The Sleeping Sword

by Brenda Jagger

  Chillingworth greeted me in the hall with some tale of calling-cards, a note from Mr. Chard, some crisis in the nursery. I glanced at the cards and at the few words in Gideon’s large, bold hand, warning me he would require an earlier dinner. I went to the nursery on the second floor and then came down again without going inside, afraid, perhaps, that Claire Chard, with her mother’s fine sensibilities, would guess my intentions and accuse me of treachery.

  I packed a small bag, no bigger than the one Venetia had taken when she went away, and leaving instructions for the week’s menus and a few, quite false words of explanation with Mrs. Winch, had myself driven to Fieldhead, where I enquired of my father, in our cool, restrained Agbrigg fashion, how best I might obtain a divorce.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My father was a man of acute perception, of a brilliant and clear-sighted intelligence, accustomed throughout his life to the untangling of complex problems and situations. But even he, in his aloof manner, seemed stunned by my request and not at all disposed to treat it seriously.

  ‘You have had a shock,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am acquainted with the circumstances in which your husband finds himself with regard to Mrs. Flood. And however deplorable it may be, I am bound to inform you that it is not unusual. Yes, you have certainly had a shock. I deeply regret it and can only suggest you remain here at Fieldhead for a day or so, to compose yourself.’ And when I assured him that I was already very composed he added sharply. ‘Good heavens! Grace, it is a sorry business and I let my displeasure be felt when Nicholas Barforth came to tell me of it. But these things do happen, you know. Of course you know, and one must retain a sense of proportion. Perhaps it is the Floods one should pity the most, for either the woman must give away her child or the husband must tolerate a cuckoo in his nest—unpleasant for both, whatever they decide.’

  ‘I see, father. And all that is required of me is to forgive and forget?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, his long, pale eyes glinting with a wry humour. ‘You are a woman, my dear. Surely that is what women are made for?’

  He let two days go by without another word and then on the third evening he called me again into his study, the same dark, panelled room where he had explained to me the terms of my marriage contract and had given me my mother’s jewellery.

  ‘Sit down, Grace.’ And for a few moments he barely glanced at me, occupying himself with the heavy, leather-bound volumes on his desk, his manner quietly efficient, thoroughly professional.

  ‘You made a certain request to me the other evening. After thirty-six hours of reflection, I would like to know if you are of the same mind?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You amaze me. Very well. No doubt when you have heard what I have to tell you then you will change it.’

  He had not practised the law for a very long time, had never in the whole of his experience handled a case of divorce and had therefore been obliged to return to his books. What did I know of my own rights in this matter? Nothing. He had thought as much and having made a thorough study—his intellect responding to the challenge after so long—he was in a position to inform me that, until some slight changes in the law a mere twenty years ago, I would in effect have had no rights at all. Divorces, of course, were granted before then, but only by the passage of a private bill through Parliament and almost exclusively as the result of a husband’s complaint against his wife, the House of Lords in particular taking the view that a nobleman unlucky enough to have married an adulterous woman should be allowed to free himself from the entanglement so that he might remarry and provide himself with heirs.

  In two hundred years, my father told me in his precise, neutral tone, only four women had been granted divorces against their husbands, a certain Mrs. Dawson having had all six of her petitions refused only so short a time ago as 1848, despite her conclusive proof that her husband had not only committed adultery but had beaten her with a horse-whip. The law, my father said, shrugging cool shoulders, had never regarded adultery on the part of a husband as being in any way so serious as adultery in a wife. And if one could not applaud the morality of such a view, my father thought one could bow to its logic, since a married man could be so easily tricked into believing himself the father of a bastard child who would inherit his property, while a married woman, who had no property in any case, could not.

  But the high cost of the Parliamentary divorce had placed it far beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest in the land, and even among these few the fact that a woman who separated herself from her husband invariably lost sight of her children tended to make women submit more readily to the domestic yoke. And even for a woman who did not greatly care for her children, or who had none to lose, there remained the question of how and on what she might live. She could not take away with her any moneys she had possessed at the time of her marriage, since the very sacrament of marriage had made such possessions her husband’s. She could not, by any act of separation, acquire a legal identity of her own, but remained so far as the courts were concerned an appendage of the man who had been her husband. She could not make a will, even if she had anything to bequeath, could not earn a living since there had never been any work for gentlewomen to do, and would have the greatest difficulty in denying her estranged husband’s claim on anything she might herself inherit unless it had been settled on her separately in a most watertight manner. It was not unknown for a husband to live apart from his wife for twenty years and then to return, sell her valuables and her furniture, possess himself of her savings, and then to abscond again. Nor was it unknown for a man to remove his children from his wife’s care and place them in the home of his mistress, the separated wife having no right of appeal against him and no hope of seeing her children again, unless he graciously allowed it.

  However, in 1857 some few changes had been made, divorce being taken away from the ecclesiastical courts and the Houses of Parliament—a move bitterly opposed by Mr. Gladstone—and given a court of its own, these new proceedings being much simpler and cheaper, and having the decided advantage, from a feminine point of view, of restoring the divorced wife to the status of a single woman.

  Under this new form of divorce a woman could retain without encumbrance any money earned, inherited or otherwise acquired by her after the date on which her marriage had been dissolved. Her legal identity was now returned to her. She could enter into contracts and take legal action if they were broken, she could defend herself if necessary by suing anyone who slandered her or anyone who owed her money, matters which previously could only have been handled through her husband. She could even make her own will and leave her property where she chose. And, of course, it had for some time been possible, if the court thought fit, to grant the divorced wife access to her children, and in some cases even to award her custody of any infants under the age of seven years. Had I followed him so far, my father wished to know?

  ‘Yes father. And how may this divorce be obtained?’

  ‘I will tell you. In the case of a man it is amazingly simple. He has only to prove his wife’s adultery and the thing is as good as done. A woman, however, is obliged to prove her husband’s adultery coupled with another offence.’

  ‘What offence?’

  ‘One of a number. I have them all listed here. One of them, no doubt, will serve to use against Gervase. In fact one of them must serve or you will have no case at all. Shall we proceed? Well then, has he been guilty of adultery coupled with incest—that is a physical relationship with a mother or a sister?’

  ‘Good heavens! father, you know he has not.’

  ‘You are shocked, I see.’

  ‘I am revolted.’

  ‘Quite so. It is a revolting business, Grace, and if you go on with it you must be prepared for a great deal of unpleasantness. I would do you no service if I attempted to conceal it.’

  And taking up his pen he neatly and coolly crossed out the words ‘incestuous adultery’from his list.

  ‘So much for that. Bigamy, I suppos
e, is not a possibility?’

  ‘No father.’

  He raised an eyebrow, crossed out the words ‘bigamy with adultery’and gave a slight shrug.

  ‘Sodomy, Grace. Do you know what that is? And bestiality?’

  ‘Father.’

  ‘My dear, I am not speaking to you as a father but as a legal adviser. I am interpreting the law as it stands, and I must ask you—as someone else could well ask you—if your husband has been guilty of adultery coupled with either of the above. And you would do well to restrain your quite natural repugnance and answer me calmly.’

  ‘Are there really men who do these things?’

  ‘Grace, that is not a calm answer. Of course there are men who do these things. There are other men who despoil eight-year-old virgins, and women who offer their little daughters to be despoiled. We are talking of Gervase.’

  ‘No—no, of course he is not guilty of that. Is there nothing else?’

  ‘Yes. There is rape, which I suppose we can dismiss—rape, need I add, not of yourself but of some other woman, since no man can be said to have raped his wife, who is not entitled to refuse him. And then there is adultery coupled with desertion—’

  ‘Why, yes, that will do, surely, for his mother has told me he will not return to Tarn Edge and he has not asked me to join him anywhere else.’

  ‘—with desertion, Grace, that has lasted a minimum of two years.’

  ‘Oh, father—so long?’

  ‘Yes, Grace.’

  But, having allowed me to suffer this acute disappointment for a moment or two, he neatly folded his list, placed it in a drawer and gave me his faint smile.

  ‘However—’

  ‘So there is something else to be done?’

  ‘Yes, I do fear so. The adultery is well established, there can be no difficulty about that. Consequently, if you were to obtain a court order—or rather were I to obtain one on your behalf—instructing your husband to return to you and to restore to you your conjugal rights, and if he did not comply with the order within a period of six months, then divorce proceedings could be instituted against him.’

  ‘And would that order be difficult to obtain?’

  ‘Apparently not. The difficulty—and I must warn you of this—is that your husband might obey it. For if he should return to Tarn Edge or invite you to live with him in any other home he may provide, then you will have no case against him. The adultery alone will not suffice and the desertion, my dear, could be made null and void at his choosing—any time he chose to make it so. You must keep that firmly in mind.’

  ‘I cannot think he will come back to me.’

  ‘My dear—and it pains me to say this—he may feel obliged to come back to you for Mrs. Flood’s sake. He may see it as an act of gallantry towards her. I understand she wishes to conceal the affair and return to her husband. If you sue for divorce she can have no hope of that. And your husband might wish to spare her the social ruin it would entail—or pressure might be brought to bear on him to that effect. Have you considered that?’

  I had not considered it. I considered it now and then shook my head, recognizing it as the first of many painful obstacles which would be put in my way. It was the first risk I was to encounter, the first occasion when I was required to choose between the interests of another person and my own. I would take the risk and I would choose myself.

  ‘Father, I have made up my mind, you know. All I am asking you to do is legalize something which actually happened a long time ago. There is no marriage to dissolve. The marriage dissolved itself. It slipped away, little by little, and perhaps there never was very much of it to begin with. Gervase does not want me. I do not want him. There is no need for him to take any legal action to free himself. He can simply walk away, go wherever he chooses, live in the manner he thinks fit. I cannot. I am bound to him—shackled to him. He is not bound to me. And I will not—believe me, father, I will not continue to lead so false and futile a life. I am not afraid of the scandal. I would prefer to be the subject of Mrs. Rawnsley’s gossip than the object of her pity.’

  ‘Do not dismiss the Mrs. Rawnsleys of this world so lightly, Grace, for however trivial they may be when taken singly, when they come together they have great power.’

  ‘As I said, father—I am not afraid.’

  Once again he gave me his pale smile and carefully stacked his books away.

  ‘Very well. We have established that you are not afraid and that you have made up your mind. Only one more question remains and I must insist that you answer it very carefully. How much of this, my dear, are you doing for yourself and how much for Venetia?’

  I lowered my head for just a second and then raising it slowly met his eyes.

  ‘You are very perceptive, father.’

  ‘Of course I am. I have an excellent mind, as you should know since you have been fortunate enough to inherit it.’

  ‘Fortunate? Do you think so? Surely it is better for a woman to be a little stupid and immensely good-natured. Surely that is best?’

  ‘Easier, perhaps. But we are not concerned with ease. Nor are we concerned with avoiding the answers to awkward questions—at least, I hope we are not.’

  ‘No, father. I think Venetia would understand what I am doing and would want me to do it. She valued honesty and what broke her was being obliged to live a lie.’

  ‘No, Grace. What broke her was her discovery that she lacked the strength to live the truth.’

  I looked down again, my eyes filling with tears which, knowing his aversion to weeping, I hastily blinked away.

  ‘Yes, father, I do know that. I believe I have that strength. And Venetia, you know, was not weak. There were times when she had great courage—greater than mine—although she could never sustain it. She felt more joy or sorrow than I feel, and consequently her disillusion went far deeper. What she lacked was resolution. I do not.’

  ‘I am well aware of that. I wish merely to be sure that you are fighting your own campaign, not hers. She was an enchanting young lady, I willingly concede it, but I cannot help thinking that her troubles were largely of her own making.’

  ‘No, father. She handled them badly, but she did not make them. No, no, please let me finish—I am not suggesting anyone treated her with deliberate cruelty or wished to do so. Her father and Gideon behaved as fathers and husbands are supposed to behave. They obeyed the rules society has laid down for men and women to follow—rules, like our laws, which were made by men and so must suit men rather better. Venetia was simply not the kind of woman society envisaged when those rules were made. Neither am I. For a long time I have been able to compromise. Venetia could neither conceal her happiness nor live with it. Her death has made me see the futility in living with mine: Father—I would say this to no one else—but I almost believe her elopement with Robin Ashby was a deliberate act of self-destruction. I almost believe she knew she could not survive it but chose to have something—just a year—that mattered to her.’

  I was trembling violently, and to my surprise he let his hand rest on my shoulder and pressed it just once, evenly and firmly.

  ‘Very well. We shall proceed then—shall we?—with caution. And for your first move, my dear, I would like you to leave Cullingford for a week or two. Go to Scarborough to your grandmother or to my cottage at Grasmere, it makes no difference. Take long walks in the fresh air, consider your situation from every angle, and on your return you may instruct me again. I need not tell you, I suppose, that you must have no communication of any kind with Gervase, since the merest hint of collusion between you would entirely destroy your case. A husband and wife may not conspire together, my dear, to end their marriage, indeed they may not. If the case of Barforth v. Barforth ever sees the light of day, one Barforth must be shown as guilty, the other as entirely innocent, and there must be no hint or suspicion that you encouraged him in his guilt or in any way condoned it. These are criminal proceedings and must be treated as such. I trust you can be ready to leave tomorrow?
’

  I went to Grasmere, to test myself perhaps, since I had spent my happiest days with Gervase among these lakes and hills. But walking through the fine spring days as I had been instructed, I found myself thinking mainly of Venetia, acknowledging her as the source of my decision but not of my determination to follow it through. I would do the things she should have done. I would find the steadfastness of purpose she had lacked. I would be the woman she had dimly perceived in the mind of Robin Ashby, a woman strong enough to live the life of a man, to bear his responsibilities and thus lay claim to his privileges. I would be free, not to smoke a cigar or attend a cock-fight, but to think, decide, take charge of my life. I would carry my own burdens and choose my own pleasures. I would suffer the consequences of my errors and reap whatever reward I could on the occasions when I happened to be in the right.

  I would be resolute. I was resolute, even on those treacherous evenings when the air was warm and scented with all the enticements of April, rendering me sleepless and forcing me to think of Gervase. He may well have deserved the blow I was preparing for him, but that did not make it easy to strike. And so I allowed my mind to proceed, as my father had said, with caution, no more than one step at a time. We had failed each other. My action now must hurt us both, but surely it would allow us in time to start afresh? Surely? But it did not seem the moment to dwell too closely on that.

  My father wrote to me, setting out once again in grave language the procedure for divorce, its consequences, its dangers, neither forbidding me to proceed nor advising it, simply laying the facts before me in correct legal fashion. I replied that I had not changed my mind, and when I returned to Fieldhead three weeks later nothing had occurred to alter my decision.

  ‘Very well,’ my father said, ‘I will apply to the courts for an order commanding your husband’s return. And you, my dear, may sit here as quietly as you can and wait for the storm to break.’