Flint and Roses (49 page)

‘No, I loved it. I needed it. I was safe with him.'

‘Good,' she said, her crisp tone instantly drying up the source of my approaching tears. ‘Obviously I am not looking for safety. Perhaps I had better find myself a missionary, since at least they have no objection to working their wives, very often to death. Perhaps that would suit me better than sitting at my embroidery in the drawing-room at Nethercoats, listening to Freddy telling me not to worry that the mill is collapsing because he will always take care of me—or sitting at Fieldhead waiting for Mr. Oldroyd to die.'

And, swayed by this mood of confidence and because the need had been growing in me for weeks; because Prudence had shared everything else with me and I couldn't bear to be alone with this any longer, I fixed my eyes on the fire and said very quietly, ‘Prudence—for the past six months I have been Nicholas Barforth's mistress.'

‘Have you?' she said, no more than that, her voice blending quite naturally with the stirring of the logs, the ticking of the clock; and, as I turned sharply to look at her, she shook her head and smiled, amused by my astonishment.

‘Well, and what did you expect me to say? What do you want me to say? I am hardly likely to congratulate you. And you surely don't need to be told you are the biggest fool in Creation.'

‘No. You can safely assume I know that.'

‘And you couldn't imagine—or expect—that I would assist you or allow myself to be used as an alibi?'

‘No. I don't expect it and wouldn't ask.'

‘Well, then—am I to urge you to break off with him?'

‘No. I won't do that.'

‘I imagine you will be obliged to eventually—but, we won't go into that. Are you feeling guilty on account of Giles and Georgiana, and want me to scourge your conscience?'

‘Not even that. I manage very well for myself on that score.'

‘Yes, I can well believe you might. What do you want, then? You realize, of course, that if you are caught you will have to leave the district in disgrace, whereas he will not. And if you are not caught—well, dear, I wouldn't care to grow old, sitting at this window, waiting for him to come a-calling whenever he can spare a moment or two away from his combing machines, and his wife. Why have you told me, Faith? You must know my character well enough to realize that I wouldn't be prepared to sit here and listen to the tale of how marvellous he is, repeated over and over, to ease your conscience and your loneliness? Faith—what are you hoping for?'

‘Nothing.' I told her, knowing she would believe me, knowing; very fully now, that it was true. ‘I love him that's all. That is what I am—a woman who loves Nicholas Barforth. That is all there is to me.'

‘How gratifying that must be,' she said, ‘for him, at any rate. Poor Nicholas, it must be so very difficult for him now, being obliged to continue his married life—and, of course, he does continue it, for, if he had stopped sharing a bed with Georgiana, the maids at Tarn Edge would have been quick to spread the word.'

And as I gasped at the blow she went on smiling at me as Aunt Hannah had once done, ruthless in the administration of what she hoped might be a cure.

‘But you will have thought about that many a time, I imagine, on the nights he cannot be with you. Certainly it would prey very much on my mind, in your place. But don't worry darling for it may not be such a bad thing after all. There is always the possibility that she might conceive another child and die of it.'

‘Prudence!' I cried out, aghast, terrified now in case a time would ever come when I could hope for her death—or admit to myself that I could—and, slapping one hand decisively against the other a schoolmistress calling me to order, she said. ‘Let us look at things as they are. He married her. No one expected that the marriage would succeed—or could succeed. But he loved her enough, not so long ago, to break your heart on her account. He could very easily do so again. And if he does not abandon you—either because he has had his fill or because someone forces him to do so, or even because his conscience stirs him to admit that he is doing you immense harm—then what else have you to hope for but her death?'

I bent forward, my head touching my knees, and after a moment she came to sit beside me and slid her cool hand in mine.

‘Poor Faith. You are the last person in the world I would wish to hurt.'

‘I know. Don't worry about me, Prue, for I am neither stupid nor helpless. He is what I choose to make of my life for as long as I can, and you mustn't blame him for that. It seems very unlikely to me that I could love anyone else—not now. It seems to be a requirement of my nature that I should love him, and I will just have to cope with it. If hard things are said of me—later—I would not expect you to defend me.'

‘That, my dear,' she said, her fingers tightening around mine, ‘would hardly be for you to decide. I would defend you or not as I chose, just as you are now choosing to put yourself in a position which could require it, Faith—all our lives someone has been telling us what to do, what to say, what to think, and even if it had been done from a sincere desire to protect us, which I doubt, it was always intolerable to me. And I wonder, truly, what credit there is in doing right if one has never been allowed the opportunity to do wrong? I am sick of petty tyranny, Faith. I want freedom for myself—the freedom to make my own mistakes, to make a stand and declare that what is right for you, or anyone else, need not be right for me—and so how can I deny the same thing to you? I have never greatly cared for Nicholas Barforth, but what right have I to say you are wrong to love him? I could not live as you do, nor feel as you feel, but what right have I to forbid you to feel it? I think you are bound to suffer for this and harm others with you, but, if you are prepared for that suffering, what right have I to say you must not? If this is what you choose to do, and can accept the consequences, then do it. I believe you are wrong, but you will not forfeit my affection. I merely hope that you will survive and be given the opportunity to choose better next time.'

But there could be no next time. There could be Nicholas, and I could not see beyond him. Nor did I make the attempt, for he had possessed the whole of me, and I wanted no part of myself back from him. Yet I could not sleep that night, irritated by the thin whimpering of an early December wind, and by morning I knew that I must reserve some small measure of independence, that I must, against the urging of my own nature, retain an area of my life that belonged only to myself, a foundation, however slight, on which to build—whatever I had left in me to build—when it was over.

My mother was married on a white winter morning, a swansdown sky streaked faintly with pink, the crackle of new snow underfoot, the parish church dusty and cool in its emptiness, since only Prudence and myself and Jonas sat on the bride's side of the aisle, a quartet of Adairs, fresh from Ireland, occupying the other.

She wore blue velvet, carried a huge white fur muff, and there was a white feather in her hat, a rapturous satisfaction in her cloudy blue eyes. She was marrying the man with whom she was perhaps no longer quite so romantically in love, but whom she most ardently desired. And I could see no reason why he, with his roguish Irish eyes and his rogue's charm, should not desire her too.

‘I am going to be so very happy,' she told us, tripping out into the churchyard. ‘My word, what a lovely day! Every day is going to be lovely from now on. I will tell you something, Faith dear—it is going to be strawberries and champagne every moment. Yes, as a girl I
did
so long for my strawberries and champagne. And now—you will know what I mean. Perfect content.'

But only our ageing governess. Miss Mayfield, who with young Liam Adair tugging at her hand could count on many years of employment yet, seemed wholeheartedly to agree.

They were to go to London, making no promises to return until the New Year, and, waving them off at the station. I think I was more than ever aware of approaching change, that this Christmas time—this season of sentiment and goodwill, this family festival—would be difficult and dangerous.

Aunt Verity, just back from Bournemouth, called to take tea and to inquire about my mother's wedding, her smile as sweet as it had ever been, sensing no treachery, no awareness that she was face to face with adultery, the mistress of her much-loved son.

‘You will come to us, dearest, on Christmas Day afternoon,' she said. ‘Caroline has promised me an hour, which is very generous, and Georgiana does not go to Galton until Boxing Day. We are not going to Listonby until the New Year, for your Uncle has not been well and I think we had best be rather quiet. But we shall look forward to seeing you, Faith—it has been much too long.'

And because I could not hide from them forever, because sooner or later I would have to take Georgiana's hand and smile, with Nicholas looking on—because only Aunt Verity's absence had enabled me to delay this long—I chose not to fall ill that Christmas morning, as I might have intended, and sent Prudence a note that I would share her carriage.

There was the usual splendid pine-tree in the hall at Tarn Edge, the lamps already lit in the drawing-room, a mountain of logs blazing and singing in the hearth, their tangy odour blending with the tea-time muffins, the drift of Barforth cigars that had scented all the Christmases of my childhood. Aunt Verity's home, warm and easy, when mine had been cold and difficult, Nicholas, even then, being the hope I brought with me, the memory I took away. And, pausing a moment in the doorway, watching them, my uncle at ease in his armchair, his legs stretched out to the fire. Caroline opposite him in the matching chair, enthroned as became her station, Georgiana sprawled on the sofa, looking out of the window, wishing herself already at the Abbey. I wondered who suspected me, knew, with a surge of blessed relief, that no one did, until a head turned, a pair of smoke-grey eyes flickered over me, and Blaize came across the room to kiss my hand.

‘Blaize, how lovely to see you. Caroline—it's been an age.
Georgiana
, how are you?'

And these, I knew, were the bones of adultery, my treacherous hand-clasp, the false smile I gave her as she sighed and stirred herself listlessly to greet me, the criminal ease with which I nodded, through the firelight, to her husband—my lover—and inquired. ‘How are you, Nicholas?' as if I had forgotten his dark head on my pillow just a few hours ago. And worse than that—far worse—was the pleasure it gave me to see that she was not looking her best, that boredom, as always, had taken her colour away, that her pointed face, without its vivacity, was quite plain.

‘I make her so miserable,' he had told me, and seeing that she was indeed miserable—whether on his account or for lack of the open moorland of Galton—I was obliged to struggle with myself fiercely, to strangle the beginnings of delight, of a most evil-hearted gratitude.

There was a toddling, black-eyed Dominic Chard now to swell the family circle, and his not quite identical brother Noel; a slightly smaller but exceedingly determined Gideon Chard, needing frequently to be restrained. There was an agile little demon called Gervase Barforth, climbing on every chair-back, attempting to mount the fender until his father—my lover—removed him by the scruff of the neck, called out ‘Georgiana', and, when she took no notice, strode across the room and dropped the protesting little boy into her lap.

‘Can't you do something with that child, Georgiana?'

‘Oh,' she said, her green eyes only half open. ‘What is there to do? I could drown him, I suppose—although it would seem rather a waste of my initial effort.'

‘One rings for nanny, surely, at such times?' Blaize murmured, stepping easily—as he so often did—to her rescue. ‘Even a poor bachelor like myself knows that much.'

‘Faith!' Caroline called out, visibly shuddering at the piercing quality of her nephew's howls as he was carried away. ‘Come and sit over here with me. You have been playing the recluse lately and I have started to wonder why. There is no admirer, I suppose, that we have not yet heard about.'

‘Why no, Caroline—what an idea!'

‘That is exactly what I said to Matthew, when Aunt Hannah inquired. Faith would have told
me
, I said—didn't I, Matthew? Well, you will come to us for three weeks in February—I am quite set on it. My new servants'wing is quite finished, and I should enjoy your opinion.'

And, anchored to Caroline's side, her interest in her own affairs claiming the whole of mine, I was spared the necessity of talking to anyone else. She had been down to London in November to watch the funeral of the Duke of Wellington, a gentleman who would not be much mourned in Cullingford, since, like Sir Giles Flood and probably Sir Mathew Chard, he had not wished to extend the vote to commercial men. But Caroline had been impressed by the ceremony of his departure, the muffled drums, the military bands playing their dirges, the magnificent black and gold funeral car bearing the coffin draped in crimson velvet, the hero's sword and marshal's baton, his white-plumed hat, set out upon it. She had been touched by the sight of the Duke's poor old horse following on behind, his empty boots hanging, reversed, from an empty saddle; but, rather more to the point, she had made the acquaintance of a certain Lady Henrietta Stone, a woman of decided fashion with a house in Belgravia, who was bringing a party to Listonby at the beginning of March.

‘You had best stay on with me for that too,' she said. ‘For Hetty Stone is really very smart—city smart, not county smart—and I shall be obliged to put myself out for her a little. And you could cast a glance at my wardrobe, Faith, if you wouldn't mind, for I have brought some new evening gowns back with me from London, and there is something not quite right about them. I told Matthew you would be able to spot it instantly.'