Flint and Roses (17 page)

Clever Jonas, I thought, cold, clever Jonas. There is the woman a man knows would be good for him, he had told me, the woman he would like to have, and the woman he can get. And, his needs being too pressing to risk a refusal from the first, he had thought better of the second and had settled cold-bloodedly for Celia, who in her race to reach the altar would have accepted very nearly anyone. Yet had I really been the one he would have liked? And if so, if I had managed without even noticing it to captivate this man who had certainly not wished to be captivated, whose satisfactions, I believed, came from the manipulation of legal documents and the amassing, in any way he could contrive, of money, then could I not do the same with Nicholas? But, in the bright light of Celia's betrothal morning, I concluded that no more than a fleeting physical impulse, such, I well knew, as a man might feel for a pert housemaid, had inclined Jonas to me, an impulse he had at once stifled and forgotten, returning with relief to his natural habitat of self-interest and ambition, where Celia would suit his purposes just as well.

‘I hope you will be very happy,' I told her.

‘Oh—assuredly,' she replied, and for the rest of the summer we had nothing to do—were allowed nothing to do—but busy ourselves with Celia's trousseau, Celia's linen and china, Celia's carpets and curtains and her wedding-guests, an occupation frequently tedious but useful sometimes when I needed to stop myself from wondering why these past weeks I had seen so little of Nicholas.

‘I shall ask cousin Caroline to be a bridesmaid, of course.' Celia announced grandly, ‘and I can hardly avoid cousin Lydia from Sheffield, who used to be my best friend. And then there are the four Hobhouse girls, and my own two sisters, which makes eight in all—and, since I would not like Arabella Rawnsley and Rebecca Mandelbaum to feel left out, I had best ask them too. And I have always been quite fond of Amy Battershaw. What do you think? Although it means asking someone else to make up a pair; I could have Rebecca's sister Rachel, who is rather small, or Lydia Rawnsley—although, since she must be fast approaching twenty-three, perhaps it would not be kind.'

And with that marvellous procession forming in her mind's eye, all these pretty, well-dowered young ladies, the great Caroline Barforth among them, following little Celia Aycliffe down the aisle, she laughed out loud, flushed and almost vivacious in her delight.

‘They never expected me to be the first,' she said. ‘None of you did. But there it is. Oh, do be careful how you cut out that muslin, Faith, for I shall want at least two dozen petticoats from it, and I have seen a wine-red velvet at Miss Constantine's in Miflergate—no, Faith, not for an evening gown. Can you think of nothing but dress?—for curtains. And with cushion covers and a mantel-valance to match! think it would be an improvement in any drawing-room. Please do not look so astonished at me. Faith. You may continue to amuse yourself with ribbons and frills and lace, shawls for a while yet, but I am now obliged to turn my mind to more serious issues.'

‘Oh yes,' Prudence replied tartly ‘Serious issues indeed—is it to be wax flowers or stuffed birds under glass on the hall table? My word, how are you ever to decide?'

But Celia, having so easily achieved the summit of her dreams, was good nature itself, treating us already with the tolerance of an adult towards a pair of quarrelsome children, an attitude she felt quite entitled to adopt, since her marriage to Jonas, arranged for October, when she would be just sixteen, would make her socially older than Prudence and myself, a woman who ‘knew', while we remained girls who merely thought we did.

‘I cannot bear it.' Prudence told me more than once. ‘If she speaks to me in that superior manner just once again I shall box her ears. She is living in a dream. Can you make no attempt to bring her back to reality?'

And, of course, I could not; for Celia, beyond all warnings, continued to float through her betrothal days on a blissful cloud composed mainly, it seemed, of carpet samples and heavy flock wallpapers, mahogany sideboards and red plush armchairs. Jonas—fully occupied by his negotiations with Mr. Corey-Manning—appearing content to leave all such arrangements to her.

‘After all she is paying for them.' Prudence snorted as we sat together at our eternal sewing.

‘Yes, but she is having such a good time, Prue—surely you can see that? And they may not do too badly together. He will have his business and she will have her furniture. It may suffice.'

‘He will have his business, certainly, and he will have ours as well, if he sees half a chance of it.'

‘Prudence, whatever do you mean?'

‘Only this,' she said, plunging her needle with apparently lethal intent into a fold of fragile spotted gauze. ‘He is a man and we are four women alone. At the moment he is no more to us than the stepson of our aunt, whose opinions or demands may count for little. But when he marries Celia he becomes our brother. And if you have not thought of that, then I am quite sure
he
has thought of it, and Aunt Hannah too. Yes, at the moment there is Uncle Joel; but he will not live forever, aad supposing I do not marry, or you do not, or that we are widowed? What happens to spinsters and widows. Faith? They remain at home, or they return there, under the guidance of their closest male relative. And in return for the protection of that male relative they devote themselves and their incomes to his best interests—or a way is found to compel them to do so. Women need a man to speak for them in legal matters and in all other matters of greater importance than a tea-party—I am well aware of that—and if I remain single I cannot imagine Jonas allowing me to take my money and live alone, not without a fight. He is a lawyer, remember, and he will know best how to maintain his authority. After all, why should he be content with one dowry, if there is the slightest chance of helping himself to two or three? And the only way I can avoid it is to get married myself.'

Caroline, having completely disregarded our quarrel, was still a regular visitor in Blenheim Lane, still, it appeared, on negotiating terms with Julian Flood, although no announcement had yet been made.

‘My word. Celia,' she announced, ‘what a regular beehive—I never realized it took such a quantity of muslin and taffeta to be married. And by the way, if it is to be October, my love, then I fear you can't count on me, for I shall be in Paris by then—which is rather a pity—but you'll not miss one bridesmaid, surely, from among so many. The Battershaws are taking me, and I understand the Floods are to be there for part of the time, which will be very pleasant, except that, really, one can see the Floods at home any day of the week, and one may feel inclined—in a strange place—to make the acquaintance of a few strangers. One hardly takes the trouble to go abroad for a family party. Well. Celia. I do wish you every happiness. When I get back from France you'll be Mrs. Jonas Agbrigg of—where is it you're going to live?—Albert Place? My goodness—Mrs. Agbrigg of Albert Place! It doesn't sound a bit like you.

‘The date could be put back until Miss. Caroline comes home,' suggested Jonas's father, the taciturn, hard working Mr. Ira Agbrigg, who, having made a marriage of convenience himself, was apparently not too pleased to see his only son do likewise. ‘The lass is young enough, and I reckon my lad can bide his time.'

But Mr. Corey-Manning, anxious to hand over his offices in Croppers Court and his goodwill in Cullingford as a whole, and remove himself to the healthier, quieter air of Bridlington, was in a most decided hurry, quick to insinuate that he had had other offers which he could always reconsider. Aunt Hannah, with other schemes afoot, saw no reason for delay. The very house Celia declared she had always dreamed of was miraculously offered for sale. And when my mother announced that she, too, would prefer ‘sooner'rather than ‘later', October it was certainly to be.

‘The house is in excellent condition,' my mother insisted. ‘All they need do is select their furnishings and have them carried inside, and as for the linen and the trousseau, it need not be done entirely at home. It is altogether permissible and fashionable, nowadays, to
purchase
such things ready made, and we have these marvellous trains; do we not, to fetch them to us?'

Having no more taste for wedding-fever, it seemed than Prudence, my mother at once obtained the services of upholsterer, cabinet-maker, plasterer—trades I had not realized she knew existed—went herself to Leeds and Bradford and over the Pennines to Manchester for the items our local shopkeepers could not supply, dispatched a team of scrubbing-women to the newly acquired, foursquare house in Albert Place, engaged a cook, a parlourmaid, a pair of Aunt Hannah's charity-girls to do the ‘rough', an outside man, who was at once kept busy fetching Celia's parcels from every train. And I knew my mother well enough to realize that all this was being done to suit neither Celia, Jonas, nor Aunt Hannah, but herself.

‘You did not know I possessed such energy, did you?' she told me, coming into my room a fortnight or so before the wedding. ‘But, since Celia so greatly desires to be married; I may as well give her a little push in her chosen direction. And I will confess to you, Faith, that when I came back for Caroline's party I did not intend to stay even this long. No—no—I required merely to sort out my affairs with Uncle Joel, matters of finance which I make no effort to understand since my brother is so good as to understand them for me, and will not cheat me in any case. And now, my dear, with this wedding almost out of the way, I really do not feel up to another Cullingford winter.'

‘So you will go abroad again, mamma?'

‘Yes, dear, as I would have gone three months ago had it not been for Celia—although, as it turns out, this marriage relieves me of the obligation to have her suitably cared for while I am away. I have only Prudence and yourself to think of and Prudence is well content to stay here with Miss Mayfield, who is quite terrified of her and will allow her to do just as she pleases. She will have a married sister, after all and a most efficient brother-in-law who may be applied to in case of need, so there is no impropriety in leaving her behind. You, dear Faith, are to come with me. Now—what do you think to that?'

I sat down carefully on the corner of my bed, thinking, quite simply, of Nicholas—Nicholas—unable to tell her that I could not bear to remove myself from the place where, I might see him, although lately I had seen him so seldom, and go to a place where there was no hope of seeing him at all.

‘It would be very—pleasant, mamma, except that, perhaps—I think I should stay with Prudence.'

‘Now why should you think that?' she said, her smile twinkling across the room to me. ‘I am sure Prudence has no particular need of you. Whereas I, my dear, have encountered certain annoyances in travelling alone. I have arranged for us to set off at once after the wedding—you see how masterful I can be when I set my mind to it—for if I stay to see them back from honeymoon I may be obliged to delay even longer for the birth of my first grandchild. And, in any case, dearest, apart from the fact that travel broadens the mind—and heaven knows! a mind raised in Cullingford could not escape being narrow—it would be as well for you to be away from Nicholas Barforth.'

I felt, not only the colour flooding my cheeks and then leaving them—leaving me very cold—but far more than that, a sense, I think, of enormous protest, followed first by the fear of loss, a desperate urge to prevent it, and then the certainty that he was lost already, a terrible feeling, so that I could only mutter, ‘Mamma—if you imagine—'

‘Oh,' she said, still smiling, ‘I do not imagine—I do much more than that. I may not be clever. Faith, like, your father and Prudence, nor am I a domestic mouse like Celia, but what I have always been able to do, quite unerringly, is to see exactly what is going on between a man and a woman. It is my one talent. Dearest, I am not being unkind, you know; just sensible. I would be delighted to see you married to Nicholas Barforth. It would be altogether splendid, but there is so much against it—not least the sorry fact that you are ready for marriage and he is not. My dear, only poor men and old men have need of wives. Young men who happen also to be rich can afford to marry late, or indiscreetly, or not at all, but usually they wait and enjoy their freedom until middle age inclines them to sobriety. When they become forty or fifty they may begin, to think of the advisability of having sons, to assist them in their businesses and to inherit their money—and they require young girls for that. When Nicholas has sown his oats—of which, my dear, he has an ample store, for he is my brother's son, and Joel was not always so steady—it would be too late, my love, for you. I am sorry to put it to you so bluntly, but it is the way of the world, my poor Faith, and I cannot alter it. Blaize is the same, and Jonas, even, would be like them if he could, for why should a man rush to limit himself in marriage when its pleasures are so readily available to him without responsibility—without encumbrance? A spinster is a sorry sight, my dear, but a bachelor who has his youth and looks and money to spend—that is another story. You need marriage, Faith. It is the one career open to you, and if you do not succeed in that, then your whole life will be accounted a failure. If Nicholas stays single all his days he may still be acknowledged a dashing fellow. And, in any case, I have good reason to believe he is not ready, and that he knows he is not ready to settle down. The world is wide for him; it is very narrow for you; and you may console yourself, when you are weeping for him tonight, that he would not voluntarily have kept his distance these last few months had he not felt a certain measure of attraction. Had he seen you merely as a pleasant, friendly girl—well—he would have continued to see you, would he not, and dance with you, and take you in to supper; and neither Aunt Verity nor I would have troubled to notice it. But we
have
noticed it, and he, my love, has chosen—for once in his life—to be sensible. So must you.'