The Sleeping Sword

by Brenda Jagger

  ‘Mr. Liam Adair?’ he enquired.

  ‘As you see—I am afraid not.’

  ‘May one enquire his whereabouts?’

  ‘One may. But unfortunately I have not the faintest notion.’

  ‘Then would you be so good as to tell him—miss?—that Mr. Gideon Chard requires to see him at his office at Nethercoats Mill this afternoon at three o’clock?’

  ‘I will tell him if I see him. But Mr. Chard might do better to come here.’

  ‘Oh, no, Mr. Chard will not want to do that,’ Mr. Chard’s clerk told me, pained by my effrontery in suggesting that his employer should risk his beautifully polished boots on this most dubious of floors. ‘Three o’clock then. Good-day to you—miss?’

  Liam’s employees in those days, besides Camille and the men who operated his ancient presses, consisted of an elderly, extremely scholarly man, Mr. Martin, and a young lad, Joss Davey, learning the trade. And, as three o’clock came and went, then four and five, I left messages with them for Liam and went home, no longer inclined to make a fuss if the sauce on my fish was not thick enough or if there should be a coffee stain on my napkin, now that I had so much else to interest me.

  I had no idea why Gideon should wish to see Liam. The arrogance of the summons had both amused and offended me, and I was sorry, I think, that Liam had not been there to inform that officious little clerk that if Mr. Gideon Chard—fine leather boots, silk waistcoat, curly brimmed beaver and all—wished to see him, then he knew where he could be found. But so little did it seem to concern me that I was taken completely unawares when, an hour or so after dinner, my doorbell sounded and Gideon walked into my drawing-room, three or four copies of the Star under his arm.

  I had not seen him since the last summer when he had asked me to be his mistress, but, like me, he had clearly decided to put that folly behind him, for there was nothing amorous in his manner now, his well-shod feet treading firmly, his eyes taking in without the slightest embarrassment every feature of the room, automatically assessing not merely the value of my furnishings and fittings but whether or not they were tasteful and well-chosen, and perfectly ready to inform me of it if they were not.

  ‘Good-evening, Grace,’ he said calmly, apparently feeling no need to mention why for the past year we had avoided one another.

  ‘Good-evening, Gideon.’

  ‘You are very comfortable here, by the look of it.’

  ‘Yes. I have been here now—oh, six months and more.’

  ‘Have you really? How time goes by! I believe you saw my clerk this afternoon?’

  I nodded, not asking him to sit down since I preferred to remain standing myself, thus signifying that I expected his visit to be short. And understanding this, he too nodded and smiled.

  ‘I take it then that Adair did not return?’

  ‘As it happens he did not, but he may have been unable to see you in any case. He has a great many calls on his time.’

  He raised those strongly marked eyebrows in a movement of false surprise, anger only just beneath the surface of him, cool sarcasm above it, prepared to be as cutting as the circumstances—whatever they turned out to be—required. But this was the Gideon I knew—the adversary rather than the lover—and I had no intention of being intimidated by him.

  ‘I am to make an appointment to see Liam Adair nowadays, am I?’

  ‘I can think of no reason why you should not.’

  ‘I can think of several. However, you can probably tell me what I wish to know, since you are so closely associated with him.’

  And, his expression remaining perfectly calm, he let those rolled-up copies of the Star fall on to my table with a sharp, slapping sound of contempt.

  ‘These articles about which there has been so much hot air expended—these surveys of St. Mark’s Fold and Commercial Close and Silsbridge Street—can you tell me how these particular streets were chosen?’

  ‘Yes. They were chosen at random, I believe.’

  ‘Indeed? And by whom? By Liam Adair?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Good heavens! Gideon, he had dozens and dozens of streets to choose from. One had merely to take a map and a pin.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, his jaw set at a hard angle. ‘Exactly, Grace. And so it would seem somewhat contrary to the law of averages, would it not, that with such a multitude of streets available his pin descended on the three which belong to Nicholas Barforth and Company Limited, and consequently—in a manner of speaking—to me?’

  I heard the intake of my own breath, for, in my intense preoccupation with the tenants of those houses I had given no thought to this, did not really wish to consider the implications of it now, not with Gideon standing there, at any rate, his inquisitor’s eyes fixed on my face, his mouth grim and sarcastic. But he had no intention of letting it go.

  ‘We own a great deal of property, Grace,’ he said, ‘most of it in very decent order. I presume you must be aware of that?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And is it not a fact that every mill in this town, in this valley—every mill and any mill—has a number of near-derelict cottages attached to it? Every mill, Grace, of which there are sixty or seventy in this town, including your father’s business at Fieldhead. And not one millmaster implicated, among so many, but Gideon Chard. Could I be forgiven for suspecting that Liam Adair is not conducting this survey in the interests of humanity but as a personal vendetta against me?’

  It was possible. I turned my head slightly away from his so that he should not see my growing realization that it was quite likely. The evil existed and needed to be remedied, Liam would not have lost sight of that, but if he could grind a very personal axe while he was about it, I rather thought that he would. It had been Gideon, after all, who had ousted Liam from the Barforth mills, Gideon who had married Venetia, Gideon who had gained, it seemed, from everyone else’s loss. And Liam might easily have decided to exact a price. It was possible.

  ‘I—I am sorry, Gideon. I can make no comment.’

  ‘Can you not? Your loyalty to your employer does you credit—if that is what he is to you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, Gideon—or rather I don’t choose to know. What I can tell you is that I was not aware of the connection between those streets. If it was done deliberately, then—yes—it was unfair and I shall tell Liam so. But those houses really are an abomination, Gideon, you know—we have been absolutely exact about that. And surely, if Liam is criticizing anyone, it could just as well be Mr. Nicholas Barforth as yourself?’

  ‘I think not. I am in charge of affairs at Lawcroft and Nethercoats and Low Cross. Mine is the name Adair will use, which is just as it should be—I am not complaining about that. If one accepts the privileges, then one accepts the responsibility that goes with it. I simply wish to make him aware that I know I am being singled out and that I know why. I am able to defend myself—should the need arise—without assistance from my chairman or from anyone. Our father-in-law, in any case, is too occupied at the moment with his new woman to care—’

  I swung round to him, ready to be angry now that he had given me a safe outlet.

  ‘Camille Inman is a friend of mine, Gideon, and I am not prepared to hear her spoken of with disrespect.’

  He smiled, the sophisticated, disdainful smile of Blanche’s London drawing-room, of Listonby and South Erin.

  ‘My dear, I have the greatest possible respect for Mrs. Inman, who not only keeps my chairman thoroughly distracted but is decidedly one of the most gorgeous creatures—’

  ‘So she is. But now you are talking about her as if she were a thoroughbred mare for sale at Appleton horse-fair. I cannot allow that either.’ He gave me no answer. I could think of nothing more to say. Silence came dangerously between us.

  ‘Can I do nothing right for you, Grace?’

  ‘It is not my place to judge what you do—or to be concerned—as it is not your place—’

  And, hearing my voice trail off into a lamentable, tell-tale
confusion, I was glad to hear the doorbell again, and then appalled when Liam came breezing into the room, his eyes—which had certainly recognized Gideon’s carriage outside—resting on those rolled up copies of the Star, his mouth smiling its jaunty, Irish smile.

  ‘Now then—and doesn’t this turn out to be handy? I hear you were looking for me, Gideon?’

  ‘So I was, Adair, and I reckon you’ll know the reason why.’

  But still smiling, Liam walked past him and to my complete horror put one large, warm hand on the nape of my neck and kissed me, just a light brushing of his mouth against mine; the assured, almost casual greeting of a lover of long standing.

  What happened then was over in a moment, never actually happened at all, since we drew back, all of us, from the brink of it.

  ‘Now then, Gideon, what was it you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘Information, Adair. But I have all I need to know.’

  ‘I’ll see you out then.’

  And so he did—the man of the house escorting a casual caller, leaving me to grapple with the ferocity I had seen in Gideon’s face, the murder I had felt in him, and, far worse than that, my own wild impulse to deny it, the urge I still felt to run out into the hall, to the gate, and call after him that it was not true.

  Liam returned, smiling no longer, and I launched through the air towards him a fist that fell far short of its mark, my whole body trembling.

  ‘How dare you use me like that, Liam Adair? How dare you?’ And he pulled me firmly but gently into his arms and held me there until the trembling had ceased, giving me time to remember that Gideon Chard, by my own choice, was nothing to me.

  I moved away from him when I could, calm now but sharp and bitter.

  ‘There’s no need to hold me any longer, Liam. If Gideon happened to look through the window, he’s already seen us—and he’s gone now.’

  ‘That wasn’t the reason. And if it’s bothering you how I knew he would be jealous, then—well—I don’t suppose many other people know it. I’m sorry, Grace, but whenever the opportunity comes for me to scratch him a little beneath that aristocratic hide of his, I can’t help taking it.’

  ‘You did choose those streets then, as part of a vendetta?’

  ‘Is that what he called it? Very classy. You’ll just have to bear in mind, Grace, that the survey needed to be done, that some good might come of it, like the adulterated flour and those workhouse brats. I think you ought to forgive me, Grace, because Camille has just given me her notice and the truth is I need you.’

  I walked to the window, stared out at the gathering dusk, putting myself carefully together, every piece snugly if a little painfully in its proper place, and then turned back to him.

  ‘Yes, Liam. I’ll take Camille’s job, since I’ve been doing it for the past two months in any case, for the same wages you pay to her.’

  He laughed, jaunty and debonair again, nothing about him to suggest the merest whisper of passion or revenge.

  ‘Now as to that, Grace, I was rather hoping—’

  ‘That I would work for nothing? Of course you were. And of course I shall not. We’re friends, Liam, although I sometimes wonder why, and distant relations. And I am not in need of money. But none of that gives you the right to ask me to work without pay. We’ll be businesslike about it, shall we—and fair? I am ready to do Camille’s work for Camille’s wages, and in exchange for that I will be at my desk every morning at the hour you tell me and will stay until you permit me to leave. If you value my services, you must pay me for them, and I will earn far more than anything you are likely to give me. Agreed?’

  He shook his head and grinned broadly.

  ‘You’re a hard woman, Grace Barforth.’

  ‘Yes, and you are not the first man to tell me so. But it is a hard world, is it not? Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ he said and held out a hand which I clasped in firm businesslike fashion.

  ‘Tomorrow morning then, Grace, at eight o’clock.’

  ‘I shall not be late,’ I said, and those simple words transformed me. I was a dainty, useless little lady no longer, dispensing soup and milk-and-water charity to the poor. I was still shaken, still bruised a little in spirit. But I was employed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Camille gave up her lodgings in Prince Albert Road and went off to Scarborough, ecstatic as a young bride of seventeen. She was not a bride, of course, and might never be so again, but clearly and quite magnificently she did not care. All she wanted was to be with her Nicholas; she had cheerfully sacrificed her independence, her reputation, had given up everything to that end, and I was not the only one to be surprised at the speed with which he now abandoned his commercial empire to other hands, quickly adding his beloved Woolcombers and his dyeworks to the sum total of Nicholas Barforth and Company Limited, the better to concentrate on his love.

  ‘How romantic,’ said Mrs. Agbrigg, smiling slightly. ‘I only hope he will retain the stamina—’

  ‘How these men do make idiots of themselves!’ declared my Grandmother Agbrigg, having made up her mind not to call on Camille unless she was married and possibly not even then, although her own house in Scarborough was only a mile or two away.

  ‘What is she like?’ Aunt Faith asked me, rather tremulously I thought. ‘Is she very lovely? Dark, you say? Is she really?’

  ‘Shall we wish them happy?’ enquired Uncle Blaize.

  ‘Oh yes, darling,’ she told him, reaching for his hand. ‘As happy as we are—since no one could be happier than that.’

  ‘Well, it makes Gideon very powerful, I suppose,’ was Blanche’s opinion, ‘and gives him a house of his own at last, since Uncle Nicholas can hardly be thinking of bringing the woman back to Tarn Edge. And now that Aunt Caroline is so busy getting Gideon married again it may turn out very well, for no second wife could possibly want to live with her husband’s first wife’s father.’

  But Aunt Caroline, although well pleased to see Gideon in complete charge of the mills and in sole residence at Tarn Edge, was so incensed by her brother’s behaviour that she made the journey to Scarborough to tell him so, installing herself at the Grand Hotel and sending him word—since she could not set foot in any house which contained a ‘loose woman’—to attend her there. He went, Camille told me, and entertained his sister to a lavish dinner, after which he advised her quite cordially that she would do well to leave him alone. But Aunt Caroline, from her suite at the Grand, had caught a glimpse of Camille strolling along the cliffs, the fresh and youthful appearance of my friend suggesting at once an additional and exceedingly unwelcome complication.

  ‘That woman is young enough to bear children,’ she announced accusingly, as if we were all to blame. ‘And it would be most unfair to Gideon, at this stage, if Nicholas should get himself a son.’

  ‘My husband already has a son,’ said Mrs. Nicholas Barforth when this remark was conveyed to her.

  But there was no news of Gervase.

  I sat down at my desk every morning now at eight o’clock, a point of honour, although Liam quite often did not show his face until after ten; and I would work throughout the day and often enough into the night, talking to anyone about anything which might interest the readers of the Star. Had anyone asked me if I was happy I would not have welcomed the question. I was busy, which had always been a necessity to me, but in some ways I was still only playing at independence, and was uncomfortably aware of it. I earned Camille’s wages but I had never tried to live on them, retaining my allowance from my father, the security of my capital in Mr. Rawnsley’s bank, the lure of my inheritance. Not happy, then. Not even particularly content once the keen edge of my enthusiasm had blunted. But busy, willing to learn and interested in what the Stones and Liam Adair had to teach me. Busy and interested—and as an alternative to sitting in my house in Blenheim Crescent and wondering if Mrs. Rawnsley would ever call on me, it was good enough.

  I was twenty-six and became twenty-seven, paring down my ideals as
I did so, to make them functional rather than sentimental. I could not burn for long with a crusading fervour like Venetia’s, being quick to see that even in the most ideal conditions many would never learn to stir themselves on their own behalf. Yet through the apathy of those without hope—those who had lost it and those who had been born with no capacity for it—I saw, often enough, courage working like yeast, fermenting to bring some hard-eyed, bright-eyed girl, some canny, curly-haired lad to the surface. There were lads in those streets around Low Cross who after their day-long stretch in the sheds would walk briskly home to wash off the engine grease at a cold-water tap and then, eating a slice of bread and dripping on the way, would spend their evenings in study at the Mechanics Institute; lads who, when brought to the notice of Gideon Chard or Nicholas Barforth or Jonas Agbrigg, pulled no humble forelock but looked the ‘gaffer’straight in the eye. There were girls who kept themselves decent not so much for virtue’s sake but because they could see what haphazard pregnancy might lead to, tough-fibred girls, fiercely independent of mind and free of tongue, who when they became wives went clandestinely to Dr. Stone for the means to limit their fertility to a life-saving two or three, and kept their offspring—and their husbands—in order with a wry good humour and an iron hand.

  These—as Camille had told me—were the survivors, lads like my Grandfather Agbrigg had been, girls such as I might have been myself. But there were others, like the aged, the sick, the feeble-minded—like the middle-class married woman—who could not speak out for themselves, thousands of them in a state of neglect or oppression, the recipients of cold charity or downright exploitation which I—like Venetia—could not ignore.

  I paid rather less attention to my house and had trouble with my maids who, being respectable girls themselves, did not really approve of me and left my service as soon as they were able. I developed a crisp manner, a shell which concealed the occasional pinpricks of hurt I still felt from time to time, a brief but very sharp reminder that I had not succeeded as a woman, the restlessness—quite terrible sometimes—that overcame me when I saw the rich, slumbrous glow of Camille, the deep contentment of Aunt Faith, the perfect companionship of Anna and Patrick Stone, Mrs. Georgiana Barforth’s vivid face as, with her close and loving friend, she set about the rebuilding of her life. I was at my desk every morning at eight o’clock. When I gave orders they were usually obeyed. I had friends and a few enemies, brief bouts of sorrow and sudden enjoyments. I was busy and interested. It was a life.