The Emperor (6 page)

‘Yes, Mama,' Mary said meekly.

*

It was in the early hours of the following morning that Mary
Ann went into labour. Jemima and Mary remained in the
house all day suffering vicarious pains, and Edward found
things to occupy him within earshot of the house; but James,
without even waiting for breakfast, went out at ten in the
morning, and did not return until five o' clock, the usual
dining hour. To judge by his eyes and his breath, he had
consumed a great deal of brandy, but on learning that his
wife was still in labour and dinner was not ready, he rang for
more, and sat himself in the farthest corner of the drawing
room, hunched over his glass.

It was not until six o' clock that day, the third of October,
that the ringing of the house-bell proclaimed to the village that the heir to Morland Place was born. Those gathered in
the drawing-room heard a baby's wail from the great bed
chamber above, and after what seemed like an endless
delay, the sound of quick footsteps crossing the hall outside.
Then the door opened, and Farleigh appeared, followed by
the nursery-maid, Jenny, carrying a white bundle.

‘
A girl, ma'am,' Farleigh announced to Jemima, and
Jenny, her face wreathed with smiles, gave her the child,
saying, 'A lovely little girl, my lady, a companion for dear
Miss Hippolyta. And the mother's doing very well, the
midwife said to say.’

Jemima heard her son's quick sigh at the first words, and
glanced at him, wondering if it were a sigh of disappoint
ment, but his face was inscrutable. She held out her hand for
him to come to her, and turned back the edge of the
wrapper to look at her second grandchild. James crossed the
room reluctantly, and as Jemima said, 'Look, Jamie,' she
thought the expression in his eyes was one of apprehension.

James looked. Within the white folds he saw a tiny head,
fragile as a robin's egg, despite its covering of draggled black
hair, and below, the small face, still a stranger's, composed
in a sleep of the most unutterable innocence. Her half-
hour's acquaintance with the world, he thought, had not yet
been able to tarnish that. Around him he heard people
talking and exclaiming, but their voices were distant and
muffled, as if they were beyond a curtain, and he seemed alone with his strange fear as he reached out his hands in
dread to take hold of his daughter.

She was so small, so light! He looked down at her and
knew he had been right to be afraid, because the first touch of her pierced him with a terrible love from which he knew
he would never be able to escape. His lips trembled but he
could not speak; he could only stare at her, and allow the
pain to absorb him. She lay in his arms in her utter helpless
ness, an innocence beyond trust. One tiny hand rested
against her cheek, half-curled like a new leaf, so that he
could see the miracle of her nacreous fingernails; her
sleeping face quivered, her lips and eyebrows moved, as
though with the force of new life flowing through her, strong
and invisible, like light flowing through crystal.

That part of James which was an artist was in love with
perfection, and had always sought it in vain; and now here it
was, in this new, unused, and perfect child. He wanted to
cry out with love and pity, for now she was born, and now ,
everything that would happen to her was inevitable, life and
love and pain and death. The world would harden around
her still-damp tenderness like a shell; and time would drive
her second by second further from this moment of absolute
innocence, down into the darkness of self-knowledge where
he lived.

Amongst the voices around him he heard that of Farleigh
saying, 'Madam expressed the wish that, as tomorrow is St
Francis's day, the child should be named Frances.’

Other voices followed, commenting and discussing, but
he shut them out, retreating from them into the silence
which contained only him and his daughter. Frances! Yes, already the name seemed right, as if it had come with her.
Through the pain of his new love, he smiled at her, and her
eyes moved under her closed eyelids as if she saw him, and
her lips moved as if in response. Her vulnerability made him
vulnerable: now would begin the struggle to protect her
from the things against which there was no protection; but
her love would make him strong. She was his fate; she
would be his salvation.

He brought his face near so that she alone would hear
him. 'I love you, Fanny,' he whispered.

*

Mr Hobsbawn came of a generation which regarded
'journeys as momentous events which required careful
preparation, if they were to be survived; and so though the
express bearing the news of his grandchild's birth reached
him on the following day, it was another week before he
appeared at Morland Place.

He travelled in his ancient and ponderous berlin, with his own horses, four massive, hairy-hoofed beasts whose merits
lay not in speed or beauty, but in endurance. Inside there
was ample room for himself, his manservant, and his lawyer,
Mr Yardley, and all the apparatus of travel, the furs and
rugs, hot-water bottles, cushions, and a hamper of food and
drink, against emergencies. Hobsbawn had a special
travelling-cap of fur, with long lappets to protect the ears,
and travelling-slippers, which had to be changed for boots at
every stop, before he could descend.

He travelled slowly, going only as far as Leeds the first
day, with two other stops, besides a long bait at Hudders
field at midday. His own coachman and groom sat up on the
box, protected against the elements by box-coats so heavy
and stiff that the servants could have slipped out of them
and left them sitting up there; and against possible highway
men by a loaded shotgun of primitive design. They reached
Morland Place by dinner-time on the second day, having
taken something over six hours to cover the twenty-five
miles from Leeds.

All this he explained at great length to the family as they
sat down to dinner together, supposing in his innocence that
his audience was enthralled by his tale of hills scaled and
ditches narrowly avoided, of cold and damp endured, and
cozening inn-keepers bested. Everyone was of course far
too polite to do other than listen in silence, but as they left
the dining-room for the drawing-room. James took the
opportunity to mutter to Mary as they passed through the
door together, 'What a piece of work to make of it! You
would think he had rounded Cape Horn in a hurricane!’

Dinner had taken so long that tea was brought in almost
at once, and afterwards Jemima was just about to propose
whist for the entertainment of their guest when Mary Ann
rose to retire, and Hobsbawn said, 'Yes, you're right, my
love, it's time we were all a-bed. Do you say prayers, Lady
Morland?’

Jemima rose too, seeing out of the corner of her eye the
looks of amazement from James and Mary, for it was not yet
nine o'clock, and forestalling them by saying, 'Yes, indeed.
Shall we go to the chapel? Father Thomas, will you lead the
way?’

James seized her arm in the hallway to protest. 'Really,
Mother, are we to go to bed at this hour every night, just
because
he
says so? I won't stand for it!'

‘Don't make such a fuss, Jamie. Remember, his habits are
probably very different from ours, from having to supervise
his factories at all sorts of strange hours. Besides, once he
has gone up, there is no reason why you should not sit up, if
you want to.’

James muttered something inaudible, but probably
uncomplimentary, and Jemima spoke to him sharply, in a
low voice.

‘
Jamie, he is a good, kind man„ and adores his daughter,
and is prepared to be very generous about settlements. I
insist that you treat him with respect. I won't have you being
impolite to any guest in this house, least of all to –'

‘
Our saviour?' James interrupted sourly. 'The man whose
money is to build you your new stables?' He regretted the
words instantly, and his mother's look made him feel
ashamed. 'I'm sorry,' he said, before she could reply.

Jemima looked at him with a mixture of anger and pain. ’Jamie, what is the matter with you?'

‘You know the answer to that,' he muttered.

‘
I don't know. You chose this marriage yourself. No-one
forced it on you – it was your own suggestion. And you
seemed so pleased with the baby –’

James made a restless movement of his head. 'Leave me
alone, Mother, please.' And he walked away before her into
the chapel, leaving Jemima to stare after him in dissatisfac
tion.

*

Edward and Jemima were always up at dawn, and usually
took a first breakfast of bread and chocolate together,
before going off to their early morning tasks. Edward was a
restful companion, not inclined to be talkative, and the
world was quiet, except for the sounds of waking nature, and
Jemima valued this peaceful time, when the world seemed
hers, and there was space to breathe deeply and compose
oneself.

It took self-control, therefore, to greet Mr Hobsbawn
warmly when he appeared in the hall just as she was about
to go out. He, too, was an early riser, and since politeness
could not admit of leaving him to his own devices, there was
nothing to be done but to propose shewing him round the pleasure-grounds.

They made a circuit of the moat, followed hopefully by
the swans, who had not yet been fed, and Mr Hobsbawn was
shewn the rose garden, the Italian garden, the Long Walk,
the orchards, and the American garden, before returning by
the barbican and the courtyard in time for morning mass.
This was followed by breakfast proper, to which everyone
had come down. Mr Hobsbawn approved the number of
dishes spread, and ate heartily of smoked cod, mutton
chops, sausages, and fat pork fried with onions, which he
helped down with a quart of small beer. He was evidently
curious about his son-in-law, and tried several times to
engage him in conversation, but James was more than equal
to frustrating his design. Mr Hobsbawn was obliged at last to
leave off, without having formed any more certain opinion
of James than that he ate too slight a breakfast – buttered
eggs and toast, only enough for a woman — and that he was
like to ruin his nerves and digestion by washing it down with
coffee.

They were still sitting amongst the bones and eggshells
when Oxhey came in to say that Pobgee, the lawyer, had
arrived, and was waiting in the steward's room.

‘
Well sir,' said Edward, getting to his feet, 'shall we
begin? Mother? Mr Yardley?' There was a general rising
from the table, but it was only when they were out in the
hallway that Hobsbawn realised James was heading in the
other direction, and asked him in surprise, 'Why, sir, do you
not come with us?’

James smiled and said lightly, 'The steward's room will
not hold more than five comfortably.' Then, seeing his
mother frown in disapproval, and Hobsbawn about to make
further enquiries, he added firmly, 'My mother and brother attend to the business, sir. I know I may trust them to take
care of my little Fanny's interests.' This went down well, but he spoiled the effect by adding cynically, 'I can have nothing
to contribute to the discussion. I own nothing but my horse
and my clothes.' With that he bowed deeply and made his
escape to the stables.

He spent the day at the Maccabbees Club in Stonegate,
sitting over the fire with a bottle of brandy. When he arrived
back at Morland Place, he found his servant, Durban,
waiting for him in the yard. Durban came up quickly to take
Nez Carré's head, and shot his master a look of mingled
enquiry and warning.