And then suddenly, as they both at the same moment became aware of me there was a sharp ‘Blaize—that’ll do,’ from Nicholas, and from the unrepentant Blaize a laughing. ‘I do beg your pardon, Faith. May I hope this is the one time you don’t know what we mean?’
But Caroline was now walking stiffly towards us leaving the much-longed for Matthew in the hall, every bit as offended by his boots as her father, and not greatly pleased with Miss Clevedon uneasy, I thought, at the state of her riding-habit, and altogether shocked—although she would not have admitted it—by the blood on her cheek.
‘This,’ she said, with no more than common politeness ‘is my cousin, Miss Aycliffe. And my brother, Mr. Nicholas Barforth.’
And I felt a great, nameless relief when he nodded, quite curtly, and merely said, ‘Miss Clevedon,’ staring with a sarcasm that veered on rudeness at her soiled skirt, the emblem of savagery flaking now against her fair skin.
‘And this is my elder brother—Mr. Blaize Barforth. Blaize—Miss Clevedon.’
‘Yes’, he said, his face alive with the very same collector’s excitement I had seen in my father whenever he had brought home some rare piece of porcelain, some totally unexpected find: except that with Blaize it was warmer, would be more quickly over. ‘Miss Clevedon—so it is—and you are quite wet through. I suppose there is no likelihood that you may catch a chill?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ she told him her abrupt hand stretching out again, her own expression registering a certain surprise, as if she had not expected a member of the manufacturing classes to possess such charm.
‘No—I didn’t for a moment imagine it. But do come over to the fire, just the same, Miss Clevedon. I am sure you are above such trifles as the weather, but you must allow the rest of us to be concerned.’
‘Blaize,’ Caroline said, the flash of her eyes warning: ‘Boots—carpets.’ But, ignoring her, Blaize took Miss Clevedon’s shabby elbow in a careful hand and led her away, glancing at Nicholas in a manner which plainly said. ‘I told you. This is a rare one. We’ll see, shall we?’
‘What an odd creature.’ Caroline muttered.
‘Yes.’ Nicholas said, not listening to her, staring at Blaize, watching too intently, neither condemning nor excusing, saying too much by saying nothing at all, so that I—as taut as Caroline—nervously enquired.
‘What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About Miss Clevedon?’
‘Oh—not a great deal.’
And, although he smiled at me then, stayed beside me, walked with me to the carriage, waited bareheaded in the rain to see me drive away, and promised he would come and rescue me from Aunt Hannah the following afternoon—and indeed came—I knew, not that night but soon after that the special time I had marked out for myself, and which had only started with my return home in November, was already over.
Chapter Nine
The Barforths were invited to Listonby Park for New Year’s Day, a meagre enough occasion, Aunt Verity afterwards told my mother, nothing but plain roast meats on the table, indifferent service, a housekeeper, she felt who would have been more inclined to receive them at the tradesmen’s entrance and, in Uncle Joel’s opinion, would not have paid their bills too promptly at that. A beautiful house indeed the original medieval great hall stone-flagged, oak-ceilinged, the long gallery lined with an impressive array of ancestral portraits and not much else, an early eighteenth-century wing so mellowed, the plasterwork and paintwork so obviously nearing its century, that it had reminded Aunt Verity of the musky beauty of rose-petals approaching decay.
Uncle Joel and Sir Matthew went outside together when the meal was over, to smoke their cigars strolling along the avenue of wych-elms a distant Chard had planted in the park, admiring the sycamores, the gnarled and knotted oaks from an even earlier generation, my uncle taking this opportunity to discover, as he had no doubt expected, that although there was money enough for essentials. Sir Matthew’s pleasures, albeit of a less dissipated nature than Julian Flood’s, were nevertheless not cheap.
The maintaining of even a provincial hunt like the Lawdale—the feeding of fifty couple of hounds, the salaries of huntsman, whippers-in, earth-stoppers, the upkeep of coverts—would be likely to exceed three thousand pounds per annum, of which his own subscription could not be less than fifteen hundred pounds. His personal stable expenses, without much effort, could cost him two thousand pounds and rising, every year, his private kennels a further five hundred. There was, in addition, the expense of preserving game-birds on his land, their careful hand-rearing and safe-keeping from poachers and predators, so that they could be shot in due season, and by invitation only. And it became clear to them both that in Sir Matthew’s costly and time-consuming pursuit of sport, a wealthy and efficient wife would not come amiss.
He proposed to Caroline the following morning, riding over to Tarn Edge immaculately turned-out this time, his boots well-polished and clean, his manner ardent enough to please anyone, being a healthy man more than ready to take a healthy mate. And almost at once, having longed for him, despaired of him, she was no longer sure of herself, riding down, in her turn, to Blenheim Lane to bring me her news, her triumph, and her heart-searchings.
‘I’m to be Lady Chard.’
‘Oh darling—I never doubted it.’
But she had not quite forgiven him for his unruliness of Boxing Day, his inbred arrogance which had seen nothing amiss in trampling mud on her father’s floor, the oft repeated hunting tales which bored her, making her too aware of the very real gulf between them. Yet—apart from the fact that his presence still caused her heart to miss a beat, the fact that, without having the words to describe it or the courage to admit it, his sharp-edged, patrician profile, his lounging body, had aroused her sensuality—she had already won herself a reputation as a jilt by refusing Julian Flood, and could not do the same again. And, when all was said and done—and she said it many times, over and over again—although he was not rich, he had no gambling debts, no creditors waiting on their wedding day to be paid off at the church door, and there was no reason why handsome, energetic Caroline should not be loved for herself.
‘He was quite charming,’ she told me, ‘almost emotional—said he had known at once, seeing me at Listonby, that I belonged there. And, indeed, it is a lovely house. I could do so much with it, Faith. There is a staircase leading out of the Great Hall, carved oak with painted panels on the walls, leading to an enormous room, the size of the Hall itself, not used for anything at all—quite empty—and it would make a splendid ballroom. And the Hall—well, there is nothing much in there now but that huge stone fireplace and a few oak boxes standing around, and a dreadful oak table all scarred and battered. But with some decent floor-covering and a dozen or so deep armchairs and sofas, it would be ideal, for house-parties—a log fire in that tremendous hearth at tea-time, can’t you imagine it? For that is the thing nowadays—house-parties—since the railways have made it so easy to get about, and one can invite guests from simply anywhere. Bedrooms should be no problem, for although, naturally, I haven’t yet seen them, the upstairs passages are like a rabbit-warren, and there must be accommodation to spare. The kitchens, I suppose may be less than adequate, but something may easily be done about that—in fact it must be done, since I am quite determined to entertain. What is the point, after all, of having a house that size unless one means to use it? Yes, I shall have to give some thought to the kitchens—and a really good chef who will bring his own kitchenmaids, since people will not come twice unless they are sure of enjoying their dinner. Well—the really good thing about it is that there is no Dowager Lady Chard to pull a long face when I set about making changes.
‘And Matthew?’
‘Oh, he will not care a scrap. He was not brought up at Listonby, you see. His real home is in Leicestershire, as you know, and he is not so attached to Listonby that he cannot bear a stone of it to be altered—not at all like the Floods and those dreadful C
levedons.’
And so enchanted was she with her plans for Listonby Park that it was a long time before I could introduce again the name of Georgiana Clevedon, whose pointed face and sudden smile I had been unable to forget.
‘Oh, they are connected to the Chards by marriage, I believe,’ she said carelessly, ‘and I cannot imagine why they think themselves so grand, for that Abbey of theirs is the gloomiest place I ever saw. A quarter of the size of Listonby, and so old—beyond repair, I should think. It was a real abbey once, before whichever king it was who knocked them down—Prudence will know—oh, King Henry VIII, was it?—Well, the Clevedons’bought it from him, or he gave it to them for services rendered, a million years ago by the look of it, and they built their house from the abbey stones. In fact part of it still looks like a nunnery—they even have a cloister which they seem to think quite splendid, although it is as cold as a tomb and just as foisty. They have no money, of course, and no hope of any that I can see, for Peregrine Clevedon is the most feckless young man I ever knew, and no woman in her right mind would marry him. And if Miss Georgiana imagines she can save the day by setting her cap at Blaize she will have a rude awakening. Blaize will not think of marriage for a long time yet, and when he does you can be sure he will make a brilliant match, something altogether exceptional. No, the best thing they can do is to sell off their land and their precious Abbey with it, while they still have something to sell—for it would not surprise me to hear any day that it had fallen down.’
We went to Albert Place to see in the New Year, my sister Celia, who had adamantly refused to risk herself outdoors, remaining throughout the entire evening on her sofa, so very much embarrassed by her swollen shape that even the presence of her kindly, down-to-earth father-in-law incommoded her.
‘Are you comfortable lass?’ he asked her more than once, wanting, it seemed, to make a show of at affection, to move her closer to the fire or farther away from it, some gesture expressive of concern, but she could only reply, ‘Quite comfortable, thank you,’ the sharpness of her tone implying, ‘Leave me alone. Don’t draw attention to the sorry state I’m in. Don’t stare at me.’
We drank what I felt sure must be an excellent wine, served, in Celia’s wedding crystal, on a silver tray.
‘All the very best to you, lass,’ Mayor Agbrigg said, remembering, this time, not to look at her.
‘I have told that girl a hundred times about these glasses,’ she answered. ‘Jonas, have I not told her that they must be rinsed—really rinsed clean—but no, she dries them with the soap still on them. Jonas, you will have to tell her again, for, in these circumstances, you must see that I cannot.’
‘Yes, Celia,’ he said quietly, not looking at her either, having no need, perhaps, of vision to know that her lower lip was trembling, her whole face quivering with the approach of fretful tears. ‘I’ll speak to her in the morning. It can hardly be done now. Please do not cry over it. It is hardly worth so much agony.’
‘So you always say. You simply do not understand how these slovenly things upset me.’
‘You are quite mistaken, Celia. I understand exactly how much—and how often—you are upset. Are you tired now?’
‘Of course I am. I suppose you are thinking I would be better off in bed.’
‘Only if that is what you would like.’
But Mayor Agbrigg—the only other man in the room—was obliged to turn his back, making some excuse about mending the fire, before she would allow a completely expressionless Jonas to help her to her feet and lead her from the room.
‘Your daughter is very fanciful,’ Aunt Hannah said. ‘One would imagine no other woman had ever been in her condition before.’
But, before my mother could answer, Mayor Agbrigg, putting down the fire-tongs, said quietly, ‘She’s hardly a woman, Hannah—just a little lass, scared out of her wits. I hope my lad understands that.’
There was champagne at midnight—no one, now to complain about the glasses, since Celia, we had ascertained, was sound asleep—Mayor Agbrigg, gaunt in the flickering candlelight, raising his glass first to his wife: ‘Lets drink to your concert hall, Hannah—the grandest in the West Riding,’ and then to Prudence, his quiet smile conveying, ‘And we’ll pave the streets as well, lass, while we’re about it, and shift the sewage.’
There was Jonas, his cool, narrow face giving no hint either of concern for Celia’s condition, or of annoyance that she was managing it so badly, bestowing on me and Prudence the customary New Year’s kiss, as correct and remote a brother as a husband, playing his role to perfection but with little feeling.
‘Happy New Year, sir,’ he said to his father.
‘Aye—let’s hope so,’ the mayor replied, and we went home soon after. Mayor Agbrigg accompanying us to be the first foot across our threshold. Aunt Hannah waiting in the carriage while he carried inside the lump of coal for the hearth, the salt for our table, that would ensure our happiness and prosperity to come.
‘Happy New Year,’ Prudence said to me, later, as we reached her bedroom door.
‘Yes, darling—the same to you.’ But the radiance inside me had dimmed, leaving me cold, as scared, without exactly knowing why, as Celia, so that like her I needed the refuge, the bolt-hole, of my solitary bed and the release of tears.
We attended the public meeting, called some days later, at the Assembly Rooms, to put forward Aunt Hannah’s plans—thinly disguised as her husband’s—for the erection of the concert hall.
‘What have we got in Cullingford?’ Mayor Agbrigg said bluntly, in no way abashed by this gathering of mill masters who could have bought and sold him ten times over. ‘We’ve got the mills and a few decent private houses. We’ve got the Mechanics Institute and these Assembly Rooms, and the new station, and that’s about all. Folks that come here—and they’re coming here now from far and wide—are saying Cullingford’s not a town at all. They’re saying its not much better than a navvy camp. Now, there’s some as don’t mind that, and some as do—there’s some as don’t take offence when they hear tell that Leeds is growing faster, and even Bradford’s cleaner. But if we’ve got the muck, friends, we’ve got the brass to go with it—enough brass, I reckon, to set it all to rights.’
And although it was not the speech Aunt Hannah would have made herself, having had a great deal to say privately about the need for cultural improvement—preferring her own quotation ‘man does not live by bread alone’to Mr. Agbrigg’s ‘Where there’s muck there’s brass’—the haggard, rough-spoken man she had married undoubtedly carried the day. A joint-stock company was formed, finance to be raised by the taking-up of ten pound shares, any deficiency or any additional costs to be met, it was discreetly understood, by that philanthropic gentleman, Mr. Joel Barforth. And henceforth my life was dominated by two issues, the concert hall—Aunt Hannah’s insistence on Corinthian pillars, her flirtation with gas-lighting, her apparent disregard as to which orchestras, in fact, would actually play there—and Caroline’s wedding.
It was to be in June, not at Listonby as one may have supposed, but in our own parish church, since at this stage it was Cullingford Caroline wished to impress, rather than the Chard tenantry. And so, throughout the bleakest January I could remember, I sat with her in the cosy back parlour at Tarn Edge, toasting ourselves by the fire and talking of what was to be the most splendid ceremony our town had ever seen.
‘You understand clothes, Faith,’ she told me. ‘I’ve often noted it’; and when the guest lists were put away, the pattern books would come out, samples of fabric, pencil and paper for my sketches.
‘I’ll go to London. You could come with me, Faith. In fact we could go to Paris, to that couturier you’re always telling me of. Why not? Father will arrange it.’
But already in January there was a murmuring of unrest in France, hints that our own malcontents, the Chartists, were on the move again, threatening to carry their demands to Westminster and force them if necessary down the throats of any who were unwilling to list
en.
‘They’ll get nowhere,’ Uncle Joel said, lighting one cigar from the embers of another. ‘These hot-heads, Feargus O’Connor and the like—they’ve got the men, and now, with the trains, they’ve got the means to move them wherever they’re needed to demonstrate. But what’s a demonstration? They tried to stop the mills from working back in forty-two—went on the rampage both sides of the Pennines, taking the plugs out of the engines so the looms wouldn’t turn. And what happened? It was the demonstrators who ran out of steam in the end, same as the engines, except that we soon started the engines up again, and all they really achieved for their “brothers” was to lose them a few days pay. The Chartists will be no different. They may have orators who can tell them they should all have a vote, and that there should be a general election every year so they can practice using it—but they’ve got no organizers. There’s no money behind them. We got the vote in thirty-two because men like me and Hobhouse and Battershaw and Oldroyd threatened to take our brass out of the Bank of England unless they gave it to us. What has Feargus O’Connor got to bargain with? He can call his mob out to break a few windows and throw a stone or two, but once they’ve rounded up the first half-dozen and shipped them off to Australia the rest will go home again. One man one vote indeed, and a secret ballot so the demon millmaster can’t twist their tails on polling day. Well, I can’t blame them for that. In their place I’d want the same—except I’m not in their place, and I’ve no mind to let my millhands choose my government for me.’
Yet it was rumoured that the London streets were beginning to be dangerous, that in Cullingford itself the hungry, the unemployed—the residents, one assumed, of Simon Street—were meeting in growing numbers to perform military exercises on the moors beyond Tarn Edge, a copy of the People’s Charter in every pocket, a weapon of some kind in every hand, even hungrier men from Bradford, many of whom had been thrown out of work by the combing machines, coming to explain that the same thing was more than likely to happen to them. And to my relief, it was decided that Caroline must do her shopping at home.
Flint and Roses Page 19
