Flint and Roses

by Brenda Jagger

  Yet it was different now, settling my wide, silk skirts—my lovely swan dress—on the shallow steps, Nicholas lounging on the step below. Quite different, in the half-dark, eating our supper from a tray laden with cakes and champagne, both of us knowing full well that our being here was not entirely innocent, since the conventions which ruled our lives quite clearly forbade us to be alone together at all. Discovery might mean no more than a tolerant reprimand. ‘Young lady, you had best go back to your mamma, and we will say no more about it.’ But it could also mean accusations of improper behaviour, loss of reputation, and he would not have brought me here unless he was prepared to defend me if the need arose, unless he really found pleasure in my company.

  ‘You are so changed,’ he had said to me in my day-dreams, but now: ‘We are friends again?’ he once more enquired, and it sufficed.

  ‘Yes—although you have twice embroiled me with your father, who terrifies me. Doesn’t he terrify you?’

  ‘He does not. I daresay he would like to, or perhaps he merely thinks that he should. But he does not.’

  ‘Then you are very brave.’

  ‘Oh yes—a lion. I wonder how Julian Flood will fare at his hands. My father likes a decent return on his investments, so I reckon young Julian had best watch out.’

  ‘You’re not pleased, are you, that Caroline should want to marry him.’

  He shrugged, his face, in concentration and in shadow, quite dark.

  ‘I’ve nothing against him—so far as the gentry goes he’s right enough, and a sight better than that sickly Winterton. But he is gentry and she’s not and yes, I have my doubts.’

  ‘But she’d be so good at the manor, Nicholas.’

  ‘I’m not denying it. She wants the manor all right, and the title, but I’m not sure she understands all that goes with it. Blaize now, he could marry a duchess and manage all right, but he’s not like the rest of us, Caroline looks like a duchess, but she’s a Barforth. She likes money, but she understands how it’s made and the men who make it, and I’m not sure she’ll ever understand the Floods.’

  ‘They like money too.’

  ‘Aye, or they’d not be here tonight. But they want it for different reasons. Look—I reckon you know how my father has spent his life building up Lawcroft Mills and Tarn Edge and Low Cross? But he’d sell them tomorrow and go into something else—and so would I—if it was to his advantage. The Floods can’t bring themselves to part with one useless acre, just because its been in the family for three hundred years; I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. I’m saying it’s different. And Caroline’s not like that. She’d try to run that manor like my father runs the mills, and even if she made the Floods a profit I reckon they wouldn’t approve of her methods.’

  ‘They’d take the money, though.’

  ‘So they would.’

  We laughed open-heartedly, two people who understood each other, a hard-headed Law Valley man, shrewd and straightforward, who would not always be easy on his woman, rarely romantic, his well-shod feet at all times firmly rooted to the ground; a Law Valley woman, tougher than she seemed, who understood the demands and hazards of his trade, who wanted the things he wanted and appreciated the skill by which they were obtained.

  We were alike. We matched, and as I got slowly to my feet, shaking out my skirts and smoothing my hair with hands that trembled and needed to be occupied. I saw in his face the same narrow-eyed intensity I had seen in Jonas, that spark of awakening and instantly controlled desire that I suppose any man may feel for any presentable woman in a lonely place, but which, far from repelling me as it had done in Jonas, caused my whole body to sway forward, as if it had dissolved in the air between us and was being wafted irrevocably, magically, towards him. And only the fear that is bred into all females who are required to remain virgin—marketable—forced me to pretend that I had stumbled.

  ‘I should go back now, Nicholas.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, for although his own virginity was a long-past memory, offered, one supposed, in approved Law Valley fashion, to the ladies of the Theatre Royal, he knew he would have to be very careful, very sure of his ultimate intentions before making the very tiniest assault on mine.

  ‘I’ll take you back. They’ll not have missed you, in all the confusion of supper and Sir Giles.’

  Yet we had lingered too long, it seemed, for suddenly there was the rustle of a skirt at the far end of the passage, perhaps only the maid come back to fetch her tray, perhaps a stranger who would look askance and go away, perhaps not. I shrank back against the wall, appalled now, when it was too late, by the possibility of discovery and misunderstanding, realizing as so often before that I should have thought of this sooner.

  ‘Don’t worry’, Nicholas said, but I think we were both relieved when a voice enquired, ‘So—and just what is going on here?’ for it was only Caroline, her white and silver skirts blocking the passageway, her face—when I was calm enough to look at it—no longer aglow with triumph but creased with ill-temper and the need, perhaps, of finding someone to blame.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Nicholas said. ‘Thank God for that!’

  But clearly something was very much amiss, for instead of laughing and coming to join us on those familiar, friendly back stairs, she continued to stand, hard-faced and glaring—as her father had once done—looking for trouble and almost grateful to find it.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here Nicholas?’

  ‘Minding my own business, as you should be minding yours.’

  ‘It is my business,’ she snapped. ‘This is my party, and I am responsible for the way it is conducted.’

  And even then he was not really concerned, for it was just Caroline on her high-horse, as we had seen her many a time, and she would soon climb down again.

  ‘Come on. Faith,’ he said. ‘Let’s find Aunt Elinor.’

  But Caroline, suddenly, was a barrier planted before us, refusing even to draw her skirts aside.

  ‘You’ll go nowhere, until I’ve got to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Caroline—why the devil must you always interfere?’

  ‘Don’t use foul language to me, Nicholas Barforth.’

  ‘You’ve heard worse than that—and from your precious father, too.’

  ‘You’ll leave my father out of this. He’s had more than enough to bear from you, And as for you. Faith Aycliffe—’

  ‘That’s enough, Caroline!’ Nicholas told her, meaning it; but, placing myself between them—having enough experience of their tempers to know that some form of distraction was required—I said sharply. ‘What about me. Caroline?’

  ‘Yes, indeed—what about you? I thought I knew you, Faith, but this is the second time you have been caught alone with my brother. Well, the first time I was ready enough to believe your story, but I’m not sure what to think now—’

  And swiftly, before Nicholas could answer for me—knowing that once battle commenced between them I would be unable to make myself heard—I said coolly. ‘Well then Caroline, you may think exactly what you please, for if you can do no better than draw these foolish conclusions then you are as great a goose as my sister Celia.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she asked, quite stunned, really wanting to know, and, since it was important to me that Nicholas should realize I could defend myself, that I was no simpering, schoolroom miss only too happy to be compromised, I was ready enough to explain.

  ‘There’s no daring about it, Caroline. You are being quite stupid, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you so.’

  ‘Then I’ll give you a reason. You are a guest in my father’s house, where certain standards are always maintained, and you have behaved shockingly.’

  ‘I have done no such thing, and you know very well I have not. Most likely it is Julian Flood who has done something shocking, by the look of you, for why else are you here, dashing up the back stairs—which happens to be the quickest way to your bedroom. And I won’t
be the scapegoat for it, Caroline, so you’d best go to nanny and have a good cry.’

  There was, of course, the possibility that she would hit me, that Nicholas would roughly intervene, that nanny herself would appear and go running for Uncle Joel, who would then thrash Nicholas, a scene I had witnessed more than once while we were growing up. But realizing, even in her outrage, that the repercussions would be different now—that she was, in fact, quite fond of me and knew I was fond of her—she unclenched her reckless Barforth fist and contented herself with the lesser violence of hissing at me. ‘I never thought this of you, Faith, I never thought you’d turn on me. Well, it’s envy, I suppose—just envy—and I should be accustomed to that.’

  ‘My word!’ Nicholas said, when she had pushed me aside and mounted the stairs, one imperious step at a time, hoping I had not noticed the tears in her eyes. ‘Who’s the lion now?’

  ‘Yes—but I suppose I had better go after her and say I am sorry—which indeed I am, since I think she is very sorry herself. What on earth can Julian Flood have done to her?’

  ‘Nothing much. Tried to kiss her, I expect, and if she don’t like it then she should stop thinking about the manor, since one thing goes with the other. Leave her to it. She’ll come looking for you tomorrow to apologize and tell you all about it. But come, Faith—quickly now—for we have been away long enough.’

  Taking my hand he hustled me to the end of the passageway and out through a little side-door I had forgotten about, not into the deep midnight I had expected, but a clear, rose-tinted, daybreak.

  ‘Oh, Nicholas—look. I have never stayed up all night before.’

  ‘No, I suppose you have not. Listen, we cannot go in together now. You must go round the side of the house and through the garden-door to the back parlour, and then go through into the hall. Do you remember the way?’

  ‘Oh yes. But what a pity to go in at all.’

  ‘Faith,’ he said, ‘don’t you know the fix you could be in?’

  But he was laughing, anxious and amused at the same time, a Barforth who did not wish to compromise me because he did not wish to be compromised himself, but who, with his share of inherited recklessness, of lusty Barforth appetite, was unwilling to miss an opportunity, so that naturally and easily he bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly against the corner of mine; a half-kiss which would have been acceptable between cousins under the mistletoe at Christmas time, no more than that now perhaps, to him; but the most important thing. I believed, so far—the most thrilling—in my life.

  ‘Run,’ he said, and I ran giddy and glowing, through the garden-door, not caring if even Aunt Hannah should be there, since Nicholas had kissed me. The back parlour was empty, the crowd thinning in the hall, music still playing, servants still hurrying to and fro, but an air of impending departure, of cloaks and carriages, of battles already won or lost. Surely I had been missed? Surely there would be the ugliness of questions and recriminations, a dreadful poking and prying into the crystal-clear enchantment I was still feeling, that I believed I would feel forever? But reaching the ballroom door in a state of considerable alarm; I saw, as often proves the case, that everyone had found their own affairs more interesting than mine. My mother was still lounging in her chair, murmuring wicked replies to whatever Mr. Oldroyd, on the chair behind, was whispering over her shoulder; my forgotten, abandoned sister Prudence was sitting patiently beside Aunt Hannah; while a chair or two away from them, Jonas—desperate, hard-pressed, offended Jonas—was most surprisingly deep in conversation with Celia.

  Chapter Six

  Aunt Hannah, it seemed, was not so entirely in her stepson’s confidence as she imagined, for when he proposed to my sister Celia the following week, during the course of an Assembly Rooms charity ball, she was quite taken aback, and to begin with not greatly pleased.

  ‘Jonas—what do you mean?’ she said to him when he and Celia approached her hand in hand at the close of the dance. And since she could not believe Jonas capable of impropriety, she turned her for midable Barforth eye on Celia—recognizing a scheming young hussy when she saw one—and ordered, ‘You had best go to your mother young lady, and inform her that I shall have a word to say on your account.’

  We took Celia home in a state almost of collapse, weeping in a corner of the carriage and complaining most bitterly that the whole world was against her, that neither Prudence nor Faith would have been treated in this fashion, that she had done nothing wrong.

  But the next morning, when Jonas had made it clear that Prudence would not have him and stressed, no doubt, what Mr. Corey-Manning’s retirement could mean to them both, my aunt appeared very early in Blenheim Lane to announce herself highly delighted, and to set Celia’s mind at ease.

  She was prepared within the privacy of the family circle to admit—although not in Celia’s hearing—that Jonas’s attentions to one sister and his subsequent proposal to another might be thought rather bold, but then, it was well known that young people were impulsive, apt to be carried away by their tender feelings, and so far as the outside world was concerned Jonas—clever, crafty Jonas—had not committed himself to Prudence, and there could be no question that she had been jilted or that Celia was second-best.

  It had of course, been somewhat headstrong of Jonas to approach Celia direct, without first requesting the opinion of her guardians, but once again, the natural ardours of youth must be held to blame, and before calling on us she had gone first to Tarn Edge and spoken to Uncle Joel—whose consent, by the terms of my father’s will, would be necessary—and had made all smooth with him. His niece might be married, he had declared, whenever she pleased, and there seemed little doubt that, in his desire to see her well settled, his assistance to Jonas in a certain matter of business would not be denied.

  Aunt Hannah in fact was happy, for now, with the solid capital of Celia’s dowry behind him, Jonas had set his foot on the first golden rung of the ladder she had long ago designed on his behalf. Mr. Corey-Manning’s business would soon be his. He would be a householder, a man of substance and authority, while she relieved of the anxiety of his expenses, could devote herself entirely to her civic campaign. Jonas himself, one supposed, and for the same reasons, was happy too. Celia, having received her first and presumably her last proposal at the tender age of fifteen—before either of her elder, more highly regarded sisters—could hardly contain her bliss. But when Aunt Hannah had gone to announce her news elsewhere, and Celia, exhausted by rapture, had retired upstairs with Miss Mayfield to discuss her trousseau, Prudence, who had been ominously silent all morning, planted herself firmly in front of my mother, and said. ‘You cannot permit this, mamma.’

  ‘My dear, what an odd notion!. Why on earth should I wish to prevent it?’

  ‘You know very well why, mamma, for they are totally unsuited. She is not yet sixteen and she is not clever. She has no idea of the consequences—’

  My mother smiled. ‘Oh, cleverer than you think, my dear, surely—since she knows exactly what she wants in life, as you do not. And as for the consequences, if one gave too much thought to consequences I doubt if one would do anything at all.’

  I saw Prudence flex her hands slightly, a movement as nervous yet as fastidious as a cat, expressing her utter dislike of artifice, her rejection of all those—my mother among them—who lived by it.

  ‘Quite so, mamma. But in fact she is being manipulated to suit the interests of others, who are not greatly concerned as to what Celia’s own interests might be. And if you do not choose to understand that, then really, mamma—I shall have no alternative but to go and see Uncle Joel.’

  ‘My word!’ my mother said, her face dimpling and twinkling with smiles. ‘How brave you are! Would you really go to my brother and demand his attention? Why yes, I believe you would, for truly you are so much like your half-brother, of whom we were never allowed to speak. Dear Crispin, so prickly and difficult, and such a great romantic, just as you are, dear—he had such wide, shining ideals. I daresay I am
not the only woman in Cullingford who sometimes wonders what has become of him. But never mind that—You would go to your uncle, would you, Prudence? And what would you tell him? That Jonas Agbrigg wishes to marry your sister for her money? He is perfectly well aware of that, dearest. Money is a perfectly acceptable reason for a young man to marry. In fact, when Jonas approached your uncle some weeks ago about this business of Mr. Corey-Manning, your uncle himself suggested that the quickest way out of the dilemma would be to find a suitable wife. My brother’s generosity is realistic rather than philanthropic, and, although he has great faith in Jonas’ability, he was unwilling to elevate him to a position he could not maintain. His marriage to Celia will provide him with the means to maintain it and will provide her with the wedding-ring which, you cannot deny, is the one thing she desires. My dear, I am not forcing her to the altar. You may think me insensitive, but I can assure you I would never do such a thing. She wants to marry him. You tell me I cannot permit it, but even if you could prevail upon me, and Uncle Joel, and Aunt Hannah, to cancel, then Celia herself would thwart you. I believe you will find, when you are calm enough to talk to her, that she has fallen in love. Oh yes, my dear, and why not? In a few months’time she will be the mistress of her own home, with her own servants to do her bidding and her own horses to be got out whenever it pleases her to drive into town, while you and Faith remain here with me. She will have her own calling cards to deliver, with her own name writ large for everyone to see, while you and Faith will have to make do with your names printed, very small, under mine. And she can do no less than fall in love with the man who has made such wonders possible.’