The Sleeping Sword (72 page)

‘You had married Gervase by then, Grace. I certainly did not jilt you.'

‘And you were not in love with me then either, were you—not really?'

He shook his head, still sadly, I thought, and slowly, a movement—like every movement he had made since entering this room—which was full of regret.

‘I fear not. If I had really fallen in love with you when you were eighteen and ripe for the plucking, then you would have known about it, my darling, for I would have been far less gentlemanly, with far greater success—But even so you were the reason I hesitated as long as I did in marrying Venetia. I didn't want to share a house with you. I wasn't sure why. I simply thought it would not be wise. Quite soon—too soon—that house,
this
house, in fact, would have been unbearable to me without you. Those were not easy days for me, Grace. I had a trade to learn, prejudice and hostility to overcome on both sides, for my own people thought me sadly
déclassé
, and any one of the managers we had then would have put a knife in my back given half a chance—and it's a weary business when a man has to guard his back all day and every day. You were the only person who understood the effort I was making, except Nicholas Barforth, for whom no effort could ever be enough, and even he failed to realize just how damned distasteful I found those sheds—this town—any town—to begin with. I didn't
want
to be a manufacturer, Grace. I simply wanted to be rich. If I could have made my money in land or on the high seas or in any other clean and clever fashion, then I'd hardly have condemned myself to twelve hours a day shut up in those mills. I think you understood that too. I think, in my place, you would have done the same.'

‘I understood. And I admired you enormously for it.'

‘Admiration? Is that all you had for me?'

‘Possibly not. But it was all I was prepared to admit, and I am very stubborn. You were married, Gideon, and I loved your wife like a sister.'

‘I know,' he said, his smile once again heavy with regret. ‘I know. Oddly enough, so did I. Oh yes, you may look startled and surprised, but it is the plain truth. That is exactly what I felt for her, the exasperated kind of affection I would have given to a sister, and which in her case was sadly inappropriate. When she left me for Robin Ashby I made no attempt to get her back. Well, I was not slow to spot my own advantage, I never am. But the truth is that I wished her well. If it was what she wanted, then I had no mind to spoil it for her. I thought her reckless to the point of madness, but I hoped just the same that she might succeed.'

‘Gideon—I am so glad you told me that.'

‘Yes, I thought it might please you. What I am about to say now will not suit you so well. Venetia was gone, with my blessing, although she didn't know it. I knew how Gervase was situated with Diana Flood. I can't be certain how much Nicholas Barforth suspected but he watched me like a hawk those first few months, and so I had to keep away from you. But you were the woman I wanted and I was going to have you, my dear, as soon as ever I could. We were going to live together in the way we actually
had
been living together for several years, except that when the dance was over and the dinner guests had gone we were going to walk up those stairs hand in hand and get into the same bed. I was going to take you abroad with me, bully you and rely on you, spoil you and make sure you spoiled me. I was going to
have
you, Grace—and then suddenly there you were, asking me to take Venetia back. Once again my sense of timing had been at fault.'

‘I would have asked you to take her back, Gideon, even if we had already been lovers.'

‘My dear, I know. There is nothing I want to say about her death. But, yes, as you guessed, I was appalled when I heard of your intention to divorce Gervase—appalled and furious, and quite determined to put a stop to it. Your assessment of my motives, that night in London was quite correct. The social stigma of divorce was more than I could stomach, especially when I could see no need for it. One way or another I was going to make you abandon it and come back here with me, where I was certain you belonged. No one raises any objection to Noel and Blanche. Why should anyone have objected to us? I would have been faithful to you, you know—far more scrupulous in my behaviour than if you had really been my wife, just like Noel has to be. A man assumes his wife will forgive him. In most cases she has very little choice in the matter. But he is obliged to tread rather more warily with a mistress, who can make up her own mind. I believe Grace Barforth of the
Star
may have said something like that. Will you admit that I could have made you happy?'

‘Yes, perfectly happy—once. The life you planned for me was everything I desired and would have given me complete fulfilment—once. By the time it became possible I had moved on—forwards or backwards I don't always know—but
moved
, anyway.'

He came very swiftly to sit on the edge of my chair and leaned over me, sliding one hand beneath my shoulder-blades, gathering me up in an act of possession into which my body nestled with gratitude and content.

‘Grace, listen carefully, for I cannot think I shall ever say this to you again. This is all I know how to give—this house and the luxury inside it, the gracious way of life we could make for each other here. This is what I have worked to achieve and to maintain, and I shall achieve much more—much more. I can afford, by my own efforts, to surround you with ease and beauty. I can offer you protection and security. I can provide for you. These are the things I understand—the things I have always believed women wanted. Will you take them, Grace?'

I leaned forward, my head against his shoulder, my arms around him, holding him like a woman drowning, for this was our final chance and we both knew that, once again, Time had cheated us, had forced us along parallel but separate roads, at varying rates of progress, so that we could glimpse and hope and strive but never really meet.

‘What must I give you in return?'

‘Yourself.'

‘Which is everything I have. You would not give me everything, Gideon. Would you allow me to continue my association with the
Star
.'

‘Of course not.' But it was spoken sadly, no rancour, no disgust, no jealousy, just a simple statement of self-knowledge and regret. He
could
not.

‘And would you allow me to continue my work with Anna and Patrick Stone?'

‘No.'

‘Would you receive them here?'

‘Grudgingly.'

‘Would you expect me to break off with them entirely?'

‘Yes, I would expect that. I would try not to enforce it, but if you delayed then I probably would enforce it.'

‘Oh, Gideon—'

‘Yes, I know,' he said, his mouth against my hair. ‘You see how very carefully I have thought it over, for I am indeed a calculating man. But in this case I am as much a prisoner of my own nature as you are. I cannot rid myself of the belief that if you loved me you would willingly give up your friends and associates for my sake. I know you will not agree, but I cannot feel I am asking too much, or even anything very much at all. I am asking you to be my wife and I am entitled, surely, to my notions of what a wife should be? I am ready to be your husband, which also entails a measure of sacrifice, for if you take me there is every likelihood that my mother—of whom I am very fond and who is getting no younger—will never speak to me again.'

I had no wish to move from the shelter of his arms, would have been grateful, I think, if he had forced me to stay there. But I had asked for freedom of choice. He had given it to me. And I knew by now that the liberty for which I had struggled and on which I would not relinquish my hold could be a cruel burden indeed.

‘I love you, Gideon.'

‘I wonder what good that is going to do me?'

‘Very little, I suppose, unless you can accept me just as I am.'

‘Yes, I knew you would say that. I am prepared for it. Go on.'

‘And what good will it do?'

‘None, I suppose, for you cannot accept me as I am either. But say it.'

‘Gideon—you once told me I did not earn my living, that I had rejected a woman's responsibilities and was not fit to take a man's.'

‘I remember.'

‘Now I
do
earn my living, or at least now I can see the way to earn it. I can see where my living is and I have the ability—I know I have—to go out and fetch it in. I have taken the risk. I have done the work and continue to do it, whether I feel inclined for it or not; and I spare myself nothing. I may send home my clerk if he has a bad cough or a bad headache, but I do not go home myself, no matter how unwell I might feel, until the work is done. And I want you to respect me for that, Gideon, not for my dinner-parties and my dances, which are only life's frills, after all, and come nowhere near its substance. You could not fill your life with menu cards and invitation cards and small talk, you know you could not. Neither can I. I want you to believe in my ability, Gideon, and to value it, instead of trying to dismiss it like a child's toy. You have told me of your own early days here in the mills and how difficult it was for you to gain acceptance because they thought your accent too refined and your hands too clean—because you were not a Cullingford man. Can you imagine what it has been like for me—a woman—to gain even a hearing? I have to work ten times harder than a man, I can tell you, just to convince some people that I am actually working at all. And even now I waste hours a day sometimes—hours I cannot spare—with men who are too small-minded to take me seriously, and with women whose peace of mind I seem to threaten. I am ambitious—which is considered unwomanly—and I am not ashamed of it. Whatever I promise I perform, and since women have a reputation for light-mindedness and are generally supposed to break their promises rather freely I have to be very certain of keeping mine, not only to the letter but on time. And in any case I prefer to call these promises “commitments” which cannot be casually abandoned. You would not abandon yours. I have employed men who have wives and children to feed, and I am responsible for that. I cannot put those families in jeopardy. Neither could you. Could you?'

‘I could not.'

‘And if I can respect that in you—and find it pleasing— then why can you not respect it in me. I love you, Gideon. If you had married me when I was eighteen I would have been your adoring wife ever after and would never have cast a glance beyond you. For years I wanted exactly the life you wanted, and if we had become lovers before I left Tarn Edge, then—yes—I am sure I would have been here still, with no sense of frustration or regret. I would have made your life my life—would have considered you to
be
my life—and the sad thing is that I know I would have been happy. I cannot do that now, however much a part of me may still want to—and a part of me does want to—
I
know that I cannot. I am ready to share your life but not to live it at second-hand. I want you to share my life but not to live it for me, not to absorb it into your own or to deny that it even exists. The last time I came to your office I said terrible things to you—it makes me shiver when I remember them—but there was some truth there. I believe men and women should be equal if they are fit to be equal, and I think I am fit to equal you, Gideon, to complement you, to live with you independently but in harmony, to trust you and to deserve your trust—to live together as two
people
who love each other. It should be possible, Gideon—oh, really it should.'

‘Yes,' he said, his face almost hollow now with fatigue and strain. ‘I know. And it pains me—I can't tell you how much—to realize that I cannot—'

He got up and went to stand by the fireplace, my body turning cold without him, but before I could follow or call him back to me the door opened and his butler informed him: ‘The carriage, sir.'

‘Thank you, Sherston.'

The man withdrew, and across the spreading, splintering gulf between us Gideon said, ‘I ordered the carriage to be ready in an hour. I had no hope, you see, and I thought an hour would be long enough. I took the liberty, too, of sending a message to your house, warning them of your arrival and of the accident to your foot, and they will have all ready for you—even your friend Dr. Stone to attend you.'

‘Gideon—'

‘No more. At least, just this, although I have no right to say it—absolutely none at all. I would not like to see you married to Liam Adair. It has nothing to do with his treatment of me—nothing—'

‘I am not going to marry him. There has never been any question of that.'

He nodded curtly, his head bowed, half turned away from me, my own face wet, I suddenly realized, with tears, although I could not recall the moment they had begun. Nor could I force any kind of voice at all through my tight throat to ask him when or if or how he could bear to marry Hortense Madeley-Brown. But he heard my thought and gave what looked like a dismissive, impatient shrug.

‘I have gone rather far along that road now to be able to withdraw with honour. You may think her vain and slow, but in fact she is very young and shy and has a good heart. She will—she will
do
. Excuse me, I must say a word to Sherston—'

He did not come back. The butler and two impassive underlings assisted me to the carriage, the housekeeper getting in beside me and giving a masterly performance, all the way to Blenheim Crescent, of a woman who has not the slightest idea that her companion is crying. They helped me down, took me inside, bowed, made some impeccable murmurings, and went away.

‘What ails you?' said Patrick Stone, not referring to my swollen ankle.

‘God knows!'

But I knew. And this time, no matter what anyone told me, I did not expect to recover.

I was
busy
. That was the only thing I thought about and spoke about. I was frantically, permanently busy.