But quite often he would come alone, spending lazy evenings by the fire, hot coffee and toasted muffins consumed at midnight; Prudence sometimes, having called at tea-time and stayed to dinner, engaging him in verbal combat, demolishing the easy philosophies he invented expressly to tease her, deciding, more often than not, that she would not trouble to go home at all and calmly sending a note to Blenheim Lane claiming her freedom of movement, of speech, of action, in a way which amused and delighted him.
‘I believe your poor mother trembles before you.’
‘Nonsense. She never notices me now that Mr. Oldroyd has started to call so often.’
‘So—clever Mr. Oldroyd. Does she mean to marry him?’
‘She would be ill-advised to do so. And I would not consent to live with them.’
‘Ah—you are thinking of getting married yourself then, I take it?’
‘Why should you say that?’
‘Why, Prudence, my dear—if you will not live with your mother, then you must live with your husband, or with his mother. What else can a young lady do?’
‘I will not always be a young lady. I am almost twenty-two. Eventually I shall be thirty and forty—as you will be one day, Blaize, dear—and capable, I imagine, of handling my own affairs.’
‘Now why on earth should you wish to do that?’ he asked her, his smoky eyes brimming with mischief. ‘Why trouble your very charming head with the sordid details of everyday life, when you could easily find a husband to do it for you? I really can’t understand your poor opinion of marriage. Believe me, Faith does not share it, and I—well—I will confess, hand on heart, that I envy Giles all this.’
‘Nonsense. If you wanted it, you could have it. You could be married tomorrow—except that you would probably fall in love with one of your wife’s bridesmaids on your wedding day.’
‘Do you know,’ he said, as if the idea had just struck him, not at all unpleasantly, ‘I believe you may be right. And you have done me a great disservice. Prudence, by putting the idea into my head. It sounds so very apt that, now you have suggested it to me, I doubt if I could bring myself to resist it should the occasion ever arise.’
‘Don’t concern yourself. It never will. You will chase moonbeams all your life, looking for that one rare creature you are always talking about, who surely doesn’t exist—or else you will marry a fifteen-year-old when you are ninety-three.’
‘Prudence,’ I told her, laughing, although what she had said was not impossible, ‘that is not kind.’
‘Oh,’ Blaize murmured. ‘I don’t know—’ And later, when Giles had been called out and Blaize, making light of at, had accompanied him, declaring he might as well hold Giles’s horse in Simon Street as go home and explain his absence at the mills that day to his father, I asked her, ‘Prudence, do you think you could ever care for Blaize?’
‘Fall in love with him, you mean? No. I could not, and he wouldn’t thank me for it should it be otherwise. A man like Blaize doesn’t wish to be troubled by emotion.’
‘There is more to him than he likes to show.’
‘I’m well aware of it. He drove Giles over to Sunbury Dale this morning, didn’t he, risking his beautiful sporting curricle on those moorland pathways so Giles could get there in time. Were you not afraid Giles would break his neck? Oh—they didn’t tell you. Well, Giles was needed in a hurry. I’m not certain why—a mill chimney had collapsed and fallen into a shed, I believe, and I suppose when Giles got the message it was already too late. Anyway, Blaize drove him there because Giles’s horse would have surely foundered in this weather. And when they arrived he made himself useful too—I heard it from Uncle Agbrigg, so there is no call for you to look so put out—which is why Blaize was not at the mill today and is in trouble with his father. Of course, he will not tell Uncle Joel he was at Sunbury. He will let him think what he pleases. And I know it amused him, driving like a madman over the top moor, or he would not have done it. But he did go, he did help, which is more than his brother Nicholas would have done. Yes, Faith—Nicholas may have lent his carriage and paid someone to drive it, but he would not have gone himself. He wouldn’t lose a day’s business—not for anybody in Sunbury Dale at any rate. I expect you will be calling at Tarn Edge to deliver your bride-gift, now that they have been back from honeymoon for several weeks. We can go together.’
Caroline, Lady Chard, was not expected back until the New Year, having married into a world where a wedding-journey could last a twelvemonth or more, the happy-couple returning, often enough, with their first child in tow. But the Barforth mills, unlike the tenant farmers of Listonby, could not be left to take care of themselves, and the new Mrs. Barforth had been installed at Tarn Edge for so long now, that I knew my failure to visit her would cause comment unless soon remedied. Aunt Verity had already called on me, bringing me a magnificent matching pair of Sèvres pot-pourri vases, a fortune casually bestowed, and placed just as casually on my altogether unworthy mantelpiece. I had already purchased the dessert service I intended for Nicholas, a dainty, flowery, yet quite impersonal gift that had been standing for weeks now, ready wrapped, on the hall table, reminding me constantly of its need to be delivered. And when a day or so later I encountered Blaize coming out of the Piece Hall, and he, perfectly understanding my hesitation and the need to put an end to it, said quietly, ‘Faith, if you should have a moment to spare for my sister-in-law, it would be a kindness, since she is very much alone.’ I begged the carriage from Giles that very afternoon.
There had been no question of a separate establishment for Nicholas and Georgiana. Tarn Edge was plenty large enough to accommodate a second family; it was essential for Nicholas to be near the mills; and Georgiana herself, having been brought up to think of marriage as a transfer from one ancestral mansion to another, had neither expected nor wanted one of the smart new villas so dear to acquisitive and possibly, in her view, vulgar middle-class hearts. She had simply taken up residence among the Barforths as she would have gone to the Chards or the Floods, as ready to leave everything to her mother-in-law as if Aunt Verity had been a duchess with three hundred years of domestic tradition behind her.
She was the wife not even of the heir, but of a younger son, a position which, in a noble family, would not have carried great weight. Had Uncle Joel been a Chard, Blaize would have inherited his title, his land, the house that stood upon it, in accordance with the rules of primogeniture, which ensured that ancient estates were not broken up, that ancient names remained tied to the land that for centuries had nurtured them. Blaize’s wife would have taken precedence over Georgiana on every occasion, would have become mistress of Tarn Edge at the very moment of Uncle Joel’s death. Aunt Verity retiring just as immediately to some dower house or smaller dwelling, leaving little for Nicholas but a younger son’s portion—not usually large—and a career of sorts in the army or the Church. And, although Georgiana must have known that in the world of commerce the labours of both brothers would be equally rewarded, the profits divided, that Nicholas could even be a far wealthier man than Blaize one day, while Tarn Edge itself, for which neither of them greatly cared, would probably be sold in due course, its proceeds divided between themselves and Caroline, it seemed very strange to her, her instinctive deference to the first-born amusing no one but Blaize himself.
‘She has the quaintest notions,’ my mother had told me. ‘She talks to her horse more than she talks to Verity. You will find her wildly entertaining.’
Yet there was something almost forlorn about her that afternoon as she received me in Aunt Verity’s small parlour—as large and considerably more luxurious than the Great Hall at Galton—and, although she could not at first remember the exact nature of our relationship, I believe she was relieved to see someone of her own age and sex.
‘Of course,’ she told me, accepting my dessert service with only token enthusiasm, since, I supposed, in that superbly equipped house, where the cupboards were bursting with Wedgwood and Coalport, she could see little u
se for it. ‘I remember now. You are an Aycliffe. Your mother and my father-in-law are brother and sister.’
‘Yes, except that I am no longer an Aycliffe. I was married in October, while you were still away.’
‘Good lord! October. So you are newer to it even than I. And your husband, does he have a place nearby?’
‘A place? You mean an estate?’
‘So I do, if that is what you call it. And I am sorry to be so awkwardly spoken, for I suppose he must have a mill or—something of that nature?’
‘No. He is a doctor.’
‘Really?’ she said, honestly surprised, since I suppose the possibility of marrying a doctor had never occurred to a Clevedon. ‘Do you know, I have never consulted a doctor in my life. Not even when I took a tumble out hunting last season and dislocated my collar bone. My grandfather just tugged it back again and told me if I wanted to be sick to get on with it and then go home. Yet the ladies here who call on my mother-in-law seem always to be ailing. There was a Mrs. Agbrigg the other day, younger than me, I think, who seems altogether an invalid.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Agbrigg is my sister. She has always been frail.’
‘Oh—I do beg your pardon. I find these names and these relationships so confusing, and I know how important it is to get them right. It was so simple at home, you see. One knew exactly which Tempest had married which Chard, and who was related to the Floods and the Ramsdens and in which degree, because one had grown up knowing it. One had attended all the christenings and the weddings and listened to all the back-stairs gossip. One knew not to mention Lady Winterton in Lady Bardsey’s hearing, since Sir Morton Bardsey had mentioned her once too often—that sort of thing. Whereas here, with so many Hobhouses and Battershaws—such strange names—I have no idea what errors I may be committing. Really, sometimes I am quite lost, absolutely at sea, for I was taught never to mention money, never, never, never to ask how much anything cost or to tell what one had paid—never, never. Yet here they talk of pound notes quite openly, all the time. I was quite shocked when I heard a lady just the other night announce how many thousands she had spent on a seaside home, and I expected everyone else to be shocked too. But, in fact, I believe they were impressed. I suppose it is because they earn money, as we do not, which makes them so familiar with it.’
Amused in spite of myself by her puzzled manner, her frowning, little-girl concentration, as if all Hobhouses looked alike to her and she despaired not only of learning their language but of ever distinguishing one from the other, I leaned slightly towards her and smiled, feeling older, although in fact I was slightly the younger, feeling that the task I had set myself might prove less difficult than I had feared. I had come here, certainly, to satisfy the conventions, to test the strength of my own resolution, but I had also come—as I did everything else these days—because of Giles. I was not certain how much he knew of my relationship with Nicholas, simply that he must know something, and what better way of easing his mind than to offer my friendship to Nicholas’s wife?
‘It was all so simple at home,’ she had said, quite touchingly, for, although Galton was but a few miles distant, I well knew that in spirit it was another world. And, telling myself that she, at any rate, had not chosen to harm me, was apparently unaware that harm had been done, and must be kept in ignorance of it, I smiled again and said, ‘You will soon grow accustomed to us, Georgiana.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh yes, I am sure of it. If Aunt Verity’s friends seem stiff, it is only because they are minding their manners too hard, which surely won’t last. And if you are bored at dinner-time when the Hobhouses and the Battershaws—and the Barforths—can talk of nothing but warp and weft, and their lustre cloths and shalloons, well, I have been hearing of such things all my life and I can still neither understand them nor bring myself to care.’
‘Oh my word!’ she said, flashing me her sudden smile, her pointed face alive with a surge of vitality. ‘Can that be true? No, of course not, for I am quite certain you know exactly what constitutes a lustre cloth and are merely denying it to put me at ease. But it was kindly done. Mrs. Ashbum—cousin Faith—I believe you are sent to me from Heaven. Shall I ring for tea? At home we are obliged to go and shout down the passage, since we have not a bell in working order, and even then our old Honiman is so deaf, or does not choose to hear, that one can sit and play a guessing game—for money, if my brother Perry is about—as to whether or not tea will come.’
But there were no such games of chance at Tarn Edge, and when she had greeted the silver cake baskets, the trays of muffins and hot bread and butter with a slight shake of her head, as if with the best will in the world she couldn’t help finding such over-abundance a trifle vulgar, she frowned suddenly and said, ‘Tell me, cousin Faith, what do you do all day?’
‘What do I do? I suppose—a hundred things.’
‘Then I wish you would tell me their names, for I imagine your husband must go out a great deal, and Nicky is never at home. I simply did not realize that these mills were so greedy of a man’s time. I have heard Nicky talk of his managers and I supposed they handled his affairs, as the land-agent at Galton handles ours. But not a bit of it. Nicky must be at the mill every day, all day, and half the night sometimes. Even Mr. Barforth spends most of his time there, which my mother-in-law seems to find quite natural. Yet it is very strange to me. My grandfather attends Quarter Sessions, naturally, since he is Chairman of the Bench, and holds Petty Sessions regularly enough in the back parlour at the Abbey, and he is always out and about the estate. But he doesn’t live his life by the clock, as they do. How can they bear to shut themselves up in this glorious weather? You do not ride, do you, Faith?’
And when I shook my head she said sadly, ‘No. No one does. To the mill and back, to the train and back—Oh dear, Nicky has given me the most magnificent chestnut mare, the loveliest lady you can imagine, and what am I to do with her? He will not allow me to ride out alone. He says it would not be understood. I could not bring a groom from Galton, since we have but the one, and these fellows in the stables here simply cannot keep up with me. So there she stands all day in her stall, just a tame little canter every morning and home again. Well, he must take me to Galton at Christmas, for if I cannot hunt on Boxing Day I shall die of it—especially now that Matthew has succeeded his uncle as Master, for Sir Richard was a dear man but so dreadfully old-fashioned. He would persist in setting off too early in the morning, before one could hope to unkennel a fox that was fit to run.’
I left soon afterwards, having promised to come again and to escort her to such entertainments as Cullingford could provide, and that evening Blaize called briefly to thank me for the care I had taken.
‘It was good of you, Faith.’
Alone with him in the silent house, stung by his accurate knowledge of my situation, I said sharply, ‘Why?’
‘You know why. I am sorry to see that it still hurts you.’
‘You see nothing of the kind.’
‘Good. I am delighted to be mistaken. You are married to the best man in the world, you know.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me that, Blaize Barforth.’
‘No. I see. Good-night, then.’
‘Good-night. Blaize?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are they happy?’
‘Possibly. She depends on him, since she feels everyone else to be against her, and he is still quite wildly attracted to her. She enjoys that, of course—why should she not?—and I think she appreciates him in other ways and is rather grateful. You should understand that, Faith.’
‘Good-night, Blaize.’
‘Quite so. And if that means “Don’t call again” I shall take no notice. You’ll forgive me—you always do. And you need my light touch in this heavy world. Giles won’t object to your gratitude, I shouldn’t. One has to start somewhere, after all, and it’s not a bad beginning. Without making the slightest effort I can think of a hundred ways in which a woman’s gratitude c
ould be really very agreeable. And you’ve got all the time in the world, you know, to fall in love with him. Let it come over you gently. It’s bound to happen.’
And, kissing my cheek, his mischief entirely without malice, he tipped his hat to me and strolled nonchalantly away.
Chapter Fourteen
There was a year of peace and quiet content, a year that would serve as a model. I believed, for all the other years of my life, a deep, slow-moving river with no sudden, diamond-scattered cascades, no sharp, unexpected twistings and turnings; but with no stagnant, murky pools, no dried-up, stony places—a clean, deep water.
Caroline, who had been eight-months away, came home at the end of a crisp, white January, requiring my immediate attendance at Listonby, so intent on her plan’s for improving the house and filling it with the grand acquaintances she had made on her travels that when I inquired her husband’s whereabouts she said absently, ‘Matthew? Oh, I suppose he has gone out hunting. That is what he usually does, at any rate.’
But Caroline, seated before the log fire burning brightly, in the massive stone hearth, the stone-flagged pavement of the Great Hall covered with the first of her deep-pile rugs, was intensely happy, showing not the slightest trace, of Georgiana’s confusion and loneliness.
‘That old housekeeper of Matthew’s will have to go,’ she told me, before the upright little woman, whose breeding perhaps was a shade more genteel than our own, was barely out of earshot. ‘He can just pension her off with a cottage on, the estate somewhere, which seems to be the custom, and will be a great kindness in her case, for she is far too frail to cope with the way I mean to go on. I interviewed one or two likely persons on my way through London, and I must have someone with style and experience and a great deal of endurance, for the people I mean to invite are accustomed to certain standards, and it won’t be enough to merely give them what they are used to. Oh no—I mean to offer something better, something that will really make their journey worthwhile. My father has always operated that way, and I absolutely agree with him. I can do very little at the moment, of course, because it is going to be chaos until the alterations have been made—there is that huge upstairs chamber to turn into a ballroom, which means a new floor, certainly, and new plasterwork, and the Long Gallery to renovate, before I can decently invite anyone to dance; and bedrooms and dressing-rooms to see to—and it seems I am expecting a baby, by the way. But, once all that is done with, I know exactly what I mean to do. House-parties, of course, throughput the hunting season, one after, the other, since it is the, surest way of keeping Matthew out of Leicestershire. He may think it the best hunting country in the world, but his house there is quite mediocre. I have no mind to sit in it half the year while he goes tally-hoeing about the countryside, and so I shall bring all his friends to do their hunting here. We have stabling enough; carriages with champagne picnics in hampers for the ladies who do not care to ride; everything. I shall give a hunt ball, needless to say, which will attract absolutely everybody—not just provincials, but people from the shires and London—and a harvest ball too, I think, with a marquee on the lawn for the tenants. And my Christmases are going to be altogether spectacular. Naturally I want to do all this but quite frankly I feel it is expected of me in any case. I shall give a servants dance too, which didn’t seem such a good idea to me when I first heard of it, but I attended one in Shropshire and found it rather entertaining. It gives one’s staff something to look forward to, at any rate—rather like the bonuses at Tarn Edge.’
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