The Sleeping Sword (9 page)

Miss Mandelbaum was unusual for a number of reasons, not least among them her talent as a pianist, which could have taken her to the concert stage had not her parents—for what seemed to them the best of reasons—opposed it. Following the deaths of those parents some years ago, she had taken up residence alone in the no longer fashionable but still very genteel neighbourhood of Blenheim Lane, her independence made possible by her mature years, a substantial inheritance and the understanding of her brother, who as head of the family might well have preferred to keep her at home.

She was a rounded, stately woman who passed her days talking to friends on such thoughtful topics as art, music and philosophy, the nature of truth and justice. Miss Mandelbaum did not care in the least for the triumphs and heartbreaks of an Assembly Rooms Ball; nor, I suspect, did the inadequate drainage of large areas of Cullingford enter her mind other than rarely. But the respective merits of Botticelli and Andrea del Sarto could arouse her to excitement, a Beethoven sonata could leave her mesmerized, while the National Society for Women's Suffrage inspired her, quite rightly, with passion.

‘Forgive me, Miss Agbrigg,' she had murmured to me on my third or fourth visit to her quiet house, ‘I do not care to speak of personal matters, but I wonder if you have considered how very wealthy you might be one day?'

And when I had assured her that I had, she still seemed compelled to apologize. ‘I mention it merely because I am myself very adequately provided for. And do you know, Miss Agbrigg, it has often seemed strange to me that the man from whom I purchase my groceries, any man, in fact, who can, however meagrely, be called a householder, is entitled to his vote at election time. Whereas I, who own this house and another by the sea and a street or two of rented property in Cullingford, am allowed no vote at all. Is it any wonder that so many laws of our land are unjust to women, or simply take no account of women at all, when no woman has had a hand in their making?'

‘You are a suffragist then, Miss Mandelbaum?'

‘My dear, I believe I am, for I made the acquaintance on a recent visit to Manchester of Miss Lydia Becker, a founder of the Society for Women's Suffrage. Should I succeed in persuading her to visit me and speak a few words, perhaps you would care to attend?'

Miss Becker, as it turned out, was unable to oblige but sent instead her lieutenant, a dry and rather angry Miss Tighe, who explained to our select gathering certain matters which seemed to me so obvious and so right that I understood—with the force of a revelation—that I had been born believing them.

I knew—as who did not—that the Reform Bill of 1832 had given the vote to all middle class gentlemen, a privilege which had hitherto belonged exclusively to the aristocracy and any others who possessed property and connections enough to number themselves among the ‘ruling classes'. The Reform Bill of 1867—considerably overdue—had fallen far short of the universal male suffrage which had been demanded, but had granted ‘household suffrage', a phrase, Miss Tighe told us, in which a loophole had been spotted, nearly four thousand women in Manchester alone—Miss Tighe among them—who owned houses and income far above the minimum property qualification the bill required, having attempted to place their names on the electoral register.

Miss Tighe had taken her claim to court, where it had been defended by the dedicated and philanthropic barrister Dr. Richard Marsden Pankhurst, a man so devoted to the many facets of social justice that he had declared his intention of remaining unmarried the better to pursue them. But the law had declared Miss Tighe's claim to be invalid, maintaining in effect that although the right to vote depended on the amount of property one possessed, that right—like most others—was automatically rendered null and void by the sorry accident of having being born a woman.

Miss Tighe had been present in 1868, immediately after the passing of the Second Reform Bill, at the first public meeting of the newly formed Manchester National Society for Women's Suffrage in Manchester's Free Trade Hall, and had since then associated herself closely with Miss Lydia Becker and those male champions of the suffragist cause, the Quaker politician Mr. Jacob Bright and the lawyer Dr. Pankhurst. Nor had they contented themselves with public meetings, having agreed—in the very appropriate setting of the Free Trade Hall—to adopt the tactics of the Anti-Corn Law League which a quarter of a century ago had done successful battle against import controls and had given us Free Trade.

It was the aim of the National Society for Women's Suffrage, Miss Tighe went on, to attract attention to the female cause by presenting regular petitions to Parliament as the Anti-Corn Law League had done, Miss Lydia Becker herself having produced a pamphlet entitled ‘Directions for Preparing a Petition to the House of Commons'which Miss Tighe would be glad to distribute among us. In 1869 alone, she said, without once referring to any notes or figures, two hundred and fifty-five petitions, requesting the vote for women on the same terms as it had been granted to men, had been presented. The flow of these petitions would continue, the flow of Private Members'Bills must be encouraged to flow with it. Mr. Jacob Bright having introduced such a bill two years ago which had passed its second reading in the House before being annihilated by that great enemy of the Women's Cause, the leader of the Liberal Party, Mr. Gladstone, who like numerous others believed female suffrage to be a serious threat to family life.

Mr. Gladstone, it was very clear, believed in the concept of woman as domestic angel, his reluctance to burden her with electoral responsibilities stemming from his oft-expressed fear that her fine and gentle nature might be damaged, the delicate structure of her mind distracted from her rightful worship of hearth and home. And if it had occurred to him that the population of England numbered rather more women than men, which would—if enfranchised—make the female a mighty power to be reckoned with, he had not said so.

But the Women's Cause had few other champions in high places. The Conservative leader, Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, had expressed cautious sympathy in his younger days when speeches on controversial issues had been very much his style. But once he had taken office and had no need of controversy to get himself noticed, little more had been heard from him on the matter. Nor could the movement rely overmuch on the support of famous women, the great Florence Nightingale having heartily condemned her own sex as being narrowminded, uncooperative and unsympathetic, while it was no secret that Queen Victoria, although a reigning monarch, enjoyed nothing better than the domination of the male, having always insisted in private—during her husband's lifetime—on regarding herself as his ‘little wife'. And so strongly was she opposed to the notion of women's rights that she believed any lady—titled or otherwise—who spoke openly in their favour deserved a good whipping, presumably by a dominating male hand.

Women, in Miss Florence Nightingale's opinion, were too feeble. In Queen Victoria's view they could not be feeble enough. What did Miss Mandelbaum think, or Miss Fielding and Miss Agbrigg, Miss Tighe wanted to know?

‘You might care to consider getting up a petition of your own,' she said, her keen eyes passing speculatively, a little scornfully, from Miss Mandelbaum's enthusiastic but somewhat flustered expression to Miss Fielding who, as the daughter of a Liberal M.P., had not liked the reference to Mr. Gladstone, and who furthermore had suspected from the start that the Church, with its creed of submission, could not possibly approve of this. And then her sharp, rather stony gaze resting on me, Miss Tighe smiled.

‘The future of the movement—perhaps the fruits of it—must belong to you,' she told me, coming to sit beside me as we partook of Miss Mandelbaum's scented tea and ratafia cakes. ‘Why not pay a visit to Manchester, Miss Agbrigg, and make the acquaintance of Miss Lydia Becker and Dr. Pankhurst? I could ask my friends the Gouldens to invite you—a perfectly respectable manufacturing family whose daughter Emmeline must be about your age.'

And even had I been less convinced by her explanation of the Women's Cause, the mere fact that I wanted badly to accept her invitation and knew I would not be allowed to do so would have converted me.

Mr. Nicholas Barforth invited us to dine that autumn, a circumstance astonishing enough in itself, since for a very long time his entertaining had been done expensively but impersonally in hotels, a necessary if tedious part of his business which he delegated whenever possible to Liam Adair or to Gervase. But his invitation now was most specific and most correct, gilt-edged, gilt-lettered, designed to fill Mrs. Agbrigg's heart with joy had she not been too well aware of his intentions.

Mr. Nicholas Barforth, it seemed, had decided to take a hand in his son's affairs, to give him, perhaps, one final opportunity. For after all, blood was notoriously thicker than water, and knowing that Gervase would one day have to stand alone against the ambitions of men like his cousin Gideon, Mr. Barforth would certainly bring him up to the mark if he could.

‘Steady yourself down,' I could imagine him saying, ‘and get a steady woman to help you—a sensible lass with money of her own behind her.' And it could be no secret that I was the ‘good catch', the strong-minded, steady Law Valley woman of his choice.

‘I see,' my father said, the invitation in his hands.

‘Precisely,' Mrs. Agbrigg answered him. ‘I have been dreading this approach, for with the best will in the world I cannot discover one shred of evidence to alter my opinion of that young man. And considering the irregular position of his mother, the rumours by which she is surrounded, I wonder—well, perhaps Grace might have a convenient headache that evening and find herself indisposed?'

But the knowledge—conveyed by Venetia—that Gideon Chard would be among the guests confused Mrs. Agbrigg's tactics to a point where, on the evening in question, she failed to make the objections I had been expecting to the rather scanty bodice of my peach-coloured silk, nor to the skirt cut very straight in front and very full behind, the folds of the bustle and the train studded with black velvet bows. She was herself in cinnamon brown, a shade much darker but not unrelated to the tint of her skin, my father narrow and correct in his evening clothes, his face wise and sad as he helped me from the carriage, his own opinion of this almost-proposed marriage—his desire to dispose of me or his fear of losing me—remaining unspoken.

‘A historic occasion,' he said as the huge, carved oak door of Tarn Edge was opened to us by the indifferent Barforth butler, who announced our names and abandoned us to a considerably amused Venetia who, having never played hostess before, could not bring herself to treat it as anything but a game.

There was a huge fire in the marble fireplace, costly treasures of Sèvres and Meissen on the mantleshelf, a clock sprouting Cupids and acanthus leaves of a metal which appeared to be gold. The Aubusson rug—repaired, one presumed—was back in its place by the hearth, Mr. Barforth standing firmly upon it, his back to the flames, Mr. Gideon Chard standing, too, at the corner of the fender, his feet not yet on the precious rug but not too far away, while Gervase, lounging in a red velvet armchair, took a moment to rise, as if his body, after an arduous day of pleasure, required care.

‘We have just ridden in from Galton,' Venetia said, as vibrant with energy as her brother was listless. ‘Or, at least, no more than an hour ago, so if I am not immaculately enough turned out for you, you will know the reason why. We were out with the Lawdale at five o'clock this morning, when even the foxes were sleepy.'

‘Too sleepy,' put in Gervase, his eyelids drooping. ‘There's no sense—and I'll keep on saying it—in disturbing a night-feeder at that hour, when he's still too full of his dinner to run. An afternoon fox, that's the thing—not that Noel Chard would take notice of it.'

‘I expect Noel knows what he's doing,' said Gideon, drawling out the words as if none of them could matter less, although we understood quite well that he would allow no criticism of his brother's mastership of the Lawdale Hunt, an office which his family had held for generations.

‘You must miss your sport, Mr. Chard, in this fine weather,' murmured Mrs. Agbrigg artfully offering him an opportunity to demonstrate his worth—since he
was
a sportsman by birth and breeding and
had
, unlike Gervase, spent this glorious afternoon at the mill.

‘I miss it enormously,' he said, his voice suave and serious. ‘But then, one is obliged to put first things first, after all.'

‘Oh lord!' Venetia exclaimed. ‘Do you know, Gideon, when you talk like that I wonder if you might have done better as a bishop.'

To which Mr. Gideon Chard, without the slightest hint of ill-humour, gave her a slight bow, and smiled.

We ate gamebirds, as I remember, as was appropriate to the season, and various over-cooked vegetables unworthy of their massive silver dishes. The crystal was magnificent, the wine highly satisfactory to the gentlemen, who all drank a great deal, the chocolate cream a decided failure, being of a most uneven consistency and far too sweet. Nor was the conversation more evenly blended, my father and Mr. Barforth talking warp and weft, profit and loss, Gervase refusing deliberately and impudently to speak one word that was not connected with foxhunting, while Gideon Chard maintained an attentive and rather careful silence, appalled, I imagine, by the food, which would never have been permitted to leave the kitchens at Listonby, and by the haphazard service, which as his mother's son must have amazed him.

I was silent too, feeling stiff and awkward and false, and it was a relief to me when, the meal over, Venetia finally remembered her duty and escorted her female guests back to the drawing-room and installed us in deep armchairs by the fireside, Mrs. Agbrigg placidly partaking of coffee and cakes while Venetia, her cheeks flushed with wine and firelight, lost herself at once in an apparently blissful dream.