Flint and Roses (29 page)

There was a most terrible, yet in some ways merciful, numbness inside me for a while after that, an absence of sensation which, although I knew it to be unnatural, did not manage to alarm me. I was suspended, it seemed, a little above and around myself, observing my own calm with a certain irony, knowing it could not last, praying only that it would last long enough for me to meet Nicholas again, as I would have to do, until I had seen him married, wished him well, waved his honeymoon train away, at which point, since I could not die and could not run away, I would at least be able to face myself—and Cullingford—again.

His news, of course, had created a predictable explosion at Tarn Edge, Aunt Verity, even, forsaking her tranquillity, pleading with him most tearfully to reconsider, while Uncle Joel had been so moved by his wife's distress that even Caroline had been alarmed at the violence of his anger. Yet, in the end, when his threats of dismissal from the family business and from the family itself had been two or three times repeated, and Nicholas had declared himself perfectly ready to be cast adrift, it had become clear to them all that they did not really wish to part from one another, and so they sat down, more quietly, to discuss what must be done.

Aunt Verity, it seemed, while by no means unaware of Miss Clevedon's charm, simply did not consider her a suitable wife for Nicholas. Uncle Joel, when it came down to it, was still man enough to recognize a ‘rare bird'when he saw one, and could have been amused, even captivated by her, had he encountered her as the fiancee of a Flood or a Winterton, or of any man's son but his own. His main objection, after long deliberation, was that he failed to see the profit in such a marriage. In Caroline's case there was a title in the offing, his daughter—whose great-grandmother had spent her days in a weaving shed—elevated to Lady Chard of Listonby, her children in possession of hereditary lands and privileges which money alone could not buy. But, since it would be Peregrine Clevedon, not Georgiana, who would inherit the ancient domain of Gallon Abbey, my uncle could not understand in this instance just what he was being asked to pay for.

‘Wait a while, lad,' he'd asked, almost patiently for him. ‘I know how these things can get in the blood, when you're young. And you're young, Nicky—by God, you're young. Give yourself a chance, lad.'

But Nicholas was of full age, a man with the courage to face life on his own and the skill to succeed, and although, left to himself, my uncle might just have made good his threat of dismissal, seeing no real harm to it providing a door was left open should Nicholas wish to return, he knew the depth of Aunt Verity's feeling for her younger son, and would not run the risk of breaking her heart.

And I suppose it was a shock to him, and to the rest of the Barforths too, when they learned that Miss Clevedon's grandfather was as bitterly opposed to the match as they.

Mr. Gervase Clevedon, squire of Galton, was descended by junior line from some of the greatest names in England, having himself married first a viscount's daughter and then the sister of a belted earl, both these ladies bringing little money but immense prestige to the Abbey. Untitled and apparently penniless, he was nevertheless nobler than Matthew Chard: a man whose family creed was a simple one of service to Crown and country, whose own days were spent in the tireless, unpaid administration of local justice, a gentleman whose word had never been questioned because no promise of his had ever been broken, whose decisions, both as a magistrate and a landlord, were invariably in keeping with his own impeccable personal code.

Clevedons, from the beginning of the line, had served. They had never sold themselves, never worked for wages. They had been rewarded by honours, never insulted by the payment of cash, which, even when there had been cash to spare, no Clevedon had ever carried about his person like a grocer. They had served, freely and loyally, and, expecting an equal loyalty from their own servants, had undertaken the care of them in sickness and old age, regarding all those in their employ, the tenants of their farms and their cottages, as members of their extended family.

The butler who served my Uncle Joel at Tarn Edge, who had been imported from London, would be dismissed the very instant he gave less than perfect satisfaction, or would leave without a backward glance to take up a better offer. The manservant at Galton Abbey, who had inherited his father's position, and his grandfather's, would be supported, albeit meagrely, for the rest of his life, and would devote his last energies to anyone who bore the name of Clevedon.

‘I work for money,' Uncle Joel said. ‘And because I expect others to do the same, I pay good wages.'

‘I do my duty,' Mr. Clevedon might have answered. ‘I am responsible for those born on my land in situations inferior to my own. I hold the land itself in trust for future generations, having received it from those of my name who held it in trust for me. I am true to myself and to all those with whom I have dealings. I offer loyalty and expect to receive it—a commodity which is far beyond price.'

And so, although they were both decent, clever men, they baffled and offended each other, my uncle entirely convinced that all three Clevedons were conspiring to get their hands on his money, Mr. Clevedon every bit as certain that the Barforths would crawl on their knees—or ought to—for this alliance with his great name.

Like turns to like, they both said in their different ways. My son needs a sensible woman. My granddaughter needs a gentleman. My son is hard-working, shrewd, where any other man could make a penny he can usually find the way to make two. My granddaughter has been trained to accept the responsibilities of privilege, the duties of a manorial lady towards her estate and its people. She would give those two pennies away to anyone with a hereditary claim on the house of Clevedon, and leave herself starving.

‘There may yet be hope,' Blaize told my sister. ‘They may argue the terms of the marriage contract too long, until the spark fades, and we shall have no marriage at all.'

But Nicholas, having made up his mind, could not tolerate the delay, and at his threat—made with the calm of complete determination—to simplify matters by taking Miss Clevedon to Gretna Green to be married over the blacksmith's anvil, all opposition ceased.

‘Well, at least now I can give some thought to my own wedding,' Caroline told me. ‘Honiton lace, I wondered, Faith, for the veil—I believe the Queen had Honiton lace, did she not?'

And, still in that odd state of half feeling, where a pin, sometimes, in my side would not have aroused even a cry, I replied, ‘Yes, and orange blossoms on her gown, which in your case would look splendid, Caroline, since you are taller and could have more of them.'

But as the month reached its ill-natured, rain-swept close, my detachment seemed to be like a cloak that slipped, every now and then, from my shoulders, leaving me no protection from the cold. And since I would have frozen entirely had I remained in that torpid state, I awoke, first of all to panic, which, slicing through all my defences, warned me that I could not cope. How could I stand in the Abbey church at Gallon and see Nicholas married to another woman? I could not. It was as simple as that. And there were times when the dread of it caught me unawares, a vicious hammer-blow battering away all vestiges of control, so that I had to lock myself away, upstairs, anywhere, to fight it. And if that hammer struck out at me on his wedding day, where could I run, with Amy Battershaw and Rebecca Mandelbaum, and my brother-in-law Jonas watching me?

But I would attend that wedding. I would stand in that church, somehow, without a tremor, and smile. And afterwards, like everyone else, I would go up to Miss Clevedon—Mrs. Nicholas Barforth—and I would say all the things I would have said to any other bride.

‘I hope you will be very happy,' I forced my lips to speak in grim rehearsal. ‘May I say how much I admire your dress? May I call you Georgiana, since we are to be cousins now?'

I would do it. And I would do it well, not only for my own pride's sake, but because it mattered fiercely that Nicholas—who had trouble enough and more trouble to come—should not feel troubled by me.

What, indeed, had he done to me? He had not asked me to fall in love with him in the first place. He had made me no promises. He had not compromised me, nor encouraged me to refuse another man for his sake. He had not jilted me, and I was quite wildly determined to give no one cause to think he had.

The truth of the matter was very simple. He had always liked me and had started to like me better. He had recognized me as the woman who would be good for him, but, unlike Jonas, who had settled for the woman he could get—and been glad at the time to get her—Nicholas had found the courage to stake everything on a woman he truly desired. If Matthew Chard had not brought Miss Clevedon to Tarn Edge, or had Blaize proved more susceptible, my patience may well have succeeded. But Matthew Chard had brought her. Blaize, as always, had been too intent on dazzling her to be dazzled himself. She existed. Nicholas did love her. If she was not in love with Nicholas now, I could not imagine it would take her very long to love him. It had happened, and if I was heartbroken and quite desperate at times, if I believed I had lost everything of value in my life, that the essential part of life itself was already over, then that was my concern, and I would be a poor, whining creature if I let it show.

And, growing more and more obsessed by my need to keep faith with him, the quality for which I had been named, it came about that only Blaize and myself had a good word to say for Miss Clevedon.

‘Of course you must ask her to be your bridesmaid.' I told Caroline. ‘It would look odd, otherwise.'

‘Absolutely,' Blaize added. ‘I imagine we can make sure she does not come to church in her riding habit.'

While to the assorted ladies of my mother's tea-time, who had heard strange tales of the Clevedons, but who just the same had a sneaking admiration for a real lord, a real lady, I said, ‘Her grandmother was a viscount's daughter,' leaving Blaize to supply the details of a Clevedon who had graced the court of Queen Anne, another who had enjoyed the friendship of the Duchess of Kent, mother of our own, intensely respectable Queen Victoria. And, although these Cullingford matrons knew there was rarely any money in bosom friendships of that nature, they were impressed, nevertheless, and eager to hear more.

‘We are doing rather well.' Blaize told me. ‘They will all be falling over themselves presently to invite her to their tables.'

‘So I imagine.'

‘Of course they will not like her,' he said, his eyes, which saw everything, knew everything, looking at me with a characteristic blend of curiosity and kindness. ‘But she is not so very dreadful, you know—just different.'

But I had no intention of revealing my heartache to Blaize, whose own heart was too cool, too shallow perhaps for real understanding, consoling myself with the belief that, if I had not managed to deceive him, then at least no one else suspected me. No one else. Yet my mother and Prudence were very kind to me, shielding me, in their different ways, from gossip, filling the gaps of my conversation when, every now and then, my throat was so tight that I could not speak; and Jonas, my brother-in-law, who had been wounded himself, not by love but certainly in his pride, watched me at times, remembering, perhaps, the night of Caroline's dance when I had seen his own composure stripped away.

‘You will be the next one to be married, I expect, Faith.'

‘Do you think so, Jonas?'

‘Oh yes, I think so. I imagine you must see the necessity for it.'

‘Good heavens, Jonas! I am only nineteen—not quite on the shelf.'

‘By no means—but if you have suffered a disappointment there is really only one way to mend it.'

‘What disappointment?' ‘Ah—my mother was wrong then? I am delighted to hear it.'

‘Jonas—exactly what do you mean?'

‘Very little, it seems. My mother had formed the odd notion that you are attached—'

‘I am not—absolutely not. It is positively untrue.'

‘What is untrue, Faith?'

‘What you said.'

‘I said nothing.'

‘Oh yes you did. You said that I was attached to—'

‘Indeed? To whom?'

‘To no one.'

‘Excellent. I will tell my mother she can be easy. But
had
you been attached to someone—who is to marry someone else—then the best course open to you would be to get married yourself. No one could then say—and there does appear to have been a whisper—that you might possibly be pining away for that unspecified someone.'

‘Please don't play your lawyer's tricks on me, Jonas. I am not impressed.' But I wept a long time that night, wounded as I believe he had intended to wound me, well aware that I had not convinced him; and, like all of life's ills, it was small consolation to me that I was not the only one, just then, who suffered.

It had been a hard winter in Simon Street, offering, as a Christmas gift, a hunger that by springtime had festered from hopelessness to rage, making the city dangerous again for those of us who drove out behind sleek carriage-horses, who fed our pet dogs more regularly, more plentifully, than a half of Cullingford could feed its children. There had been unkempt, haggard gatherings on Cullingford Green, Chartist banners held aloft in broad-tipped, big-knuckled hands, a mob, one morning, erupting into the Hobhouse mill yard when the gates were open at breakfast-time, some of them willing to settle, then and there, for higher wages and ready to give a good week's work in exchange; some of them threatening that, with the vote in their hands, there'd be no need to ask for anything ever again, simply to take; others quite openly wanting to burn the mill down.

They had gone from Nethercoats to Market Square, their target undoubtedly the Piece Hall, which, it being market-day, was full of soberly dressed, serious-minded gentlemen of the middle classes, the younger of whom—not having been middle-class for very long—not above using their fists, the elders having plenty to say about how they'd settled these matters in ‘their day'. And, in the ensuing hour of street-fighting, the scuffling and cursing, the stone-throwing and window-smashing, the violence had been put down, as always, by violence, by the staves and cutlasses of special constables, the hard-riding of a squadron of dragoons hired for the purpose, leaving a dozen men on the ground, another dozen dragging themselves away to heal or to die—as best they could—in some squalid bolt-hole in Simon Street.