The Sleeping Sword (27 page)

‘Yes indeed—Major Flood, how do you do?'

‘What a glorious day!' he told me.

‘Yes—very fine.'

‘Downright criminal, I call it, to stay indoors on a day like this.'

‘Oh, yes—yes, indeed.'

‘Oh, come now!' Diana Flood cut in. ‘Mrs. Gervase Barforth is being polite, darling, for she does not care for the countryside. Is that not so, Mrs. Barforth?'

But all I cared for just then was to sit down, somewhat speedily, before the weakness of my legs became apparent, and my only answer was what she may have taken for a frosty smile.

Tea was served, for no one's benefit but mine, the gentlemen seeing the appearance of the tea-kettle as a signal for escape into that glorious outdoors, Diana Flood and my mother-in-law remaining only because it would have been ill-mannered to leave me alone. But conversation was stilted, quite painful, constantly broken by such exclamations as ‘Oh, listen! I believe they have brought out the new black mare—I would know that whinny in a thousand', so that when no second cup was offered and Mrs. Barforth suggested ‘A breath of air? Shall we walk to the bridge?', I got up at once, declaring myself very willing.

‘I fear Mrs. Gervase Barforth is not dressed for walking,' remarked Diana Flood, glancing at her own stout riding-boots, ‘real walking, that is.' But I could think of nothing worth saying to that and went outside again into the crisp, amber day, unable to suppress a shiver as the wind, coming fresh from the moor, struck me its first blow.

‘Exhilarating,' said Diana Flood.

‘Yes—quite so.'

But as we walked to the unsteady wooden bridge spanning the little stream, her faint contempt meant nothing to me compared with the enormous effort of moving and continuing to move one leg after the other, of keeping that aching back erect, of forcing that taut, uneasy stomach to obey my commandment that, come what may, I would not—absolutely
would
not—vomit in a public place.

‘Oh, yes! Look! There is Gervase on the mare. My word, Aunt Georgiana, she is absolutely first-rate!'

‘Is she not? And brave and willing into the bargain. Grace, dear, come off the bridge or you will get rather wet as they ride across.'

We had been all three on the ramshackle bridge together, looking down at the stony river-bed and the clear, rushing water. They had moved away and I had barely noticed it. I followed them meekly, stood beside them, their conversation, which seemed mainly to be of hocks and withers, defeating me; and clenching my teeth to conceal a sudden, brief pain—a gesture they may have mistaken for sullenness or bad temper—I watched as Gervase and the two Floods rode their horses into the stream and up the bank beside us.

I no longer knew if I had forgiven him. I could not even judge how much or exactly what there had been to forgive, so urgently did I now require to concentrate on the basic function of keeping on my feet. And when he swung out of his saddle, his beautiful black mare—just a
horse
to me—momentarily screening us from the others, his evident ill-humour seemed far less menacing to me than the claw which had embedded itself somehow at the base of my spine.

‘Is it necessary to look so peevish?' he hissed from the corner of his mouth. ‘Whatever it is I am supposed to have done to you does not concern my mother. You will oblige me by not making her pay your price for it.'

But I couldn't answer him.

The black mare was now the object of their most minute attention. They looked at it loudly, ecstatically, touched it, picked up its hooves and examined its eyes and teeth, arguing at length which one of its many qualities should be counted the best. And when that was done, all that remained was for them to put it through its paces, to match their own mounts against it somewhere where the hedges were high enough, the ditches wide and deep, where there was sufficient flat ground for a good gallop.

‘Stargate Meadows,' announced Major Compton Flood, naming a stretch of land belonging to Sir Julian, not far from the Flood manor, and as Diana waited for her own horse to be brought she smiled at my mother-in-law and said: ‘Aunt Georgiana, won't you come with us?' knowing full well that only my presence prevented it.

‘Hardly, dear—'

‘Please,' I said quickly. ‘If you would like to go, please do. I shall be perfectly comfortable.'

But the Clevedon code did not permit the abandoning of one's guests, even such tiresome city-bred creatures as myself who—in this glorious weather—did not ride.

‘No—no, dear. We shall be very comfortable together.'

‘Goodbye, mamma!' called out Gervase, leaning down from the saddle to kiss her cheek. But if he made a deliberate attempt to slight me—and of course he had—then his effort was wasted, for I was incapable by then of resentment or jealousy or any human emotion at all. All that concerned me was that something inside my body appeared to be breaking and I needed peace and solitude, a corner in which to hide, and if possible to mend myself.

They rode off. I turned, moved, went inside, my mother-in-law's voice behind me still murmuring of the fine weather. And then the stone fireplace in the Great Hall which had seemed quite far away came suddenly towards me, or I to it, so that I put out both my hands to push myself clear of it and encountered nothing at all against my fingers.

‘Oh, my dear!' Mrs. Barforth whispered urgently. ‘My poor dear!' And as her strong, horsewoman's hands took hold of me, I felt myself to be bleeding and understood I had started to lose my child.

Perhaps I had expected her to be efficient, for she was accustomed to mares in foal, to hound bitches and their litters, and had none of the squeamishness of the city-bred. I had even expected her to be kind, or to go through the motions of kindness, since she had always tried to like me and had done her best to behave as if she did. I had not expected to believe in her kindness, to need it, had not thought I could cling to her in that desperate fashion, nor find such reassurance in her lean, firm hands. I had not expected to be so afraid, but in the half-hour before the doctor came I was terrified of death, assaulted by the rushing memories of all those thousands of women who every year must bleed away their lives in this fashion. I couldn't end like this. Until not so very long ago I had believed I could never end at all. That illusion had faded, but even so I could not bear it to be like this, not now; and as the futility of it, the waste of it, reduced me to helplessness, she put her arms around me and held me gently but in a manner which conveyed her very definite intention of not letting me go.

I suppose there was nothing the doctor could really do, and being accustomed to a country practice where there were no great fees to be earned, he said so quite bluntly, assuring me that nature, which had put me in this predicament in the first place, would now take its course. He would make me as comfortable as he could, and after that there would be some days in bed, how many he was not yet prepared to specify, and with proper rest and food I would soon be up and about again.

‘Beef tea,' he said. ‘Herb tea. Red wine and raw eggs. Anything you like. If you believe it's doing you good, then it probably will be. No reason to make a fuss. It happens every day.'

And I was calmer after that.

‘My dear,' Mrs. Barforth said, bringing me the hot milk and cinnamon I had requested. ‘I really didn't know—'

‘I hardly knew myself.'

‘Gervase?'

‘No. I didn't tell him. I wish there was no need to tell him now.'

‘Dearest, how can we avoid it?'

‘We can't. Where is he?'

‘I imagine he must be at the Flood's by now, for they will surely have invited him to dine. I have sent word.'

But she must have known as well as I did that he would not come soon. She had also sent word to Listonby, for, not long after, I heard a carriage and there was my maid with my hairbrushes, my bottles of toilet water, my clean linen, a note from Blanche saying all that was needful, promising she would come when she could, telling me that Venetia, who would have come then and there, had returned to Cullingford directly after luncheon with Gideon. And unaware until that moment of how much I had been longing for Venetia, I was ashamed of the tears in my eyes and considerably annoyed by this strange new tendency to weep.

I no longer felt any pain. I was simply weary to my very bones, drowning in the weight of it, the effort of saying ‘No, thank you' to offers of food and drink and nursing becoming so tremendous that I closed my eyes, not to sleep but to escape. And I supposed it to be far into the night when I heard the sound of hooves below me and Mrs. Barforth, hastily rising from her chair, hurried downstairs to meet Gervase who only later—
much
later I thought—appeared in the doorway, looking at me and trying not to see me with an expression I vaguely recognized.

‘Are you—all right?'

‘Yes. Quite all right.'

‘You should have told me—shouldn't you?'

‘I wasn't really sure. Do come in.'

He came, gingerly, treading like a cat unsure of its ground, ready, I think, to avert his gaze from the many things around me and within me which he thought might alarm or disgust him. And abruptly I remembered when I had seen him like this before and pressed my eyelids together to shut away yet another onslaught of those feeble, irritating tears.

‘When did it start?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘No, I suppose not. I—I'm sorry.'

‘Yes.'

And I knew that, whether or not he wanted to take my hand, he would not take it, that he was as helpless now, faced with my pain, as on the day he had knelt beside an injured horse in the paddock just beyond this bedroom window, holding himself responsible for those injuries as now he was accepting the blame for mine. He was suffering and I knew it. Yet I was suffering too and his anguish, in my present weakness, did not console me.

‘They say you should rest.'

‘Yes—as much as I can.'

‘So—do I disturb you?'

I shook my head.

‘Grace—?'

‘Yes?'

But, whatever it was that he wished to say, it could not be said. It may have been some expression of tenderness or self-reproach, the things one hopes a lover might say at such a moment. ‘I could not bear to lose you'or quite simply ‘I love you'. Very likely it
was
something like that, and anything would have sufficed. But it was beyond him. He swallowed hard, took a nervous step up and down the room, said nothing, and was very glad, I suppose, when he glanced at me, to find I had apparently fallen asleep.

He came to see me the next morning very early, hovering once again in my doorway.

‘They say you had a good night.'

‘Yes.'

‘Grace—you don't need me for anything, do you?'

‘No.'

‘Then—look here—the thing is I'm supposed to be at the mill this morning.'

‘Then you'd better hurry.'

‘If you'd rather—?'

‘I'm
all right
. Your mother can look after me.'

‘Of course.'

He crossed the room, possibly disliking the part of himself that could barely wait to be off; disliking, too, the effort it cost him to brush the back of his hand against my cheek. And because I was stung afresh by the memory of that dying horse and was yet again close to tears, I said tartly: ‘You'd do well not to keep your father waiting.'

I heard his voice and his mother's in the yard below and then, when my breakfast tray had been brought and Mrs. Barforth, coming in behind it, had persuaded me to a cup of hot, fragrant chocolate, she sat down beside me and sent the maid away.

‘You do know, my dear, that Gervase feels terribly to blame?'

‘I know.'

‘Is he to blame? He says you quarrelled at Listonby and that he was—difficult. But he did not realize—I did not realize—yesterday afternoon, that you were ill. We thought—'

‘You thought I was in a sulk.'

‘Oh, dear! And if you had been a sulk I wonder if I should be surprised at it, knowing how difficult Gervase can be? But to have inflicted that drive on you—and that walk to the bridge—'

‘I inflicted all that on myself, Mrs. Barforth.'

‘I wonder if you can convince Gervase of that?'

‘Should he ever ask me, I will try.'

The doctor came soon after, expressing himself well satisfied, and then there came a note from Mrs. Agbrigg murmuring her regret both at my misfortune and my father's absence in Manchester. But she would visit me herself that afternoon. Blanche too, I thought, might well stir herself to drive those few miles from Listonby and would perhaps bring Noel Chard with her. But I soon became aware, as the slow, sickroom hours passed, that I was simply waiting for Venetia.

Gervase, I calculated, would have reached Cullingford by eight o'clock, and even if he had gone straight to the mill, he or his father would have sent a note which could bring her here by mid-morning. Gervase would know I wanted to see her. She would know it. She would drop everything—naturally she would—and come. But one always recognizes the final moment when if something does not happen
now
, it will never happen at all. And struggling with a disappointment enlarged by physical weakness, I failed to notice the change in the weather and was surprised when Mrs. Barforth murmured: ‘I cannot think anyone will have set out from Cullingford today. The sky has been black in that direction since luncheon, and Blanche will not risk herself even from Listonby in this rain. I fear there is a storm coming.'

‘She could have been here by now.'

‘Who, darling? Mrs. Agbrigg? I doubt it, for if she set off at all she may have thought better of it, since she will wish to get home again.'

‘No—no—Venetia—'

‘My dear—oh heavens! is it Venetia you have been pining for?'