The Sleeping Sword

by Brenda Jagger

  I put my hand on his arm again and pressed it, seeing no point in telling him that Gideon would have been most unlikely to involve himself in this massacre, not from any moral scruple or lingering kindness of heart but because he had no need of such crudity. He had only to sit in his luxuriously appointed office at Nethercoats or in the splendid boardroom at Lawcroft Fold, had only to despatch, at regular intervals, those notices of increased rents, in order to bleed Liam dry; a procedure, I thought, which would suit Gideon’s nature far better than this. But if it eased Liam now to blame Gideon, or anyone else, then I would not quarrel with it.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Sometime in the night. They sent a lad to fetch me about two o’clock this morning, but it was over then, of course—’

  ‘Liam, that was six hours ago.’

  ‘So it was.’

  ‘And you’ve been here all the time since then?’

  ‘I reckon so. I sat and looked at it for a while, and thought about it. It’s much the same upstairs. No machines to smash, of course, and the furniture wasn’t worth much, so they tore the floorboards up and knocked a few holes in the walls. It’s a wreck, Grace.’

  The staircase was a mess of fallen plaster and splintered wood, hatchets, it seemed, having been used to attack the roughcast walls, while the upper room was a battleground, the door thrown down, desks and chairs overset and shredded as if for firewood, the partition wall between office and storeroom knocked clean through, broken glass and builders’rubble underfoot, papers—papers—churned and scattered everywhere, and, in case there might be anything we could salvage, soaked in whitewash and green paint—the colour they had been using at Low Cross—which had been thrown down by the bucketful and left, most foully, to congeal.

  Total devastation which must have taken several large and noisy men at least an hour to perpetrate. No one had intervened. No one, thank God, had sent for Liam until it was over. Now, as the shock abated, it seemed that something, however futile, had to be done and so, without making any visible headway, we began to go through those soiled and scattered papers, a task so very much akin to emptying the North Sea with a ladle that I knew it would either break my heart or make me very angry. And so, kneeling there among the sodden litter, in the bitter cold of that December day, I grew very angry indeed.

  We sent the boy for bread and cheese and beer at noon, and worked on, sorting, discarding, achieving nothing, while on the floor below us the helpers Liam had recruited from the street were sweeping up the corpses of his printing-presses, to carry them away by the barrowload and bury them in the nearest midden.

  ‘There goes the Star,’ he said, raising the brandy flask he always carried with him as the unkempt cortège trundled by. And by this time, still on my knees on that loathsome floor, I was crying with the sorrow of true bereavement and my terrible fury. I had needed the Star. I loved her, and I wanted blood for her now.

  ‘What are you going to do, Liam?’

  He remained silent for a moment, staring after those funereal barrows, and then, raising his flask again, he took a rapid swallow.

  ‘That’s not a question you should be asking me now, Grace. Give me until tomorrow.’

  ‘Mr Liam Adair?’ we heard a dry little voice calling, and through the gaping doorway came stepping a painfully, neat, self-important figure I recognized, a clerk from Nethercoats Mill, hastily taking a handkerchief and pressing it to his nose and mouth with the gesture of one who enters a plague spot.

  ‘Mr Liam Adair?’

  ‘Who wants him?’

  ‘Mr Gideon Chard presents his compliments—’

  ‘Does he, by God?’

  ‘—and asks me to deliver this letter, sir.’

  A long brown envelope changed hands, the pompous little man smirked, seemed disposed to linger and then, catching a hint of his peril in Liam’s eye, moved hastily away.

  ‘Will there be an answer, sir?’

  ‘Get out of here.’ And the simple command was followed by so explicit an obscenity that the precise little gentleman turned tail and fled.

  I gave him a moment to read and then went to stand beside him again, my skirt, smeared with paint and damp, filthy patches, feeling heavy against my legs.

  ‘What is it now, Liam?’

  He folded the letter, replaced it carefully in its envelope, his hands steady, his face grey.

  ‘Aye, what now? News travels fast in Cullingford, it seems. Mr. Chard has heard of my misfortune and wonders when it would be convenient for someone to call and assess the damage to his property.’

  ‘Liam!

  ‘Yes—damage to his floorboards and his walls, his doors and windows, for which, naturally, I am liable.’

  ‘How much?’

  He shook his head as if to clear it and blinked hard.

  ‘God knows! More than I can afford, at any rate, which wouldn’t make it very much. Enough to bankrupt me, I shouldn’t wonder, which would mean I couldn’t carry on this—or any other business—again. Enough to silence me once and for all, should Gideon decide to take legal proceedings against me. And I’m not in much doubt about that, Grace, my darling. Are you?’

  His eyes closed again, just for a moment age touching every feature, until his sudden grin sent the years, but not all the greyness, away.

  ‘I’ll have to make a run for it, I reckon. The world’s wide enough. How about coming with me, Grace? I wouldn’t be the first man who went out to the colonies to escape his creditors and came back a millionaire.’

  ‘There’s Grandmamma Elinor.’

  ‘So there is, except that I’ve got nothing for her to invest in, and whatever else I am, I’m no beggar. I wouldn’t feel right about taking her money now, Grace, and I hope you know better than to offer me yours. I think we’ve done all we can for today. Go home now, my darling, you look done in.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Later. I’ll call and see you this evening, a little after dinner maybe. Right now I’m going to do the only rational thing I can think of. No—no—there’s no need for alarm. I’m not considering blowing Chard’s brains out, nor my own. I just want to get quietly drunk. It won’t solve anything, I know, but—whether you approve of it or not—it won’t hurt.’

  I watched him walk down the stairs and pause for a word or two with the men who were still sweeping the lower floor, take another swig from his flask, and then go out into the street. I had never been so angry in my life, had not even realized anger could be so burdensome and so painful. I went out into the street myself, speaking to no one, went home and kicked off my soiled clothes, refusing to answer the foolish girl mouthing at me questions to which she knew the answers.

  ‘Lord! ma’am, whatever have you been doing? Paint, ma’am—and the state of your shoes—it won’t come off—’

  ‘Burn them—everything. Now shut up and get me my hot water.’

  I washed, dressed, brushed my hair and did it up again, that load of anger still pressing hard against my chest.

  ‘Tell Richards to bring the carriage round again.’

  ‘But he’s just taken it away.’

  ‘Should that be of any interest to me?’

  He brought it back again and I got into it, feeling as if I was made of granite. I had hoped, by the delay of changing my clothes and making myself presentable, to reduce my anger to manageable proportions. I had not done so, and since one way or another I would have to unleash it before it suffocated me, I was going now, not tomorrow morning as I had first intended, to see Gideon. I still did not suspect him of ordering the attack on Liam’s presses, but I wanted to ascertain the extent and the nature of his complicity, whether his letter had been the result of a malicious impulse or part of a cruel plan. And what else did I want? To save the Star if I could and to strike a blow for Liam, to keep him from bankruptcy and out of jail in some way that did not oblige him to borrow money he could never repay from his female relations? Certainly I wanted that. But there was something else, at t
he very root of my nature, which I wanted too.

  I had desired Gideon as I had desired no other man, to a point where it had become difficult for me to desire other men. One day, if I ever found the courage to face the truth, I might well find that I had been very much in love with him and unable to love anyone else because of him. But that day had not yet dawned and since he was committed to marry Hortense Madeley-Brown and I was committed to independence—and since neither one of us would be likely to deviate from those commitments—it would be easier for my peace of mind if I could think ill of him. I wanted to eliminate the slightest possibility that I might ever again—for no matter how fleeting a moment—long for him. I wanted to greet his wedding morning with a detached amusement—dear God, not another wedding!—to report in the Star on the astonishing beauty of his bride, the splendour of her jewellery, which would be very splendid, and then casually to remark: ‘Vacant little fool—pompous opportunist—they deserve each other.’ I wanted him to mean nothing to me, and to achieve that blessed state of indifference I would have to hate him first. I would have to hurt him again and give him the opportunity to hurt me.

  I knew his habits. In the morning and the early part of the afternoon he was difficult to trace, dividing his time among the four other factories in his care, but in the days when I had had charge of his social engagements, his travelling schedules, his recherché dinners, a note sent to Nethercoats at this hour had usually reached him. I was kept waiting, as I had expected to be, sitting with several curious strangers in the ante-room through which he passed twice, a flurry of clerks about him, without even glancing at me.

  ‘Mr Freeman, if you’d care to go in now, sir?’ the clerk said, the same smirking little man who had twice delivered messages to Gower Street. Mr. Freeman went in and half an hour later came out again. A Mr. Porter did the same. I was still very angry.

  ‘Now then, who’s next?’ said the clerk. I was alone, and without answering him I got up and walked away into Gideon’s room unannounced, letting the heavy door swing shut behind me.

  I had last come here—was it almost five years ago?—to ask him to take back his wife who was pregnant by another man. It had been painful then. It would be painful now and for both of us. I was determined to make sure of that.

  ‘Good-afternoon, Gideon.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said curtly, dismissively, the tone of a man too busy for any woman’s arguments, since he is always in the right in any case. And I understood that he was very angry too.

  ‘You have not asked me to sit down.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I merely thought the length of your visit unlikely to warrant it.’

  ‘Are you asking me to leave unheard? I should be inclined to take that for a sign of defeat you know—or of a troublesome conscience.’

  ‘Then you have the advantage of me, Grace, for I have not the faintest notion as to what you mean.’

  I sat down, carefully arranging the folds of my skirt in the manner of Miss Madeley-Brown, took off my gloves and placed them, with my muff and reticule, on his immaculate desktop, a gesture calculated to annoy. For I had come to engage him in battle and it was essential now to strike hard, to strike first if I could, and after that to stand firm against the returning blow.

  ‘It occurred to me, Gideon, that your letter came very promptly.’

  ‘And you see some significance in that?’

  ‘I am not sure. Perhaps you can enlighten me.’

  He leaned slightly towards me, assured and sardonic, a man in his own territory, abominably at ease.

  ‘My dear, you have worked for the gutter press until it has affected your judgement. Can you seriously imagine I would hire a gang of drunken navvies to break into my own property and smash a few machines which would have fallen apart ere long in any case? It would make a good headline in the Star, I admit—except that the Star is no longer with us, it seems.’

  ‘You have missed my point, Gideon.’

  ‘Then do please correct me.’

  ‘I shall. It is my opinion that you did hire those navvies. Not as Luddites, of course, but as building workers on your sites at Black Abbey and Low Cross. And if you cannot keep your employees in order, it is my further opinion that you have no claim against Liam Adair or anyone else for the havoc they create.’

  He leaned forward again, a great deal of incredulous amusement, even a very faint, very grudging respect in his face. But then, perhaps, he too remembered the purpose of my last visit here and all tolerance was gone.

  ‘Unfortunately the law does not share your opinions. You might advise Adair to cast a glance at the terms of his lease. I understand the damage was very extensive.’

  ‘Yes. I understand it would be in the interests of anyone who did not entirely approve of Liam Adair if the damage should be very extensive indeed. So—by that reckoning—Tom Mulvaney has done a very good job for you.’

  ‘How very ably you defend your—well—what shall we call him?—your friend?’

  ‘Yes, you may call him my friend. And the reason I defend him is called loyalty.’

  ‘Whatever one calls it, my dear, it will not suffice. I did not order his machines broken, as even he must know. But just the same he is quite finished now. I would have arranged it differently, but one way is quite as good as another.’

  ‘I am not so sure he is finished.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He may extricate himself from the worst of it with the help of some foolish woman or other. But he knows now how vulnerable he is and he will not be quite so brave, you can be very sure, if he ever acquires a platform again. I must offer you my commiserations, I suppose, on your loss of employment. You will no doubt find some other way of passing your time.’

  ‘You have intended to close down the Star for some time, have you not, Gideon?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I see nothing natural about it.’

  ‘You were not the subject of Adair’s slanders.’

  ‘There was more to the Star than the slandering of Gideon Chard—my dear Gideon Chard.’

  ‘Yes, tales of whores and thieves and child-molestation—titillation for perverse appetites—vice made available and interesting to the general reader by the pen of a lady—’

  ‘How dare you say that to me?’

  ‘I dare say anthing I like to you. If you choose to lead a man’s life, then you must take the rough with the smooth. One feels obliged, often enough, to curb one’s tongue when dealing with a lady. One expects a man to be man enough to handle the truth.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Yes—very well.’

  For it was this I had come for. He was hurting me, goading me, giving me every reason I needed to strike him a foul blow. It was just as it should be.

  ‘You call it a man’s life, Gideon, because I earn my living?’

  ‘You do not earn your living. Your living comes to you from your father. You are supported by a man as women are and should be. The pittance you earn, as you call it, would not pay your own servants’wages.’

  But I had expected this, for in his place it was the line of attack I would myself have used; and I was prepared for it.

  ‘I take nothing from Fieldhead to which I am not entitled, Gideon. My allowance comes from money left in trust for me by my mother. And you are in no position, you know, to dispute my right to that, since so much of your own good fortune has been willed to you by a woman.’

  It was done. I had struck hard and foul, and it should have been enough. But that heavy, angry boulder was still there in my chest, pressed tight against my lungs. The remnants of what I had once felt for him had not been wrung out of me yet. I would have to strike again.

  ‘Bitch!’ he said very quietly, rather pleasantly, as if it pleased him to call me so. I understood that it did please him, that he wished to abuse me as much as I desired to be abused. His need was exactly the same as my need, his aim identical to mine. We were playing the same game by the same rules, and if we were harsh enough and hateful enough we
might succeed in making the next half-hour too painful to remember, and in consequence would have good reason never to think of each other again.

  ‘So we are to exchange insults are we, Gideon?’

  ‘Why not? I imagine Grace Barforth of the Star might know a filthy name or two.’

  ‘She might. However, all I really want to say to you is that I find your conduct towards Liam Adair astonishing.’

  ‘My conduct? Would I have done better to break his neck?’

  ‘I think you would have done better to remember this famous public school training we hear so much about. I thought it contrary to the code of a gentleman to strike someone in a weaker position than himself, or to hit a man when he was already down?’

  ‘Very clever, Grace. But a gentleman does not allow himself to be stabbed in the back. And when he deals with a scoundrel he deals accordingly. Adair began this.’

  ‘He had his reasons.’

  ‘Yes. He was in love with my wife.’

  ‘She was a lovable woman.’

  ‘I don’t deny it. And I was the brute, in his opinion—and I suppose in yours—who did not deserve her?’

  ‘You did not understand her.’

  ‘Did she understand me? I am not so hard to please.’

  ‘I know. You take the view that women should be seen and not heard—like children—which is easy enough for a woman who has nothing to say.’

  ‘I take the view that women should be women—’

  ‘Ah yes—gentle and sensitive and clinging—’

  ‘I see nothing wrong with that. Women who are women seem to thrive on it.’

  ‘Domestic drudges.’

  ‘Domestic angels, cherished and respected in their own homes, as any woman would be, if she could—’

  ‘One does not respect a dressed-up doll who might open her mouth occasionally to say “Just as you wish dear, how very clever of you dear.”’

  ‘One might prefer her to a woman who talks too much and to no good purpose, to prove what?—that she cannot face a woman’s responsibilities and is only playing at taking a man’s.’