in for refreshment. The second son gave her one shy look and smile before continuing with his work, and she thought he did not look so healthy either, but working in that atmosphere was hardly likely to produce rosy cheeks. Inside the house the older son lit up his pipe as he stirred the stove, as if the air was not already foul enough, and the youngest paused in his combing to re-warm the wool and to take a swig at a bottle which he then passed to his brother. Jemima looked away, and concentrated on the birds in the apple tree nearby until her father clapped old Widrith on the shoulder and came back to take his horse from her.

  ‘He’s in a bad way,’ Jemmy said as they rode away. ‘He could hardly catch his breath to speak to me, and when he did speak, his words were slurred – though that may have been the gin. The poor devils have little pleasure in life except gin and the garden, so I can’t blame him for being drunk this early in the day. He’ll be off to a better Garden by and by, God love his soul.’ And he rolled his eyes upwards expressively.

  ‘But he’s quite an old man, isn’t he? I mean, we all have to die one day.’

  Jemmy looked at her sharply.

  ‘He can’t be more than thirty-five,’ he said. ‘It’s the combing that kills them. Fortunately his sons are all simple-minded, or they would never have followed him into his trade. Let’s go to Murrain’s now. It’s only a step, and he keeps a very nice cask of ale in his cool-house. I need to rest this leg of mine.’

  As they rode towards the house of Murrain, the weaver, Jemima watched her father anxiously. Earlier this year her Uncle Charles had finally got married, to Alice McNab, the daughter of the Glasgow merchant whom he had been in love with for years. Jemmy had insisted on going to Scotland for the wedding, despite all advice and protest from his wife and family. Jemima guessed that it was chiefly because it was at McNab’s house that Marie-Louise had died, and he wanted to hear more about it at first hand; and there was no reason why her mother should not have guessed the same. He went, but despite travelling very slowly and with every comfort, he came back knocked up, which infuriated her mother doubly. Jemmy had spent most of the summer in bed, and for a time there had been some doubt whether he would be able to walk again. A large splinter of bone had actually worked its way up and out of his leg, and the doctor had said that there were certainly others, again urging Jemmy to have the leg probed. Jemmy had only shaken his head wearily and sent the doctor away. Since then he had spent more and more time at home, and when he did ride out with Jemima, they never went out of a walk, and he needed to rest quite frequently. He never complained of the pain, but Jemima saw him bite his lips sometimes when he thought she was not looking.

  Later that summer Uncle Thomas came home on a visit, bringing Aunt Maria and little Thomas, who was five and already set on joining the navy like his father. Uncle Thomas looked very splendid in his uniform, which he had put on at the particular request of Jemima, who was interested because naval uniforms had only been introduced that year, and she had never seen one before, and little Thomas was so thrilled that he begged to be allowed to wear the hat for the rest of the day.

  Uncle Thomas and Uncle Edmund argued a lot too, though it was at least a change from the interminable quarrelling between Robert and Edmund. The argument was generally about the peace with France which was being negotiated at Buda, which Uncle Thomas thought was disgraceful and humiliating. During the war the navy had been largely successful, while the army had been largely unsuccessful, so Uncle Edmund was obliged to defend the peace, and had the novel experience of finding himself on the same side as Lady Mary, for it was her brothers’ doing.

  Lady Mary was very proud at that time, for her half-brothers, Lord Newcastle and Mr Pelham, were in the ascendant, being Secretary of State and First Lord of the Treasury respectively, and therefore virtually in control of the government of the country. In October the peace was finally settled, the negotiations having been transferred to Aix-la-Chapelle, and Lady Mary decided that it was time for Jemima to be presented at Court, and brought to the notice of her brothers. As Jemmy’s leg was still not sound, and as Uncle Thomas was still at Morland Place and Jemmy wanted to enjoy his company while he could, Lady Mary was to take Jemima to London without him, which pleased Jemmy but disappointed Jemima. She had no real desire to be presented at Court, though she did very much want to see London, and the thought of being so much alone with her mother was a terrifying one.

  As it came about, however, it was much less disagreeable than she could have imagined. Away from Morland Place, in London where her consequence was her own and not her husband’s, Lady Mary was a different person; as Jemima was doing nothing to arouse her ire or her jealousy, she was pleasant to her, and though never quite affectionate, she was kind even to the point of appearing to be proud of her.

  They were to go for a fortnight before the date of the Presentation, so as to see what everyone was wearing and to order Jemima’s Court dress. Cousin William was still in London, and made himself rather officiously useful by engaging suitable lodgings for them in The Strand, and by offering his services as escort for as long as they were required. Lady Mary received the offer doubtfully, but William certainly had London manners, and he looked extremely handsome in his uniform, and eventually, to Jemima’s disgust, his offer was accepted.

  Jemima hardly knew she was in London at first, for everything took second place to the making of her Court dress, and after the material was chosen she had to stand for hours while it was fitted and made up actually on her body. The material was beautiful, a white silk with silver threads woven in so that they formed a background pattern of silver diamonds; through the diamonds ran a twisting gold thread like a stalk, from which issued embroidered flowers of brilliant blue, yellow and red, and green leaves against the wh
ite background.

  The style of the dress was dictated by Court etiquette: the stays were very tight and rigid, making a stiff bodice which came down to a point at the front; the hoop was very wide and oblong, and the skirt of the mantua was drawn back and draped up over the back, forming a train behind, so that the whole front of the wide petticoat was exposed. The sleeves were quite short, making a sort of cap from which tiered layers of silver lace came down to the elbows.

  ‘At least you will certainly have some of the best jewels,’ Lady Mary said happily as she watched the fitting. ‘The diamond collar must be worth twelve thousand pounds.’ It was the first time Jemima had ever heard her say anything that even approached approval of the late Countess. ‘It’s a pity,’ she went on, ‘that so many of the Morland jewels are in such unsuitable forms. The diamond cross for instance – the stones are magnificent, but a cross!’

  She did however have a gold and amethyst brooch from amongst the Percy jewels for her bodice, and the diamond blossom sprays for her hair. A lace cap with long lappets pinned up was the official Court wear for the head, and the diamond sprays and some tall white feathers made a happy addition. She had no earrings, but Lady Mary said. ‘The collar being so high, and the stones so good, you won’t feel the want of earrings. Now you may turn round and see yourself.’

  There was a long cheval-glass, brought in for the purpose, and Jemima turned carefully, for fear of knocking over anything with her wide-panniered skirt, and looked. Lady Mary, behind her, said, ‘What do you think of yourself?’

  Jemima couldn’t decide. The dress was magnificent, the diamonds glittered at her throat with almost dazzling radiance; she looked unlike herself, she looked like a Court beauty, like a woman in a portrait. She didn’t look like Jemima. Her mother’s face appeared beside hers in the glass, and she almost smiled.