The Sleeping Sword (25 page)

‘Heavens no! But I—'

‘
Venetia
, don't put so little value on yourself.'

‘Oh darling, what real value have I?'

‘Enormous value. Indeed you have. You are generous and kind and quite lovely when you are in good spirits.'

‘Oh no—not now.'

‘Yes. Now as much as ever. And in any case he did not take you from charity—
never
think that. He wanted to marry you, Venetia, right from the start. And whatever your shortcomings—and they will not last—he has done well enough in other ways. He
wanted
you, Venetia. You should not forget it.'

She smiled. ‘Oh Grace, we know very well what he wanted and I do hope it will content him. Because—as you say—he was no gallant knight, was he, galloping to my rescue? On no,
that
was Liam Adair. And do you know, I still wonder how he could bring himself to take me—a Chard of Listonby condescending to such a prodigal, such a poor little drab as I was then. Liam would have done it for my sake alone, which would have been noble, you know. But it was not noble of Gideon, I quite see that, nor even compassionate. It was just for the money. And when one looks at it like that, then perhaps we have both got as much—or as little—as we deserve.'

She was a little more wide-awake at dinner that night, talking mainly to Gervase but at least saying something. She wrote a few letters the next day, had her hair done differently, began to smile rather often and in a new, perhaps brittle way that was at least better than her vague, disquieting stare. She was just possibly mending, or, if she remained unhappy, had begun to learn—as so many women must—the futility of letting it show.

A year passed and the half of another. I was purposeful, successful, had established myself as the mistress of an impressive household, as a hostess and as a wife. I had achieved, within the limits of my sex and my class, my cherished measure of authority and freedom. My father and my father-in-law were pleased with me. My mother, had she been alive, could have held me up as an example to other women's daughters. And how can I say just when it was, in those busy, commonplace months, that I lost Gervase?

I saw less and less of Blanche. She had returned to London shortly after Venetia's marriage to participate in the festivities occasioned by the arrival of a number of Russian ‘Imperials', a state visit which had a distinctly family flavour about it, Queen Victoria's second son, Prince Alfred, having recently married the Tsar's only daughter, Marie, whose brother, the Tsarevitch, heir to the Russian throne, was the husband of Princess Dagmar, sister of our own Princess Alexandra of Wales.

There was, of course, the possibility that we would have to fight Russia ere long to safeguard our interests in India, but the next Russian tsar would be the brother-in-law of our future king, the tsar after him would be our king's nephew, and until hostilities broke out—if they ever did—London was prepared to be very gay.

The Duchess of South Erin served caviar that season, discovered a balaleika player to serenade her guests and procured invitations to a costume ball at Marlborough House, where the bare-shouldered, enticing but altogether untouchable Blanche had been noticed by no less a person than the Prince of Wales. Had she been of a warmer or more adventurous disposition, the degree of his interest was such that she might well have become a royal mistress as famous as Mrs. Langtry, Lady Brooke or Mrs. Keppel. Perhaps the offer was made and Blanche, in her cool, vague fashion, pretended not to understand it. Perhaps—and this seems rather more likely—the Prince was far too experienced in the ways of women to look for passion where quite clearly there was none to be found. But, just the same, my cousin pleased his eye, and when it was realized that he would be far more likely to accept a dinner invitation if Blanche was invited too, then her place not only in society but in her mother-in-law's heart was irrevocably secure.

With no greater effort than the dressing of her silver-bond hair, the displaying of her magnificent bosom and her sleepy smile, Blanche had filled Aunt Caroline's drawing-room with the world's élite, and transformed herself in the process from the little manufacturing niece who had not been quite good enough for Dominic to the Duchess of South Erin's pride and joy. There could be no question now of those arduous domestic duties at Listonby, no question of playing the hostess, the chatelaine, or even the mother, when all these matters could be delegated to others, leaving Blanche free to practise her supreme art of attracting the rakish heir to Victoria's throne.

But in the October of 1875 the Prince set off on a six months visit to India, and the Chards, whether by mutual agreement or separate inclination, decided to use this time as profitably as they could by making a more prolonged autumn visit than usual to Listonby, where Sir Dominic could attend to his stock and his estate, the Duchess to her son's house and his larder, and where Blanche could produce another child, preferably male, no gentleman being able to feel himself secure with only one heir to his name.

There was, of course, a dance, the ballroom having been redecorated in white and gold for the occasion, the chairs in the Long Gallery re-covered in oyster satin, every chandelier in the house dismantled for cleaning, every item of plate, linen and china got out for the inspection of Aunt Caroline, while Blanche, installed by the fire in the Great Hall, took it upon herself to acquaint me with the details of upper-class adultery which she seemed to find not so much immoral as unnecessary.

‘Naturally,' she said, ‘Aunt Caroline would not hear of it in this house, nor at South Erin, and she appears not to notice it in the other houses we visit. But in fact there is a great deal of it about. No one seems to mind so long as one obeys the rules.'

‘And what are the rules, Blanche—in case I should ever need to know?'

‘Oh, quite simple really. If Lord A and Lady B decide to fall in love, all may go swimmingly unless his wife, or her husband, should decide to make a fuss, in which case one cancels immediately, since it would be embarrassing to do otherwise. After all, one could hardly expose one's friends to jealous scenes or oneself to the Divorce Court.'

‘I should think not.'

‘Exactly. Which is why the Prince and Princess of Wales get on so famously. When he takes a fancy to someone or other, Alexandra simply looks the other way. She keeps herself busy with her knitting and her children and leaves him quite free to please himself.'

‘How convenient!'

Blanche pouted and shrugged. ‘For those who care for it, I suppose it is. You have seen the new skirts, have you, Grace? Very tight in front with almost no bustle. They will suit you this winter far better than they will suit me, for I am already three months in the family way, although I am determined to have it over and done with by March. Yes, a boy in March, April and May to recover, and back to London in June. I feel I shall have earned that.'

But I was no more confident of my ability to wear the new tight skirts than Blanche, having experienced, these past few weeks, the symptoms of a pregnancy I could not quite bring myself to admit. I knew of no contraceptive practices in those days and had not sought to discover any. I belonged to a society where women were expected to bear children. I was a woman. I would probably bear children. It should have been as simple as that. Indeed, being already in the third year of marriage, I should have been glad of it, and only too anxious to rid myself of the stigma of sterility. But every morning since the start of my suspicions I had awoken not only to nausea but to a burden of unease which grew heavier throughout the day.

I was neither physically afraid nor emotionally ill-equipped. Women died in childbirth in their thousands, I well knew it, but I did not expect to be among them, nor to shirk in any way this supreme responsibility. I knew exactly how a nursery should be staffed and furnished and had my own notions as to the care of the young. I would be a good and conscientious mother. I had quite made up my mind to it. Yet somehow, for all my good intentions, I could not contemplate my condition without panic, and quite soon could hardly contemplate it at all.

Three times I drove to Elderleigh to tell Aunt Faith. Three times I failed. A hundred times, with stiff lips and a tight, dry throat, I began to tell Gervase who had, after all, a right to know. A hundred times I heard my voice inform him instead that the night was fine, that dinner would be late or early, that it would probably rain by morning, and on the night of the Listonby ball he was still—perhaps happily—unaware of his approaching fatherhood.

It was from the start a difficult evening, Gervase arriving home late and in an odd humour, out of sorts and disinclined for company.

‘Do we have to go, Grace?'

‘Of course we do.'

‘Why? Because Princess Blanche is expecting us? Listen—take off that ball gown and come to bed with me. And then pack a bag and we'll go off to Grasmere until Monday. You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

‘Yes, I would. And you know quite well it can't be done—not tonight.'

‘I know quite well
you
can't do it tonight, Grace. That's not the same thing.'

And when I had told him how unreasonable he was, that he should have taken me to Grasmere two weeks ago when
I
had suggested it, instead of going off with the Lawdale, that in any case one simply could not please oneself in these matters when it involved letting other people down; when I had said all that and he had grudgingly, sourly, got into his evening clothes, it was Venetia who delayed us, losing first an ear-ring and then a glove, dashing upstairs again when the carriage was already at the door, to put another comb in her hair, so that Gideon's impatience, never well concealed, became black enough to feel.

‘We shall be very late, Venetia.'

‘Lord, yes! But does it matter? After all, it is only kings who are obliged to be punctual—or queens. And Aunt Caroline is hardly that'

‘Quite so. But she is my mother, to whom courtesy—I should have thought—is due.'

‘And Listonby, after all, is where you belong, Gideon, wouldn't you say so,' drawled Gervase, leaning against the mantelpiece as if he had all the time in the world at
his
disposal.

And for a moment, before he gave his answer, Gideon stood and measured us all with an angry but careful eye, accepting both the challenge of Gervase's hostility and the reasons for it, calculating with a swift glance that, although he was outnumbered, he might just as well take up that challenge now as later.

‘I might say that,' he agreed looking directly at Gervase. ‘I was born at Listonby, which has to mean something. But I believe a man belongs where he decides to belong—where he can carve out a place for himself.'

‘Or take somebody else's place?'

‘Yours?'

‘If you like.'

‘Are you making me an offer, Gervase—or a gift?'

‘I might be stating a fact.'

‘That's very civil of you, Gervase. If I had a place ready carved out for me, I doubt I'd let another man step into it.'

‘Then you've no need to worry, have you, Gideon, since there's not much competition in the world to be the third son of a baronet.'

It was the moment I had dreaded, the confrontation I had made up my mind must not take place, but which now, when I needed to be strong, touched my already uneasy stomach to nausea, reminding me of my condition—my frailty—precisely when I could not afford it.

‘Oh lord—' Venetia said, her hands clasped tight together, her voice trailing off into a faint, nervous breath of laughter. And then—because it was the very best I could do—I said tartly: ‘Well, if it's to be pistols at dawn perhaps you'd have the good manners to wait until dawn. There's no sense in spilling blood on the drawing-room carpet.'

‘I beg your pardon,' said Gideon, bowing stiffly.

‘Ah,' said Gervase, ‘it goes against your commercial instincts, does it, Grace?' And although he had said much the same thing to me often enough before with the wry, teasing humour of our love-games, I heard the insult in him now—the distance—the deliberate separation of his values from mine, and turned cold.

He did not speak to me through the drive, did not help me to get down from the carriage, walking ahead of me into the house where he tossed his hat and cloak irritably down. But he made his greetings pleasantly enough, kissed Aunt Caroline on her hand, Aunt Faith on the cheek, Blanche, to her great distaste, on the corner of her mouth, a procedure designed, I thought, not only to upset Blanche but her brother-in-law, Captain Noel Chard, who during his frequent leaves of absence from his regiment rarely strayed from her side.

‘Gervase—really!' she said, pushing him away. ‘Why must men carry on so?'

‘Men are made that way, Blanche, don't you know? Or
don't
you know?'

I walked quickly into the ballroom, making a point of not looking behind me to see if he was following, simply assuming—hoping—that he would, although, as a husband of three years'standing, no one could expect him to remain long at my side. He would go to the billiard room or the smoking-room. I supposed, as soon as he could, where, in his present childish humour, he would drink too much, play cards for stakes I thought scandalous, wasteful, and lose, which would sour his temper tomorrow when we had been invited to Galton, thus increasing the difficulties of what I expected to be a difficult visit. What a nuisance he could be, now irresponsible!

‘Gervase—' I commanded.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘I know. You are telling me to behave.'

‘I am asking you, since we are here, to make the best of it. And as to what happened between you and Gideon—well, it wasn't the moment.'

‘My word!' he said. ‘Can I believe my ears? Are you actually apologizing to me for not leaping to my defence?'