The Emperor (55 page)

Weston left Lucy in the bedchamber, and went through
into the parlour closing the communicating door. Lucy
undressed quickly, for she was beginning to feel chilled, and
standing naked by the fire, she towelled herself briskly. The
wine on an otherwise empty stomach had induced a pleas
antly dream-like feeling, warm and slightly drowsy. She put
on the dressing gown, picked up the bundle of wet clothes
distastefully and dropped them outside the door, and was
drying her hair by the fire when she heard the communi
cating door open, and turned to see Weston standing there,
watching her.

She smiled, a smile, though she did not know it, which
transformed her face, and he came across and took the
towel from her to rub her head.

‘
You must be glad you have a short crop,' he said, and,
peering under the towel, 'It's as curly as a lamb's fleece from
the rain. Stand up.’

She obeyed him without thinking, and he turned her to
face him. From a very short distance she examined his face,
the fine brows, the long-lashed brown eyes, the straight
nose, the humourous mouth which for some reason made
her feel rather faint. His hands came up to her shoulders,
and he said, 'This is quite the most dreadful gown I have
ever seen. It is a crime to cover you up with it.’

Gently, he removed it so that she was standing quite
naked in the fireglow. She felt her skin tighten and her
nipples start with the cold air, but there was no shame or
embarrassment at being thus, for the first time, naked before
a man. She watched his lips and his eyes, and thought with
distant surprise, is this it? Is this being in love?
He took off his own robe, and stood naked before her,
silently offering her his own body to look at, equal to equal,
and she was pleased with the gesture. It seemed a friendly thing to do. She had never seen a man quite naked before.
From the delicate collar-bones downward, his skin was fair
and milky-white, smooth and hairless. His body was well-
proportioned, like a Greek statue, broad at the shoulders,
firm at the waist, tapering inwards to the tangle of light-
brown hair and the strong arching penis which seemed, all
of a sudden, to be the focus of his body, as though every
thing were curving towards that point, as though that were
the centre of his being from which all his life was springing.

She looked up into his eyes, and found that she was
experiencing two quite distinct sensations, a strange, weak, loosening, quivering of her body for his body, and a strong,
glowing feeling in her mind for the him that was not his
body, that was her friend Weston. She thought she would
like to tell him about these things, and then she thought she
didn't really want to speak just at the moment; and then she
thought he probably knew it anyway. He stepped forward
and put himself lightly against her, and kissed her, and she
closed her eyes and lifted her arms round his neck, and gave
herself up to the piercing sweetness of the new sensation.

Later, when they lay on the bed together, and he made
love to her, and there was no difficulty or shyness as there
had been with Chetwyn, she found that the two sensations
were not separate after all, but had blended together in a
kind of all-encompassing bliss that wiped out everything
except the pleasure of being with him. Love she had thought
of as a grave, cerebral thing, and what they were doing as
mating, a physical act for the making of children. Now she
knew differently. When poets talked of love, it must be this they meant, this extraordinary melting together of mind and
body, so that to think and act were the same thing.

Later again, when they were quiet again in each other's
arms, she told him what she had thought, and he looked at
her gravely, and said, 'I'm glad you understand, Lucy, that is love, and not just - something else. What is between you
and me is different from anything we will ever feel for
anyone else.'

‘
Yes, of course,' she said, surprised that he should need
to say it.

‘But you see, love, other people won't understand. I only want to arm you, against the troubles to come. They won't
understand, and they'll say unpleasant things.’

Dimly, she knew this to be true, but it had no power just
then to hurt her. 'Don't worry,' she said. She felt strong with
her love for him, and since she had no love-words, for her
life had never taught her them, she said instead, 'Can we do
it again, do you think?’

He laughed and rolled over to look down at her, freckle-
faced, hay-haired, plainly beautiful, beautifully plain
spoken, and said, 'Yes, Mr Proom, I rather think we can.
You like it, then?'

‘With you - it's splendid.’

*

Their clothes came back, and they debated what to do. 'The
rain has passed over,' Weston said, going to the window.

‘
We could ride back. On the other hand, we are a long way
from home, and it is getting near dinner time.'

‘
I have an engagement tonight,' she said. 'I shall be late in
any case.’

They looked at each other, holding their breath. If either
one of them advocated the sensible thing, the other would
agree to it. It was a perilous moment.

‘
I don't want to go to Chelmsford House,' Lucy said at
last.

‘
We are going to be in the suds anyway. It's bound to get
out,' Weston said. Lucy was calm.

‘
We knew that before we came here: it was part of the
bargain. It would be simple to worry about it now. Oh
Weston, don't let's go!’

He grinned. 'Are you going to call me Weston always?'

‘
I think so,' she said apologetically. 'Listen, it's too far to
ride back. We couldn't get there before dark. It will be
better if we have dinner here, and stay the night, and go
back tomorrow.’

He kissed her with relief. 'Thank God! I thought you
were going to be sensible! There will be a shocking brew to
face tomorrow, but never mind. We'll enjoy today while it
lasts.’

She looked perturbed. 'It isn't only today, is it? Aren't
we going to go on?'

‘
That must be for you to decide. I have nothing to lose -
nothing much, anyway. You are a married woman, and of
rank.'

‘
I want to go on,' she said without hesitation, and he
kissed her hand, acknowledging her courage.

‘
Then we will, as long as we can, and as privately as we
can. Until the world catches up with us.'

‘Let's have dinner,' she said practically.

*

The hot days of July deepened the green of the grass and
the white curdle of meadowsweet in the lanes, and ripened
Héloïse like an apple, and her household gathered round
her protectively, waiting for the moment and making calm
and sensible plans.

When she finally went into labour, however, all the
preparations came to nothing, and the house was thrown
into panic. Marie and Flon discovered that they had
violently opposing views about the management of a lying-
in chamber, Monsieur Barnard drove the maids into
hysterics by kneeling in the kitchen and praying to the
Virgin to deliver his mistress, thus convincing them that he
thought she was going to die, and Mathilde expressed her
excitement, anxiety, and desire for attention by racing round the house with Kithra, knocking things over and shrieking in
three broken languages.

Only Stephen kept his head. He shook it sadly at the folly and improvidence of women, took off his apron, and walked
down to the village to ask the apothecary to come up to the
house. On his return he set the big kettle to boil on the fire,
and took upstairs the beautiful elm-wood crib he had been
making all summer in his spare time.

The baby, a girl, was born late in the afternoon. Marie placed her, small, long, and very dark, in Héloïse's arms,
and Molise stared at her in astonished delight. It seemed extraordinary that she had had no idea, all these months,
what the baby would look like. The reality of the baby who
had kicked her lustily in the ribs and made sleeping in any position an impossibility for weeks past, and the reality of
this minute scrap of humanity in her arms, were quite
different.

The baby, having yelled once or twice to assure everyone
that all was well, now seemed bent on making up some of
the sleep she had caused Héloïse to lose. Her eyes were
screwed shut in her dark and wrinkled face, her fists
clenched beneath her chin, and her lips pursed as though
she were savouring the quality of life so far, and finding it
wanting.

‘She is so small!' Héloïse exclaimed.

‘
She's beautiful,' Flon said sentimentally. 'Dear little
black baby!' And Héloïse smiled, realizing that to Flon, the
baby was beautiful because she was Héloïse's. She does not
really see her, as I do, she thought. No-one does.

‘
I have a daughter,' she said softly to herself. Her
daughter; James's daughter. She scanned the sleeping face
to find some likeness, but she seemed to look only like
herself. Yet she was part of them both, the living proof of
their love. 'Little love-child,' she murmured. James's skin
was truly fair – fair as a lily – but the baby was dark. A
Stuart, not a Morland.

‘
My lady, Monsieur Barnard has sent you up a cordial
drink,' Marie said, and knowing that it would offend him if
she refused, Héloïse took it, reluctantly yielding the baby to
Marie. Marie smiled down at the sleeping face. She does not
really see her, either, Héloïse thought. ‘To think this little
mite will be a countess one day, after you,' Marie said. 'Have
you decided on a name yet, my lady?'

‘
Just this minute,' Héloïse said. 'I shall call her Sophie-
Marie. Do you like it?'

‘
Oh yes, my lady that's very pretty. Have you finished?
I'll take the cup, then.'

‘Give her back to me,' Héloïse said, but Flon intervened.

‘
You ought to sleep now, my dear. Let Marie put the
baby down. She shall bring the cradle in here, so you can see
her if you wake. Such a handsome cradle Stephen has made.
I think you should send a word of thanks to him.’

Héloïse submitted again, with an inward sigh. The cradle
was handsome, and Stephen would want to know that she
had used it, just as Barnard would want to know that she
had drunk the cordial, and Flon that she had taken her
advice about sleeping. They all wanted to he part of the
birth, she understood that, and as they were her people, and
she loved them, she must allow them their part. But what
she would have liked best of all was to be allowed to be
alone with the child: birth seemed to her to be a sweet and
private thing between them, and everything else, however
kindly meant, was an intrusion.

*

Chetwyn was not at home when Lucy arrived back at Upper
Grosvenor Street. The butler informed her with an
impassive face that his lordship had gone to his club but
would be back at noon, and Docwra, coming into the hall at
the sound of Lucy's voice, hurried her away to her room to
change her clothes.

‘
A rare state you're in, my lady! A regular little Turk you
look, and however did you do your buttons this morning?
What shall I lay out for you, my lady? Your habit'll have to
be properly cleaned before you can wear it again.'

‘
It doesn't matter,' Lucy said vaguely, stepping out of her
habit as Docwra stooped before her. She wandered over to
the looking-glass and stared at herself. She had never been a
great one for mirrors, but she thought she looked different
now. The strong-boned face with the firm chin above the
long neck, its set emphasised by the short and curly crop of
mouse-fair hair, were tolerably familiar, but suddenly she
seemed to herself older, and in a strange way beautiful. The
expression of the eyes seemed deeper, as if they were view
ing things far distant from the present; the lips seemed redder, their curve softer and more full. Yes, you know
about kissing now, don't you? she addressed them silently,
and saw them part in a smile.