The Regency (75 page)

‘Papa!' she said, her thin arms going round his neck.

‘
Yes, I know, chick. It's all right. She'll be all right,' he said
without conviction. He didn't try to send her to bed, even
when Mathilde came down a little later to report no progress.
She sat on his lap all through the long night, dozing and
waking, living through a nightmare sense of unreality, a feeling
of impending doom which she could never afterwards forget,
and which came back to her at moments of unhappiness or
anxiety. She and Papa and Uncle Edward were the constants.
Mathilde and Father Aislaby came and went through the
night, and early in the morning Miss Rosedale joined them,
unable to sleep, wanting news.

At eight o'clock a hollow-eyed Ottershaw appeared to ask about breakfast, and while he was standing at the open door
of the drawing-room, faint but clear from upstairs came the
sound of a new baby's wail. James and Edward stood up as
though pulled by the same string, and Mathilde, her face pale, thrust out of the room and ran up the stairs.

A deathly silence fell over the room as every ear was
strained for some sound that might convey news, but there
was nothing to be heard. The baby did not cry again, and
Sophie, her hand crushed in her father's, looked up into his
face and saw death written there. Her lip began to tremble.

The minutes dragged by. The great bronze and marble
clock — a gift of Mr Hobsbawn to James on his wedding day so long ago — gave a preparatory click which made everyone
jump, and then solemnly struck the quarter-hour; and as the
vibration of its chime died away, there was the sound of a
door upstairs opening, and then of descending footsteps.
Mathilde appeared in the doorway.

‘
It's all right,' she said, and they could hear her voice
shaking. 'She's all right. It's a boy.’

James sat down abruptly; Edward said, 'Oh, thank God!'
and Father Aislaby crossed himself and whispered
'Benedictus
Deus'.
Sophie looked from face to face, and wondered why
nobody spoke or smiled.
Maman's alive,
she thought.
It's all
right.
She suddenly felt very tired, and very hungry, as
though she had been walking all night.

‘
Ottershaw,' said Mathilde, 'I think we all need some
breakfast.'

‘Yes, miss. Right away, miss!' said Ottershaw fervently.

*

Later, Lucy came down to tell James he could go up and see
Héloïse. 'But only for a few minutes. She's very tired, and
needs to sleep, but she won't settle until she's seen you.'

‘Is she really all right?'

‘
Yes. She's had a hard time of it, but she's come through it
very well. You're luckier than you deserve, the pair of you.’

‘
And the baby?'

‘
I had to help him along a bit, with forceps, but he's strong
and healthy, though he's a bit sleepy at the moment.' She
gave a tired smile. 'He's certainly better looking than the last
one.’

It wasn't until James saw her for himself that he could
really believe Héloïse was all right; but as soon as he saw her,
he could see that this was a different case altogether. She
looked very tired, but not unnaturally so, as if she had been
working very hard, rather than suffering. She gave him the
transfiguring smile he remembered from last time, and
offered him the sleeping baby to be admired.

‘
Isn't he beautiful?' she said. 'The most beautiful, perfect
baby in the world!’

As Lucy had said, he was better looking than Nicholas had
been. He was small, but compact, and his skin was smooth
and glowing, and he had a considerable thatch of dark hair.
James caressed the velvet cheek with one finger, and the baby
frowned and pursed his lips, but continued busily to sleep.

‘Yes,' James said, 'he's beautiful.’

Héloïse closed her eyes. 'I told you so, my James. I told you
God knew what he was doing. Our beautiful baby is a gift
from Him.’

James smiled. 'The first thing Aislaby said when he heard
the news was
Benedictus Deus.’

Molise smiled too, through encroaching sleep. 'That is a
very good name for him, don't you think?'

‘What, Aislaby?' James said, startled.

‘Benedict,' she murmured. 'Our blessing.' She was asleep.

*

Héloïse recovered rapidly, and baby Benedict throve, and
when he was three weeks old, James and Lucy went to London,
taking Africa and Fanny with them. Africa was sent off to
Bath on the mail, accompanied by a maid to see her safe,
and Lucy began preparations for the
début
of the three girls.

James confessed himself taken aback when she revealed
that she would be hiring another house for the Season, at
considerable expense.

‘
I don't know what you expected,' she said crossly. 'There's
no ballroom at Upper Grosvenor Street. Where did you think
we were going to hold a coming-out ball for four hundred
guests?'

‘
I hadn't thought about it,' he confessed. 'But really, the
expense of this business is more than I compounded for!'

‘
I'll pay for the house,' she said shortly. 'It's really Flaminia's
ball, after all. If I weren't bringing her out, none of this
would be happening. All you have to pay for is your share of
the expenses of the ball, and Fanny's Court dress.'

‘
Only!' he said with a groan. 'Are you sure a Court dress
_ will cost three hundred and fifty pounds?'

‘Guineas,' Lucy said mercilessly.

‘For something she'll only wear once?'

‘
Do you want her presented or not? Really, Jamie, this is
not the time to be paltry about money. Anyway, it can come out of the estate, can't it? Surely Edward has discretion over
the income?'

‘
The Court dress will have to,' James said, tut I said I'd
pay for the other expenses myself. How many gowns is she
likely to need for the Season?'

‘
I've no idea. We'll buy them as we go along. But you want
her well launched, don't you? And that means morning
dresses, afternoon dresses, carriage dresses, walking dresses, at least two riding habits, ball gowns; and then there are hats
and pelisses, shawls, gloves —'

‘You are deliberately teasing me,' James said coldly.

to say nothing of silk stockings,' Lucy finished. 'You'll
just have to hope she makes it worth your while by getting a
really good husband.'

‘
I don't want her getting a husband of any sort, thank you,'
James said quickly.

‘
Then why on earth are you going to all this trouble?' Lucy
asked. 'You don't think I'd do it for Flaminia, except to get
her married?'

‘
Well, obviously she has to marry eventually, but she's
much too young yet.'

‘
Then you shouldn't be bringing her out,' Lucy said, with
the air of one ending the argument.

‘You're very hard, Lucy,' James complained.

‘Life is hard,' she retorted.

*

London that April was restless with change. The Prince had again disappointed the Whigs of power, and though he tried
to placate his old friends by attempting to bring one or two of
them into the Government, they refused the compromise.
Grenville, Grey and Canning were condemned, it seemed, to
eternal Opposition. They were soon joined by Lord Wellesley
— Wellington's brother — who, seeing he would never be able
to fulfil his ambition of leading a new administration,
resigned in a fit of pique, which allowed Castlereagh to take
over his office of Foreign Secretary.

The Prince had been unwell, ever since the approach of the
end of restrictions to the Regency presented him with the
problem of what to do about the Whigs. His hands had become
gouty and palsied; a horse had trodden on his foot, breaking a
tendon, which was slow to heal; his stomach troubled him on
and off, as did his debts. He took to his bed as an escape from his problems, complained of pains in his head, snapped at his
friends, and had fits of weeping. His brother, the Duke of
Cambridge, was heard to say hopefully that the Regent was
going the same way as his father.

The news from the Peninsula was of another victory:
Wellington had taken the third of the frontier fortresses,
Badajoz, though it had not been as easy as at Cuidad Rodrigo.
Five thousand men had been lost in the frontal attack, and the
fortress fell at last, almost by accident, to a flank attack which
had been intended only as a diversionary tactic. Wiske's letter to Lucy gave darker details of the affair, which took the shine
out of the victory: after the battle, the English soldiers had
disgraced themselves, breaking out for once from Wellington's iron discipline, rampaging through the town, looting, burning,
and butchering the inhabitants.

News came also that Bonaparte had sent a formal letter of
complaint to the Csar of Russia, about the breaking of the
Treaty of Tilsit by allowing English goods to be imported into
Russia in neutral ships. Bonaparte was still assembling men
and supplies in northern Prussia and Poland, which looked
like preparations for war, and it was hoped that if he really
did declare war on Russia, Russia would then make peace
with England, and re-open the Baltic to trade.

Events seemed to be justifying the dogged policy of Spencer
Perceval's Government, and never had Perceval himself been
more popular than that April. He even managed to get
a
Bill through the House of Commons for the increasing of the
Regent's income: no mean feat, considering the high cost of
the war and the Prince's legendary extravagance. Then on the
evening of 11 May at about five o'clock, when Perceval was passing through the lobby of the House of Commons, a man
walked up to him, pulled out a pistol, and shot him dead
through the heart.

The man, Bellingham, was a commercial agent, whose
business had been ruined by the embargo and the Orders in
Council. For weeks he had been trying to obtain recompense
from various government offices, and now it seemed that his
troubles had turned his head, and he had taken an insane act
of revenge against the Prime Minister. Perceval's murder
threw the Government, the whole of Parliament, into dis
array. Lord Liverpool, the Secretary for War, took over the
administration on a temporary basis; but the Whigs, sure that
their moment had come at last, attacked the Government so
violently that the entire administration was forced to resign.