Flint and Roses (43 page)

‘Shall we go for a walk in the moonlight, Nicky?' Georgiana said, offering a reconciliation.

‘Presently. Blaize, I met a friend of yours from New York yesterday morning. A Mr. Grassmann.'

‘Oh yes. A pleasant fellow.'

‘So he seems. But before you make promises about delivery dates you could check with me that they're possible.'

‘Ah well,' Blaize shrugged. ‘It's just that I have such confidence in you, Nicky—never so much as crossed my mind that you wouldn't be able to manage.'

‘It should always be possible,' Uncle Joel cut in from the luxurious ease of his armchair. ‘I don't want to hear excuses about deliveries that can't be met. I always met mine.'

‘Well, you're damn well going to hear them, father,' Nicholas snapped, ‘unless you can make him understand that, when the looms are working to capacity, he ought at least to know about it and make his arrangements to suit. I'm not complaining about the orders he brings in. He looks after his side of the business all right, and I look after mine. But we've got to keep each other informed. And you've got to follow things through, Blaize. This Mr. Grassmann was looking for
you,
the other morning, not me. And where the hell were you? And what am I supposed to say to him when he tells me what you've promised him, and I know there's no chance of it—unless we expand again.'

‘Which is what you want, Nick,' Blaize murmured.

‘Do I?'

‘I reckon so—unless you're finding it too much, with the Wool-combers on your hands'

‘And what would you know about it?'

‘It's so warm in here,' Aunt Verity informed us, intending to be believed. ‘Joel, come out into the garden—if we're to expand again there's no need to do it tonight, and I have a most interesting word to say to you about Elinor. Nicholas, do take your wife for that walk in the moonlight. Faith will go with you—and Blaize, one supposes, will do—well—exactly what Blaize supposes.'

‘Mother dear,' he told her, laughing, ‘you couldn't possibly be cross with me, could you? No—of course you couldn't.'

‘Sometimes I think I could make the effort, dear—really.'

But they were smiling at each other, even my uncle—although he muttered that in his case it was no effort at all—looking good-humoured enough as he took his wife's arm and led her outside.

It was an intense blue midnight, velvet-textured, quite beautiful, the grass fragrant with sleeping poppies, the sea moving in a gentle, lullaby-rocking some way below us; a time, it seemed, for steady pathways, for breathing deeply, quietlyvfor listening. But after a moment or two of strolling, Georgiana, abandoning her little-girl air of decorum, became a restive colt again, impatient of all restraint.

‘Let's go down to the sea, Nicky.'

‘You said a walk in the moonlight. This is a walk in the moonlight.'

‘Oh, I suppose it may be thought so in Cullingford. But when there is sand down there, and sea-water and rocks, how can you bear to stay so tamely on the grass?'

‘I can bear it.'

‘I can't,' she said and, taking up her skirts, she was off, flinging down a challenge as I had once seen her do at Galton Abbey, except that this time nobody followed her.

‘It's wonderful,' she called up to us. ‘Oh—do come down—it's not living, up there, on the path, it's just doing the right thing. And who really cares about that? Do come down here—we could fetch some wine and fruit and stay up all night to watch the sun rise. Why shouldn't we? It's something to
do,
something we can remember. Not the night we slept in our comfortable beds at Rosemount, but the night we spent on the beach—the night we did something different, that we—well, I won't say it, Nicky, because you'll kill me—but you know what I mean. We'd never forget that. Do come.'

But Nicholas, who may have been excited by her earlier in the day, was moved now to do no more than shrug his shoulders and turn his head away, the better to light his cigar against the wind.

She disappeared, hidden by a curve of rock and, as we paused, Blaize glanced at his brother and said, ‘I can see you don't mean to go after her.'

‘No.'

‘Well, it's none of my business, of course, but she's had more than a glass or two, and she could fall—'

‘I doubt it.'

‘Or she could wander off and get lost.'

‘She'll not do that.'

‘Ah well, I don't want to get my feet wet either, but really Nicholas—I suppose the answer is that if it worries me I should go and fetch her myself.'

‘That's about it. My guess is you won't find her, and she'll be back here before you are. You'll ruin your shoes for nothing—but, as you say, if it worries you—'

Blaize shrugged and walked off gingerly towards the beach, not liking his task at all since he was a man who cared about his shoes and appreciated their value, leaving us quite alone and for a moment completely silent.

‘She will be all right, you know,' Nicholas said.

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Are you cold?'

‘No. I'm perfectly all right.'

‘Faith—'

‘Yes?'

‘I'm sorry—about your husband, I mean. I didn't know him very well but he seemed a decent man. How have you been—since he died?'

‘I can cope with it, Nicholas. Georgiana was extremely good to me, during the epidemic'

‘Yes. She can be very kind.'

Silence again, waiting and listening to the night, wishing that Blaize would return, feeling, not awkwardness exactly, not emotion, but something akin to sorrow that even now, when so much time and pain and joy, so much living, had flowed between us, I was still not at peace with him.

‘You
are
like a swan,' he said suddenly, making the words into an accusation, and because it was the only possible thing to do I laughed—my mother's laugh—airy, without substance.

‘You mean I have a long nose and large feet? Thank you, Nicholas.'

‘I have never really seen your feet, and your nose looks well enough to me.'

Silence again, heavier this time, no possible thought now of laughter, no thought either of making any of the dozen pretty excuses that would have obliged him to take me back to the house, to his mother, who would know as well as I that he was unhappy, dissatisfied, angry, that in such a humour he could be dangerous.

He lit a cigar irritably, not asking my permission, inhaling deeply like his father, scowling at the sea.

‘Faith,' he rapped out at me sharply. ‘I don't have to warn you about Perry Clevedon, do I?'

‘Heavens—you certainly don't.'

‘Good. I think I have never met a more worthless man. Stay clear of him.'

‘Goodness.' Georgiana said, appearing in the unlit dark behind us, the hem of her dress soaked in sea-water, her hair coming down with all the abandon that suited her so well. ‘Are you quarrelling with Faith now? I could hear you growling at her as I came back on to the path. What on earth can she have done to make you angry?'

‘Nothing,' he answered, and then, tossing his cigar away in the direction of the sea, he said quietly, ‘Faith knows what I mean.'

The New Year at once offered us two events of considerable importance. My uncle, in recognition of his services to industry, his charity, his willingness, no doubt, to support Prince Albert's Exhibition which had meant so much to our Queen, received a baronetcy, becoming Sir Joel Barforth of Tarn Edge, while my mother, taking advantage of the general mood of celebration, announced her forthcoming marriage not to the decaying Mr. Oldroyd but to the unknown, excellently preserved Mr. Daniel Adair.

He was by no means, it seemed, a stranger to us all.

‘Have you lost your senses, Elinor?' Aunt Hannah demanded, striding into my mother's house as if she meant to burn it down, infuriated by the loss of the Oldroyd money, certainly, already mourning the death of her hopes of seeing Jonas at Fieldhead, but considerably shaken at a more personal level too. ‘I have never been so shocked in my life and I must give you notice that if you go through with this preposterous marriage I shall disown you.'

‘I shall be sorry for that, Hannah.'

‘But it will not stop you? No, I feared not. Then I can only hope that Joel may find the means to restrain you. It is an insult to your husband's memory; and to his daughters. You are allowing the man to make a fool, of you—again—and, worse than that, you are very likely to ruin yourself. If no other way can be found, then I think that Joel and myself and your children would do well to join together in having you declared—well—unfit to manage your affairs. Insane.'

‘Oh dear,' my mother said, smiling at me a little mistily when Aunt Hannah had gone. ‘I did not expect them to be pleased, and Hannah had such high hopes of Mr. Oldroyd, of seeing Jonas master of Fieldhead. But they cannot stop me, you know, and Hannah will not disown me, whatever she says. She is too fond of me for one thing, and for another there may still be some money left when I have done. Daniel will certainly be expensive, but your father was always a careful man, and his will does not allow me to spend it all. Well, Faith, I had better tell you, since you are the very dearest of my daughters, and neither Prudence nor Celia are speaking to me in any case—Yes, as you will have guessed, I knew Mr. Daniel Adair very well, a long time ago, ten years before your father died. Your father was much occupied with politics in those days and appointed Mr. Adair to manage his business afairs. While your father was in London, I was here, in this house, a young woman still, and I can only think it unwise, you know, of any man to neglect a young woman of my sort—or of your sort, Faith, for that matter. My word, I fell in love with Daniel, quite wildly and was determined to run away with him—well, he ran away, I confess it, but not with me. Your Uncle Joel persuaded him, with pound notes, of course, to leave me, and then persuaded me to return to your fadier, who did not at all want me but who feared he might lose the next election should there be a scandal. A sorry tale, and perhaps all those years ago I may have wished Daniel had been more courageous and willing to starve with me in a cottage. But he was not, and I would not really have cared for it in any case. Your uncle told me to return to my husband, to serve out my sentence in fact, since he felt I had earned my share of your father's fortune. And he was quite right, I endured ten years longer, and no one can accuse me of being other than a most dutiful, most submissive wife.'

‘And you remained in love with Mr. Adair all that time?'

‘Oh dear no,' she said. ‘Life is not like that. And when your father died I was too enchanted by my freedom to be in love with anybody but myself. It was my special time, I told you, and I also told you that I knew it would be quickly over. Depend upon it, if I had not encountered Daniel again, I might well have married Matthew Oldroyd and made myself nearly as rich as Verity. But I
did
encounter him, not at all by chance, since he has from time to time been associated in business with your Uncle Joel. He had informed himself of my circumstances and knew that I would be visiting the Exhibition. He has no money to speak of, of course, since he has just returned from the West Indies, where his ventures have not prospered. Poor Daniel. You must be well able to understand that he needs me.'

‘Indeed, but mother, that is hardly a reason for marriage.'

‘No dear. Then I will give you one. He deserted me, I suppose, and I should have detested him. I did not. I understood that, having known great poverty, he could not risk it again, and I was forced to admit that the few months I spent as his mistress were the most luminous of my life. I had been a sad little woman with an old, grey husband, and Daniel transformed me. He can certainly be a scoundrel, but that has never been unattractive—Joel has been a scoundrel in his day—and Daniel has a great capacity for laughter. You tell me I look nineteen, Faith dear. When Daniel Adair touches me I
am
nineteen. And I can afford him now. You need have no fear of the consequences. He is not so young as he was, darling, and a time comes when even the most seasoned wanderer is grateful for a comfortable home. And can you think of any reason—really—why he should not be fond of me?'

I couldn't, and when I dined with them some days later—Celia having refused the invitation, Prudence, who had no choice, sitting throughout the meal in spike-edged silence—I concluded that, whatever his faults, and they might well be numerous, his easy, good-humoured charm was beyond denial. He was a man, I thought, who could cheat but who would do it very pleasantly, a man whose roguish smile and all too apparent virility might be compensation enough to a woman like my mother—like myself—for any lie.

Yet Prudence, who was far more intimately concerned in the matter than I would not be reconciled, could in no way contemplate the sharing of a home not only with Mr. Adair but with his son, whose identity had been kept secret from us until now, a young gentleman of six or seven years old whose black eyes and amber-tinted countenance betrayed a hint of something warmer than Irish in his blood.

‘If my mother imagines,' she told me, ‘that I shall submit myself to daily contact with that dressed-up navvy and his offspring, then she is much mistaken. I shall demand control of my money and I shall come to live with you, or, if you will not have me. I shall make other arrangements. I shall set up a school as I have always wanted and earn my own living, free from encumbrance. In fact I shall go to Jonas Agbrigg at once to ascertain the exact nature of my rights. You had best accompany me.'

But Jonas, when applied to, was quick to point out that Prudence had no rights at all. Naturally he was just as disgusted at our mother's lack of judgment as we were, had as much to lose from it as we had—more, in fact, since the administration of the Oldroyd estate alone, much less its possession, would have made him a decent profit—but he had re-examined our father's will most minutely and could only describe it as unbreakable. The half of his fortune that was held in trust was safe from the assault of even the most skilful fortune-hunter, but could not be paid out to us during our mother's lifetime. The other half was hers—and Mr. Adair's—absolutely, while Prudence's dowry could only be made available on her marriage, or failing that at the joint discretion of my mother and Uncle Joel. And we could none of us imagine that Mr. Daniel Adair would allow his wife to consent to any such dissipation of funds.