The Sleeping Sword

by Brenda Jagger

  ‘Or be hanged.’

  ‘Yes—there’s always that. I didn’t like to mention it.’

  And I understood not only that they had been lovers, but that I had actually known it for a long time.

  He left an hour later on the Leeds train and she came home dry-eyed to dress for a dinner-party her husband had asked me to arrange.

  ‘I’m going to London in the morning,’ Gideon said, ‘and if it turns out that I have to bring Bordoni of Bordoni and McKinlon back with me, Grace, can you cope?’

  He departed, returned, Mr. Bordoni being joined by a Mr. Chene, the one a most gregarious gentleman, the other something of a gourmet, both of them requiring to be lavishly entertained. I entertained them, aware, as I asked the questions they expected and made the answers they wished to hear, of Venetia watching me, her expression no longer indulgent or friendly as it had always been with me, but one of cool mockery, her pointed face, for the first time in her life, hard.

  Messrs. Bordoni and Chene, after effusively kissing my hand, went away; and a morning or two later, at breakfast, Gideon looked up from his correspondence and said: ‘Damnation! I shall have to go down to Sheffield on the first train. And Grace, it looks very much as if I shall have to bring my trip to New York forward by a week or two. In fact next Friday would suit me, if you could have them get my things ready by then? And Venetia had better come with me. From the tone of this letter I think the Ricardos are expecting it.’

  ‘Yes, Gideon,’ Venetia said, getting up from the table, and it seems to me that, in a manner of speaking, we never saw her again.

  There was no elopement this time, no note hidden in the folds of a ball gown, no ecstasy. She walked calmly upstairs, packed a small bag, ordered the carriage to take her to the station and—while I was busying myself about the arrangements for her journey to New York—got on the train for Leeds. A dozen people saw her on the platform at Cullingford, half of them saw her walking towards the ticket office in Leeds and idly wondered why Mrs. Gideon Chard should be travelling alone, without even a maid. But she had the reputation of an unsteady woman—Cullingford being unable to forget that sensational cigar—and no one questioned her, although the booking-clerk did remember afterwards that he had sold her a ticket to Glasgow.

  ‘I’ll get up there by the next train,’ said Liam Adair, who had been called in by me before the final pieces of the puzzle became clear. But Mr. Nicholas Barforth shook his head.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. It’s not your place, Liam, nor mine, to fetch her back. That’s her husband’s privilege and his alone, if he chooses to take it. I’ll be in my study, Grace, when Gideon gets back from Sheffield. I expect you’ll be glad to send him straight in to me.’

  I sat in the drawing-room alone and utterly appalled as I had done on the night they had rescued her from Charles Heron, the double doors open so that I could not miss Gideon’s arrival and expose him to the risk of servants’gossip. The day had been fine, but hearing the patter of rain on the window, sharp and cold as summer rain can be, I shuddered, thinking of rain in the far north, remembering the watchfulness and the scorn in Venetia’s face this last week or so, and grieving because in the end she had turned against me. She had gone at the last because there had been nothing in this house nor in her life here that she valued. She had rejected us all, and I knew how cruelly I would miss her.

  Gideon came, received my message with raised eyebrows, went into the study and remained there a long time—an hour and a half, I think—before I heard his steps once again in the hall and his voice curtly informing Chillingworth that he required his carriage.

  ‘Will you be dining, sir?’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  I got up and walked very carefully down the corridor and, tapping on the door, giving him time to compose himself should he require it, went inside, finding my father-in-law as I suppose I had expected him, sitting at his desk, cigar in hand, the butts of several others beside him, two glasses on a silver tray, the traditional comforts men offer themselves in times of stress.

  ‘Ah, Grace—yes—you had better sit down.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  And, his movements a little heavier than usual, he stubbed out his cigar and lit another, refilled his glass and drank, reflectively and very deep.

  ‘Well, Grace—you are entitled to know. What can I tell you?’

  ‘Has Gideon gone after her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he will be going?’

  ‘No, he will not.’

  ‘Then you will go—surely?’

  ‘No, Grace.’

  ‘Father-in-law.’

  He inhaled, narrowed his eyes against the smoke, closed them briefly as if the light hurt him, and shook his head.

  ‘For what purpose, Grace?’

  ‘To see that she is safe—at least that.’

  ‘I doubt if she would welcome the intrusion. And there are a great many mining villages in Scotland, Grace. How could I find the right one?’

  ‘If you wanted to find it, you could.’

  He sighed, contemplated for what seemed an uncomfortable time the drift of cigar smoke, and then once again shook his head.

  ‘You are remembering the episode of Charles Heron, Grace. I was her legal guardian then. Her husband is her guardian now. The decision is his. I intend to respect that decision and so will you, that is an order, my dear daughter-in-law—and believe me, it is the very least you can do for him.’

  ‘For Gideon?’

  ‘Yes, for Gideon,’ and with the force of a whiplash his hand came smashing down on the table. ‘Damnation, Grace, what excuses can you find for her? I could find none. He has every right in the world to call her a whore, every right—and not a clever one either, by God, but an idiot, a lunatic. And what man in his right mind would be willing to live with a mad whore? Yes, Grace, she may want to come home some day, for she has gone off with another lunatic, it seems, who will not look after her, and I think we can safely take it that she cannot look after herself. When that day comes I might have a few hundred pounds a year to spare for her—I might—but what I cannot and will not do is ask her husband to live with her again. Grace, in his position—the position she has put him in—I would not live with her. And let me make it very clear that for as long as Gideon remains under this roof—and I see no reason at all why he should not remain here—I expect him to be shown every consideration by you and by everybody else—everybody, Grace. I think you will understand me. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a call to pay on my wife.’

  Nothing could have persuaded me to stay in that empty house, and had there been no carriage available I would have walked down the hill to the town and found my own way to Gower Street. But the victoria, as always, was at my disposal, Liam Adair looking rather as if he had been waiting for me, his hat in his hand, a travelling bag standing ready by the door.

  ‘Liam, you are going to Glasgow after all, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am that. I don’t work for Nick Barforth these days and if I decide to go north, then it’s no business of his.’

  ‘They don’t want her back, Liam.’

  ‘Did you expect they would?’

  I paused, frowned. ‘Yes, I thought Gideon might need to.’

  ‘Why? To stay at Barforths? By God, Grace, but you’re an innocent.’ And sitting down rather heavily he too reached for a cigar.

  ‘He doesn’t need to do anything now, Grace, that he hasn’t a mind for. He’s got Nick Barforth exactly where he wants him, which only goes to prove, my girl, that they’re two of a kind, since nobody else has ever been able to put one over on old Nick. But now Venetia—God love her—has played right into Gideon’s hands. He runs no risk now of being cut out of the business. How could Uncle Nick ever do that to him when he’s the injured party, when Nick’s daughter had given him such a raw deal? And if Gideon goes on playing his cards aright—as he will—he could even get Mr. Barforth to offer him s
omething fairly substantial as an inducement to stay. You’d do well to warn your father to keep his eyes open, because if he does decide to pay Gideon some sort of compensation, it could be something that he’d have to take away from Gervase.’

  ‘What compensation?’

  ‘I know what I’d ask for. A limited liability company—Nicholas Barforth and Company Limited in the modern fashion instead of a private firm belonging to Nicholas Barforth Esquire. Mr. Barforth as chairman, of course, with a majority shareholding. Gideon Chard as managing director with a share or two. Gervase Barforth with a seat on the board and equal shares with Gideon, of course, at least to start with—I expect your father would make sure of that. But I can’t see Gervase putting up with it for long. He’d sell out and go off to Galton, I suppose, which may not suit you, Grace. And if Gideon wants that company—which is the same as getting himself officially recognized as heir apparent—now’s the time to make a push. If I can see that, then so can Gideon.’

  But Gervase, I thought with a cold, shuddering sensation at the pit of my stomach, would probably go to Galton in any case. I was in danger of losing nothing that I could still call mine; and I had not come here to talk about myself.

  ‘Will she be all right, Liam?’ And it was this that I wanted to know.

  ‘With Robin? Christ! I shouldn’t think so. It depends what she’s hoping for.’

  ‘Did he even ask her to go with him?’

  He smiled, remembering Robin Ashby, in spite of himself, with affection.

  ‘No, no, that wouldn’t be his way. He believes too much in freedom to make a request like that. She probably found him packing his bag one day and when he’d told her all about the Scottish miners he’d casually wonder if she might care to come and see for herself. And if not, then no hard feelings.’

  ‘Dear God, Liam—does he even love her?’

  ‘Do you know, Grace, I can’t think of one single reason why he shouldn’t.’

  ‘And you knew?’

  ‘Of course I knew. And if there was anything I could have done about it, then I’d be glad to hear of it—short of telling her husband—and even that crossed my mind. I expected it to run its course. I reckon I didn’t realize she was so near the end of her tether. Well, she’s gone on her crusade now, God help her—God bless her!’

  ‘Liam, tell me the plain truth. What chance does she really have of any kind of happiness?’

  He glanced at his watch again, took his coat from a peg behind the door, thinking carefully, trying perhaps, to rid himself of the hope that he might find her already disillusioned and willing, at last, to accept a compromise; to let Liam Adair love her since no one else would. But the memory of Venetia herself forced him to be honest.

  ‘Just what was she leaving?’ he said. ‘It may seem a lot to most people, but it was nothing to her because she didn’t want it. She was sick of her life and of her husband long before Robin came. No—she won’t regret anything she’s left behind. And yes—he does love her. Yes—he is sincere in his aims. It’s quite true that if he went home to Wiltshire they might not kill the fatted calf, but they’d give him a decent allowance so as not to be embarrassed by that threadbare coat. He won’t take their money because he doesn’t need it. I don’t think he’d take it if Venetia needed it. He might not even notice she was in need. Money is excess baggage to him. It clouds his vision and makes it harder for him to see the truth. He’s not a religious man—he calls that excess baggage too—but that bit about it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven—that reminds me of him. He believes in that. I don’t know that happens to men like him when they get old. Perhaps they never do.’

  I shivered, badly feeling the cold.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No. He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. I’ll just go up there, in the general direction, and let it be known who I’m looking for, since a pair like that won’t be anonymous. And if I make it worthwhile, somebody will let me know. If that’s your carriage down there you’ll be wanting to take me to the station.’

  We walked downstairs together, his large warm hand under my elbow, and drove in silence to the cobbled station yard.

  ‘If you see her, will you tell her that I—that I am still the same—that she can rely on me—for whatever—?’

  ‘Aye—if I see her.’

  And this sudden wavering of his confidence caused me such evident alarm that he put an arm around my shoulders in a companionable hug and kept it there, despite the astonishment of our stationmaster.

  ‘All right, Grace, let’s look on the black side. I reckon the worst that could happen is that I don’t find her at all.’

  And looking down the track at the panting approach of the train, he smiled into the far distance and sighed.

  ‘Aye, that’s the worst.’

  ‘And the best?’

  ‘Well—I reckon the best we can hope for is to find her living like a coalminer’s wife. And I doubt either one of you can even imagine a kind of life like that.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  My father appeared at Tarn Edge the following day and for several days thereafter, was instantly admitted to Mr. Barforth’s study, to be joined at various intervals by Gideon, by the Barforth and Agbrigg lawyers, by Sir Dominic and the Duke of South Erin; by the males of the family gathered together in judgement upon one of our women, to condemn her sins and to reapportion her wealth.

  Gervase came home, furious, hurt and spoiling for a fight, grieving for the loss of his sister yet unable to suppress a pang of malicious pleasure at seeing Gideon in the sorry position of a deceived husband. But the confrontation Gervase attempted to provoke was prevented by his father, by that solemn conclave of family lawyers, and by the dignity with which Gideon seemed determined to conduct himself. Gervase’s belligerence giving way in an abrupt swing of mood to a contemptuous rejection of the proceedings and all who took part in them.

  ‘To hell with it!’ he said, slamming the study door behind him and very nearly pushing me aside when I tried to intercept him. ‘They’re carving it all up very nicely in there. But don’t worry, Grace. You’ve got your father to make sure they don’t carve you up, too. And as for Venetia, I believe she’s better off where she is.’

  I sat in the drawing-room again, not alone this time but with the other women who had strong interests in the negotiations taking place, with Aunt Caroline who insisted that Gideon’s position must now be clarified, with Mrs. Agbrigg who did not intend to allow the Barforths to swallow Fieldhead, with Blanche who, to my everlasting gratitude and slight surprise, was obviously saddened and alarmed for Venetia. Even my mother-in-law, who was so rarely seen in that house, kept vigil with us, looking, one supposed, for an opportunity of freeing Galton and herself from Barforth control, she and Aunt Caroline facing each other like a pair of spitting cats when, after several hours of polite whispering and several dozen cups of tea, the Duchess could no longer contain her indignation.

  ‘It is my son who is the victim, Georgiana. And it is your daughter who has wantonly betrayed him.’

  ‘I suppose that is one way to look at it, Caroline. But it might also be said that your son had driven her away.’

  Opposing points of view which would never be reconciled, although they both did agree wholeheartedly that something must be done about it. In Aunt Caroline’s view, Mr. Nicholas Barforth, her brother, must now make a legal and binding statement of his intentions with regard to Gideon’s future. In the natural course of events Gideon had expected to inherit one half of Mr. Barforth’s assets and holdings, but that inheritance had depended on his marriage to Venetia. Mr. Barforth’s existing will, Aunt Caroline believed, covered the possibility of Venetia’s death, but no provision had been made for her adultery. God alone knew what might happen to her now, and those family lawyers must stir themselves and devise some scheme which would make it impossible, no matter what the circumstances, for Robin Ashby
to touch a penny that might even loosely be called Venetia’s. In fact Mr. Barforth, however painful, must in his new will strike out the name of ‘Venetia’ altogether and substitute ‘Gideon’.

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs. Georgiana Barforth, for although she genuinely wished for no more than her widow’s portion when her husband came to die, she was ready to do battle for her daughter. ‘Are you not being a little premature in your judgement, Caroline? It may seem unlikely at the moment, and you may not consider it even desirable, but it is surely not impossible that they might be reconciled. And before we cast my daughter once and for all into the pit, may I remind you of your Christian charity? I am not religious myself but I have seen you on your knees many a time, Caroline Chard, in the church at Listonby. And with all your preaching of morality and decency, it seems a pity you have not learned anything at all about compassion.’

  ‘I have never liked you, Georgiana Clevedon,’ said Aunt Caroline, her eyes blazing, to which my mother-in-law responded by tossing an aristocratic, auburn head.

  ‘I shall lose no sleep over your opinions, Caroline, for I must tell you that when you married my cousin Matthew Chard you were so gauche and your views so narrow and middle-class that you provided amusement for the entire county. I suppose you entertain London just as thoroughly now that you have started to play the duchess.’

  I believe they could have come to blows had not Mrs. Agbrigg inserted her persuasive, velvet voice between them, Blanche being far too amused by the possibility of their combat to intervene, while I quite simply did not care a rap. And when their grudging truce had been declared and I had sent yet again for more tea, it was not long before the study door opened and those sober, dignified gentlemen emerged to inform us of our various fates.

  Mr. Barforth, certainly, had been subject to a great deal of pressure, but he was accustomed to that and I think all the Chards had really achieved was to hurry him a little in the direction he had already decided to go. There was to be a limited liability company, the previously separate mills of Lawcroft Fold, Low Cross and Nethercoats being welded together and given the commercial identity of Nicholas Barforth and Company Limited. Mr. Barforth, naturally, would hold the position of chairman and a hefty eighty per cent of the shares, while Gideon and Gervase would each occupy a seat on his board and divide the remaining twenty per cent shareholding between them, a concession which in itself made them independently wealthy men. But Mr. Barforth, for the time being—and he did not specify how long that time might be—would serve as his own managing director, and furthermore would retain the immensely profitable Law Valley Woolcombers and the Law Valley Dyers and Finishers as his own. And when this had been settled, not entirely to Chard satisfaction but a step at least in the way Gideon had determined to take, they turned their attention to Venetia.