I expected unbridled anger from my father-in-law and when, on his first visit to Fieldhead, he sat for a while in Mrs. Agbrigg’s hushed drawing-room, staring fixedly at her green and gold carpet, I interpreted his silence to mean the worst. But eventually he got up and stood on the hearthrug, his favourite vantage point, his back to the fire, his broad shoulders a little hollower than they used to be, not only the grey at his temples ageing him, and said in his abrupt, autocratic manner, ‘I suppose you realize that I could put a stop to all this—or at least your father and I together could put a stop to it. All we’d have to do, my girl, is to cut off your money—the allowance we’ve both been good enough to pay you all these years—and that would be the end of it. You’d be forced to come back to Tarn Edge then and play at being my son’s wife whether you liked it or not, and whether he was even living there or not. That’s the reason, I suppose, why thousands of women stay with husbands they don’t care for and who don’t care for them—for the sake of a roof and a blanket and a bite to eat. Now then—do you understand that?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And if I was really set on it, young lady—if I really put my mind to it—I reckon I could persuade your father to clip your wings, since at the bottom of him he doesn’t like the way matters are turning out any better than I do. He might be glad to see you back at Tarn Edge—glad of me to show him the way to get you there. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘All right—just bear it in mind. And now I’ll tell you what I am going to do. You brought money with you when you came to Tarn Edge and I’ll see every penny paid back to you before you leave. There’ll be no trouble about that.’
And because I knew he was thanking me for the effort I had made, expressing his affection in hard cash because that was the only way he could express it, I felt tears in my eyes.
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you anything else to say to me—anything you’d like me to do?’
‘Mr. Barforth—you do understand, don’t you, about this court order? You do realize that I don’t want Gervase to obey it?’
He smiled, sat down and shook his head, ruefully I thought, amused in spite of himself.
‘There’s no need for alarm, Grace. If you think I might drag him back to you by the scruff of his neck, then you can be at ease. I’ve got more sense than that. I reckon I’ve interfered in other people’s marriages for the last time. He can sort himself out now, that son of mine, the best way he can.’
‘Mr. Barforth, I wouldn’t want you to punish him. I wouldn’t want him to lose—I mean, to be made poor because of me. Really, I wouldn’t.’ He lifted his dark, still handsome head and looked at me keenly.
‘He has ten per cent of my business, Grace. He can live well on that.’
‘And he couldn’t lose it?’
‘He could sell it, although the only customers he’d get would be me or Gideon. And you’ll have to wait, like the rest of them, Grace, to find out what I mean to do with the Woolcombers and the Dyeworks and my eighty per cent of Barforth and Company. Aye—I reckon you’ll have to wait until the time comes to read my will.’
But he was not offended, and smiled when I replied, ‘That will be soon enough.’
‘I’ll be off then, Grace. I just wanted you to know you’d be getting back your dowry.’
And I was acutely grateful that he had not mentioned tiny, helpless Claire, and his own deepening solitude.
Knowledge of my exact situation was reserved, of course, for a very few, but speculation as to the cause of my prolonged sojourn at Fieldhead grew quickly rife.
‘My dear,’ Mrs. Sheldon murmured to me in her sedate manner, ‘I cannot avoid the impression that something is troubling you, and there is a great deal of truth, you know, in the old saying that a trouble shared is a trouble halved.’
‘I do not at all blame you for taking a holiday from Tarn Edge,’ Mrs. Rawnsley told me. ‘Doing one’s duty is well enough but I have often thought it scandalous how everything in that house is left to you. I would not wear myself out in their service, I can tell you, for it is not your house, after all, and not your child, and you will get small thanks for any of it when Mr. Gideon Chard brings home a new wife. I am entirely on your side, Grace dear—entirely in sympathy.’
While those ladies who were not sufficiently acquainted with me to hint or to pry came regularly to see Mrs. Agbrigg and to shower me with invitations to this and that which invariably contained the words ‘and do, my dear, bring your husband.’
In these circumstances it was unwise of Sir Julian Flood to visit me at Fieldhead, the sight of his horse glimpsed through my window causing my stomach to lurch most painfully and my breathing to become far too rapid so that I had to walk downstairs very slowly to avoid the appearance of a woman badly flustered.
He was standing, as my father-in-law had done, on the hearthrug, a lean, dark, undeniably handsome man, the manorial lord of Cullingford whose family had dwelt here for three hundred years—when my family had been peasants or vagabonds or worse—and who now, although he was known to have gambled away what little money his spend-thrift grandfather had left him—still had an air of distance about him, the disdain a man of high pedigree cannot always conceal in his dealings with his inferiors. Yet he was the man my mother-in-law had spoken of as her best friend, her salvation in the dark days after her brother had died, and I refused, in fact I could not afford, to be afraid of him.
‘Mrs. Barforth. I trust you are well?’
‘Quite well, thank you.’
‘And wondering what I’m doing here, I imagine. Although, really, there’s not much cause for wonder.’
‘Sir Julian, I must tell you I think it improper of you to have come at all.’
He laughed, his dark eyes brushing over me with the automatic appraisal he bestowed on horseflesh, womanflesh, particularly—and the suspicion caused me to flush with welcome indignation—women who had lost their caste or their reputations.
‘Improper? Now that’s not a word I’m much used to hearing, Mrs. Barforth. In my part of the world we tend to call it “bad taste”.’
‘You live ten miles away, Sir Julian.’
‘So I do, but it could be another world, m’dear, for all that—different manners, different values. I hope that we may manage to understand one another?’
‘What is it you wish me to understand?’
‘Well, I wish to put an end to this nonsense for one thing, m’dear. No need for it, you know. Shocking business—won’t attempt to deny it—and nobody in the world could blame you for being peeved about it. But we can settle it in a civilized manner, surely?’
‘Yes, of course. That is my intention.’
His brows flew together in a frown, his face half suspicious, half ready to believe he had so easily got his way.
‘You mean you’ve dropped this litigation?’
‘I do not. I mean I intend to follow it through. That is the civilized solution.’
He took a pace or two about the room, shooting at me from time to time a look of pure contempt, his nostrils dilating with it, his whole manner expressing regret that he had been born too late to settle this dispute, and any others, by having me flogged at the manorial cart-tail.
‘I see. I see, Mrs. Barforth.’
But eventually the realization that he could not evict me from my cottage nor refuse to renew the lease on my farm, that he had no real power over me at all, took the edge from his anger and he returned to the hearthrug, doing his best to calm himself, one hand restlessly clenching as if it missed the feel of a riding-whip.
‘Civilized, is it, Mrs. Barforth, to drive a woman to her ruin? I wouldn’t call that civilized.’
‘Neither would I.’
‘Then you’ll be obliged to drop these proceedings, madam, unless you intend to make yourself responsible for the ruin of my niece. That’s the plain truth, madam, and don’t try to deny it.’
A moment of silence, his a
nger snapping around me and something more than anger, for after all he had come to protect his own kin, his brother’s daughter whom he had raised casually, perhaps, but as his own child, and no one could blame him for that. Silence, and then my own voice dropping cool words into it one by one, speaking slowly because I had dreaded this, and was not finding it easy.
‘You are quite right that my petition for divorce will do harm to Mrs. Flood. I do not consider myself to blame for that.’
‘Who then?’ he snarled, very nearly at the end of his tether.
‘That is not for me to say.’
There was another moment of silence, badly needed by us both, and then, remembering that he was here to defend his niece’s reputation not to give himself the satisfaction of blackening mine, he overcame his temper and smiled.
‘Come now, Mrs. Barforth, we will gain nothing by quarrelling. Have you really considered, I wonder, what this could mean to Diana? I don’t excuse her, but you can’t put her through this agony, you know. Public exposure of a very private matter—the newspapers having a field-day, the poor girl branded an outcast, which is what would happen to her afterwards. It could be the end of her, Mrs. Barforth, and I don’t see how you could live easy with that on your conscience. And then there is her husband to be considered. He has his feelings, too, you know, and he at least has done you no harm. Very decent fellow, Compton Flood—absolutely first-rate—ambitious too, which would make it pretty well impossible for him to take her back after this sort of thing. With the best will in the world he’d be bound to feel that his career couldn’t cope with the scandal.’
‘What do you suggest I should do then, Sir Julian?’
‘Be charitable, m’dear—and sensible. I daresay you can’t forgive, and I suppose women never forget. But be sensible. You know the fix Diana is in. Don’t hound her, Mrs. Barforth. Let her have her child in peace and whatever arrangements are made for it afterwards—well, there’s no reason why you should be troubled by them. That’s the way these things are done, believe me. No need to go to extremes. And afterwards she’ll be off to India to make her peace with her husband. No fuss, no mess, no proof, Mrs. Barforth—no scandal. That’s the thing. Water under the bridge next year, or the year after. It’s the only way.’
‘I almost wish I could agree with you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I am sorry, Sir Julian. I fully realize the seriousness of Mrs. Flood’s position. But I have my own position to consider and intend to do so. It seems to me a great pity that Mrs. Flood failed to realize the consequences of her actions before it was too late—or before those actions had taken place at all. I repeat I am sorry, but I do not hold myself in any way responsible.’
He gave me a look of the most complete loathing and then, still restlessly flexing his hand, his lips drew apart in a grimace that was intended, but did not succeed, as a smile.
‘So that’s it. Vindictive, eh?—want your pound of flesh, do you? But I won’t have it, Mrs. Barforth. I won’t stand idly by and see you ruin a thoroughly delightful girl for your sanctimonious whim. I warn you, madam, this shopkeeper’s morality is not to my liking and I shall not tolerate it.’
I could have said, How dare you speak to me like that? I could have ordered him from the house, or I could have burst into tears. I believe I wanted to do all these things, but instead I remained quite still, hands folded, back very straight, rigid with my determination that I would not flinch. For, if this was the first abuse I had ever received, it could not be the last and I must school myself to meet it.
‘Sir Julian, you may call me whatever names you choose, but the plain fact is that I have committed no offence against Mrs. Flood. When she became my husband’s mistress she was surely aware of the risk she ran. She must have known what the consequences might be to herself and to Colonel Flood, and I do not feel called upon to bear those consequences for her. This divorce is of the utmost importance to me. It is the only possible course I can take in order to lead what I believe to be an honest life, and I will not sacrifice that for the sake of Colonel Flood’s career nor Mrs. Flood’s reputation. Would they put my interests before their own? Of course they would not, and neither would you. It is quite useless, Sir Julian, to bully me or intimidate me or to make me feel guilty, for I will not change my mind. I am prepared to take full responsibility for my own actions and Mrs. Flood must do the same.’
He stood and glared at me for what must have been a full minute, his mouth a thin line, his face taut with anger, although suddenly and quite shockingly there were tears in his eyes.
‘This could kill her you know. Damnation, woman, can’t you see that?’
And when I made no answer but continued to stand as tall and straight as I could, he clenched those nervous fingers into a fist, smashed it hard into the palm of his other hand, and rapped out: ‘Self-righteous bitch!’
‘Good-day, Sir Julian.’
‘Not for you, madam—there’ll be no “good-day” for you, I promise it.’
He took his thunderous departure and I sat down on the nearest seat, my legs trembling, my whole body, as it relaxed from its awful rigidity, full of little aches and pains, my mind far too distracted in those first moments to realize that this attack could only mean that Gervase had refused to put an end to the matter by coming back to me.
Beyond the window, the spring afternoon continued to sparkle, daffodils tossing their bold heads in the fresh breeze, new green on the trees and a hint of pink and white blossom; an impulsive, passionate season, more adapted to the making of light-hearted promises than the grim keeping of one’s resolve. I heard a bee, the first of the year, new-born and boisterous on the window-sill, a voice in the hall saying something about tea, a deeper voice answering ‘Presently’, and then Mrs. Agbrigg came into the room and sat down in the chair opposite mine, choosing her moment well, I thought, since I was still too exhausted by my confrontation with Sir Julian to engage successfully in another.
‘Grace, I think it is time we had a word about your situation,’ she said, and I looked across at her, the dragon of my childhood, velvet-pawed now but still very powerful, and smiled.
‘Yes. But you must not be afraid that I have come to seek permanent refuge here, you know. You will not be troubled with me forever, Mrs. Agbrigg, for it is my intention, when everything is settled, to live alone.’
She returned my smile, her large, handsome face hardly creasing, folded her smooth hands, her rings catching the light in the way I remembered, the heavy gold cross still at her throat.
‘Your father has explained all that to me and I have every confidence in your ability to keep your own house in order. It is the, shall we say social, aspect of the matter I would like to take up with you.’
‘My goodness, Mrs. Agbrigg—you mean Mrs. Rawnsley will cross the street to avoid meeting me and Miss Mandelbaum may feel uneasy about asking me to tea?’
But she shook her sedate head with an unruffled, almost placid motion.
‘No Grace, I do not mean that at all. I would not expect you to value the good opinion of Mrs. Rawnsley and Miss Mandelbaum since you have never been without it—as I have. Tell me, Grace, was Sir Julian very rough with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘In fact he spoke to you as no gentleman has ever spoken to you before?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘I wonder if you know why? No, not entirely because of Mrs. Flood, but because you had placed yourself in a situation where he was no longer obliged to consider you a lady. Men have a keen nose for these things, my dear. And when a woman ceases to be a lady, she is just—well—just a woman and consequently fair game for anything a gentleman may have in mind. For a gentleman, you know, will do what he likes, or what he can, with a woman.’
I moved uncomfortably in my chair, surprised not only by her words but by the sincerity and the concern with which she expressed them.
‘But Mrs. Agbrigg, why? I am not an adulteress—I have done nothing to los
e my reputation.’
‘My dear, indeed you have. You have flouted convention, don’t you see? You have shrugged off the authority of your male relations and are setting yourself up in an independent fashion—your own home, your own income, keeping your own carriage—while your husband and your father are still living. You are a threat to society, my dear, for what would happen if the rest of society’s wives and daughters were to follow your example? Domestic chaos, dearest, and—which is a far more serious matter—financial chaos too. No, no, you cannot be allowed to live free and happy, for that would be an inducement, would it not, to other women. And so what can society do but shun you, impose a total ban on you, fill your life with as much insult and irritation as possible? My dear, they would find it easier to forgive you if you had committed adultery. And that apart, what man, meeting you in the years to come, will enquire into the exact circumstances of your divorce or even care about them? You will have a label, “Divorced Woman”, that is all he will see. And what it will mean to him is “Woman of Easy Virtue”. Once your divorce is granted—if it ever should be—no man who desires you will feel obliged to restrain himself from telling you so. You will be subject to the most positive advances, my child—to a degree of aggression which I doubt you capable of imagining.’
‘Mrs. Agbrigg—I believe you are afraid for me.’
She sighed and unclasped her hands a little, looking fondly down at her rings.
‘And of course that surprises you? You do not know me very well, Grace. I wore a label too, you see, from the start which said “Wicked Stepmother” in bold letters, which was natural enough. You had made up your mind to dislike me and I saw no real harm in it. My maternal instinct is not strong. I wanted to be your father’s wife, not the mother of his child, and beyond the physical comforts of good food and good shelter I had nothing to offer you. You had your Aunt Faith and your friends. I had your father and intended to keep him. You know that. But your Aunt Faith cannot tell you how it feels to be treated like a whore. I can. Will you listen to me?’
‘Gladly.’
The Sleeping Sword Page 35
