A Song Twice Over (85 page)

At least that would have been
something
worth doing with his life.

He sat down on a rock, his chin in his hand, staring back to the smoky glimmer of light, a fair way below him, which he knew to be Frizingley. As he had sat once before, reproaching himself for the manner in which he had left her. She had been going into exile then, to the care of her sick father and her uncertain marriage, he to his freedom and his grand and glorious destiny. And she had sent him on his way with generous lies to ease his mind and lighten his heart for not grieving at the loss of her. At least not in the way she had wanted. Although she had denied that too, of course, so that he would not have to mar his grand future with any feeling of guilt or double-dealing.

She had smoothed his path, she had
loved
him, had given him the ultimate gift of true love, the thing he most wanted – his unconditional freedom. Permission, in effect, to leave her. She had told him it was ‘all right'that he did not love her. She had said she didn't really mind. And when he could no longer pretend to believe her he sat down on a rock like this one and damned himself for a selfish fool. He should have fallen at her feet and had the greatness of heart to lie to her. He had known it then. He still knew it. ‘I love you, Gemma. I love you.' What would it have cost him to tell her that?

And what was love, in any case? Did it even exist beyond the fierce explosion he had felt for Cara which neither of them had really trusted or expected to last? And even that had proved false as everything else now seemed false and flimsy to him. Except Gemma. As everything had turned to dust in his hands, ashes in his mouth. Except her. As everyone else had failed and faded in his vision.

Surely he could tell her that? Surely that would be something worth doing, worth dying for. Worth living for if he could. And if not, then at least she would know of his faith in her. He could give her that.

Frizingley, of course, was full of constables but, covered by boldness and darkness, he reached the manor wall unchallenged, climbed it, waited a few moments in the shrubbery until he saw her small, sturdy shadow and then, the windows being open, walked through them straight into her drawing-room. An act of rash folly. He saw as much in her face. But at least he was here and whatever might happen next he would have the time to make his declaration, even if he had to shout it as they tied his hands again and dragged him off.

She asked no questions. She came running towards him, he opened his arms and, as she entered them, it was a homecoming, a perfect sense of being where he ought to be. Not in Frizingley, or in this house, but with her. Anywhere. He had not touched her since his return from Ireland. What a fool he had been. He had come, a starving man, to stand before the feast of her, the bounty of her, and had not even held out a hand. He touched her now, inhaled her, took the scent of her and the warmth of her into his lungs, the famished, brittle steel of him dissolving into her so that he was clamped and pierced and narrowed by it no more. The famine and the Charter had emptied him. Now he was full of her.

Could it be love after all? He asked her the question.

‘I used to be so certain, Gemma. No more. I used to
know
. Now I'm just groping towards what I think – or what I hope. And that's a miracle in itself because I had no hope of anything until half an hour ago. And no belief left either. Not in myself. And not in any of my grand crusades for justice and freedom either. I'd seen what they amounted to at first hand – standing too near. I could see no truth anywhere – nothing I'd be even half way ready to die for – Galahad lost in the storm without his Holy Grail, poor devil. Poor fool. But there's truth in you, Gemma. And hope. And goodness. I would give my life for yours and count it a privilege. Is that love? I think it must be. Don't you?'

And if not, then love must be rare and strange indeed. Little more than a lightning flash soon gone and forgotten across this deep, calm sky.

‘Yes, Daniel. I think so.' Love as she could understand and give it. Clear water to his parched spirit. A nurturing, healing balm.

‘Yes.' Her voice had grown firmer now. ‘It
is
love.' She had made up her mind to it. And she was right, of course. She always had been. Not the love he had imagined. But he could relinquish his airspun imaginings readily now, for this warm, solid earth of her reality. He had never searched for happiness nor expected it. How odd and foolish and miraculous that, with nothing but a choice between exile or imprisonment before him, he could be so happy, and so peaceful, now.

Dear Gemma. Beloved brown cob of a girl. What could he give her? What tremendous act of love could he perform. What was it she most wanted? What ultimate, unstinting gift?

She disengaged herself gently, went to the window and looked out. ‘When must you leave?' she said.

He got up too and looked at her. Saw her. As she had always been. The finer half of himself.

‘I don't relish the thought of prison, Gemma.'

‘No. Is that what it would be? Prison?'

‘Yes.'

‘Not transportation?'

He shook his head. ‘No. There was too much fuss when they sent Mitchel to Australia. They won't want to stir that up again. I dare say they might ship off a few men nobody has heard of, to lessen the load. But not the candidates.'

‘And America?'

He sighed and smiled at her. ‘Yes, Gemma. It would be more comfortable to go there, wouldn't it? But exile goes on forever. If I asked you to join me would you come? When I'm established and have a roof to shelter you?'

‘Of course. Gladly. And proudly. Anywhere, Daniel.'

He smiled at her again. ‘And hide with me. No peace of mind. No friends.'

‘You are the only friend I need.'

‘You are
all
I need, Gemma.'

‘Darling …' Her gesture said ‘Here I am.'

‘And so …' The gift was there, in his mind, ready to be given.

‘Yes?'

‘I can't leave you, Gemma. Ships sink. Letters take forever to cross the ocean. I wouldn't know how you were, or where you were for weeks on end. I couldn't stand it. Not now. York prison is handier.'

He saw she was crying and took her in his arms again. Another homecoming.

‘When a man has something to live for he doesn't throw his life away, my darling. I've taken no great care of myself, I admit. But that's over now. If you need me, Gemma? You do need me, don't you? I surely need you.'

Drying her eyes with the palms of her hands she stood away from him a moment, her face radiant and tender yet touched, nevertheless, with something of her father's sound good sense, his honest determination to have and to hold forever under his wing all those he cared for. And Gemma cared only for Daniel.

‘I would go to prison in your place if I could,' she told him quietly, meaning exactly what she said. A sensible arrangement, in her view, since she could bear the restraint far more patiently.

‘You can't. What we have to decide now is how I am to contrive it. I can go out, of course, and get myself arrested …'

‘No!'
And the sharpness in her voice told him she was fully aware of his danger from men who, thinking it unlikely that the Chartists would be punished enough since the outcry concerning John Mitchel, were more than ready to take care of the matter themselves. ‘No Daniel. If this is really the best way – the safest way – and it is you who must decide …'

‘I have decided, Gemma. America is too far. And too risky. I'll serve my sentence. Two years at most, the constables were saying. And then – if you'll have me – we can be together openly – with dignity –'

‘Openly?' she said, smiling.

‘Why – yes –'

She stepped forward, raised herself slightly on tiptoe, and kissed him.

‘Will you marry me, Daniel?' It was not a question but a formal proposal of marriage which took him aback only because it had not occurred to him.

‘So you want to make an honest man of me, do you?'

‘No. You are that already. I simply wished to spare you the awkwardness of proposing to me yourself. Because of my money.'

‘Yes, Gemma.'

‘So what is your answer?'

‘Yes, Gemma.'

Although he would never feel more united to her, more bound in every real and lasting sense than he did tonight. Nor she to him.

They told each other so. An exchange of vows they would not break, a ceremony of hearts and minds which left them perfectly united.

‘Now I shall send for Ben Braithwaite,' she said. ‘And for Uriah Colclough. And I shall not release you from my custody until they are both here.'

‘Why, my darling?' He did not like the sound of it but he knew she would have her reasons.

‘Because one is the mayor, the other the mayor-elect, and they dislike each other. If you were ill-treated in any way while in their care each one would hold the other responsible. So they will make sure you are not ill-treated. Particularly if I declare my interest and let them know what a great fuss I can be counted on to make about it.'

Seeing the pugnacious line of her chin he smiled and bending over her, kissed it. An attitude by no means shared by Messrs Braithwaite and Colclough when they were summoned to her presence an hour later to be informed, in a manner reminding them all too strongly of the late John-William Dallam, the precise nature of everything she wanted done. By
them
. By Ben Braithwaite who had not taken an order from anyone since his father died, a dozen years ago, and by Uriah Colclough who took his only from God.

But John-William Dallam had always known how to get the better of them. So did his daughter.

She had in her custody the Chartist Mr Daniel Carey which, when one bore in mind the rumours of which certainly
Mrs
Braithwaite and
Mrs
Colclough were only too well aware – having started most of them – concerning her interest in him, could hardly be a matter for surprise. Therefore it would be a waste of time on anyone's part to show it. What she wanted now were not promises, which could be broken, but
assurances
which – as any gentleman with his reputation in the Frizingley Piece Hall to consider might tell her – could not. Safe conduct for Mr Carey to York came first on her list, by which she did not mean a negligent half-dozen special constables or a squadron of dragoons but a first-class train journey accompanied by either Mr Colclough or Mr Braithwaite, as proved convenient, so that he might arrive not as a prisoner apprehended on the run but a free man delivering
himself
to justice. And since – considering the political nature of Mr Carey's offences – it clearly could not be considered appropriate to hold him overnight in the squalid old building, once a cock-pit, which served as Frizingley's jail, she proposed that he should be offered hospitality in the home of Mr Ephraim Cook, also a magistrate and a special constable, and absolutely beyond reproach.

Mr Cook was waiting, now, in her study and had expressed himself delighted to be of service to Mr Carey, to the extent, in fact, of offering to join the expedition to York tomorrow. Mr Cook had also offered, quite freely, to testify as to the integrity and worth of Mr Daniel Carey's character, at his trial. Perhaps Mr Braithwaite and Mr Colclough, after spending a day in his company, might be inspired with a wish to do the same? She rather hoped so. And there was something in her manner, as there had always been in her father's, which advised them, rather strongly, to agree with her.

For the Dallam fortune, after all, was very sound and John-William himself had been hard and crafty and much respected. There would be favours still owing to him which his daughter looked as if she knew how to call in. The old man had been powerful. The daughter was a widow. Supposing she married the fellow? Supposing she tamed him and made a cabinet minister out of him one day? She seemed quite capable of it, by the look of her. She could afford it, too. In which case both Mr Braithwaite and Mr Colclough would find it most useful to have the acquaintance of Mr Daniel Carey.

‘I am sure we understand one another,' Gemma said.

It was done. Restrained goodbyes were said. The four gentlemen left the house all together conversing in a most civilized manner as they got into their carriages, arranging to meet at Mr Ephraim Cook's in the morning and then to the station as naturally as if it had been their own idea, not Gemma's.

A remarkable woman. So thought three of those gentlemen who had all, at some stage, wished to marry her. So thought the fourth, Mr Ephraim Cook, who had not. Practical, shrewd, efficient, a woman with a man's head on her shoulders and her feet firmly on the ground.

Yet, when they had left her, she sat at her desk for a very long time, her chin on her hand, dreaming and sighing like any romantic girl, her head in the clouds, her feet skimming the air, her reverie ending only when she heard another carriage on the drive – her own – bringing Linnet home from the Braithwaites where the musical Magda had been holding a soirée with piano and violins.

She sighed and straightened her back. Quietly folded her hands.

‘Good evening, Linnet.' Her voice was perfectly steady.

‘Good evening, Gemma.' Linnet's light warble was no higher than usual. Yet a challenge had been thrown down and accepted, hostilities begun.

‘You have come from the Braithwaites, I suppose?'

‘Indeed yes.' Linnet sat down or rather sank, most gracefully, into a moving cloud of lavender tulle frills releasing a faint, sharp scent all around her. ‘Yes, Gemma – the Braithwaites – and such a flutter you have put them all in …'

‘You know, then, that Ben Braithwaite came to see me a little while ago – and why?'

‘My dear – how could I fail to know?' she sounded playful, ‘– when you obliged him to leave his supper not to mention his guests, who were all absolutely agog to know what was amiss. As I was. And could hardly believe their ears, I might add, on his return … The whole of Frizingley is talking about it, Gemma.'