Flint and Roses (55 page)

‘My word!' he said, throwing down his hat and gloves with great nonchalance. ‘I am a trapped man. I have been avoiding this very thing for years, and now—'

But then, seeing my face, the huddled posture of my body in the chimney-corner, he crossed the room quickly and would have taken me in his arms had I not backed away.

‘Heavens, Faith!—you will not die of it.'

‘Blaize, is there anything you can do to stop her from telling your father?'

‘Nothing! She wants me to marry you. It has worried her for a long time that I might dissipate my inheritance or bestow it unsuitably. Like Prudence, she fears I may take a child bride when I am ninety-three, and there would be no hope then of any Barforth money finding its way to Jonas. She disapproves wholeheartedly of what she thinks we have done, but it is manna from Heaven to her just the same. I could leave you an even richer widow than you are already, and who would you have to turn to then but Jonas?'

‘It is as bad as it could be, then?'

‘It is. She will tell my father, and when she does Nicholas will not keep silent. Mrs. Collins will not keep silent either. I'm afraid, so there will be ample confirmation—quite the most explosive scandal Cullingford has ever known by the look of it.'

‘Yes. Then really—do you know—I think I had better die of it. I'm not being in the least dramatic. I can think of no other solution, that's all.'

He smiled, took my hand and, leading me to the sofa, sat down beside me.

‘Yes, it had crossed my mind you would feel like that. What weapon would you use? You have no gas in this house, and poison is unreliable. You could jump from an upper window, of course, but it is by no means certain, and before you throw yourself under someone's carriage-horses you should take into account that you might kill the driver and a few passing children as well.'

‘There's the railway.' I said and was almost startled when he shuddered, quite violently.

‘You are quite serious about it, then. But no not the railway—please don't think about it again, Faith. It would solve the problem for you, perhaps, but not for the rest of us. Aunt Hannah is really very honest and very courageous, you know. In the event of your suicide she would feel herself very much to blame. She'd say it was because I had refused to make an honest woman of you, and then Nicholas would knock me down and spend the rest of his life believing he had killed you. Really—you had better marry me, you know.'

‘I shall have to go away, then, as far as I can, and at once—before your mother gets here. Dear God! she's expected in the morning.

I must leave tonight. If doesn't matter where. You can help me to do that, can't you, Blaize?'

And, as panic surged over me again. I couldn't sit still, couldn't stay in this room a moment longer, must go immediately and pack my bags; and, if there was no train, no coach, no donkey-cart to escape in, then I must run.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I could do that, I suppose. I could buy you a ticket for the London train and drive you to the station. But what then? I couldn't explain your disappearance to Aunt Hannah, nor to your mother, and the whole sad story would come out just this same. Nicholas would come after you, Faith. He couldn't leave you to fend for yourself. Even I couldn't accept such a sacrifice from a woman.'

I saw my hands clench in to fists and come crashing down impotently on my knees again and again, my whole body rocked backwards and forwards by the enormity of my frustration and my fear. I heard my voice moaning. ‘Dear God! What can I do then? Whatever can I do?', and the sound irritated me so that my mind said. ‘Stupid, hysterical woman—be still! Can't someone make her be silent?' I saw Blaize put his hands over mine, unclench my fingers, smooth them out and hold them steady.

‘Oh dear,' he said. ‘I wonder if you realize what a blow you have just struck me? I have just asked you to marry me, a request I have never made before. And all you replied was. “I shall have to go away—at once”. And that, my dear, is hardly flattering—hardly at all.'

‘Blaize, for heaven's sake! Stop playing games.
You
can get out of this the moment you want to; I don't think
I
can get out of it at all. Just don't bother me with nonsense—just don't—when I'm trying to find a serious solution.'

‘It
is
a serious solution,' he said; and releasing my hands, he leaned back a little, apparently at ease, his eyes quizzical and careful, but not without concern.

‘It depends on what you really want, Faith. And you have almost no time at all to make up your mind. Aunt Hannah has made a somewhat natural mistake. She knew you were meeting somebody in Scarborough. She sent one of her minions to find out, and the person in question saw me. Well, I have been avoiding traps of that kind for years and when I had got over the shock I could hardly ignore the poetic justice of it. However, we are discussing your feelings now, not mine. Faith, there are several things you can do. You can wait here and allow the storm to break over you, or you can go to London and warn Nicky of it. I have the address where he may be found and you could easily reach him there, or I could even take you there. Either way, my father would be waiting for him on his return. There is absolutely nothing I can do to silence Aunt Hannah, short of telling her the truth, and there's no guarantee she'd believe me. The chances are she'd see it as a trick to get myself out of trouble and land Nicky in it instead—which you must admit I've done often enough in the past—and I'm not sure what would happen if she asked him for confirmation. Obviously the truth
would
come out, because Mrs. Collins knows about you and Nicky, but by that time everybody else would know about it too, and the result would be exactly the same. Nicky and my father are not on good terms at the moment, you know, and the explosion would be quite devastating. My father is not precisely fond of Georgiana, but she is his daughter-in-law, she is expecting his grandchild. She's not in good health, and neither, I think, is he, which makes his temper shorter. He wouldn't want to throw Nicky out, and Nicky wouldn't want to go. But that is what would most likely happen. It could cause immense distress to both of them, in the long run, and worse than that to my mother.'

‘I know—I know—you don't have to punish me all over again with it.'

‘I think I do. I think it essential that you should see things very clear. Nicky and I have no legal claim on the mills, Faith. They belong to my father, and can be disposed of as he sees fit. The deeds of partnership are already drawn up, I know. They've been lying in Jonas Agbrigg's desk-drawer for some time now, waiting until my father feels the urge to sign them. It's the golden carrot he's been using to good purpose, but as matters stand we're just employees, and he could disinherit either one of us, or both. So you see, if you allow Nicky to quarrel with him you will be doing me a great service. What you must ask yourself is whether Nicky, in a year or two, would begin to wonder about the disservice you had done him. He has the Wool-combers, of course, but he's short of capital, and when it was known he had broken with my father the bank might not continue to support him.'

‘Blaize—I know—'

‘And there is Georgiana, and young Gervase, and the new baby. I imagine you must have intended being very discreet until after her confinement. You'll know more than I do about the dangers of shock and distress in pregnancy and I'm sure you wouldn't want to put her at risk—more than she is already. I'm not sure what would happen to Georgiana if all this came out into the open, and you and Nicky went away together. Obviously he'd continue to support her and the children, and, even if he lost the Wool-combers for lack of financial assistance—because all businesses need that kind of help in their early days, you know—then my father would support them anyway. So there'd be no physical hardship. She could go back to Galton, I suppose, although I'm not sure she could, or would, divorce him. An Act of Parliament is required for the dissolving of marriages, you know, Faith—which costs a lot of money and takes a great deal of time—and, since divorced persons don't remarry in any case, it would make no real difference to your situation. No one would ever speak to you again—no one you'd want to speak to, that is—and if you had children I can't imagine that anyone in Cullingford would speak to them either. The discrimination against bastards is really immense, and strikes me as very unjust—but there it is. And there is always the possibility that Nicholas eventually would redeem himself by going back to his wife. The world is very unfairly balanced for a woman. Georgiana would only have to forgive him and everyone else would be glad to do the same. He could come back to Tarn Edge, take his place in the mills—they would even kill the fatted calf for him. But no one would ever forgive you. I suppose he would make you a very adequate allowance—and I might call to see you now and then.'

I got up and began to pace around the room, backwards and forwards, up and down, a great release of energy that took me nowhere, losing myself, at every step more thoroughly, in the maze of my female situation, a dark dream-walking where every door that beckoned cheated me and was no door at all. And in the end—like Prudence, like every other woman—there was no choice but to submit, in this masculine world, to the requirements, the decisions, the mercy of the nearest, most sympathetic male.

‘Are you trying to drive me mad?'

‘I would prefer not to. Do you want me to take you to London, to find Nicholas?'

‘What else can I do?'

‘Can you really live with the scandal, Faith—for the rest of your life?'

‘What else can I do?'

‘Can you cope with the constant strain of pleasing him, which is not the same as loving him, since he will be all you have in the world. And he's not easily pleased. He'll growl and complain sometimes, and, even if he doesn't mean it, you'll die every time it happens because you'll think you're losing him.'

‘What else? Dear God—what else is there now?'

‘And supposing you
did
lose him? You could, Faith—so easily. He's had money all his life—lots of money—and so have you. Can you cope with poverty? The Wool-combers could eat up your money sooner than you'd imagine, because Nicky has grand ideas. If he lost it he'd be tempted to come home for more. And what then? Every man you met would know about you—men always know these things—and I wonder if you have any idea just how coarse men can be once a woman has lost her reputation?'

‘Blaize, for pity's sake! You can extricate yourself. I can't. He can't.'

‘Yes,' he said, very casually, ‘you can. You can marry me.'

I fell down on to a chair, my head in my knees and began to sob, an ugly, gulping sound that hurt my chest and my ears and such self-esteem as remained to me, and he waited, offering me no comfort, until my body staggered painfully towards composure and I raised my head again, wiping my face with my sleeves, feeling drained and sick and furious because my hysteria had weakened me further and had solved nothing.

‘I'm sorry. It's over now.'

But he made no immediate answer, obliging me by his very silence to admit my need of him, to realize fully and finally how alone I would be now, how totally abandoned, without him.

‘Good,' he said at last and very quietly. ‘Well then, since it's over, may we pass on to more constructive matters than tears? Dear Faith, my proposal startles you. I imagine, because you can see no reason for it. How can I make you understand? A man marries for a variety of reasons, you know that as well as I do. And you must also know that, in our little world, it is very rarely for passion. Faith, I am turning thirty and I have had my share of amorous escapades. Indeed, I now find that I am tending to repeat myself—it is all very pleasant, of course, and the wandering life I lead presents me with ample opportunities. But no man wanders forever—your mother's husband would offer you confirmation of that—and when I do come home, quite frankly, I am no longer comfortable at Tarn Edge. The house is big enough, and the service is excellent, but my nephew is extremely noisy and a new baby is unlikely to add anything to the atmosphere that I shall care for. Moreover, if possible, Georgiana and Nicholas should be left alone. My mother is of the same opinion, and when she is not there I feel somewhat
de trap.
I could take a house of my own, of course, but that would involve me in a mountain of domestic trivia, and apart from that I am a little tired of being so very eligible. It strikes me that every woman in the Law Valley with a daughter to marry has come running after me at one time or another, and I'm sorry to say that my taste doesn't run to young, innocent girls. I show my face in Cullingford, and there they are, put out on display, all tremulous and eager and ready for anything that might suceed in making them “Lady Barforth” one day. They besiege me with invitations to dine with them, to dance with them, anything I like with them. I have to listen to their music, look at their water-colours and their embroidery and anything else they can show me—within reason—that might tempt me. And it doesn't tempt me at all. There are men who very much like virginity, but frankly I have had no experience of it and, even if all these fifteen-year-old dimples and curls succeeded in moving me, how could I ask a mere child to manage my affairs when I am abroad, or to manage me when I am at home? I would be at the mercy of my wife's mother, and that wouldn't suit me at all. The alternative would be to look outside our charmed circle, as Nicky did, but we both know all about his problems, and I may not do any better. I know several attractive women, in London and elsewhere, who might be ready to marry me, but Cullingford is not kind to strangers. I would rather marry you, Faith. We are at ease with one another. You are intelligent and kind-hearted. You have excellent taste. You would be a good hostess and a good friend. You have a lovely body and a more sophisticated mind than is usual in a Law Valley woman. Yet you
are
a Law Valley woman. You understand the way in which I conduct my business and the men with whom it is conducted. And several times I've done more than glance in your direction—I've looked hard and I haven't been indifferent. These seem very adequate reasons for marriage to me. And as for that rare and special creature I've talked so much about—the one who is always in the next room—well, I think I am quite content, you know, to let her remain there. If I ever opened the door, the chances are that I'd be sadly disappointed. She'd most likely turn out to be quite commonplace.'