The Sleeping Sword

by Brenda Jagger

  There was a charity ball at the Assembly Rooms in Cullingford in the New Year, an ambitious affair which I had helped to organize and which Gervase, at the last moment, was unable to attend, having been sent on a little tour of Barforth interests in the home counties which—although disappointed about the ball—I could only feel to be a step in the right direction. And wishing to believe what I wanted most to believe—as we all do—wanting Gervase to improve his commercial capacities and his father to trust him, it did not occur to me that, as the one person likely to resent the Chard connection, he had been deliberately sent out of the way.

  But from the day of his departure Gideon was a much more frequent visitor to the house, calling regularly in the evenings to see Mr. Barforth, who instead of taking him into the library would casually invite him to stay to dinner—‘I reckon Grace can manage another one’—and afterwards would contrive, if only for ten minutes, to leave Gideon and Venetia alone.

  Mr. Barforth, in fact, had made up his mind with regard to his daughter’s future and expected her to prove every bit as amenable—as biddable—as had his son. Yet Venetia herself, who should have been rebellious, furious, contemptuous, remained suspiciously untroubled.

  ‘Do you mean to refuse him?’ I asked her bluntly.

  ‘No, for he will not ask.’

  ‘Venetia, he will—believe me.’

  ‘No, he will not, you can believe me.’

  And I heard her singing to herself as she went tripping around the house, her dreaming face enraptured.

  Gideon Chard dined with us on the night of the charity ball, very handsome in the stark black and white of his evening clothes, the jacket fitting without a wrinkle across his wide shoulders, his shirt elaborately tucked and pleated, a heavy gold ring on his hand; a fastidious young man who took far more care of his appearance than either his millionaire uncle or his own elder brother, the baronet. And even then I did not realize what his marriage to Venetia might mean to me, and to Gervase, because I did not believe—and Gervase did not believe—that she would marry him.

  She kept us waiting after dinner while she went upstairs to make some adjustment to her dress, leaving me to carry on the kind of stilted conversation with Gideon that people make when they know the carriage is at the door, their cloaks are being held ready in the hall, and the hour is late.

  ‘I’ll go up and fetch her, shall I?’

  But then there she was, hovering in the doorway, her gauzy skirts floating around her like the wings of a green butterfly, that air of blissful expectancy about her, of an immense, secret joy she could not quite suppress.

  ‘Venetia—you’re beautiful,’ Gideon said, as if he was both surprised and rather pleased about it.

  ‘Am I really? I’m so glad.’

  And as he held out a hand to her, she came with little dancing steps to meet him, her own hand outstretched, and then stopped abruptly, her hand falling to her side, her attitude one of almost comic regret.

  ‘This is all nonsense, you know, Gideon.’

  ‘What is nonsense, Venetia?’

  ‘All this—all this—you know what I mean, for you do not want me at all, and you know quite well that I very badly want somebody else.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, and, his eyes never leaving her face, he smiled. ‘Shall we leave it—for now—at that?’

  But Venetia, having wound herself up to this pitch, could not endure even a moment’s silence and, clasping her hands together, began dancing a few more little steps up and down, jerky ones this time, which took her nowhere.

  ‘Gideon—please believe me. I do want someone else.’

  ‘Venetia, I do believe you. But these things happen, we all know that, and we are not talking about wanting, my dear. We are talking about marrying.’ And perhaps because it seemed best to him, he was still tolerantly, easily smiling.

  ‘It is the same thing, Gideon—for me it is the same.’

  ‘Then there is only one thing to be done. I shall have to see to it that you do want me.’

  ‘Gideon,’ she said, half exasperated, half shocked, unable, as she met his eye, to hold back her laughter. ‘Such an idea—really!’

  ‘Yes—really! And you will do well enough with me, you know. I am not so terrible.’

  ‘Indeed you are not, not terrible at all. In fact if you did not remind me so much of my father I would very likely find you fascinating. And if he were not my father, I do believe I would find him fascinating, too. But you do see, Gideon, don’t you, that all this is his idea, because you are doing so well at the mills? And your idea because if you marry me he will probably make you a partner, and when he dies half of everything will belong to you—and because if you don’t marry me somebody else will get what you have started to think of as your share. I perfectly understand all that, and in your place I could even see the sense to it. But it would not do, you know. I would be a terrible wife to you, Gideon, without meaning you any harm, simply because I am not at all the kind of wife you should marry. And you are not at all in love with me. I am so glad of that, for if you cared—’

  ‘I do care, Venetia.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, considerably taken aback. ‘No, you do not. I made sure of that, for otherwise I would not have given you the slightest encouragement …’

  But he shook his head, allowing her voice to peter out before he smiled again.

  ‘Then you have been in error. I do care for you, Venetia. Who would not? You are thoroughly exasperating—everyone says so.’

  ‘Do they really?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. And I absolutely agree. But you are just as thoroughly amusing.’

  ‘How very nice!’

  ‘I think so. You are very nice altogether, Venetia.’

  ‘Gideon, I could almost believe you.’

  ‘You do believe me. Shall we go now and dance at Grace’s ball?’

  She smiled, offering yet another glimpse of that lovely, inner joy.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll dance with you, Gideon.’ And reaching herself towards us, she slipped an arm through mine, the other through his, and went out with us into the frosty night.

  Chapter Nine

  I slept late the next day, very late, Gervase not being there to disturb me with his tossing and turning, and it did not surprise me when I reached the breakfast parlour to find myself alone. It was a dull, February morning, a low grey sky over the chimney-stacks, damp clinging air, an occasional peevish handful of rain, a day to make up the fire and doze, perhaps, like Blanche, over a book, a cup of chocolate, a day when I could almost agree with Mr. Colclough and Mr. Sheldon that it was pleasant to be spared the burden of earning a living.

  And thus idling my time away it was not until luncheon, when I sent up a tray for Venetia, that I learned she was gone.

  Yet, gone where? She had staggered to her bed at four o’clock that morning and had told her maid she would probably sleep ‘for ever’. No one had disturbed her. If Miss Venetia wanted breakfast she would ring for it. Her bed appeared to have been slept in, her gauzy dress placed over a chair, awaiting attention, since she had torn the hem. Could she possibly—and I prayed for it to be true—have got herself up and dressed and gone out for a breath of air? No, of course she could not. Or, at least, not once the servants were awake. Far more likely that she had allowed her maid to undress her, had sent the girl away, had waited until Chillingworth had made all secure for what remained of the night, and then, putting on a travelling dress and a warm, dark cloak, had let herself out through the side door Gervase had used for his night-prowlings and had run off somewhere to meet Charles Heron.

  I knew it and would not believe it, worked hard to convince myself otherwise—for this was not the unique destiny I had imagined for her and I would miss her terribly—until her maid picked up her ball gown, thinking she might as well get on with her mending, and from its green gauze skirts fluttered Venetia’s letter to me.

  ‘Darling, you did not think this of me, did you? And believe me, I would
have preferred the parish church and all the family, and father to give me away. But you must know he would never allow it and I have told you I cannot stand up to him. Darling, I wanted to tell you. I even wanted to tell Gideon last night and to apologize to him because I have used him rather, to throw sand in father’s eyes—not that Gideon will care for that. Gervase will understand that this is right for me, that I don’t mind about the money should father decide to disown me. Dear Grace, I told you once before that this is the only life I have, my one chance to get it right. And this is right. Please tell Gervase and learn to be happy for me.’

  I sat down on her bed and let a long time go by while I prayed, fervently yet without too much conviction: ‘Venetia, I do hope so’; then more time while I indulged myself in a few tears and a great deal of slow, brooding anxiety. And then I wrote a note to my father-in-law stressing how urgently I required to see him and had them take it to the mill.

  I had no idea what I could say to him and, in fact, said nothing, simply handing him the note and waiting, not daring to look at him, while he read it. But no thunder bolts came crashing over my head, just a curt voice saying to me: ‘The man’s name?’

  ‘Charles Heron.’

  ‘The schoolmaster?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where do you suppose they have run off to?’

  ‘To Scotland, surely—to be married?’

  He glanced down at the letter, tapped it against his hand and then slid it into his pocket.

  ‘Scotland? Yes, that would seem a possibility. Grace, would you kindly send to Lawcroft Mills and ask Liam Adair to come here?’

  I heard, of course, only later and very gradually the details of what next occurred, piecing together from the varying accounts of those most closely concerned a picture which seemed to be exact. A lesser man than Mr. Barforth, a warmer man, would, I imagine, have set off post haste for Gretna Green, where Scottish law so obligingly allowed runaways to be married. It was the obvious place to go, too obvious to Mr. Nicholas Barforth, who all his commercial life had sat straight-faced and keen-eyed while men far shrewder than Charles Heron and far more devious than Venetia had tried to hoodwink him.

  ‘Ah, Liam,’ he said, greeting him in the hall with a brief handshake, ‘a word in your ear, and then a little job for you’; and twenty minutes later, while Mr. Barforth remained smoking a cigar in his library, Liam rode off to St. Walburga’s School, where with the inbred charm of the Irish he acquired enough snippets of information to conclude that Charles Heron had probably not taken Venetia north to a speedy and foregone conclusion, but south where the implications were less obvious and rather more sinister.

  North was a declaration of certain intent, marriage at any price, a race to the altar after which the irate father might do his worst. North shouted out loud: ‘Disinherit us if you must. All that matters to us is being together.’ North was where idealistic Charles and headstrong Venetia should have gone, for once the matrimonial knot was tied, what could her father do to her except stop her money? And she had declared often enough how little she cared for that.

  South was not quite so outspoken. South, in fact, might just be the direction in which a man might take a girl to be seduced rather than married, knowing that, since there is no place in the marriage-market for damaged goods, the father of a girl so damaged must be glad to take any man—even her seducer—as her husband, at a price the husband will feel entitled to dictate. Except, of course, that Charles Heron was not that kind of man.

  ‘Well, Liam,’ said Mr. Barforth, having ideas of his own on that score, and very soon the carriage stood at the door to take them to the train, Mr. Barforth stern and quiet. Liam serious and concerned but with a flash of excitement in him too, for if a husband should be required for Venetia in a hurry this might be his golden opportunity.

  They experienced no difficulty in finding Charles Heron’s father, since vicars are not notably anonymous, and the reverend gentleman proving susceptible to the temptation of golden guineas and rather intimidated in any case by the generous muscular endowment of Liam Adair, they were soon apprised of all that was needful. And less than an hour later they had located the runaways sharing the one upper room of a singularly unattractive inn, Venetia’s eyes terrified, not, Liam thought, of her father but of her own disillusion. For this was not what she had expected. This was not right. She had trusted Charles Heron implicitly, feeling him so much a part of herself that it would have been impossible not to trust him. To go north, he had said, would be too great a risk. North was the direction in which her father would first look with an excellent chance of finding her before the ceremony had taken place. And so she had put her hand in his and kept it there as they headed south, to that sure hiding place which had turned out to be a meagre inn, a narrow bed where he, two nights ago now, had asked her with tears to prove her love.

  She had been most reluctant to comply, having cherished for a long time a dream of her wedding night which was very far removed from this. But the loss of her virginity, being the key to Charles Heron’s whole plan, could not be delayed, and using the strength of her emotions as his best weapon he had somehow made her feel that to refuse him her body would be the same as withdrawing her love. And since he couldn’t live without her love, she would be killing him.

  Yet, having longed for months for his embraces, she found that she could not now enjoy them, her distaste being so apparent that she felt compelled to apologize for it and was persuaded by his show of hurt feelings to go through the sorry performance again. It was to have been a magical experience, a slow progression towards perfect physical harmony. It was, in fact, quick and clumsy, as half-baked as his revolutionary theories had really been, a mere stumbling along a road that had Charles Heron’s orgasm at the end of it; and when, on the second night, he pressed his hand against her stomach and said: ‘Only think—you have very likely got my son in there by now’, she turned away from him and wept.

  She had expected him to cower with fright when they saw her father striding across the inn yard and up the stairs, but he had remained perfectly calm, his composure—or so she thought later—increasing her suspicions that he had wanted to be discovered.

  ‘Mr. Barforth,’ he said.

  ‘Mr. Heron,’ my father-in-law answered him. ‘And would this, by any chance, be Mrs. Heron?’

  ‘You might think it desirable that she should be. Perhaps we could step downstairs to discuss how best it might be contrived?’

  ‘No need for that, young man. It’s straightforward enough, I reckon. You’ve seduced my daughter, by the look of her, and I’d like to know how much you think that ought to cost me. I assume you have the figure in mind?’

  ‘If we could step downstairs, sir,’ said Charles, somewhat embarrassed. ‘I see no reason for Venetia to be obliged to listen to this.’

  But although Mr. Barforth had never doubted his ability to find his daughter and bring her home, it was no part of his plan to have her spend the next few months of her life pining for a scoundrel and he shook his head.

  ‘I see every reason for Venetia to listen. And because it won’t be pleasant for her and she’s looking out of sorts, I’ll make it short. There’s no money, Mr. Charles Heron. Marry her, if she’ll have you. But there’s no money.’

  ‘I can’t believe that, sir.’

  ‘Believe it. She thinks you can live on love. I reckon you know different. There’s no money.’

  A braver man than Charles Heron might just have taken the gamble. Cullingford was a small town, thirsty for gossip, where a scandal of this magnitude could never be lived down. Surely Mr. Barforth could not run the risk of taking her back there as if nothing had occurred? Charles Heron had been brought up to believe in female virginity, in the enormity of its value, the tragedy of its loss. So had I. So had we all. He knew that a girl who lost it would—unless her seducer consented to marry her—be better off dead. He knew that an unmarried girl who became pregnant had no real alternative but to die, an
d apparently always did so, since none of us had ever encountered such a person. But Mr. Nicholas Barforth seemed unaware of his own desperate situation, ignorant of the disgrace, and would do nothing but repeat, ‘Marry her, if you like. But there’s no money’; while Venetia herself, instead of falling at his feet and begging him to save her from ruin—as she ought to have done—simply turned her face to the wall and said not a word.

  ‘Marry her, if she’ll have you.’ And glancing at her taut, poker-straight back, Charles Heron was no longer sure she would. And when he muttered something to the effect that his heart was broken, Mr. Barforth, in order that Venetia should be in no doubt at all as to her lover’s true character, offered to compensate him for any damage to that organ with the sum of a thousand pounds. That, Charles Heron declared, was paltry, ridiculous. Possibly, Mr. Barforth agreed, but nevertheless his offer would hold good until three o’clock that afternoon, at which hour it would be reduced by half. And since the time was then approaching five minutes to three, Charles Heron, so as not to come away empty-handed, took his thousand.

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t love you,’ he said to Venetia’s blind back. ‘Don’t think that. I never pretended to be strong. And you don’t know—you just can’t even imagine what it’s like to be poor.’

  ‘Perhaps now you’d care to step downstairs with my friend here,’ said Mr. Barforth, ‘who will explain to you exactly what I want for my money—which is exactly nothing, no words, no letters, no boasting one night when you’ve had a glass or two—nothing, Mr. Heron. Mr. Adair will make it plain to you.’