Flint and Roses

by Brenda Jagger

  It was a heavy morning of late August, a yellow sky pressing down upon the city, a tight, dusty quality in the air that promised heat, and, even as I got down from my victoria and walked across that familiar churchyard, I hoped to see Aunt Hannah, grim and resolute, hostile and bitter, but present, in the church porch. I even waited a moment, not seeing her carriage, hoping for the sound of her unsteady nags, or at least the heavy footsteps which might bring Mayor Agbrigg, coming alone to offer a measure of reconciliation. But the church was almost empty, just the law clerks from Croppers Court, the managers from Fieldhead, who knew which side their bread was buttered, and Nicholas Barforth, come, one supposed, to pay his respects to a new power in the Valley.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Barforth.’

  ‘Good morning, Nicholas.’

  And I stepped into the pew beside him, knowing how conspicuous I would seem should I sit elsewhere, the entrance of the stately, timeless bride preventing further conversation between us, bringing me an unwilling image of Celia, coming down this very aisle to this very bridegroom, beautiful—for the first and only time in her life—a breathless, delicate bloom that had soon perished. And behind her came Giles Ashburn’s bride, on fire with gratitude, running—although she didn’t know it then—from Nicholas Barforth to Nicholas Barforth, determined to keep faith with him yet losing it, keeping faith in the end not even with myself. ‘I give you everything I can,’ Blaize had told me, ‘which is rather more—in fact a great deal more, Faith Aycliffe—than you give to me.’ Yet was he asking for my love or simply telling me to be satisfied? ‘I give you everything I can—everything it is in my nature to give.’ Surely that could only be a reminder of our agreement, a warning that I should content myself within the limits he had set and to which I had consented? Certainly I had overstepped those limitations by questioning him about his infidelity, and had lost his trust long before that by breaking the one promise he had asked of me. ‘I give you everything I can, which is rather more than you give to me.’ Did he want more? Could I give it? Assuredly I could, for I had indeed thought of him as my dearest friend—as Nicholas and I, in spite of all the love, the pain, the need, the rich complexity between us, had never been friends—and I had missed Blaize acutely since he had withdrawn from me. Did he want more? It was the hope with which I tried to nourish my bleaker moments, a pale, hesitant little hope which soon failed. For Blaize, above all, was an opportunist, who had never to my knowledge practised self-denial. If he wanted something from me, from anyone, he would ask. And there was no denying that, since Celia died, and my own needs had somehow sharpened, whenever I tried to approach him I encountered nothing but cool air and my own sadness.

  We came out of the church into full sunshine, the second Mrs. Agbrigg taking her husband’s arm with authority, her handsome head, beneath its relatively modest bonnet, held high, a smile of composure only faintly tinged with satisfaction on her full, dark red lips.

  ‘Lady Barforth, how kind of you to come,’ she said, by no means overwhelmed at my generosity, understanding it had been done for Jonas, and considering herself a match for Lady Barforth any day of the week. ‘And Mr. Barforth too—how kind. You will come back with us now, to Fieldhead, I know, and take a glass of champagne.’

  ‘So we will,’ Nicholas said, kissing her hand, amused, I thought, at meeting someone whose presence was as commanding as his own, and who took it for granted she would be obeyed. ‘That is—I’ll come if my sister-in-law will give me a ride in her carriage, since I left mine at the Swan.’

  ‘But of course—’ murmured Mrs. Delaney-Oldroyd-Agbrigg, and, although a visit to Fieldhead was the last thing in the world I intended, the memory of Nicholas’s horse left in the Swan yard the last thing I could bear on such a day, we drove off together to be greeted on arrival by the new master of Fieldhead himself, alighting from his own carriage to escort us into the house I had last entered in the days when Mr. Oldroyd had wanted to marry my mother.

  The new mistress of that house had as yet made few changes beyond the crimson velvet curtains which had so grieved my sister, but her casual offer of a ‘glass of champagne’was, of course, more elaborate than that, a well-garnished spread of galantines and pátès, the angel cakes and chocolate cakes for which she had become famous, a sure indication that I would be obliged to stay far longer than the quarter of an hour I had allowed.

  ‘Dear Lady Barforth—do take a little of this—and that—another glass’; and, because I was tearful again, thinking of Celia, wishing Jonas well with all my heart yet not certain that he would be well—that Grace would be well—I meekly accepted her food, her wine, strolled into her garden to admire her plants, a glass of champagne in my hand, too many, already, in my head, so that when I found myself alone with Nicholas, in view of the others but separated from them by low box-hedges, several yards of roses. I was not sure if she—with her harlot’s knowledge and complicity—had arranged it.

  He had a glass in his hand too, a cigar in the other, his skin and his hair darker, it seemed, each time I stood close to him than the time before, the resemblance between him and Blaize growing smaller with the years as he became heavier, more dominant, Blaize lighter, more elusive.

  ‘You’ll be glad to see your brother-in-law doing so well for himself,’ he said, not asking me but telling me in the grand manner of Jonas’s new wife.

  ‘I shall be very glad, if she can make him happy.’

  ‘Oh, there’s not much doubt of that, surely.’

  ‘I do hope not.’

  ‘I’m sure not. She keeps a good house and a good table. She’s given him the best business in the Valley after mine—and I imagine she’s accommodating in other directions. She knows what she wants, our Tessa Delaney, and since it happens to be Jonas I reckon he’s set for life. I just hope she’ll give him time off to handle one or two little matters of concern to me, since he’s still my lawyer.’

  And the fact that he had mentioned these matters which were of concern to him was a clear indication that they must also be of concern to me.

  ‘I’m sure she will.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’d best finish my drink and take my leave, for by rights I shouldn’t be here at all. I’ve had word from Galton that Mr. Clevedon died in the night, so I should get over there, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Nicholas—you should have gone at once.’

  ‘I do know that, Faith. But I was already on my way here when Georgiana’s messenger caught me and I thought-well—since Mr. Clevedon was beyond any help of mine, I might as well carry on and give my support to the living. And, in fact, since I am here, I may as well remind Jonas that the estate can now be properly valued, and that he should start looking around him for a buyer—if he hasn’t found me one already.’

  It was, perhaps, the strong sunlight, the wine which, curdled by shock, dazzled me, causing the rich colours of the garden to rush away from me into a pale obscurity and then back again, their impact crushing my stomach to nausea. But it was essential to right myself, for I knew he had followed me into the garden on purpose to tell me this, that my knowing it had some significance that I must be calm enough to understand.

  ‘Nicholas, you can’t sell Georgiana’s Abbey.’

  He took the glass from my hand and set it down on a low wall, his own beside it, the sun making diamonds of what had probably been the first Mrs. Oldroyd’s—Miss Lucy Hobhouse’s—wedding crystal.

  ‘As it happens,’ he said quietly, ‘you are quite mistaken. It is not even Georgiana’s Abbey. The Galton estate is not held under entail nor under any kind of settlement whatsoever. The reigning Clevedon has always been able to dispose of it as he thought fit—which, admittedly, has always been to the next male Clevedon in line. My wife’s grandfather has decided differently. He could have left the property in trust for my son, but in fact, and very sensibly, he has left it to Georgiana. And since, as you well know, anything a married woman inherits belongs automatically to her husband, then we can safely say that Galton is
mine.’

  ‘Are you trying to kill her, Nicholas?’

  ‘Are you not being a trifle melodramatic, Faith? I am disposing of a few hundred barren acres and a house that would take thousands I can’t spare to put right. I am disposing of what could be a future millstone around my son’s neck, and a present distraction from what he ought to be doing in life.’

  ‘Does Georgiana know?’

  ‘No. Until we find a buyer—which may not be easy—there’s no need for her to know. She may as well enjoy the grouse moor as long as she can. You could mention it to Blaize, if you like. He knows so many people, and, as I said, a customer could be hard to find. The bare market value would satisfy me, and it can’t be high.’

  ‘You want me to tell Blaize, and you don’t want me to tell Georgiana. Is that it?’

  ‘I’m not aware that I want you to do anything.’

  But what his voice spoke to me was not of market values and purchasers, but of destruction, not only the ruin of Georgiana’s bright childhood, the very essence of herself, but a doing to death of the last shred of our remembered emotion, a final hardening of his nature for which I was probably to blame, and couldn’t bear.

  ‘Good-bye then, Faith. I’ll just have a word with our bridegroom and kiss the bride, and be on my way.’

  But I had to say more, he expected more, for the slight intake of my breath before speaking halted him, caused him to turn and face me.

  ‘Nicholas—’ And it was the ultimate opportunity. There would be no other.

  ‘Nicholas. I’ve already lost you twice—’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’

  ‘You know very well. If you do this cruel thing—’

  ‘I fully intend to.’

  ‘Then it will be like losing you again.’

  ‘There’s nothing in me for you to lose.’

  ‘Nicholas—I don’t want to go through it a third time.’

  ‘You survived before.’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. I had to, and meant to. But you owe me something for that survival, Nicholas. Oh yes—you came to me, knowing I was in love with you, and told me you were in love with Georgiana, and I wished you joy. I didn’t cling to your coat-tails and embarrass you with my silly broken heart. I wished you joy. I tried to mean it, and I certainly behaved as if I meant it. Don’t you remember that?’

  He glanced quickly across the box-hedges, where the new Mrs. Agbrigg was still plying her guests with cake and champagne, and, taking my arm, his hand hot but very hard, very steady, he drew me even further down the garden, to the deep, spreading cover of a chestnut tree.

  ‘I remember it, Faith. I hurt you. You crucified me. If there was a debt, I paid it.’

  And it was more urgent than ever now, more vital, for the time allowed us was running out.

  ‘I paid it too, Nicholas. Listen to me—please, please—and just hear what I’m saying to you, not what I’ve said before, or what you think I might have said. I could have tolerated the scandal, Nicholas. I could have tolerated the isolation. I could have tolerated the risk. I loved you so much and I’d loved you for so long. I was ready to grow old waiting for you—or so I thought—and it was then that I discovered the one thing I couldn’t tolerate. When Georgiana was ill with Venetia, I had to wonder how I might feel if she died, and I knew I couldn’t live with myself if what I actually did feel turned out to be glad. Nicholas—I was ready to spend the rest of my life waiting for you. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life waiting for her to die, wanting her to die—and if we’d stayed together, openly or secretly. I couldn’t have avoided wanting it. I know what it would have turned me into—and you. There’d have been nothing but bitterness left between us in the end—which is all there seems to be now. But at least she’s alive, and intact—something was salvaged. Nicholas—don’t waste that.’

  I could see the tender green of the chestnut leaves waving above me, dappling the sunshine, an intense blue sky, the richly overburdened earth of high summer. I could see my own hand offering itself to him with the shaky, groping movement of an old woman, although my skin, amazingly, was still smooth, my flesh still firm, only my spirit, it seemed, having aged a hundred, difficult years. I saw his hand, the square, workmanlike palm, the long, brown fingers, a heavy gold ring on one of them catching the sunlight as they closed very briefly, very painfully around mine.

  ‘Harden yourself against me, Faith. When they say I’m a callous devil, agree with them. The evidence is plain to see.’

  ‘I know. I see it, and know it to be true. Somehow I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, releasing my hand. ‘Really, Faith—if I could change it—but I know myself too well. I knew how you felt, and I shared it. I didn’t want her to die either. But in the end I reckon something in me got twisted instead, or something you obviously don’t much care for took root—I don’t know. Either way, I’m not likely to change now. I don’t dislike the way I am. It’s easier, Faith—easier for me, at any rate. You’ll understand what I mean. And don’t forget to ask Blaize if he can find me a customer. He’ll understand me as well.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Blaize returned home in time for Mr. Clevedon’s funeral, accompanying me to Galton and then to Listonby, where we stayed for a subdued Friday to Monday, respectful of the dead and marvelling that Georgiana should be so calm. And, although I opened my mouth a hundred times to tell him of Nicholas’s plans for the Abbey, a clamp descended on my tongue, a paralysis took hold of my throat, releasing me only when my brain had consented to speak of something else. Why? I couldn’t be certain. Was it my great and growing reluctance to speak of Nicholas to Blaize, to speak of Nicholas to anyone, an inexplicable difficulty in so much as pronouncing his name which caused me, when it could not be avoided, to refer to him as ‘my brother-in-law’, ‘my cousin’, ‘him’? Or was it merely suspicion, a notion that Nicholas’s motives had been other than they seemed. He had wanted me to tell Blaize. And in that case perhaps it would do Blaize no good to know. Yet whatever the rights and wrongs of it, the motives and manoeuvrings, I could not bring myself to tell him; and, as that tense August turned amber with September, the days quickening into the smoky pulse-beat of autumn, I felt treacherous without understanding the nature of my treachery, uneasy and overburdened with a guilt which surely was not mine.

  I saw a great deal of Georgiana. I stood beside her in the churchyard as Mr. Clevedon was laid to rest, walked with her afterwards in the cloister, meeting Nicholas’s eyes as we went into that timeless passage, and meeting them again when we came out, unable to recognize either satisfaction or disappointment in him when her strange serenity made it clear I had divulged no secrets.

  ‘It doesn’t matter so much about grandfather,’ she told me. ‘It was different with Perry, because he hadn’t even started to live his life. Grandfather had nothing else he wished to do, and it’s only our faces that change, after all. We’re still here. You must have heard me say that before, since it’s the creed I live by.’

  And, crushed by pity and anxiety, remembering the Georgiana who had comforted me on the night Joel Barforth died, the Georgiana who had driven her horses through the flood, the vivid, lovable, laughable Georgiana of her better days, I went straight to Blaize and announced, ‘There’s something I must tell you.’

  ‘Well, darling—if you must.’ And that first quizzical lift of his eyebrow froze me, forced me, after a moment, to produce a trill of light laughter, a careless, ‘Oh, never mind. It doesn’t signify.’

  Yet every time I heard her step I clenched my nerves in agonized expectation of disaster until her face told me she was still, in her own mind, the possessor of her ancestral acres, their rightful guardian for future generations as her grandfather had been, her unusual calm arising—I well knew—from the deep satisfaction of believing she was now empowered to pass them on intact to her son.

  I lay in bed one night deluding myself with the nursery tale that Nicholas had changed h
is mind, that he could not after all perform this act of extreme cruelty. I awoke far into the night, cold and horrified, recognizing my delusion, my mind refusing any other function but to repeat over and over, ‘How will she bear it? How will she survive it?’ And I knew, of course, that she would not.

  It was a very fragile morning towards the end of September, a thin, pale sky, a light haze slanting across thirsty grasses and flowers blanched by the long summer heat. My daughter was at school, my household quiet after the bustle of rising and breakfasting, the lull before anyone need think of luncheon. Blaize, who had travelled overnight from London, was somewhere in the house, having made no appointments until the afternoon. My windows were open, a scent of full-blown roses drifting through them, the scent of pot-pourri within, a huge, over-burdened bee expiring on my window-sill, birdsong in the elm trees at the edge of the garden, nothing to distract me from the sound of a sporting carriage driven at speed, nor the sight of Georgiana’s face as she brought it to a perilous, shuddering stop and came running indoors.

  She looked very much as I had anticipated. I was prepared for it. And I had seen grief before. I had seen women from Simon Street who had lost eight out of ten children. I had myself lost a husband. I had seen the agonized collapse of Mr. Hobhouse as he had handed over the keys of Nethercoats, and of his children’s future. I had never seen a woman facing the loss of everything she possessed, everything in which she believed, her creed, her immortality; and the sheer savagery of it, the sheer nakedness, was overwhelming.

  ‘Blaize?’ she said as I ran to meet her, his name jerking itself out of her with the uncoordinated movement of a marionette, and, understanding that she needed to conserve every drop of her self-command, I nodded and made a gesture of assent. But Blaize too had heard the approach of that aged curricle which had once belonged to Perry Clevedon, had recognized the wild, rake-hellish driving, and came quickly into the hall, sensing alarm with the fine, far-sighted sensitivity of a cat.