Flint and Roses

by Brenda Jagger

  ‘I’ll see you in Croppers Court then, first thing tomorrow—if Agbrigg’s wife allows him to practise law so early in the day.’

  ‘Aye. And after that we’ll meet in the Piece Hall—if you can remember where to find it.’

  Georgiana came back, not entering the room, but hovering in the hall, wanting urgently to be gone, an air about her of a woman who has been very ill, resolute in spirit but still bodily frail.

  ‘Is the carriage coming, Blaize? I need a breath of air.’

  And, as they went outside to await the arrival of Nicholas’s horse and the ancient sporting curricle which had been Perry Clevedon’s, I stood at the window and looked out at them, no longer shivering with that inner cold, but far distant, yet, from any certainty of warmth and ease.

  I saw Georgiana lean down a moment as she drew on her driving gloves to say a word to Blaize and then drive off, steadily, skilfully, her destination apparently clear. I didn’t know if she would succeed, or could succeed. I was proud of her. I loved her.

  I saw Nicholas lift himself briskly into his saddle, a powerful silhouette in the twilight, quite certain of his own success, as I was certain of it too. And, as I watched him ride away I knew, with the relief one feels at the ending of physical pain, that he had no need of my anxiety, my remorse; no need, in fact, of me at all. I had seen him change and had believed myself responsible for it. I realized now that he had not changed, but simply progressed quite normally to the man his nature and his ancestry had always intended him to be.

  Had Georgiana never come his way, had he married me instead, I would not have contented him. He would still have required Nethercoats from the Hobhouses, Tarn Edge from Blaize, anything and everything that challenged his ingenuity, any woman, perhaps, who—like the widowed Faith Ashburn—had said ‘we must not’. And although, had I understood all this a dozen years ago, I would still have married him, I had not done so. I had take other directions, opened other doors, so that now I could look back at him, from their various thresholds, and understand that neither of us had been to blame.

  I had sat, long ago, by my fireside and told my sister, ‘I am a woman who loves Nicholas Barforth. That is all there is to me.’

  That woman had meant what she said. For her it had been true. But that woman very gradually had become a chrysalis for someone else, who for a long time had been painfully, sometimes eagerly, emerging. It was no longer in me to love with that overwhelming, self-destructive intensity. I was no longer capable of submerging myself in another person, nor did I wish to do so. I had indeed loved Nicholas Barforth, but there was far more to me now than that. What I wanted now was to love, with clear eyes, a man who saw me clearly, who would allow me air to breathe and space to grow, who would not need to prove his manhood by reducing me to a state of slavish adoration or childlike dependence, a man, in fact, who was strong enough and sure enough to value me as a woman. And there was only one man who had ever offered me the enormous gift of freedom.

  ‘Faith,’ Blaize said, somewhere in the room behind me, my first awareness of him being the warm odour of his cigar, the fresh citrus of the toilet-water he wore.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was sharp with you earlier. I’m sorry.’

  And for a few moments we talked around ourselves, of other people, other aspirations, approaching each other slowly, and with care.

  ‘Will Freddy Hobhouse come to you, Blaize?’

  ‘Oh yes—not that Nick will worry about that, since, whatever Freddy can do, he can do it better. He’d be hard pressed, perhaps, if I took Dan Adair.’

  ‘But you won’t?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve asked him already and he’ll use me, I imagine, to push up his value with Nick. But he has the sense to stay where he’s needed—which is hardly with me. Even Freddy knows that much, or if he doesn’t then Prudence will soon explain. If she marries him she’ll learn how to drop me a hint occasionally that he’s thinking of starting up on his own with her capital—knowing I’ll be inclined to change his mind with pound notes.’

  ‘Prudence wouldn’t—’ I began and then, meeting his quizzical eyes, ‘Yes—so she would.’ And, although he was smiling at me, the time had gone when I could have leaned towards him, surrendering into laughter. It would not suffice.

  ‘And Georgiana?’

  ‘Yes?’ he said, cautious now and very intent; and, sensing the change in him, remembering acutely the comforting arch of his arm around her, I shivered, feeling a sharp stab of pain, a swift upsurging of hope—of excitement almost—when I saw he understood the reason why. And I knew I could say anything to him. Here was the man who knew me best, the friend, the lover, who expected me to be neither better nor worse, nor anything other than myself. Here was the man who required to maintain his own individuality, but would allow me to keep mine, and I was at ease with him, warm with him, stimulated by him; I was adult with him.

  ‘What shall I tell you about Georgiana, Faith?’ And I knew he would tell me anything I asked, even if it hurt me, since I was no household angel to be protected and petted, but a woman capable of judging the amount of hurt she could withstand.

  ‘She was the rare and special person you used to talk about, wasn’t she? The one who was always in the next room. You said you’d stopped looking, but, of course, since it was Georgiana all the time—It was Georgiana, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, quite gently, not out of kindness for me, but because it was a gentle matter. ‘So it was. And you must see that she remained rare and special precisely because I left her in that other room.’

  ‘Yes—but then, would you have parted with your half of the mills for me?’

  ‘I can’t believe,’ he said, looking at me very steadily, ‘that you would ever have placed me in the position of having to do so.’

  ‘No, I suppose not, which would be a compliment—’

  ‘It is a compliment.’

  ‘I daresay—except that it makes me sound so very boring.’

  And once again we were close to that easy, pleasant laughter, that companionable surrender, until he took my hand, pressed it and said, quite ardently for him, ‘I have never—absolutely never—found you boring.’

  ‘Then tell me—’

  ‘Yes. Faith, I was twenty-three or thereabouts when I first met Georgiana, and it was too soon for me. If I’d been ten years older, perhaps, but I really don’t think so. I wanted her as she was that first Christmas—do you remember?—with mud on her skirt and blood on her cheek, trampling her dirty boots on my father’s carpet, because to a frank, free spirit like hers what could carpets matter? There was a skylark inside her sometimes, and I didn’t want to see it crushed and caged. Nicky tried to do that, as perhaps any man would have done who really loved her—since what man could feel safe with a skylark. It escaped today and took flight. I’m glad—very glad for her, and for myself too, because it was a lovely thing to watch.’

  ‘And will it last?’

  ‘Possibly not. She’s not Prudence, who can stand alone. She may come to earth and find herself tied to Julian Flood, for I believe he loves her—certainly he needs her—and if she goes off with him to provide grounds for her divorce he’ll be unwilling to release her. He’ll marry her if he can, which will make her our lady of the manor—I doubt if Nick will put any obstacles in her way. He’d rather see her settled, I imagine, with Julian Flood, than wandering alone a prey to any man. But on the other hand she may fly very high and very far. I wouldn’t wish to follow her. I find myself somewhat firmly attached to the ground and—all that apart—I have lived with you now, Faith, for a long and valuable time. I couldn’t welcome anything which might spoil that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My word!’ he said, but whatever easy, witty remark had risen to the surface of his mind was immediately suppressed as he saw the necessity for my question. Why indeed? And it must be stated, not masked by humour, but very clearly. The old limits we had set ourselves, which had long been crumbling, were no
w almost broken down, the old restraints abandoned. We were almost at liberty, had almost disentangled ourselves from the past. And there was no doubt it was a big step we were taking.

  He got up and crossed, characteristically, to the fireplace, leaning one arm along the mantelpiece, looking reflectively, ruefully, at the arrangement of tulle roses I had placed in the empty hearth.

  ‘I think I can tell you why. But I would like you to tell me something first. When you heard about the plan to sell the Abbey, why didn’t you come to me?’

  And, although it would not be easy, it was certainly fair; for, if I had needed to know about Georgiana, I could not refuse to talk to him of Nicholas.

  ‘I think—really—it was because I knew he wanted me to tell you. And I concluded, in that case, that it would do you no good to know.’

  ‘You didn’t trust him, in fact?’

  ‘No,’ It had to be the truth, or else he would know it; and indeed it was the truth. ‘No, Blaize. Perhaps I never have trusted him. I thought otherwise, but now it seems to me that I never really did. I don’t mean it unkindly. I think I mean, not that I didn’t trust him, but that I never trusted his judgment. There is a difference.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. You mean that his judgment would always be heavily weighted to his own advantage?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  He looked down at the flowers a moment longer and then, raising his head, gave me his brilliant, quizzical smile. ‘Faith, I must warn you that my own judgment is invariably weighted in the same direction.’

  ‘I know that. Perhaps I feel that your advantage is bound to be mine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and, coming to sit on the sofa beside me, took my hand. ‘I’ll answer your question now. You asked me why I didn’t want to spoil our life together. I should be able to make you a lengthy and beautiful reply. I can’t. I find, in this one instance, that my salesmanship deserts me. I had occasion to wonder, some time ago, how I would feel if you left me. I found myself unable to contemplate it. I have never been able to contemplate it.’

  ‘Blaize—I have never thought of leaving you.’

  ‘Of course not. I realized that, which indicates—surely—? Now what does it indicate? That I suspected your reasons for remaining beside me were not so strong as I would like? That I wanted to make them stronger? Good heavens! must I make a declaration? You know perfectly well what I mean—perfectly well—but if it pleases you to see me stumble—’

  But he was very far from stumbling, was treading as surely as he had ever done and, squeezing my hand once again, he got up and crossed to the window, making a great and totally false display of impatience.

  ‘Dammit, Faith, I have had a very difficult day, you know. I hardly slept a wink in the train last night. I am greeted this morning by my sister-in-law swooning in my arms, and, when I pick her up, my wife can do nothing but glare at me, claws out, like an angry cat. I am then obliged to dash off on a wild goose chase into town in search of my brother, who was in none of the places he should have been, and then home again to find my wife in no mood to care that I had a raging headache and had missed both my luncheon and my tea. Tomorrow morning I have to get up early to go and sign my freedom away, and I have just had the devil of a job to persuade my wife that it is her duty—and ought to be her pleasure—to honour and obey me, and should she care to cherish me as well I’d hardly complain—and would be well-pleased, exceedingly well pleased, to cherish her in return.’

  I crossed the room to him, my throat tight with tears, and put an arm around his shoulder, one hand under his chin to turn his subtle, mischievous face into the light.

  ‘Blaize—such a declaration—’

  ‘Indeed—such as I have never made before, and sincerely meant.’

  And then, as his weight seemed greater than I had expected: ‘Darling—you really are tired, aren’t you?’

  ‘I really am. My head really does ache. On such basic issues you have no reason to doubt me. I think it is high time you sent me to bed.’

  He went upstairs while I, lingering a moment in the hall, gave instructions for his early breakfast, named the hour he would require to see his carriage waiting on the drive, and then walked slowly, one step at a time, delighting in my body’s every movement as it took me, not in the direction which had been chosen for me, or which I had accepted as a compromise, but in which I truly desired to go.

  I reached the landing, turned down the hushed, deep-carpeted corridor, remembering my past desires without regret, with the affectionate amusement that can only arise from self-knowledge. I had wanted to be adored, and Blaize would not adore me, since adoration is given to idols, the passive objects of men’s imaginings. And a man cannot share his warm, imperfect humanity with an idol. I had wanted to be needed, but Blaize, self-contained and elusive as he was, would never need me as Giles and perhaps even Nicholas had once done, refusing to weaken either of us by dependence. I had wanted a rock to lean on, but he had paid me the compliment of allowing me to stand alone; and, when circumstances required it, we would lean on one another. I had wanted to trust him: I did trust him. I had wanted a homecoming: I stood already at the door.

  He was waiting in a room that was darker than usual, a single lamp, well-shaded, on my toilet table, showing me a mere outline of his head and shoulders, very little of his face.

  ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that—perhaps—you might have something to tell me.’

  ‘Yes. I love you, Blaize.’

  And although he smiled—wishing to make a show of lightness, of accepting it merely as homage due—I couldn’t miss the tremor in his face, the flicker of relief as his arms came around me, holding me with all the warm assurance I had required, and then passing through trust and cherishing to an intensity I had never shared with him, no familiar ease now but an emotion new-born, uncertain as yet but ready to grow.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said, the words whispered so lightly against my ear that I could have missed them, although I seized them and held them fast, knowing he could not sustain himself much longer at this high key.

  ‘How very pleasant,’ he said, ‘to be so consistently in the right.’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘Well—you can do no more than agree: I have been saying all my life, have I not, that sooner or later the Barforth one prefers is bound to be me? And if you have taken a great deal of convincing, then at least—?’

  ‘You have convinced me now.’

  And it was all I had ever needed to say.

  Copyright

  First published in 1981 by Macdonald

  This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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  ISBN 978-1-4472-2691-8 EPUB

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  Copyright © Brenda Jagger, 1981

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