I woke late the next morning, and somnolently, unable somehow to bring my ideas together, content simply to he down on the rag rug by the kitchen fire, my brother’s bewildered yellow bitch pressing close beside me, not understanding where Edwin was, I suppose, and sensing something of him in me. And I remained there for a long time, listening to the bitch breathe, thinking of nothing.
Marth-Ellen came and went, leaning over me to tend her oven, never thinking of telling me I was in her way. And as the room began to fill with the basic fragrance of new bread, the slow simmering of broth in the iron pot above the fire, I drifted very far, to a place where no effort was ever required, where nothing ever changed, where – like the dog – it was enough to feel the fire on my skin, to exist at the level of food and shelter and air to breathe: enough, I think, to be alive. Although I knew I would eventually be forced to wake, I chose to delay it, chose not to ask myself why my mother had been summoned to the Top House so early and was so long in coming home.
I dozed a little, rising only to the bare surface of wakefulness when she tapped my shoulder – her eyes rimmed, I noticed, with dark shadows, her own sorrow showing clear in this unguarded moment – and even then, knowing she had something important to say to me, I could only lean drowsily against the dog, ready to drift away again from all complexity, to hide myself in a warm nest of sleep.
But Mother could be sharp when she wished, and quick to make her point for all her apparent vagueness, and sitting down in the fireside chair, the old, creaking rocker with its knitted cushions where Marth-Ellen sat – and my grandmother used to sit – to do her mending, she sent Marth-Ellen away and said, ‘Well, since you are so lazy I won’t move you. What I have to say will sound as well here as in the parlour. And I must confess it has come a little sooner than I expected and caught me unprepared. Listen carefully, Verity. Someone has asked – this morning – to marry you.’
‘Someone?’ I said, still drowsy, intent somehow or other on the shading of the dog’s coat, the rich gold of her back fading to cream on her legs and belly.
‘Verity, are you listening to me?’
‘Yes, I’m listening.’
But it neither surprised nor alarmed me that someone had asked to marry me. Amazingly, I did not much care. I wanted merely to be left alone with the dog and the firelight, and I have often wondered if they understood the state of shock I was in and used it for their purposes.
‘Well then,’ she said, ‘since you are listening – I think you must have been long aware that the question of a husband would soon arise, and that even had your father lived, your grandfather would have done the choosing. Tell me dear – there is no one, is there, no young man who seems more agreeable to you than the others?’
‘No.’
‘Good, I thought not. I told your grandfather so, and I am glad to be right. Does it surprise you that it is your cousin Joel who has asked for you? At your grandfather’s suggestion, I imagine, although I feel sure he would have asked in any case.’
‘Why should he do that, Mother?’
‘Oh, Verity – my dear,’ she said, her hands making a fluttering movement, as if they were looking for her embroidery. ‘I think you must know – for I believe you know a great deal behind your quiet eyes – that there would never have been the slightest difficulty in getting you creditably married. Your dowry is far from inconsiderable, and your family connections alone are of great value in the Law Valley. But now, dearest, with Edwin gone, there is far more to you than a mere dowry. Have you not thought of that?’
‘Oh yes,’ I told her, still not greatly caring, still, incredibly, much inclined for sleep. I understand all that. But Joel was to marry Miss Boulton, surely, of Cullingford?
‘Ah yes,’ my mother said, smiling. ‘Yes, indeed. Certainly there is a Miss Boulton. But their understanding seems to have been only between themselves. Her father had not given his consent, not been properly applied, to, so there is no actual commitment – the lady has no cause to sue for breach of promise. He assures us of that. And I think you know, Verity, as well as I do, that your cousin Joel would give a hundred Miss Boultons for the one remaining Miss Barforth.’
‘Yes,’ I told her, feeling the firelight on my face again, knowing that somehow I would have to rouse myself, have to admit that this was urgent, that it mattered, that it was real. ‘Yes, I know about Joel. I know what Joel wants. Why does my grandfather want it?’
‘Because he is a dynast. Do you understand what that means? He wants to live forever through his descendants, to be constantly reborn in a line of young Barforth men exactly like himself. Well – we all have our dreams – and it rather looked as if he was going to be cheated of his. Life or Fate or God, perhaps, seemed to have dealt him a blow from which he could not recover – from which many people frankly hoped he would never recover – and now he has found a way to remedy it. That is the heart of the matter. You are all he has left. You cannot run the mill, like Edwin, but, hopefully, you may bear children who can – not Edwin’s children, of course, but with something of Edwin in them, the nearest he can get to Edwin. Not just exactly what he had dreamed of, I admit, but his own flesh and blood nevertheless. And although your cousin Joel would be completely out of the question for a Miss Barforth of Lawcroft who had a brother still living – would have been branded a fortune hunter had he ever dared approach you – in these altered circumstances he has much to recommend him. He is a good businessman – possibly better than Edwin and certainly more ambitious than Edwin – and a Barforth, too, which means the name would be carried on. And since his own affairs are in a sorry state, through no fault of his own, he would owe everything to your grandfather – an excellent arrangement from your grandfather’s point of view. Far better than marrying you to a Hobhouse or an Oldroyd, who would put his own family’s interests first and would not allow him a free hand with your children.’
‘And what must I do, Mother?’
She sighed, eased her position slightly, showing no surprise in finding me so docile.
‘You must answer for yourself. Certainly no one will drag you to the altar by the hair, but, Verity, my poor Verity, your grandfather has set his mind on this, and I wonder if you have the strength to openly defy him? I must confess to you that I have not. I have never stood my ground and told him what I would and would not do. And on the few occasions when I have tried – well – I have had no success. The only time your father and I – held to our purpose was when your grandfather opposed our marriage, and in that I am forced to admit he was right. Affection always existed between us – a kind of affection, at any rate – but we were not suited. And so, you see, a marriage of convenience may succeed as well as any other kind; better, perhaps. Your cousin is handsome and not without experience, and he is only your senior by some twelve years – not a great deal, Verity, for you must know that your grandfather would have no hesitation in giving you to a man of forty or more should it seem good to him.’
‘Then you think I must take him?’
‘I think you must take somebody.’
‘And if I dislike him and refuse him – will you stand by me?’
‘I would like to,’ she said, her grey velvet eyes holding mine. ‘Truly I would like to, as I would have liked to stand by your father – oh, so many times. But it did not seem to be in my nature. You may imagine how much I regret it. But at least I have the self-knowledge to warn you – should the need arise – that I am not to be relied on. And I must tell you, too, that it is not my plan to remain in this house. My service, you see, is over, Verity dear. The Barforths have no more need of me, and I am free I shall find myself a little nest, not too far away, which you are very welcome to share – naturally – should you find yourself at liberty. I think we could do very well, together, you and I, if we were left to our own devices, and certainly I shall be left alone now. But not you, dear. You are of great importance to your grandfather at present, and I can think of nothing which would make him release you. Well, I su
ppose it is my duty to be more precise and so I will say this to you. Unless your cousin Joel is positively hateful in your eyes – and I know of no reason why he should be – then I think you should listen to him. He will be waiting in the parlour already, I imagine, for he was to follow me down from the Top House in half an hour, and I told him to walk straight in. Verity – your grandfather is thinking of his own interests, not yours – we both know that. But in this case I think your interests may be one and the same. And now that he has found a way out of the snare Fate set for him he will not allow himself to be thwarted by you. He would make your life unbearable, child, for he is a vindictive man, and I don’t know who would protect you, since I cannot.’
I got up slowly, feeling light and easy as if I had floated somewhere just a little away from my own body: a spectator, listening as my mother persuaded some other daughter – not me at all – into marriage with a cousin and a stranger.
‘Did you really love my father?’ I asked, surprising myself. And not expecting an answer, I was even more surprised when she said quietly, I told you, there was always affection between us – love, if you like – but in our case it was not enough. We loved without liking, without really approving of each other – or it may be that because we were in love we expected too much of marriage. Yes, you would be astonished, Verity, if you knew how madly I loved your father once, when I was young – an experience I would certainly never wish to endure again. Verity dear, I am not at all sure that love is even a good thing. Friendship – light, warm friendship – yes, that, I think, must be delightful between a man and a woman. But to love with passion can be most painful, and it may not suit your nature any more than it suited mine. Dearest – will you go now and talk to your cousin?
And knowing that neither she nor my grandfather, nor Joel himself, had for one moment expected me to refuse, I nodded my head.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and when I looked up in amazement, she smiled.
‘Yes, Verity, thank you – for being reasonable, for doing what your grandfather and I both believe, for different reasons, to be the right thing. Thank you for making it easy for us, I suppose. Well then, go quickly, for your grandfather is impatient to have things settled, and I see no point in delay. Joel is precisely aware of your position and his own, so there will be no awkwardness – but, just the same, darling, extract a proper proposal from him Make sure he asks you very nicely, for, considering all you are bringing him, I feel you are entitled to that.’
He was waiting in the parlour – Joel, a man I had known all my life but did not know at all because he had never noticed me – and now, through the sea mist in my brain, I was curious to discover how he would master the situation, how he could possibly speak of marriage to me without appearing pompous or ridiculous or quite simply greedy.
But as my mother had said, he was not without experience, and coming towards me, he said quickly, ‘Your mother has spoken to you, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘She has explained – everything – fully?’
‘She has.’
‘And what have you to say to me?’
‘I thought you had something to say to me?’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, his mouth lifting at the corners with a wry amusement, a consciousness of his own false position that I perfectly understood. ‘You’re going to put me through it, are you?’ that smile said. ‘Going to get your money’s worth? Well, and why not? I don’t blame you. In your place I’d very likely do the same.’
For a moment, I was tempted to follow my mother’s advice, to be coy and capricious, as any girl, surely, at such a moment has a right to be tempted to force him to some explanation of his motives and to ask him how it was that he could so easily give up Miss Rosamund Boulton. I wanted to see, I think, just how far he would go; if, at the fear of a refusal, he would spin me some wild yarn of an affection for me he had felt obliged to conceal, or if, letting his reckless, insolent grin flash out, he would confess himself eager merely for my inheritance and dare me to complain.
But finally, the idea of making him play the lover seemed too grotesque, too dangerous, since it would surely annoy him, and later, when he was my husband and in total control of my life, he would not remember it kindly. And so, setting the pattern of our future lives together, choosing the way not of submission but of common sense – having long known the peril of asking for more than could be easily given – I offered him my polite smile of everyday and said, ‘Shall we walk up to see my grandfather, since he is expecting us?’
‘Is that your answer to me?’
‘Why, yes – at least … Yes, that’s my answer.’
‘Good,’ he said, his eyes narrowing, the brain behind them busy with his shrewd calculations. ‘Excellent.’
Then, almost boyish with relief, more nervous, it seemed, than I, occupied with my own nerves, had supposed, he added quickly, chuckling, through the words, ‘You don’t want me to go down on my knees, then, hand on heart?’
‘No, I surely don’t.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, laughing no longer. ‘Really, Verity, thank you, for being so reasonable. Your grandfather said you’d be a good girl, but then, old men don’t understand these things. And I wasn’t sure. You’ll be all right with me, you know. I reckon you could have just about anybody, the way things have turned out, but I can look after your affairs better than Bradley Hobhouse, and although Matthew Oldroyd knows what he’s doing, he’s a shade too careful of his coppers and it’s not what you’ve been used to.’
As I smiled again, polite and friendly – a reasonable girl who understood how these things were done – he put in, perhaps without meaning to say it, ‘And, Verity, you are – pretty, you know, really very nice.’
My grandfather was waiting, not for an answer, since there had been no question in his mind, and seeing him in his doorway, tenacious and eternal as a thirsty old tree, his roots deep in the hillside, I knew how impossible it would have been to disobey. Not even my father had been able to do that, not even Edwin, and as I submitted to his sharp-cornered, dusty embrace, I knew that at least he was offering me an established place in the only world I knew. And the night following my father’s death, when I had determined to stand on my own feet, seemed very far away.
‘Capital,’ my grandfather said, twisting my ear with the rough affection best bestowed on a dog. ‘You’ll make a good little wife if you put your mind to it, and Mrs Stevens will tell you how to go on if your mother can’t explain aright. Capital. They thought I was beaten – I could see them yesterday, wondering how much I’d take for the mill, telling themselves they’d bide their time until the business was run down and I was desperate. Aye, let them wait. Let them wait forever.’
Later, when Joel had gone away – having explanations to make, I supposed, to his sisters and to Miss Boulton – my grandfather, full of claret and self-satisfaction, winked his shrewd, sharp eye at me and said, ‘Don’t worry, lass. I’ve taken his measure, and he’ll treat you right. He knows which side his bread’s buttered, yon lad. And he’s a hungry man. I never liked him, I admit it. While Edwin lived I kept my eye on him, to make sure he never got in Edwin’s way. But that’s all changed now. I’ve told him, if he frames himself, if he shows me he can handle the business, then it’s his – or yours, which amounts to the same thing. And if he can’t, then I’ll sell it over his head. That’s what I told him, and it won’t harm him to believe it. But it won’t come to that because he wants it too bad, he’s too hungry for it, and by God, I’ll make him earn it before he’s through.’
And chuckling, wheezing slightly with his wicked glee, he clasped me in another acrid, uncomfortable embrace and sent me back down the hill a bride.
Chapter Six
In matters of religion my cousin Hannah’s interests tended towards the organization of parish affairs rather than anything of a mystical or emotional nature. She was, of course, a Dissenter, as we all were, since no Law Valley manufacturer worth his salt would join the com
mon herd on the hard back benches of the Established Church while the squire and his lady sat in well-upholstered state in front. No Hobhouse, no Oldroyd – certainly no Barforth – would listen meekly to the parson whose job it was to preach obedience to the squire, contentment with one’s humble lot, and to warn against the mortal sin of nurturing ideas above one’s station. Such things would do well enough for farm labourers, tied to their cottages and to the squire’s whim, but some of these energetic West Riding clothiers had, in their youth, heard the Wesley brothers preaching at the pithead, in the foundry yard, on the edge – of a ploughed field, anywhere a congregation could be brought together, and had taken more comfort there than among the squire’s aristocratic splendours. Although the first plain chapels such men had built were becoming more elaborate now that money was in good supply and there was an undoubted tendency for the manufacturers themselves to sit in front, their operatives crowding behind, at least the sermon was about industry and thrift, the virtue of not being late for work in the morning – the virtue, in fact, of work for its own sake – and the Hobhouses and the Barforths were well pleased.
Hannah, too, believed in all these things, was always industrious, had no choice but to be thrifty, and, preferring good deeds to good intentions, had deeply involved herself in the Sunday School movement, the movement for the abolition of the slave trade in our colonies, missionary societies and Bible societies, the tedious visiting of deaf old ladies and the sick. She was also far too convinced a Christian to grudge her brother the good fortune which should have been hers and, whatever her private torment, had congratulated me on my engagement with immense composure – had ventured, even, to express her pleasure that we would, after all, be sisters. But on one point she was adamant. Due to my recent loss the wedding must be delayed at least a twelvemonth, and from this view she would not budge.
The Clouded Hills Page 9
