The Regency (114 page)

Héloïse sought Fanny out one day, and asked her to come
up to her bedchamber. There, on the bed, Fanny saw that
Madame had laid out her own wedding-gown of fabulously
expensive Chantilly lace.

‘
Of course, the style is old-fashioned, but the material is
lovely, and as good as new. If you would like it, Fanny dear,
it is yours, for your own wedding-gown. It can be made up
however you like.’

Fanny touched the exquisite lace with appreciative fingers,
and then looked up hesitantly, to see the sympathy in
Madame's dark eyes.

‘I really do love him, Madame,' she blurted out.

‘
Yes, Fanny, I know you do,' Héloïse said gently. 'And I
believe he loves you, too.'

‘Do you?' Fanny said gratefully.

‘
Yes. He is a strange man, but I can understand why
you find him attractive. We cannot always choose whom we love. Seeing you together, I am reminded sometimes —' she
hesitated.

‘Yes, Madame?' Fanny prompted.

‘
Don't be offended, Fanny dear, but I am reminded of your
father and me, as we were when we were your age. Each of us
always knew what the other was thinking. All we wanted was
to be together; but the fates were not with us,' she sighed.

‘
But that's how I feel — how we feel,' Fanny said eagerly.
‘People don't understand. But he — he
knows
me, Madame.
It's as if he can see into my head.'

‘
Yes, I know,' Héloïse nodded. 'I've seen it when you are
together.’

Fanny looked at her stepmother warmly, wishing there
were some way to reach out to her. 'I should like to have the
lace, very much, Madame,' she said.

Héloïse smiled. 'Good. You will look lovely in it,
ma there.'
She went towards the door, and then turned back. 'I hope you
enjoy your wedding-day, Fanny. It should be a happy occa
sion. I shall talk to Monsieur Barnard about the wedding-
breakfast. He will make his best effort for you.'

‘
Thank you, Madame,' Fanny said, a little wonderingly.
How was it that she had never known how kind her step
mother was?
Barnard had listened to all the talk from the other
servants, saying nothing, and reserving judgement, as was the
prerogative of one who purported not to speak English. On
the one hand, he had worked for the old mistress, and under
stood all the importance of responsibility and piety, and what qualities it was that made a Mistress of Morland Place. When
Jemima died, he had gone to Héloïse, for he would not work
for Fanny's mother. Since his return to Morland Place with Héloïse, he had regarded her as Mistress, and had inwardly
shaken his head at Fanny's shortcomings. Of course, she had improved of late, but he still could not regard her as the true
heiress. When she came of age, he would go with Héloïse,
back to Plaisir.

But on the other hand, a wedding was a wedding, and he had no time for kitchen politics or gossip. So when Héloïse
honoured him by coming to speak to him in person, he under
stood very well what she was saying, and had no hesitation in reassuring her.

‘
Everything shall be of the very best,' he said. ‘No-one shall
find fault,
there madame.
The young miss shall not be disap
pointed.'

‘
I knew I could trust you,' Héloïse said. 'In the matter of
the cake —'

‘
The cake — it shall be magnificent! A cathedral of a cake!
Six strong men will be needed to lift it!' he promised.
Héloïse smiled. 'I am satisfied.'

‘
And the champagne — it will be of the very best, madame?
Such a cake — one could not create a thing of such beauty,
to be consumed with inferior wine,' Barnard said
anxiously.

‘
Of the very best,' she said, and they exchanged a look of
complete understanding.

The day dawned, and Héloïse woke and took her grieving
husband into her arms and comforted him.

‘
You must not spoil the day for Fanny, my James,' she said
gently. 'You must try to smile.'

‘
I can't feel it's right for her,' he said. 'I've tried, but I
can't.'

‘
It's what she wants. She's happy, and she loves him. We must make it right, by supporting her, by making sure he is
accepted. She needs us — she needs
you —
now as never
before.'

‘
I should have killed him,' he whimpered into her shoulder.
‘Called him out and shot him.'

‘
No,
mon âme,
don't say that.' She held him closer. 'Cry
now, if you must, but afterwards, smile, my James. Smile
at Fanny's wedding.'

‘
I'm losing her,' he said, and he did cry a little. But later,
when he went to the door of the Blue Room, where Fanny
had slept for the last eight years, to collect her; and she came
out to him, looking tall and lovely in the Chantilly lace in
which Héloïse had been married; and he saw the radiant joy
in her eyes, the triumphant love which was not for him, and
never would be again, he had no more desire to weep. His
heart lay down and slept, and he took her on his arm, and led
her down the chapel stairs to give her away with a calm smile.

Hawker was waiting, handsome and serious, and if he had not known the man, James might have thought him worthy of
his girl, for he was a fine figure of a man, and his face was
firm and intelligent. James felt as though he were in a dream,
all through the service, and afterwards at the magnificent
wedding-breakfast. He might have been eating ashes and
drinking plain water, for all he noticed what he consumed.
People were around him, but seemed separated from him by a
transparent barrier, so that he could hear them only dimly.
His eyes followed Fanny as she moved around, talking,
laughing, going back always and again to the tall man who
seemed to draw her — never straying far from his side, as a foal
will not stray from its dam; but even Fanny seemed to exist in
another world.

The post chaise arrived in the courtyard with the four
horses — Fanny should not travel with a pair, not Fanny
Morland of Morland Place! — and the bags were strapped on
behind, and then they were saying goodbye. Fanny, now in a lovely blue-grey pelisse and a high-crowned bonnet trimmed
with marabou, flung her arms round her father's neck, pressing
a cheek to his which was warm and damp. He kissed her, and
tasted salt.

‘
I love you, Papa,' she whispered, and was gone. The chaise
circled the yard and drew out through the barbican, and they
all waved, waved, and Fanny's hand waved back from one side of the carriage, and a man's hand from the other. The
carriage passed from sight, and they all went back into the
house and closed the door.

‘
It will be quiet without her,' Miss Rosedale said, pressing
her large, white handkerchief to her eyes. 'Sophie, come and
play something for us on the pianoforte. A little music to
soothe us.'

‘
I don't know how it can be, but I feel hungry again,' John
Anstey said.

‘
Come and have something more from the buffet, then. I
could fancy a little of that salmon myself,' said Edward.

They all drifted away, and the hall emptied, leaving James
standing where he was, just inside the door; and Héloïse a
step away, watching him anxiously.

He looked up and, met her eyes. 'I feel as if I've just buried
her,' he said, and his own voice sounded very distant, all part
of that same dream.

‘
Come,' she said, taking his arm and coaxing him along like
an invalid. 'You're shivering. Come in to the fire.’

*

With all the turmoil over Fanny, and the subsequent arrange
ments for her wedding, Edward had seen little of Mathilde,
and had had neither the time nor the inclination to think
about their situation, far less to talk to her about it. But he
knew things could not be allowed to go on as they were. Now
that Fanny had married Hawker, there was no chance at all
that Edward's fortunes would improve. As soon as Fanny
came of age, she and her husband would turn them all out of
doors, of that there was no doubt. Edward would have his
three hundred a year, and the little he had managed to save.

On that he could set himself up comfortably in bachelor lodg
ings in the city, with a manservant, and a horse at livery,
which was probably what his mother had envisaged for him.

But he could not establish himself in a house with a young
wife; and there was one part of his mind which, albeit, reluc
tantly, began to wonder whether he even wanted to. He was
fifty-two now, an old dog to be learning new tricks. Thrown
out of his lifelong home in two years' time, he might settle pretty well in lodgings, with a quiet round of club, church, and friends' dining tables, hunt a little in the winter, take a
gun out now and then, try not to think of Morland Place and
that damned interloper.

But to struggle along in near-poverty with Mathilde would
prevent him from sinking into a comfortable apathy. Every
day would be a renewed battle for survival; he would be kept
sharp, knowing, seeing, regretting. Suppose they should have
a family? The thought of babies in poverty dismayed him.
The thought of babies at all was uncomfortable. He had lived
all his life without women, though there had been many he
admired. He was too old — wasn't he? — to begin a new way
of life now.

In fairness to Mathilde, he thought, he ought to tell her of
his doubts; but before he had summoned up the courage to do
so, something else had happened. Fanny's going away with
her husband coincided with the end of John Skelwith's period of deep mourning. He might now with propriety enjoy a little
more social intercourse, and to mark the occasion he paid a
morning visit to his former mother-in-law, Augusta Keating.
While he was sitting with her, Héloïse, Sophie and Mathilde
were announced.

Though there was a little awkwardness at first, it soon
passed, and while Héloïse kept Mrs Keating occupied,
Skelwith chatted pleasantly to Sophie and Mathilde. The talk turned to the topic of books, on which all three had plenty to
say, and it emerged that the ladies' next port of call was to be
the circulating library on the corner of St Helen's Square.
After half an hour they all rose to leave together, but when
they reached the street, Héloïse announced that she wished to
take Sophie to Peckett's, to be measured for a new pair of
shoes.