The Sleeping Sword (42 page)

The funeral was, of course, a major event, all five of the Barforth mills being closed for the day, so that the steep slope of Kirkgate leading to the parish church was lined six deep with Barforth employees craning their necks to watch the spectacle of upper-class Cullingford on parade; the black silk gowns beaded with jet, the hats with their black satin bows and black feathers; the women of the immediate family in knee-length mourning veils; the black-draped carriages and the black horses; the fun, I suppose, of identifying each party as it arrived, Aunt Caroline's coach with its ducal crest proving a firm favourite.

There were mourners, too, from far afield, coming to pay their respects not to Venetia, who was unknown to them, but to her husband, her father, her grandfather, Sir Joel Barforth, whose name lived on and whose widow was here today, standing for the first time in twenty-five years between her sons; Aunt Faith clinging to Sir Blaize's other arm, my mother-in-law standing up very straight and then suddenly leaning—for the first time in years—against her husband.

The widower stood among his own kin, maintaining a grave but otherwise impassive countenance, Aunt Caroline scarcely knowing what expression to adopt since she had not liked Venetia but was troubled by so young a death, Blanche looking tearful and out of sorts, Sir Dominic, who was probably very bored, looking every inch a baronet.

I stood with my own family and with a tightly controlled, not quite sober Liam Adair, my hand on my father's arm, glad even of Mrs. Agbrigg to shield me from Gervase, for I had not seen him since the night of Venetia's death and refused to demean myself by looking too closely at him when he appeared on the fringes of the crowd, his face as sickly and unreal as candlewax.

We walked away, all of us in the same direction, except Gervase who, remaining at the graveside a moment, went off down a path which would lead him nowhere but away from his family, and from me. We got into our carriages and drove back to Tarn Edge, where I served tea to the ladies, spirits to the gentlemen, conferred with Mrs. Winch about luncheon for those mourners who, having some distance to travel, might require it; functioned, in fact, like the machine I had become.

But the animosity to which I had become accustomed among my relations was absent today, Sir Blaize Barforth taking and holding his brother's hand for a long moment in the churchyard and thereafter staying closely at his side, while Aunt Caroline had no wish to pursue her feud with a woman who had lost her only daughter. They sat all together by the drawing-room fire when the guests had gone, the three children of Sir Joel Barforth, Blaize, Nicholas and Caroline, with their spouses and their mother, united if only imperfectly by distress, and talked quietly among themselves of neutral subjects, happier days.

‘What is to become of the poor infant?' said Aunt Caroline, sensing a threat to Gideon, since this was not his child and already it was paining her to be obliged to pretend otherwise. But Mr. Barforth, never one to brook interference in his affairs, merely shook his head, and instead of informing her that the child, whatever else she might be, was
his
granddaughter, said wearily, ‘No need to fret, Caroline. There's enough to go round—more than enough, I reckon.'

‘I should hope so, Nicholas, considering the healthy state of the business my father left you. But I was not only referring to that. The child must be looked after, “brought up”—Grace, dear, should you need advice at any time, I shall be very happy, for babies are not quite so simple as one supposes.'

‘Grace will manage all right,' said my father-in-law, and there was an immediate chorus of family approval. ‘Of course she will.' ‘Grace does everything so well.' ‘How fortunate you are, Nicholas, to have her here—what a comfort to you—how very convenient!' ‘Grace is so fond of children.'

Was I fond of children? What difference did it make? Here once again was a female task that must be performed. I was the obvious female person to perform it. It had occurred to no one that I might object, that I might have some other plan—some other hope or dream or desire—for my unique and unrepeatable life.

‘I suppose you will be expecting to use the Chard christening gown,' Aunt Caroline said to me with extreme reluctance a few days later, assuming already that I had taken on the authority, the responsibility of a mother.

‘Of course she will,' Blanche answered for me, being far less subservient to Aunt Caroline than she used to be. ‘I have brought it with me in the carriage. It was made for
giants
, Grace, I warn you, and you will have to stitch it around that little mite.'

The christening was very painful. Blanche and I were the godmothers, still in our funeral black, Gideon, who should, I thought, have insisted on using the chapel at Listonby, looking just faintly embarrassed in this parish church of Cullingford, where he had married the wife who had left him and was now baptizing her child, not his. While Gervase, who was a blood relation and should have offered himself as godfather to his sister's daughter, was not there. Nevertheless the ceremony was performed, the duty done. We took an anonymous little creature wrapped in costly lace to church that day and brought home with us Miss Claire Chard, riding in the victoria with her Aunt Blanche—who had chosen her name—her Chard cousins, Matthew and Francis, and her Aunt Grace; the man who had agreed to call himself her father riding alongside with the man who would allow her to call him Uncle Dominic, while behind them, in his own carriage, there came the man with a sudden sprinkling of grey in his hair who was most decidedly her grandfather.

I had dinner that night with my father-in-law, the two of us alone in the high, panelled room among a splendour of crystal and silver, served as deferentially as if we had been at a banquet. The child was upstairs in her nursery, expensively tended. Gideon had taken the London train and would be back the day after tomorrow. Gervase was not there.

I left Mr. Barforth to his brandy and cigars and sat alone in the drawing-room, drinking my coffee and glancing with resignation at the pile of letters of condolence to which I must reply. This was my life. Gideon would return with his fine cambric shirts to be laundered, his well-cut coats to be pressed, and before long there would be his friends to entertain again, his recherché little dinners, his sophisticated appetites. I would visit my father on Sunday afternoons and go to London occasionally to see Blanche. I would argue mildly the tea-table issues of the women's cause as understood by Miss Mandelbaum and would be mildly irritated by the narrowness of Miss Tighe, the noble insistence of Mrs. Sheldon in considering herself not as a person in her own right but as Thomas Sheldon's wife. The child would grow. Gervase would not be there. Eventually Gideon would marry again, a woman whose wealth and solid family connections would make her a power at Tarn Edge. My father-in-law would not live forever. Where would Gervase be then?

‘Grace, are you not well?' Mr. Barforth said, coming into the room and sitting down heavily in the chair opposite mine.

‘Oh yes—quite well.'

‘Aye—so you would tell me even if you were in agony. Grace—there is something I ought to tell you.'

‘Yes?' But I was suddenly very tired, my eyelids aching for sleep, and could muster no curiosity.

‘It concerns the Galton estate.'

And even then, knowing how closely it must also concern Gervase, I could not stir myself to more than a faint interest.

‘I have made the Abbey over to my wife, Grace, in such a manner that it is hers absolutely, to be disposed of at her wish, not mine. I wonder if you know what that means?'

‘That you have set her free.'

He smiled. ‘She may see it that way. But there is rather more to it than that.'

‘I know. It means she can give it to Gervase and that he, with the income from his ten per cent of your business, can live like his Uncle Peregrine, except that Gervase has turned thirty now and I believe Peregrine Clevedon never got so far.'

‘And you feel I've let you down?'

‘Why should you concern yourself with me?'

‘Don't talk like a fool, girl,' he said brusquely. ‘It can't suit you to have that estate in your husband's hands. I knew that very well when I took my decision. My choice was between what suited you and what suited my wife, and I chose my wife. Something was owing to her. I paid—and since you may have to pay too—well, Grace, I rarely feel called upon to explain myself but I think you'd best listen to me for a minute or two. You haven't lived in my house all this time without knowing how matters stand between me and Georgiana. It might make things easier for you to know why. She married me for my money. That's no secret and it seemed fair enough at the time. I married her because I wanted her, and I suppose it wasn't all her fault that I got more than I bargained for. The fascination didn't last and I'm a poor loser—always have been. It struck me that I wasn't cut out for close relationships and so I made up my mind to keep to the things I was suited for—running the mills and making a profit. There's no reason to be ashamed of that. Well—I could have kicked that lad of mine into shape, I reckon, if I'd got myself involved with him. And when he didn't shape up on his own, I gave up too soon. I can train my managers and my son-in-law—by God, I can! The training I put them through is so damned hard that the job itself seems easy by comparison. But I can keep my distance, you see, from them and it would have brought me too close to Gervase. So—if you feel the need to blame somebody for the way he is, you can start by blaming me. You can call me a fool too, if you like, Grace—a damned fool. I kept my distance from Venetia, too. I denied myself all the things she could have been to me and what have I gained by it? It hasn't made losing her any easier—by Christ it hasn't!'

We sat for a moment in a strangling silence and then, gruffly, quite painfully, he demanded: ‘What else could I have done when she went off that first time? And I didn't drag her down the aisle to Gideon. Damnation! I even thought she'd put up more of a fight than she did, which was no fight at all, just “Yes, father—if you think that's best”—just that, no argument. And it
was
best. I had my own reasons for wanting him but I knew he'd look after her, do the right thing—I knew he
could
look after her, for he's got a head on his shoulders and an eye to the main chance—And what's wrong with that? So—when she didn't argue—it struck me that, at the bottom of her, she probably fancied him. He's a good-looking man—why shouldn't she have fancied him? What else could I have done?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Then I'll tell you. I could have made more of an effort with my own wife in the first place, I reckon. If I'd handled my business like I've handled my marriage, I'd be a pauper now, Grace, and no mistake.'

Once again we sat in a tense silence and then, leaning suddenly towards me, an undemonstrative man who resented the occasional necessity to demonstrate his feelings, he said angrily, ‘God dammit! Grace, you are valued here with us. You know that, don't you?'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. See that you don't forget it. We need you here. In fact I'll go further and tell you straight that I don't know how we'd manage without you. This house is yours, Grace, for all practical purposes—entirely yours—and I shall allow no one to interfere with that, whoever they may be.'

I let a few more days go by, coped with the small upheaval invariably occasioned by Gideon's return, and then chose a bright blue and white morning to drive over to Galton.

Mrs. Barforth was walking by the Abbey stream, two young retrievers splashing excitedly in the water, a black and white sheepdog puppy hesitating on the bank, one cautious paw extended to test the ripples; and I was glad to see no sign of Gervase.

‘Grace, dear—I was hoping to see you. I suppose you have heard my news?'

‘About the estate? Yes. Do you feel differently, knowing it to be yours?'

She smiled, shaded her eyes against the sun to check the progress of the young dogs who were chasing last autumn's leaves now on the opposite bank.

‘Do you know,' she said, ‘it is the oddest thing—I have lived years of my life for this moment, longed for it and taken every opportunity I could to bring it about. It seemed of the most desperate importance—truly the difference between life and death. Now I have it, and nothing seems really changed. I suppose I must have known deep down, all the time, that my husband would not really sell me up lock, stock and barrel as he used to threaten. Yes, that must be it. How very nice to know that, in a way, I have always trusted him.'

She slipped her arm into mine and we walked across the ancient, unsteady little bridge, the gentle sheepdog at our heels, the two retrievers greeting us with boisterous rapture at the other side, leaping all muddy and eager against our skirts.

‘What will you do now, mother-in-law?'

‘Do? Must I do anything? Well—I might spread my wings and fly away. But I don't think so. Twenty years ago my husband thought I might fly to Julian Flood, which is why he clipped my wings and put salt on my tail—not from jealousy, you understand, but because he believed Julian would not be good for me.'

‘Would you have gone to him?'

‘Oh yes,' she said, smiling at the stony track ahead of her, seeing beyond it to a wealth of contented memory. ‘Yes. I would have gone to Julian had my husband allowed it. And I might even have been very happy. If I have a talent at all, it is for friendship. These storms of passion, you know, these truly gigantic desires—well, I fear they are a little outside my range. But I am very comfortable with friendship. And next to my brother Peregrine, Julian was the best friend I had. When Peregrine died, he often seemed my only friend. That was the ingredient I found lacking in my relationship with my husband. We were never friends.'