Flint and Roses (78 page)

Yet from then on the school was a regular recipient of game from the ducal deer parks, pineapples from the ducal pine-pits, hampers of strawberries and other exotic fruits from the greenhouses the designer of the Crystal Palace had built, and a steady stream of enquiries from titled gentlemen—or their legal advisers—to whom my sister's school had been most highly recommended.

My daughter Blanche became a pupil there on her seventh birthday, an arrangement, it must be said at once, from which she obtained no academic distinction, having decided even then that her silver curls and cloudy turquoise eyes, a dash of her father's elusive charm, would be more than enough to win the prizes
she
desired from life.

‘She's not stupid,' Prudence told me. ‘And she's not lazy. In fact—in her way—she's rather clever and quite determined. It's just that—well—she doesn't see the point to education. After all, whenever we have a distinguished visitor, he may have a dutiful look at Grace Agbrigg's mathematics or Amy Chesterton's handwriting but then he'll take a very long look at Blanche. So why should she take the trouble to work at her copperplate, or do her sums?'

And I understood that my beautiful Blanche was of far less interest to Prudence than her other niece, the intellectually promising Grace Agbrigg, or Georgiana's impish Venetia who, when she could be restrained from making her escape through the nearest window, had an entertaining, if totally undisciplined, mind.

‘Blanche will marry well,' Prudence said. ‘There's no doubt about that. Venetia could marry a prince or could elope with a chimney-sweep. Grace—I don't know—I think I love Grace. I would like Grace to do something quite extraordinary.'

Jonas, too, maintained his interest in the school, coping admirably at the same time with his depleted household and his daughter, their relationship being in no way demonstrative, yet certainly of great importance to them both, based, it seemed, on mutual respect, the interest and sympathy of a clever man for a clever child.

‘They manage so very well together,' my mother enthused, but there was no doubt that Aunt Hannah, although she had felt sincere grief for Celia, had no intention of allowing her son to be alone for long. His marriage to Celia had been the very best, at the time, he could have possibly hoped for, but his circumstances had vastly altered since then. He was a man of substance and distinction these days, whose opinions carried weight with our town council and were not disregarded by our local politicians of the Whig persuasion. He was the master of a fine house in Albert Place, kept his own carriage and a smart suite of offices in Croppers Court, and, although Celia's share of the Aycliffe money would pass now, when my mother died, to Grace, this—although initially disappointing—was not altogether a bad thing, since it would prevent the child of his first marriage from becoming a financial burden to his second.

The world of matrimonial opportunity was suddenly wide open again for Jonas, and, as his period of mourning—so much shorter for a man than for a woman—reached half-way to its close, Aunt Hannah began to give serious thought as to who this second wife should be. Naturally he would marry again. A woman—certainly our own widowed queen—might be allowed to bury their hearts in the graves of their departed husbands—in fact it was considered right and proper that they should—but a man, especially a man with a child to raise and his way to make in the world, had no choice but to be practical. And in Jonas's case, according to Aunt Hannah, perhaps the time had come to be magnificent.

Most men in his position, of course, would have been thinking along the lines of some sober, sensible woman of mature years, a lady, certainly, of some gentility and a little money, but selected mainly for her skills as a housekeeper, her patience with motherless children. But Aunt Hannah, who had been obliged to take what she could get for him last time, acquired, quite suddenly, what seemed to be a new lease of life, all her old ambitions rekindling to such a fever-heat that his frequent visits to Prudence's school, where several ladies of the mature and sensible type were employed, caused her immense alarm.

‘I do not care to see him hob-nobbing quite so much with those schoolmistresses,' she told me. ‘And I am relying on you, Faith, to keep your eyes open. You are a woman of experience, as I am, and it can be no secret to you that men have certain requirements which often lead them into great foolishness. I have no intention of allowing Jonas to be trapped by one of Prudence's spinster ladies, I do assure you, since there is no doubt that each and every one of them would give their eye-teeth—and very likely their virtue—to have him.'

Prudence herself, of course, had she not been placed within the forbidden degree of kinship, would have been an ideal choice, being richer than Celia, infinitely more energetic, her very independence of mind a quality which would have been of great use to a man embarking on the political life. But, failing Prudence, there was Rebecca Mandelbaum who, having been deceived by her Austrian musician, was still languishing at home, a virgin of thirty-three summers and large financial expectations, who could find consolation for her own loss, perhaps, in a man who had also suffered. And if she could not, then there was the youngest Battershaw girl, not yet in her twenties but old, it was felt, for her age, and—perhaps best of all—the daughter of Mr. Fielding, our Member of Parliament, an alliance in the grand Whig manner which rejoiced Aunt Hannah's heart.

At her suggestion I invited these ladies, suitably chaperoned, to dine with me in their turns, seating Jonas beside them at table, letting it be seen, in accordance with my aunt's specific instructions, that any arrangement with the Agbriggs would include the Barforths too. But Angelica Battershaw, I felt, was too giddy, the twenty-five-year-old Miss Fielding too plain, Rebecca, although sweet-natured enough, handsome enough, still dwelling on her departed musician, and—quite fiercely and irrationally—I wanted Jonas to have some warmth in life, some joy, a little gaiety.

‘It could well be Rebecca,' I ventured when my aunt pressed me, having learned that Jonas had spent a comfortable evening at the Academy, thrashing out some knotty philosophical problem in the staff sitting-room over red wine and ratafia biscuits.

‘He seems to enjoy her company, Aunt Hannah.'

‘Good'she said. ‘I confess I would have preferred Maria Fielding, but the Mandelbaums are well placed and I shall not complain. I shall leave Rebecca to you, Faith. Flatter her and coddle her a little, show her some new way of doing her hair and lend her one of your lace shawls—that sort of thing. And while you are about it, I shall get to work on the parents. Naomi Mandelbaum is a good soul who has always been easy enough to manage, and George is a sensible man. His daughter may be rich, but she is no longer young, and after that unfortunate attachment if he can get her decently settled he'll, be glad of it. You could introduce her to Grace and work on her sympathies, and then, if Jonas makes his intentions clear around Christmastime, they could be married as soon as his full year is up. After all, she'll be thirty-four by then and no one would expect her to delay. Really—it will be very suitable.'

So it was. A sizeable dowry, a sedate, healthy woman who would do her duty and cause no trouble, who was not brilliant yet perfectly able to entertain his guests without strain, and be kind to his daughter. Yet I too had been present that evening in Prudence's sitting-room when Jonas had entertained us with wine and philosophy, had seen him relax easily into the academic atmosphere of his youth, and, having taken more than a glass or two myself—enough to remind me of lost loves and opportunities—I flung my arms around him at parting and told him, ‘When you marry again, Jonas, I want her to be beautiful and generous and madly in love with you. I want you to adore her—'

‘How kind,' he said smiling, steadying me, since it must have been apparent to everyone that the second Lady Barforth was well in her cups. ‘But I think I may have passed the season for such things, you know.'

‘Oh dear—is it winter already? Then I'd best invite Becky Mandelbaum to dinner again, I suppose.'

‘Yes,' he said very quietly, a man, I thought, who had never allowed himself to neglect his opportunities, however burdensome he had known they would prove. ‘I believe you should.'

In the spring, Mayor Agbrigg's final term of office came to its close, an event deemed worthy of some expression of gratitude and respect, since he and Aunt Hannah between them had been responsible for the Concert Hall, the reservoirs, the Giles Ashburn Memorial Gardens, the passing of an Improvement Act which had resulted in the lighting and paving and, in some cases, the widening of streets, the knocking down of old, dangerous buildings, and a set of building regulations—at which my father would have shuddered—to oversee the more solid, more hygienic construction of new ones.

The Agbriggs had brought both water and culture to Cullingford, had concerned themselves with both public health and public buildings, had worked hard and often successfully to transform what had been little more than a mass of humanity huddled together in one place into a community with a sense of civic pride. A debt, clearly, was owing, and since we paid our debts in Cullingford a banquet was held in honour of our Mayor and his lady at the Assembly Rooms, followed by speeches and praises, the presentation of a silver salver that would not have disgraced a baronial hall, and of a gold mayoral chain, twenty-eight ounces in weight, worth a lordly two hundred and forty pounds, which Mayor Agbrigg wore for the first, if the last, time that night.

Every gentleman who had held civic office since the date of our incorporation was present, with the exception of Mr. Hobhouse, who had rather tactfully declined, every industrialist, members of all the professions, several politicians of several parties, Jonas, who would soon have that chain of office around his own neck, sitting beside Rebecca Mandelbaum who would soon be his wife, Aunt Hannah, showing, at the only public banquet in Cullingford for years which she had not arranged herself, the face of a woman who is seeing not all, perhaps, but a sufficiency of her dreams come true.

There was still the Town Hall to build, with its banqueting hall and mayor's parlour, where she herself would be unlikely to hold court, her husband having firmly announced himself unwilling to stand for re-election. There was the art gallery and museum to be completed in the Ashburn Park, the growing need for a library now that so many people were learning to read. But Jonas and his placid Rebecca could do all that for her—because she had made it possible for it to be done at all—and I had never seen my aunt so gloriously, almost girlishly happy as on that night.

I took Blaize to the station in my victoria some five days later, presented my cheek to be kissed as he boarded the train, smiled, pronounced my calm good-byes—asking no questions so as not to be reminded that he would give no answers—and, walking out, chilled suddenly, into the station yard, I found myself unwilling to go home, could see no reason, no use in being there, and drove instead to Lawcroft Fold.

It was a calm, commonplace day, nothing, as I drove in at the top gate—wishing to avoid the mill yard and the possibility of Nicholas—to disturb me, nothing to surprise me at the sight of the equipage I believed to be Jonas's standing outside the door, until Jonas himself appeared and drove off without greeting me, his wheels almost shaving mine on the carriage-way, the glimpse of his face telling me something was awry.

Mayor Agbrigg was in the drawing-room when they announced me, standing at the window looking down into the mill yard, his hunched shoulders frailer than I had realized, the lines of his face deeper, dustier somehow, like crevices in old stone.

‘Faith, lass—‘

‘Uncle Agbrigg—what is it?'

And in reply he gestured towards the old lady scarcely recognizable as my aunt, a grey face with two raw streaks of crimson beneath the cheekbones, grey hair—why had I never noticed her hair was so grey?—escaping in impossible disorder from its pins as if she had tugged at it in fury or despair, shaken her head and screamed out some total protest. ‘Never! I will not have it.' And Jonas—for it could only be he—had walked away from her, leaving her to grapple with her first defeat.

Had he refused to marry Rebecca Mandelbaum after all, since I well knew nothing had been settled, much less announced? Had he decided to sell his practice and go into some rash academic venture, some scheme that would relax and humanize him, even if it made him poor? I hoped so. Fervently I hoped so. Yet Aunt Hannah and her husband had helped me once, and I too had a debt to repay.

‘Aunt Hannah,' I said, kneeling on the floor by her chair. ‘Let me help, if I can. Or if you would like me to go away again—?'

‘No,' she said, the movement of her lips hard and painful, as if she feared they would crack. ‘Stay a while. You will have cause to avoid me soon enough. Tell her—Mr. Agbrigg—what has been done to me.'

‘Not I. I'll have nothing to do with it.'

‘He's your son, Ira Agbrigg.'

‘No,' he said, turning to face her, the bitterness in him shocking me, amazing her. ‘
Your
son, Hannah. You had the moulding of him. That was the condition you made when we married, and I accepted it.
Your
son—not mine and not his mother's—
yours
.'

She got up slowly, her body aching, I thought, from some inner violence, some grievious wound that, because she was Hannah Barforth, she chose to ignore, and
would
ignore even if it killed her.

‘Quite so, Mr. Agbrigg. I feel sure that my niece, Lady Barforth, cannot wish to be bothered with that.'

And, turning to me, her face a mask of false, quite painful cordiality, she said brightly, ‘You will be interested to learn, Faith, that Jonas is to be married.'

‘Yes, of course—but we supposed, surely—in the spring.'