Flint and Roses (9 page)

Sitting beside Amy Battershaw—how was it that I had once thought her a pleasant enough girl?—he was assisting her, quite correctly, in the arduous task of dining. He had made sure she was comfortably seated, had himself retrieved her gloves when she had somewhat wildly abandoned them, had indicated her menu-card, hiding, in its silver-filigree holder, among the forest of crystal bordering her plate, and then, knowing her to be short-sighted, had read it aloud to her, suggesting—as a son of the, house who knew the specialities of his mother's cook—which dishes she might like to attempt. But Miss Amy Battershaw, whose governess, like ours, had taught her that a lady's appetite must be no bigger than a sparrow's, had most likely taken the precaution of stuffing herself with muffins and gingerbread before leaving home, and in the approved fashion could manage nothing but a morsel of this, a spoonful of that, a simpering, fluttering sip of champagne.

Odious girl, I thought, allowing my own champagne glass to be refilled to the brim, glancing from Miss Battershaw to Rebecca Mandelbaum, who was playing the same charade with Blaize; and only a look of pure horror from my sister Celia, whose appetite was indeed very small, stopped me from accepting a second helping of chocolate cream.

Odious girls, all of them, dressed-up little dolls—and badly dressed at that—too much beribboned and curled, too sugar-plum sweet, too good to be true! Surprised at my own savagery, when only last week I had been perfectly happy to take a carriage drive with Amy and had thought Rebecca's performance at the piano most skilful, I realized quite abruptly that, just as the male population had become divided between Nicholas and those who were not Nicholas, so had the world's females grouped themselves into those who might, and those who might not, take him from me.

Not that I in any way considered him mine. Not that I had so far considered anything but the odd sensation his presence brought me. Certainly I had not yet paused to ask myself why I had chosen to care for Nicholas, who was without doubt every bit as stubborn and quick-tempered as everyone said, instead of for Blaize, who was charm personified, or for any other man. I had not asked myself if, perhaps, it could be nothing more than an extension of my childhood sympathy for the younger brother who had always had to work harder, play harder, than his dazzling senior to obtain the same degree of praise. I had asked myself no questions at all. But how many of us, at seventeen, care overmuch for reasons?

The meal ended, leaving, no more than a vague impression of excellence on my tongue, and rising in obedience to Aunt Verity's signal I returned to the drawing-room, where coffee was already waiting, accompanied by baskets of cakes for those of us—like Miss Amy Battershaw—who had not wished to eat too heartily in the presence of gentlemen. But Caroline, quickly bored by any gathering of women, soon made a signal of her own which took us both upstairs to our cosy, confidential sofa.

‘That's better,' she said, ‘for I cannot bear to hear the old hens tittle-tattling. I expect you saw Lady Winterton keeping a place for me beside her?—well, and so she might, for her Francis is becoming very persistent, and for all her title and breeding she is pushing him at me just as eagerly as Mrs. Battershaw her Benjamin. Well, as to Francis Winterton, maybe I shall and maybe I shan't. But what is certain is that it won't be until I've convinced father to give me a proper London season and a trip to Paris. And it won't be difficult, especially now that I'm altogether his favourite child.'

‘There was bloodshed, then—when your father got back from Leeds?'

‘As you might expect.'

‘And they are both in disgrace?'

‘Oh yes, except that Nicholas caught it the most, as he always does—and I can perfectly understand why. Really, Faith, there's no reason for you to look so surprised, since it was Nicholas, after all, who shamed father in public. My word, it seems Mr. Hobhouse spent the entire journey giving father advice on how to bring up sons, and you can't expect him to forgive Nicky for that. And, of course, the whole point of the exercise was that Blaize never intended to go in the first place. He doesn't care about trains but, if he'd said as much and offered to give up his place to Nicholas, father would just have gone on muttering about eldest sons only and refused to allow it. So he played their game, like he always does, and then, when the time came, he just wasn't there. He knew Nicholas would be at the station and that father would offer to take him. It was his way of making Nicholas a present. And Nicholas knew it very well—oh yes—and so did father, because Blaize is always doing that kind of thing. It's his style exactly. All Nicholas had to do was jump on board and by the time they got home father would have forgotten all about it. But Nicholas, of course, had to stand there growling back at father just to prove to himself that he dare, going too far as always and then too stubborn to back down. Hasn't that always been his way? And you've always felt so sorry for him, Faith—I can't think why, since he's perfectly able to fend for himself.

We came downstairs together, Caroline walking a step or two ahead in her determination to be first at the drawing-room doors, since she could not be certain I would stand aside to let her pass. But as she made her entrance I felt an all too familiar movement at the back of my head, the dread sensation of hairpins coming loose, and, judging my plight too urgent for the upstairs journey to Caroline's bedroom, took refuge in the back parlour, situated at the end of the passage behind the stairs. There was a mirror there, high above the mantelpiece, a degree of privacy, since only an
habitue
of the house would be likely to use this room and standing on the fender, my skirts swinging perilously towards the grate and the small fire appropriate to a spring evening. I had shaken my hair loose, combing through it with hurried, unkind fingers, when the door opened, snapped shut-again, and Nicholas stood there, scowling at my back, the set of his jaw and the irritable, down-drooping; line of his mouth saying to me very clearly, ‘Good God, is there no peace in this house?'

‘Faith, what on earth are you doing here?'

And, from an excess of wanting to be warm and encouraging, my answer came out cold, clipped, and distant. ‘As you see, my hair is coming down, which is a great nuisance.'

‘I do see that. And unless you get down from that fender you are bound to set your skirts on fire, which would be an even greater nuisance.'

‘Really—do you think so?'

‘I am sure of it.'

‘Well then, I will just have to take my chance and prove you wrong, since I need the looking-glass.'

‘Evidently,' he said, as curt and sarcastic as he always was in the face of mild annoyance, of foolish young girls who intruded on his desire for a moment's peace and quiet, and disregarded his good advice. But nothing, now, would induce me to leave my precarious perch until my task was done, no matter how right he was, no matter how anxious I had now become about the small but vigorously burning, fire. And having good reason to recognize stubbornness, when he saw it, he said quickly, ‘Look here. Faith, do get down. There have been disasters enough today. You could spare me another, for if you roast they will surely manage to blame me for it.'

‘Oh, if it is yourself you are thinking of, I will get down at once. I should not wish to cause you a moment's unease.'

‘That is very good of you.'

‘So it is. And I have finished now in any case, without so much as a scorched hem, so I will say good-night to you, Nicholas.'

‘Yes, Good-night.'

But as I got down from the fender and faced him, knowing, behind the protective shield of my hostility and my cool Aycliffe manner, that in ten minutes time, back in the drawing-room, I would be grief-stricken and furious at this lost opportunity, something penetrated the fog of his ill-humour, drawing through it his unwilling, rueful smile.

‘Oh dear, poor Faith! Will you never learn to manage your hair? I have seen you like this many a time when we were children, spilling hairpins. And do you know, I believe we once sat behind you in church, Blaize and I—do you remember?—at somebody's wedding?—and undid your hair-ribbons?'

‘Yes. I remember. I'm not likely to forget it, nor the scolding it earned me afterwards.'

‘Well, I'm sorry for that. You could have said it was our fault, you know. I reckon that's what we expected you to do. I thought only boys were brought up not to tell tales, and that girls were allowed to tittle-tattle as much as they pleased. Caroline always does.'

‘Perhaps she has a lot to tell tales about.'

‘Aye,' he said, his gloom shredding clean away, to be replaced by a most decided, most unexpected grin. ‘I reckon she might.'

And it was unfortunate that we were still smiling at each other when the door was thrust open again and Uncle Joel, wreathed in cigar-smoke and bad temper, stood there seeing, not a pair of cousins alone together by chance, reminiscing of a shared childhood, but a young man, his earlier misdemeanours by no means forgiven, who had now committed the further crime of neglecting his mother's guests in the company of a marriageable and apparently flirtatious young lady. And until I saw it in his face I had truly forgotten the enormous damage that a few moments alone with any young man could inflict upon my reputation.

He came into the room, shutting the door behind him, sealing it with his powerful, impenetrable presence, and stood for a moment in silence, his hard face so furious and yet so satisfied that I knew he wanted to think ill of us and would not listen to reason.

‘Father—' Nicholas said, his own face hard too. Yet the fact he had spoken at all betrayed his alarm, and I knew through my own, dry-mouthed panic that, whatever we were to be accused of, he would be made to suffer for it the most.

‘It occurred to me,' my uncle said, ‘that you had been a long time away. And I ask myself why I am surprised to find you in these circumstances.'

‘I think you mistake the circumstances, sir.'

‘I think I do not.'

‘I insist that you do.'

‘You are in a position to insist, are you?'

‘Possibly not. But just the same, I must ask you to hear my explanations.'

‘I do not choose—' Uncle Joel began, but, seeing the black, snarling anger in his face which did not mean to be cheated of its outlet, and the answering snarl in Nicholas, more than ready to offer the combat his father clearly required. I took a hasty step forward, knowing full well that this, being an extension of what had occurred earlier at the station, had very little to do with me, but compelled nevertheless to intervene.

‘Uncle Joel—please—my hair was coming down, which happens to me often enough. I came to use the looking glass—'

‘And my son followed you.'

‘He certainly did not. He was not even pleased to see me.'

But it had not been a question, merely a statement of what he intended to believe, and I was appalled when Nicholas, raising his shoulders in a careless shrug, announced suddenly, ‘Of course you are quite right sir, as always. I did follow her here, with the most questionable of motives, which unfortunately for me she did not share. So I am entirely to blame and I think you may allow Faith to return—unscathed—to her sisters.'

‘Oh Nicholas,' I said, ‘Nicholas'; and for a moment there was nothing to do but watch, fascinated and terrified, as they stood quite still, jaws clenched, mouths down-drawn with their fierce, knife-edged anger, a clashing of identical wills, my own will flickering feebly between them, pale and insignificant perhaps, but persistent, since I was half a Barforth too.

‘Back down. Nicholas,' My will pleaded. ‘Please—back down, as Blaize would do. There's no shame. He wouldn't think ill of you. In fact I believe he'd like to back down himself and can't. Do it for him, because he's older, and it would be easier for you.' And when I saw that he would stand his ground, not yielding an inch, totally regardless of consequences—as his father would have done at his age—I murmured, ‘Uncle Joel—', striving to remind him that he couldn't really thrash his son in the hearing of his wife's guests, and that, if he did, many of them would be only too pleased about it.

‘Quite so,' he said, apparently reading my mind, an iron lid almost visibly descending over his temper. ‘Well then for the present, my lad, you had best go back and show your face in the drawing-room. And you'd best look pleasant while you're about it, for I'll not have your mother upset again. And as for you, young lady, your father had a word to say to me on your account before he died. I well remember it, and it strikes me I may have a word of my own for your mother—should she ever decide to come home.'

And turning abruptly, letting the door slam shut behind him, he was gone.

I was for a dreadful moment consumed entirely by embarrassment, hot and sticky with it, painfully aware that this could in no way endear me to Nicholas, who would be very likely to save himself from further awkwardness by ignoring me entirely.

‘Don't worry,' he said quietly, not looking at me, staring instead at the square of carpet his father had just vacated. ‘He will say nothing to your mother, nor to anyone else. By the time he reaches the end of the passage he will have realized how trivial his behaviour has been, and he may well make himself very pleasant when he sees you again. He may even buy you a present to make amends, for that is how I got my chestnut mare, and Blaize his bay. You are quite safe.'

‘Oh heavens—I don't care about that.'

‘But I care about it. I don't wish to upset you, Faith. And as it happens neither does he—not really. You were just there, at a time when he needed an excuse to be angry, and he has a great talent for making the most of whatever he finds to hand.'

‘I'm not upset. I'm just sorry—and Nicholas, do tell me, you really wanted to take that train today, didn't you?'