Flint and Roses (44 page)

‘Had there been a way through it,' Jonas told us, without the slightest change of tone or expression, ‘then I would have found it. Had there been a way to twist the meaning to suit our purposes, then I would have twisted it. We are talking of Celia's money too, after all, and my expenses—Prudence dear—are probably a great deal heavier than your own.'

‘There's the porcelain,' she said. ‘I'll sell it, before that little monster of a Liam Adair sets about the job of breaking it, for I never encountered a more unruly child in my life. Will you handle the sale for me, Jonas?'

But once again my father, with his innate distrust of female judgment, had imposed conditions. The porcelain could be sold as an entire collection or in separate pieces, but only with the consent of Prudence and her husband. Should she attempt to offer it for sale before her marriage or—horror of horrors—without the permission of her spouse, then its possession would revert to that other weak-minded female, her mother.

‘I will never forgive him,' Prudence said bitterly.

‘I doubt if that will trouble him unduly,' Jonas told her, folding the documents neatly away and slipping them into a drawer of his massive, masculine desk. ‘Your father did not mean you to be independent. Prudence. He intended you to be married, and I can see no alternative for you but to obey—unless, of course, you are prepared to wait until your mother dies, which is unlikely to be soon. You had best take Freddy Hobhouse, who will make no objection to your selling the shirt from your back, much less your porcelain, since every penny he can muster is needed at Nethercoats.'

‘And is that the best you can do for me, Jonas—with all your cleverness?'

‘It is,' he said coldly, getting to his feet as an indication that the consultation was at an end, that his time—being male and free—was of value in Cullingford. ‘The absolute best, Prudence, as matters have turned out.'

And they stared at each other, steel-eyed adversaries, detesting each other, since it was in neither of their natures to admit that she would have made him a better wife than Celia, that his intellect and his perseverance could have proved more congenial to her than Freddy.

‘Oh yes,' Blaize told me that afternoon, calling in to see me on his way back from town. ‘There are no deadlier enemies than those who could have been friends. If Aunt Hannah had not made him so greedy, and your father had not made her so awkward—who knows? But poor Prudence, this is the end of her liberty it seems, for I imagine Dan Adair will keep her very close to home.'

‘I don't see why he should concern himself with her at all.'

‘No—but then you don't know very much about disreputable men, do you, Faith? He has been a rogue all his life, I imagine, and now, having made up his mind to be respectable, he will be very, very respectable indeed—you may take my word for it. Family prayers every morning, I shouldn't wonder, and no unmarried young ladies of
his
household running unchaperoned about the streets. As I said—poor Prudence.'

‘I hadn't thought of that. Why don't you marry her yourself. Blaize? One supposes you must eventually marry
somebody?'

‘Ah—one supposes. Not yet, dear.'

‘You are still looking for that rare and special creature Prudence used to tease you about, are you? The one who is always in the next room?'

‘It does rather seem so. But in the meantime—it occurs to me—you wouldn't care to dine with me one evening, next week perhaps, would you, Faith? I have a rather pleasant little apartment in Leeds—nothing grand, but worth looking at, and I have very passable dinners sent in from the restaurant across the street.'

‘Heavens!' I said, thoroughly delighted, knowing that, although it was not a serious request, merely an exploratory one, he would not have asked at all had he not been tempted. ‘What an idea! And you're not even very ardent, are you—asking for next week instead of this week—or tonight—'

‘Well, at least you didn't take a fit of the vapours, and with a little re-arranging of my commitments I could manage, shall we say, Wednesday?'

‘I really think we'd better not.'

‘Yes, now that is just what I expected you to say, but I know you won't blame me for making the attempt. You are looking very well lately, Faith—quite precious, like something cut out of cameo glass.'

‘Goodness! First I'm a swan, then a cameo. Whatever next?'

‘My very good friend, I think,' he said, moving towards me, his intention to kiss me so obvious that had I not desired it I could easily have turned away. But I remained motionless as his mouth came to rest, butterfly-light, on the corner of mine and then slowly took possession of it, a leisurely, accomplished embrace which stirred nothing inside me but appreciation of his expertise, a certain pleasing blend of amusement and affection.

‘Now why on earth did you do that, Blaize Barforth?'

‘One takes one's opportunities—and it wouldn't be a hardship to do it again, believe me.'

‘No, but think of the inconvenience to yourself. I know that young widows who live alone are supposed to go in for this kind of thing, but in our case, with Aunt Hannah to watch over us—'

‘Exactly,' he said. ‘How clever of you to think of that.'

And, knowing that he had certainly thought of it himself. I wondered.

It could be no secret to him that, since the Exhibition, Nicholas had called once or twice to see me, exactly as he did himself. And why should it surprise anyone that Nicholas should stop a moment every now and then in Millergate to pass the time of day with his widowed cousin?

He would arrive without warning, always in a hurry—or so it seemed—leaving his horse quite openly at my gate.

‘Faith, I've been shouting myself hoarse all morning and the Old Swan is like an oven. Will you give me tea?'

And I gave him tea, sitting a yard away from him, listening, smiling, ‘understanding what he meant'and pretending, sometimes, both of us, that I did not, sharing the strain, easing the tension, making no move towards him, refusing to face the possibility that he could approach me, telling myself when he had gone that it was entirely innocent and believing it, because it was what I wanted to believe. He never mentioned Georgiana. I never mentioned Giles. We talked, as we had done years ago, of ourselves in isolation, as if our lives were in no way connected with other lives, certainly not with each other.

‘What have you done today, Faith?'

‘Oh, mad adventures from morning to evening—my cat on the rooftop wailing to get down, and I think my chimney needs sweeping. And you, Nicholas?'

‘Bought myself some new combing machines, although God knows where I'm to put them.'

‘Isn't the mill next to yours for sale—the old Barraclough place?'

‘Aye—and I've had a look at it.'

‘And you could use it?'

‘I reckon I could—if I can get the money.'

‘Oh, you'll do that all right. Will it take a great deal to put it right?'

And, listening while he offered me his facts and figures, I must have known that I was recreating for him the atmosphere he had once found attractive, that by fulfilling his need I was increasing it.

Uncle Joel, aware no doubt of the contribution his operatives had made to his Exhibition medals, his knighthood, his general altogether stupendous success, entertained them that summer to a grand banquet held under canvas on the lawns at Tarn Edge. He had, it was true, deprived many of their fathers of a livelihood by his introduction of power-looms twenty years ago, but the new machines themselves had given rise in this younger generation to a new class of mechanics, skilled men who, with a trade in their hands, were moving out of Simon Street to cleaner pastures and who, with the aid of the Mechanics Institute my uncle had sponsored, were no longer illiterate labourers, but men who could increasingly lift up their heads and pay their way. He had always been known as a hard master, but there was no job in his factories, however dirty or dangerous, that he could not and had not done himself. He demanded punctuality and self-discipline, both of which he practised himself, but for a good day's work he had always been willing to pay rather more than Nethercoats or Fieldhead, and had been the first man in the Law Valley, long before the law compelled him, to introduce a ten-hour working day.

And now, having proved to the Hobhouses and the Oldroyds that even without exceeding the legal ten hours his factories could make higher profits than theirs, he had invited his employees to dine, spreading before them a gargantuan feast which, Aunt Hannah had informed me, included no fewer than five hindquarters of beef, a hundred and fifty legs of mutton, forty hams and tongues, chickens and ducks and pigeon pies without number, three hundred and twenty plum puddings, a mountain of fruit and nuts, sponge cakes, tarts of every variety and description, washed down with as much wine and ale as every man, and every woman, could decently carry.

There was of course a certain segregation, natural or otherwise, family and friends, shed managers, engineers, designers, skilled men and their families, all in self-conscious Sunday best, keeping themselves a trifle apart from the lower echelons, even the burlers and menders, sedate, matronly looking women for the most part who spent their days repairing faults in the unfinished pieces, letting it be known they felt themselves a cut above the mass of common weavers. But Sir Joel Barforth strolled leisurely that day among them all, shaking any hand that was held out to him, a word and a smile for everyone, a cigar for every man, a trinket in the napkin of every woman, sharing a joke here, a reminiscence there, putting himself and his possessions on display to satisfy their curiosity and to whet their appetites, to increase the ambition of some, the envy of others, although all of them—the ambitious and the envious, the ones who wanted this magnificence for themselves and the ones who wanted no one to have it—were all willing to drink his health that day.

I put aside my widow's weeds for the occasion, not eagerly, but knowing it must be done. I was twenty-three years old. I had worn unrelieved black for two years. It was enough, and so I chose a gentle dove grey, a wide, tiered skirt edged with white lace, slit sleeves showing lace beneath, a grey satin bonnet with a white plume curling behind, a cameo at my throat, a frivolous, lacy parasol, gloves, and dashing, high-heeled boots of white kid.

‘My word, how smart!' my mother said, coming to collect me with Mr. Adair, since Prudence, who would still barely speak to her, had chosen to accompany the Agbriggs. But after so long in mourning even these neutral colours seemed excessively bright and, as I entered the gardens of Tarn Edge, if Aunt Hannah had rounded on me with a ‘Good heavens, girl! You are improperly dressed. Go home and change', I would not have been astonished.

The family table, of course, surrounded by flowering plants and hot-house blooms in copper bowls, was a sight to behold. Aunt Verity—Lady Barforth now—sitting beside her daughter. Lady Chard, and amiable, healthy Sir Matthew. My mother was beautiful as always; Aunt Hannah undoubtedly majestic; Mr. Agbrigg a famous man in his own right now that he had brought water, if not to Simon Street, to very nearly everywhere else. Prudence, dressed with her usual quiet elegance, while not precisely willing to speak to Mr. Adair, was at least taking pains that it should not be obvious. Even Celia, looking older than either of us. I thought, seemed ready to enter into the general spirit of enjoyment, finding no more than a few, very trivial errands for the impeccable Jonas.

Blaize, as much in his element as Caroline, had clearly been set the task of making himself pleasant and was performing it admirably, far better than Nicholas, who seemed morose and preoccupied, while Georgiana, splendidly attired in honey-coloured silk, her earrings of gold and topaz looking too heavy for her tiny, pointed ears, sat in complete silence, not sullenly but rather, it seemed, because there was nothing she wished to say.

‘They have been having a terrible set-to, Georgiana and Nicholas,' Caroline whispered to me. ‘So you will oblige me by keeping an eye on her. He was growling at her when I arrived and she was wringing her hands and wailing “Oh what have I done now?”, in that way she has, half laughing, half crying—I can perfectly understand why she provokes him. You will have noticed that neither her grandfather nor her brother are here, which may have something to do with it—certainly Perry is head over heels in debt again, which is always a bad sign. Well, they must sort it out later, for nothing must be allowed to spoil my father's great day. I told you, did I not, that he would win all the medals, and so he has. Even Matthew couldn't bring himself to ignore that, and I must say that he has backed down most graciously. If there should ever be another exhibition I shall have no trouble at all in attending it.'

Sir Joel having returned from the grand tour of his property and his personnel, the meal began, and ended, most jovially, my uncle, who had received his share of loyal toasts, standing now to raise his own glass to his wife.

‘I have this to say,' he announced, ‘and you can all hear it. Without Verity I'd have nothing and I'd be nothing. If I had to choose between all this and her, then I'd throw the lot away. I may be embarrassing her now—and by the look on her face I am—but the only real treasure I have is in her. There'll be men here today who'll look at this house and the mills, and say “He's been lucky”. They're wrong. Hard work made the mills, because I was ready to get myself out of bed every morning when others weren't, and ready to labour, often enough, into the night when the rest had gone home. That, and guts I reckon, and a knack of understanding what was needed and how to supply it. There's no luck in that. But if any man looks at my wife and says “He's been lucky”, then that man is absolutely right. He could even go further and tell me I've got more than I deserve. So we'll drink now to Lady Barforth—my wife.'