The Reckoning (5 page)

‘
I suppose so. I shall miss her, though. She's become quite
good company.'

‘
That's the trouble with daughters. Just when they've got
past the tiresome stage, they're married and gone. Boys you
keep. You must miss your boys now?'

‘
Yes,' Lucy said, though the truth was she had never really
got to know her son Roland. The three children of her first
marriage – Flaminia, Rosamund and Roland – had been
brought up wholly by tutor and governess, until Minnie was
married straight out of the schoolroom, and Roland sent to school so that he could mix with others of his own age. Far
more of a loss to Lucy was Thomas Weston, her love-child,
whom she adored. The boys had refused to be parted, so when
Roland went to Eton, Thomas went too.

‘
I hear great things of Thomas,' Helena said. 'Little
Maurice hero-worships him, you know.' Her son, Maurice
Hampton, was in the same lodgings with Thomas and
Roland. 'He says Thomas is known as Old Tough, of all
things, which I gather is a great compliment.' Lucy smiled.
‘He tells me – let me see if I have it right – that he is handy
with his
fives,
is something of a
scud,
and has a growing
renown as a
swipe!
And all this at the age of thirteen!’

Lucy laughed. 'Boys are the strangest creatures, aren't
they? Roland is four years his senior, but it's always Thomas
who leads. I don't quite know what's going to happen next
year. Roland has already said he doesn't want to leave school
if Tom is still there.’

let Thomas leave too.'

‘
But Thomas needs the advantage,' Lucy frowned.
‘Roland's place is assured, but Tom has to make his own way
in the world.'

‘
You could send them on a Grand Tour together. That
would be education for them both.’

The idea struck Lucy. 'That may be the very thing,' she
said. 'It never occurred to me – I'm not used yet to thinking
of Europe as accessible.'

‘
Ceddie says it's a wonderful experience, and a great
educator. He had his Tour before the war, of course – Lord,
how different things must have been then! Still, he's deter
mined Little Maurice shall go when he's eighteen – especially
as it looks now as though he'll inherit both titles.'

‘
What, your brother's as well?' Lucy asked in surprise. 'But
surely Ballincrea will marry again? He's young enough.’

Helena shook her head. 'Maurice was devoted to Mary. I
don't think any of us realised how deeply. He never cared for
another woman, you know; and now she's dead he says he
won't marry again, and that he's quite happy for the title to
come to Little Maurice. He was always fond of him. Little Maurice was named for him, of course.'

‘
Well, it's early days yet,' Lucy said. 'Mary only died in
January, didn't she? When he's over the shock of it, he may
think differently.'

‘
Perhaps,' Helena said without conviction. 'I don't care for
Little Maurice's sake – he'll have Ceddie's title anyway – but I wish Maurice weren't so very unhappy. We were very close
when we were children, and I care about him.'

‘
It's been a sickly winter,' Lucy said. ‘There've been so
many deaths. Old Lord Penrith went in February –'

‘
Yes, and now that oaf Georgie Sale is Marquess of Penrith
– how it suits him! Ceddie saw him in the Great Go the other
day, eating his way towards an apoplexy. Said he looked as
stuffed as a Christmas goose! What does Minnie think about
being the marchioness at last?’

Lucy's elder daughter, Flaminia, had married the younger
of the late Marquess's sons, Lord Harvey Sale, but since
George Sale was a confirmed bachelor, Harvey was likely to
inherit the title after him.

‘
I really don't know,' Lucy said indifferently. She had
never cared much for her elder daughter, whom she thought
dull. 'Minnie is the world's worst correspondent, and now
that she has the twins, she never leaves Stainton.' Lucy thor
oughly disliked the very idea of being a grandmother, and in
fact had managed to see her granddaughters only once so far,
at their Christening last September. 'And I never go there, of course – quite the wrong part of the country. It seems to suit
Minnie, though.’

But Helena Greyshott was looking rather puzzled. 'Surely
you've seen her lately? I mean, she must have visited you
while she was in London?'

‘
Visited me? No. Why should you think she was in
London?'

‘
Because I saw Polly Haworth recently in Brook Street.
Polly does still live with Minnie, doesn't she?'

‘
Yes, of course.' Lucy was a little puzzled too. Polly
Haworth was her niece, whom Lucy had brought up in her
own household with her daughters. Minnie had always been
devoted to Polly, and when she married, begged Polly – who
had no fortune – to make her home with her. Minnie was
very dependent on her cousin, and hated to let her out of her
sight for a moment. Still, Polly was a thousand times cleverer
than dull Minnie, and must sometimes want to escape the
monotony of her company.

‘
I expect she came up to Town on her own for some reason
– to have a tooth pulled, or something of the sort,' Lucy
suggested. 'Though I'm a little surprised she didn't at least
leave her card. It's not like Polly to be remiss about such
things.’

Helena looked at Lucy rather strangely. 'No, I'm sure not.'
She hesitated, and then said, 'I expect there's some simple
reason. If she had the toothache, she might well put off
formal calls until she'd had it seen to. I had the toothache
once, and I know I didn't want to see anybody or go
anywhere.’

She linked arms with Lucy again and walked on, her mind
working busily. She had not had an opportunity to speak to
Miss Haworth, for she had been driving by in her chaise, and Polly had been standing on the flagway deep in conversation
with somebody. The Somebody had been male, and since he'd
had his back to Helena, she hadn't been able to recognise him; but she'd had a good view of Polly's face, and Polly
didn't look in the least as though she had the toothache, or
any other kind of ache.

But she decided against saying any of that to Lucy. She
also decided against mentioning that Harvey Sale was also in
London: Cedric had mentioned seeing him coming out of
Gordon's late one night and turning off down Well Street
towards Bab Mae's Street. It might be nothing at all, and it
was certainly none of her business, but she couldn't think of a good reason why Polly Haworth and Harvey Sale should both
be in London, either together or separately, without
Flaminia, and without calling on Lady Theakston.

 
In the hall at Morland Place, Héloïse was drawing on her
gloves, about to go out. James came in from the yard. 'You
look killingly fine today, Marmoset,' he said cheerfully. 'I like
that bonnet – is it your new go-calling hat?’

She gave her husband a pitying shake of the head. 'Really,
now, you must know better than that! Does one go calling at
this time of the morning? And you must have seen this bonnet
fifty times at least, my James. Am I so poor a shab-rag that
you cannot tell any longer what I wear?'

‘
Au contraire,
my wife, you are so very beautiful that it
would be an insult to notice your clothes,' he said smartly.

She put herself into his arms.
'Mon doux menteur,'
she
smiled.

‘
It's no lie,' he said seriously, his blue eyes very dark as he
looked down into her face. The strength of his emotion – the
fact that small and plain and thin as she was, she was beau
tiful in his eyes – made her feel weak with gladness and grati
tude. The pains and troubles of last year were behind them,
and they were closer than ever before. God had been very
good to her, she thought humbly, and she didn't at all deserve
it.

‘
So where are you going?' James asked when he released
her.

‘
To the village, to visit the misfortunates,' she explained,
brushing her gown straight. 'There is White, who has sick
ness, and Batty, who has sickness
and
a new baby, and of
course Cobbey and his wife, who are just old and poor. I shall
take them food, and medicine.'

‘
And good advice, I'm sure.'

‘
But of course,' she assented, smiling. 'Man does not live by
bread alone. One must always take the opportunity to
improve the state of mind.'

‘
Yes, and since we no longer have a priest to undertake that
part of it ...' James said darkly.

Father Aislaby, the family chaplain, had left them
suddenly in February, almost without notice, to undertake
missionary work in India. His going had been a great inconve
nience to everyone. As well as tutoring the male children of
the house, he had educated the six choristers of the chapel
school, who had had to be sent back to their parents with
apologies. He had also performed quite a number of secre
tarial duties for the family and estate, which now had to be
shared out amongst people who already had too much to do.

Héloïse missed him in his priestly capacity. In a sense he
had never been 'her' priest — he had been chosen and
appointed by her predecessor, and was too reserved a man for
her ever to feel she really knew him, or, more importantly
perhaps, that he knew her — but she was used to regular
confession and to daily celebration of the mass. The silent
chapel and unserved altar were a yawning chasm in her life.
Though she kept the sanctuary lamp burning, and attended
herself to the flowers and candles, the living feeling of a
chapel that was used was gradually seeping away, as the heat
leaves the earth after sunset. She had been, as yet, unable to
replace him: a household chaplain, it seemed, was an anach
ronism in 1816.

However, she said mildly, 'He did not do it to annoy,
James. He had the call, and when one has the call, one cannot
ignore it.'