Flint and Roses (50 page)

Tea was served quite magnificently. We ate, drank, smiled, made Christmas promises of companionship, solidarity—‘We must see more of one another—my word, how time slips away—do you remember, when was it? Five years ago? Impossible'—and as Aunt Hannah and Caroline began to stir themselves and cast meaning glances at their husbands, both ladies having numerous other demands on their time, the ordeal seemed almost at an end.

‘Well, all the best to you,' Aunt Hannah said, getting to her feet.

‘Aye,' Sir Joel answered her. ‘We'll take a glass of wine, before you go, Hannah, and drink to what we've had, and what's to come. Well then, here's health and happiness to all of you, may you all prosper. Here's to old friends and absent friends and new beginnings—not forgetting our little Elinor.'

And, as we toasted each other, warmed by the easy emotions of the season, Georgiana, who had taken a brooding glass or two already, got up from the sofa and swayed forward towards Nicholas, stumbling against him as the trailing hem of her gown caught against the fender, her hair a burnished, beautiful copper in the firelight.

‘Oh, dear!' she said. ‘Oh, yes—we must drink to that—new beginnings—and forgiving each other our trespasses. Dear Nicky, do forgive me my trespasses, although I expect I shall trespass again.'

And because I couldn't look at Nicholas, I turned my head away and found Blaize's smoky, quizzical eyes watching me.

My mother returned home in February, ‘a cat', Prudence called her, ‘sitting in a cream-pot'and immediately the resentments that had been so far held in check came bubbling to the surface when it was seen that Mr. Adair had every intention of playing not only the devoted husband but the fond, somewhat over-zealous step-papa.

‘Family life,' he said, beaming at us as we gathered around my mother's dinner-table—his dinner-table now. ‘I never realized, Elinor, in my wandering days, how much I was missing. And here it all is—my little boy and your lovely girls, you and me—there's nothing to beat it, and nothing to beat us, so long as we stick together.'

In his urgent desire to be respectable, to be accepted, Prudence was forced to play a most unwilling part. Gone now were the days when she could eat a solitary breakfast in her own room, spending as long as she liked in perusing the letters and papers brought up on her breakfast tray. Now she was required to eat every meal
en famille
, sharing her news and her correspondence with a jovial but very determined Mr. Adair, an easy-going rascal transformed overnight, it seemed, into a patriarch who considered it his duty to watch over his womenfolk, to know at all times their exact whereabouts and their intentions, what they were doing and with whom. Gone now the days when my mother's carriage, more often than not, was at Prudence's disposal, when she had merely to say, ‘I'm off now, mamma. I'll be back presently'; for the horses, these days, were in Mr. Adair's gift, and he was not generous in their disposal.

‘And just where is it you're off to, m'darling?'

‘I have visits to pay.'

But young ladies, in Mr. Adair's scheme of things, paid no visits that did not include the chaperonage of a mother, did not—most decidedly—concern themselves with reservoirs and the resettlement of unemployed wool-combers. Young ladies were young ladies, motionless and sweet as lilies, proving by their constant presence at their mother's side that they were the products of a happy home, content to share that home with a new, enthusiastic father.

And since ‘sticking-together'was very much in Mr. Adair's best interests. I soon found my own freedom invaded in a way I had not expected, my time eaten away by ‘family teas', ‘family dinners', ‘family Sundays', in which at my mother's urgent request I was invariably included.

‘Just do this for me, darling', she would implore. ‘Just let me get settled—I'm so happy'; and since her personal happiness was beyond question, an effervescent fountain of it sparkling in her eyes, her laughter, the eagerness of her whole dainty body—because there was something achingly young and vulnerable in her face, which could not fail to move me—I submitted afresh to the captivity of that drawing-room, my father's black basalt urns still on the mantelpiece, his fragile china figurines still there, in their glass-fronted seclusion, but the whole house fragrant now with Daniel Adair's almost continual cigar, loud with the hearty male presence no Aycliffe had ever possessed, cluttered—as we had never dared to clutter it—by the playthings and the playmates of an untidy six-year-old child. And when Prudence, appalled by the discovery of scratches on the panelling, fearful for her porcelain, inquired of my mother how she could tolerate the antics of young Liam Adair, the answer, with a blissful, languorous smile was, ‘Ah—you see, dear, he reminds me of his father.'

I did not believe that Mr. Adair intended us any harm, at least not if it could be avoided, for he was a man who took pleasure in women and would have preferred, if possible, to be fond of us and have us fond of him in our own turn. But self-interest had long been not only a habit with him but a necessity, and, like any other ageing yet still powerful stallion, he was unwilling to see two well-dowered mares depart from his herd to squander themselves elsewhere.

Like Jonas he could not marry us himself—would not have wished to marry us, since my mother sufficed him gloriously as a wife—but our possessions tantalized him, challenged him, and before long, or so it seemed to us, the Irish Sea was thronging with hopeful Adairs, coming at the summons of their clan-chieftain to the marriage-market.

‘Oh dear!' my mother told me, bursting in on me unannounced, to my immense consternation. ‘I am afraid Prudence is very vexed, for the house is full again and she declares she is about to take herself off to Aunt Hannah's until they have all gone away, since Daniel has made it very clear he does not approve of her staying here alone with you. Do talk to her, Faith, for they are Daniel's relations, after all—my relations now—and I wish she would not be so sharp. I am sure there was no reason for her to slap Liam, this morning—at least, not so hard—when he picked up that Meissen bowl from the hall table. My goodness, the poor child was just curious to see what was written underneath, for which she was entirely to blame since she had been telling him everything was marked on the underside with the maker's name. Yes, I know the porcelain is hers, but she cannot take it away until she is married, and to box the child's ears so violently was certainly extreme. After all, nothing has been broken, and now she is talking of packing the whole collection away in boxes and storing it in the attic, which I feel sure Daniel will not allow. Indeed, he is the master of the house now. It is
his
attic and if he tells her she may not use it I am sure one must consider him to be in the right. And, since the porcelain attracts so much notice and everybody knows how much it is worth, what would people think should it not be on display? It would cause nothing but gossip and spite. Do talk to her, Faith, for I live in dread of a confrontation between them. I am not quite ready for it yet. Do explain to her that I am really so very happy—‘

But my mother's happiness in no way consoled Prudence for the loss of her own freedom.

‘The porcelain is mine,' she told me hotly. ‘My father spent fifty years of his life collecting it, and if Mr. Adair wishes to display it to his friends then he had best keep that little monster under control. Miss Mayfield can do nothing with him, but I am not so delicate, and if I find him just once again playing near the cabinets he will have cause to remember it. So—we have another cousin from Kildare, just arrived this morning. A fine young gentleman, something of a scholar we are told, and so he may be except that he has not yet pronounced a word in my hearing that I could understand. Delightful don't you think? I am to be denied the company of my own friends and forced into his. When Freddy Hobhouse called this morning no one informed me of it. He was told I was not at home and sent away. And I am by no means certain that all of my letters are delivered. How dare he, Faith? Truly—how
dare
he? Well, they are bringing the Kildare cousin to meet
you
later this afternoon, so you had best beware. Perhaps he is to be offered the choice between us, and he will certainly pick you, since you are better-looking and richer.'

And, inwardly trembling, I rushed to Mrs. Marworth and begged her to be on the look-out for Nicholas, to warn him, explain to him, to tell me at once if he seemed put out, if there was any hope of seeing him again that day.

I could not avoid Caroline's invitation to Listonby, enduring three weeks of gruelling activity, gnawing anxiety, since Nicholas had first asked me to cancel, then ordered it, then tried to coax it out of me, and, failing that, had spent a terrible and totally unreasonable hour declaring me flighty and unfeeling, a giddy butterfly like my mother, incapable of denying myself a moment's entertainment.

‘If you can do without me for three weeks, then I reckon you can do without me altogether. Of course you must go to Listonby, darling. I perfectly understand it. There's no telling who you might meet there. By God, there isn't! You could even come back with a Matthew Chard of your own. And who am I to stand in the way of that? He might not marry you, of course, but then neither can I. And they say a change does everybody good.'

I should have defended myself, of course, should have grown angry, told him to leave and take his poor opinion of me, and his injustice, away with him; but I threw my arms around him instead and held him, the whole of my body pleading with his, until the rage of his jealousy had subsided.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I know.'

‘I say things in temper, do things in temper—'

‘Yes, I know that too—like the day you wouldn't get on Cullingford's first train.'

‘Christ! I'd forgotten about that.'

‘I've never forgotten anything you've ever done—at least, the things I know about.'

‘She'll have her house full of young sparks from London, Faith, who'll see you as fair game—who'll think that's what she's invited you for. And it maddens me that I have to let that happen. It wouldn't happen if they knew you belonged to me.'

‘It won't happen in any case. I love you, Nicholas.'

‘I'll ride over when I can. It's a big house, and knowing the gentry they'll all be doing the same thing.'

‘Not if Caroline catches them. Nicholas—would it be safe?'

‘You don't want me? If that's it, then say so.'

‘That's not it, Nicholas—you know it couldn't be. It's Caroline. You know she never misses a thing and—and Georgiana is almost certain to ride over.'

‘I know,' he said, his jaw set and strained. ‘And shall I tell you something? I don't care. I mean it, Faith—I don't care. Oh yes—I should care. I know I'm in the wrong. I'm the criminal—not you, not Georgiana.
I'm
the adulterer.
I'm
the fool. It was my mistake that brought us to this—not yours, not hers. I know. Well—it makes no bloody difference, because I won't accept it. I might get hurt, and so might you. It's the chance I'm taking, and you'll have to take it with me.'

And, after this explosion, Caroline's hectic house was for the first day or two almost a refuge.

I had no reason to believe her other than perfectly happy—for she would have said so otherwise—her relationship with her husband having a definite physical aspect, despite her streak of prudishness, both of them enjoying. I thought, a hard day's work, a hard day's sport, followed by an uncomplicated, energetic bedding about which no one could ever have induced her to say a word. Sir Matthew rose, invariably, at first light, breakfasting, every hunting morning, on slices of red beef and raw eggs beaten up in brandy, which would see him through the excitements of the day. The gentlemen would then set off, not too early—since a fox, being a night-feeder, is sluggish at daybreak, and provides no sport—returning triumphant, ardent, sometimes very frisky, but rarely before, dinnertime. And, preoccupied with what she considered as her side of their bargain, her guests, her children, the domestic details and dramas of her tenants, the new servants'wing her father's generosity had enabled her to build, I doubt if Caroline gave him a thought before then.

Like all the Barforths it was her belief that, if one took the trouble to do anything at all, one should do it splendidly, and her new wing—which she showed me the very hour of my arrival—was built in two sections, allowing not only a most efficient grouping of related employments, but a segregation of the sexes. The original servants'hall had been much extended, a giant buffer now between the butler's domain on the left, the housekeeper's on the right, the butler's pantry being surrounded by all the requisite offices where menservants were likely to be found, capacious wine cellars and beer cellars, the plate scullery, the room for the polishing of boots, the room for the polishing of knives, the room where lamps were cleaned and filled, the strongroom, the gun-room, the door—in full view of the butler's eagle eye—which led to the single bedrooms where the footmen and valets and assorted, or visiting, menservants slept.

The housekeeper's room was similarly surrounded, by still-room and linen-room, the room where the Listonby china was carefully catalogued and stored, a narrow passage leading to the vast kitchen area where the head chef, whose artistic temperament required a certain degree of privacy, had a small sitting-room for his own use, giving him easy access to the pastry-room, the game larder, the fish larder, the meat larder, and the bakehouse where Listonby's daily bread gave a permanent spicy fragrance to the air.

There was another passage, narrow and dark this time, leading to the steamier fragrances of the laundry-room and ironing-room, where cheerful, sturdy girls worked, rather more bare-armed and bare-bosomed than Caroline liked, at their washtubs and mangles, singing to attract the attention of the stable-boys—or so Caroline thought—as they carried their baskets of linen outside to dry.