The Sleeping Sword (36 page)

It was not the life I desired. A year and a half ago I would not have believed myself capable of bearing it. I bore it—just—at some times better than others and was infinitely relieved when my father-in-law, perhaps to ease my strain, sent Gervase abroad that summer.

I went—of all places—to Galton on the afternoon of his departure and lay on the summer grass, exhausted, greedy for rest, and spent ten days eating the new bread and the herb dumplings my mother-in-law set before me, sleeping in the sun and in the great bed where I had lost my child. I was an invalid again who could only be healed by quietness, by laying down—until he came home again—that sorry burden of pretence. And when I had energy enough to walk the leafy borders of the stream with Mrs. Barforth and her dogs, she talked to me about her brother, Peregrine Clevedon, of their happy childhood in the days when her world had been shielded by the Abbey stream, and by her love for this brown, stony land. But for most of the time we walked silently in the warm air, listening to the rippling of the water, a drowsy bee in the clover, birdsong, the busy life of the summer hedgerows and trees, two women who had failed at the great career of marriage—the
only
career—yet, being obliged to remain bound within it, had no choice but to adapt themselves, in their different ways, to that captivity.

She could have told me all I burned to know about Gervase. Would he force me, as her husband had forced her, to spend the rest of my life observing the conventions, safeguarding my reputation, conducting myself in such a manner that people would not talk about me and so
could
not talk about Diana Flood? Or might he lose his nerve one day, and his head, and throw her reputation and mine to the winds in a desperate bid for happiness? But I asked no questions, being too weary to grapple with the answers, while she, understanding my need for repose, told me no tales.

Oddly enough it was at Galton that I heard of Robin Ashby's imminent departure from Cullingford, Liam Adair riding over on purpose to tell me.

‘Cullingford's not grim enough for him,' he said, making light of it, although I knew he was uneasy. ‘He's going north to have a look at the Scottish mining villages. Somebody told him they still use women in the pits up there instead of ponies and he's off to put a stop to it.'

‘Did he resign, Liam, or did you discharge him?'

‘Now why ever should I do a thing like that? He'll work all hours God sends, Sundays, high days and holidays—it's all the same to him. And he's clever. And cheap, too. Why should I want him to go?'

‘Have you told Venetia?'

‘I imagine he may have done that himself. Grace, it's the truth, you know, that I don't
want
him to go. But that's not to say it's a bad thing that he goes—if you see what I mean?'

I went home a day early but found Venetia perfectly composed.

‘Have you heard about Robin Ashby?' she said. ‘Not that I ever expected him to stay in Cullingford. He could be comfortable here, you see, and that would never do. So he's going to work in a Scottish coalmine just to see how long it takes him to choke on the dust. Then he'll write about it and after that, who knows? I expect he'll be off to India to find himself a bed of nails.'

We went to the
Star
the next morning to say goodbye and drink his health in Liam's champagne, Venetia once again in her extravagant feathered hat with its emerald buckle, a frilled parasol in her hand, a great deal of gold and emerald jewellery about her neck and wrists, marking her as the wife of a successful man.

‘Goodbye, Robin Ashby,' she said brusquely, ‘and good luck—unless you should be crushed to death in a rock fall, or choke—or starve—'

‘Or be hanged.'

‘Yes—there's always that. I didn't like to mention it.'

And I understood not only that they had been lovers, but that I had actually known it for a long time.

He left an hour later on the Leeds train and she came home dry-eyed to dress for a dinner-party her husband had asked me to arrange.

‘I'm going to London in the morning,' Gideon said, ‘and if it turns out that I have to bring Bordoni of Bordoni and McKinlon back with me, Grace, can you cope?'

He departed, returned, Mr. Bordoni being joined by a Mr. Chene, the one a most gregarious gentleman, the other something of a gourmet, both of them requiring to be lavishly entertained. I entertained them, aware, as I asked the questions they expected and made the answers they wished to hear, of Venetia watching me, her expression no longer indulgent or friendly as it had always been with me, but one of cool mockery, her pointed face, for the first time in her life, hard.

Messrs. Bordoni and Chene, after effusively kissing my hand, went away; and a morning or two later, at breakfast, Gideon looked up from his correspondence and said: ‘Damnation! I shall have to go down to Sheffield on the first train. And Grace, it looks very much as if I shall have to bring my trip to New York forward by a week or two. In fact next Friday would suit me, if you could have them get my things ready by then? And Venetia had better come with me. From the tone of this letter I think the Ricardos are expecting it.'

‘Yes, Gideon,' Venetia said, getting up from the table, and it seems to me that, in a manner of speaking, we never saw her again.

There was no elopement this time, no note hidden in the folds of a ball gown, no ecstasy. She walked calmly upstairs, packed a small bag, ordered the carriage to take her to the station and—while I was busying myself about the arrangements for her journey to New York—got on the train for Leeds. A dozen people saw her on the platform at Cullingford, half of them saw her walking towards the ticket office in Leeds and idly wondered why Mrs. Gideon Chard should be travelling alone, without even a maid. But she had the reputation of an unsteady woman—Cullingford being unable to forget that sensational cigar—and no one questioned her, although the booking-clerk did remember afterwards that he had sold her a ticket to Glasgow.

‘I'll get up there by the next train,' said Liam Adair, who had been called in by me before the final pieces of the puzzle became clear. But Mr. Nicholas Barforth shook his head.

‘You'll do no such thing. It's not your place, Liam, nor mine, to fetch her back. That's her husband's privilege and his alone, if he chooses to take it. I'll be in my study, Grace, when Gideon gets back from Sheffield. I expect you'll be glad to send him straight in to me.'

I sat in the drawing-room alone and utterly appalled as I had done on the night they had rescued her from Charles Heron, the double doors open so that I could not miss Gideon's arrival and expose him to the risk of servants'gossip. The day had been fine, but hearing the patter of rain on the window, sharp and cold as summer rain can be, I shuddered, thinking of rain in the far north, remembering the watchfulness and the scorn in Venetia's face this last week or so, and grieving because in the end she had turned against me. She had gone at the last because there had been nothing in this house nor in her life here that she valued. She had rejected us all, and I knew how cruelly I would miss her.

Gideon came, received my message with raised eyebrows, went into the study and remained there a long time—an hour and a half, I think—before I heard his steps once again in the hall and his voice curtly informing Chillingworth that he required his carriage.

‘Will you be dining, sir?'

‘I will not.'

‘Very good, sir.'

I got up and walked very carefully down the corridor and, tapping on the door, giving him time to compose himself should he require it, went inside, finding my father-in-law as I suppose I had expected him, sitting at his desk, cigar in hand, the butts of several others beside him, two glasses on a silver tray, the traditional comforts men offer themselves in times of stress.

‘Ah, Grace—yes—you had better sit down.'

‘Thank you.'

And, his movements a little heavier than usual, he stubbed out his cigar and lit another, refilled his glass and drank, reflectively and very deep.

‘Well, Grace—you are entitled to know. What can I tell you?'

‘Has Gideon gone after her?'

‘No.'

‘But he will be going?'

‘No, he will not.'

‘Then you will go—surely?'

‘No, Grace.'

‘Father-in-law.'

He inhaled, narrowed his eyes against the smoke, closed them briefly as if the light hurt him, and shook his head.

‘For what purpose, Grace?'

‘To see that she is safe—at least that.'

‘I doubt if she would welcome the intrusion. And there are a great many mining villages in Scotland, Grace. How could I find the right one?'

‘If you wanted to find it, you could.'

He sighed, contemplated for what seemed an uncomfortable time the drift of cigar smoke, and then once again shook his head.

‘You are remembering the episode of Charles Heron, Grace. I was her legal guardian then. Her husband is her guardian now. The decision is his. I intend to respect that decision and so will you, that is an order, my dear daughter-in-law—and believe me, it is the very least you can do for him.'

‘For Gideon?'

‘Yes, for Gideon,' and with the force of a whiplash his hand came smashing down on the table. ‘Damnation, Grace, what excuses can you find for her? I could find none. He has every right in the world to call her a whore, every right—and not a clever one either, by God, but an idiot, a lunatic. And what man in his right mind would be willing to live with a mad whore? Yes, Grace, she may
want
to come home some day, for she has gone off with another lunatic, it seems, who will not look after her, and I think we can safely take it that she cannot look after herself. When that day comes I might have a few hundred pounds a year to spare for her—I might—but what I cannot and will not do is ask her husband to live with her again. Grace, in his position—the position she has put him in—I would not live with her. And let me make it very clear that for as long as Gideon remains under this roof—and I see no reason at all why he should not remain here—I expect him to be shown every consideration by you and by everybody else—
everybody
, Grace. I think you will understand me. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a call to pay on my wife.'

Nothing could have persuaded me to stay in that empty house, and had there been no carriage available I would have walked down the hill to the town and found my own way to Gower Street. But the victoria, as always, was at my disposal, Liam Adair looking rather as if he had been waiting for me, his hat in his hand, a travelling bag standing ready by the door.

‘Liam, you are going to Glasgow after all, aren't you?'

‘I am that. I don't work for Nick Barforth these days and if I decide to go north, then it's no business of his.'

‘They don't want her back, Liam.'

‘Did you expect they would?'

I paused, frowned. ‘Yes, I thought Gideon might
need
to.'

‘Why? To stay at Barforths? By God, Grace, but you're an innocent.' And sitting down rather heavily he too reached for a cigar.

‘He doesn't need to do anything now, Grace, that he hasn't a mind for. He's got Nick Barforth exactly where he wants him, which only goes to prove, my girl, that they're two of a kind, since nobody else has ever been able to put one over on old Nick. But now Venetia—God love her—has played right into Gideon's hands. He runs no risk now of being cut out of the business. How could Uncle Nick ever do that to him when he's the injured party, when Nick's daughter had given him such a raw deal? And if Gideon goes on playing his cards aright—as he will—he could even get Mr. Barforth to offer him something fairly substantial as an inducement to stay. You'd do well to warn your father to keep his eyes open, because if he
does
decide to pay Gideon some sort of compensation, it could be something that he'd have to take away from Gervase.'

‘
What
compensation?'

‘I know what I'd ask for. A limited liability company—Nicholas Barforth and Company Limited in the modern fashion instead of a private firm belonging to Nicholas Barforth Esquire. Mr. Barforth as chairman, of course, with a majority shareholding. Gideon Chard as managing director with a share or two. Gervase Barforth with a seat on the board and equal shares with Gideon, of course, at least to start with—I expect your father would make sure of that. But I can't see Gervase putting up with it for long. He'd sell out and go off to Galton, I suppose, which may not suit you, Grace. And if Gideon wants that company—which is the same as getting himself officially recognized as heir apparent—now's the time to make a push. If I can see that, then so can Gideon.'

But Gervase, I thought with a cold, shuddering sensation at the pit of my stomach, would probably go to Galton in any case. I was in danger of losing nothing that I could still call mine; and I had not come here to talk about myself.

‘Will she be all right, Liam?' And it was this that I wanted to know.

‘With Robin? Christ! I shouldn't think so. It depends what she's hoping for.'

‘Did he even ask her to go with him?'

He smiled, remembering Robin Ashby, in spite of himself, with affection.

‘No, no, that wouldn't be his way. He believes too much in freedom to make a request like that. She probably found him packing his bag one day and when he'd told her all about the Scottish miners he'd casually wonder if she might care to come and see for herself. And if not, then no hard feelings.'

‘Dear God, Liam—does he even love her?'

‘Do you know, Grace, I can't think of one single reason why he shouldn't.'

‘And you knew?'

‘Of course I knew. And if there was anything I could have done about it, then I'd be glad to hear of it—short of telling her husband—and even that crossed my mind. I expected it to run its course. I reckon I didn't realize she was so near the end of her tether. Well, she's gone on her crusade now, God help her—God bless her!'