‘Oh—’ She said quite helplessly, sensing, as I did, the snap of Gideon’s temper, which we had not yet seen but assumed to be monumental. And for a moment my own voice speaking against his pent-up anger—against the pent-up resentment of Gervase—sounded hollow and false.
‘I don’t think much harm was done. I met Amelia Rawnsley this afternoon and she seemed happy enough with my invitation to dinner. If we step in to see her for a moment or two tomorrow, Venetia, and admire the silver she worked so hard to inherit from that great aunt of hers, then—’
‘Please do that, Venetia,’ snapped Gideon Chard to his wife and strode out of the room.
‘Well done!’ drawled Gervase Barforth to his wife, withdrawing himself from the scene as effectively as Gideon by closing his eyes.
We made our peace with Amelia Rawnsley the next morning, Venetia becoming very quiet on the homeward journey, very listless as she drifted into the hall at Tarn Edge, totally disinclined for the task of sorting out the drawers of her writing-desk as she had promised, in case other forgotten invitations should be hidden there.
‘I believe I will go to bed for an hour before luncheon.’
But a great many notes and cards had been delivered to her of late, many of them, I suspected, unread, and since it was easier to give in to me than resist me, we went together into the back parlour where both our writing-tables had been placed and set to work.
‘Venetia, how can you find anything in such a muddle?’
‘I can’t. That seems to be the problem.’
‘Good heavens! there is a note here from Miss Mandelbaum asking you to bring Gideon to meet Miss Tighe. Did you every reply to it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And this letter from the Sheldons has not even been opened.’
‘Tom Sheldon is a pompous ass.’
‘I know, but a talkative one, and a Member of Parliament—which always has its uses. Why do you think we contribute so heavily to his campaign funds? Obviously there are things we want him to do. And this note could be about anything.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Don’t you even mean to open it and find out?’
Again she made that odd, jerky movement of the shoulders, her head turned abruptly away, and then, quite shockingly, two fierce hands swept the desk clear of all it contained, scattering pen and ink and sealing-wax, letters opened and unopened, all of them unanswered, to the floor while she threw herself across the desk top in a storm of grief, beating her forehead and her fists against the wood in a deliberate search for pain. And when at last it subsided, all she could say, her face drained and pinched and horrified, was: ‘What happens to me next, Grace? What next?’
But she knew the answer, and getting up unsteadily she began to pat her face and her hair, making an effort to be as brave and sensible as her father had told her to be, and as she had truly intended. She had been in a state of shock and terror from which now she was most painfully emerging. Her speedy marriage, designed to screen a pregnancy which had not occurred, had removed the terror. And now the shock which had numbed her and cushioned her from reality was receding too, opening her eyes fully to her exact condition and the knowledge that it could never change. She had herself told me, many times, that she had one life and but one chance to get it right. The chance had come and gone and she had neither taken it nor refused it. Others had decided for her, manipulated her, moved her this way and that, and having submitted she had no choice now but to submit again.
‘Nothing else will happen to me,’ she said. ‘I see that. This is all there is.’ And I could have told no one how deeply her words and her calm, sorrowing figure moved me.
‘Venetia—?’
‘Yes, I see that. And I shall manage, I suppose.’
‘Do you care nothing at all for Gideon?’
‘Lord, yes! He is very clever and tries to be patient, and I fail him in everything. He will end by detesting me.’
‘I cannot believe that.’
‘Oh, but you may as well believe it for it is the exact truth. Poor man—he has a man’s needs after all, and I cannot—Grace, let me tell you this for it is eating me away.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It will shock you, I know.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Grace—when he touches me—in the dark—oh lord! what a state I am in, for sometimes he becomes Charles Heron, which I suppose is natural enough, but sometimes—and this is horrible—sometimes it seems to be my father lying there.’
‘Venetia—oh, Venetia, how dreadful!’
‘Yes. Quite dreadful. It makes my skin crawl. It freezes me. And how can I explain to him? How can I tell him why I have to turn away—how can I ever tell him that? And then I forget invitations from his friends and don’t trouble to read their letters. Poor man! He has a sorry wife in me.’
‘Darling, it will pass, surely?’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I do.’ And struck suddenly by her air of contrition and apathy, I found myself urging her: ‘Venetia, there is no reason to be so humble. He is not perfect.’
‘Heavens no! But I—’
‘Venetia, don’t put so little value on yourself.’
‘Oh darling, what real value have I?’
‘Enormous value. Indeed you have. You are generous and kind and quite lovely when you are in good spirits.’
‘Oh no—not now.’
‘Yes. Now as much as ever. And in any case he did not take you from charity—never think that. He wanted to marry you, Venetia, right from the start. And whatever your shortcomings—and they will not last—he has done well enough in other ways. He wanted you, Venetia. You should not forget it.’
She smiled. ‘Oh Grace, we know very well what he wanted and I do hope it will content him. Because—as you say—he was no gallant knight, was he, galloping to my rescue? On no, that was Liam Adair. And do you know, I still wonder how he could bring himself to take me—a Chard of Listonby condescending to such a prodigal, such a poor little drab as I was then. Liam would have done it for my sake alone, which would have been noble, you know. But it was not noble of Gideon, I quite see that, nor even compassionate. It was just for the money. And when one looks at it like that, then perhaps we have both got as much—or as little—as we deserve.’
She was a little more wide-awake at dinner that night, talking mainly to Gervase but at least saying something. She wrote a few letters the next day, had her hair done differently, began to smile rather often and in a new, perhaps brittle way that was at least better than her vague, disquieting stare. She was just possibly mending, or, if she remained unhappy, had begun to learn—as so many women must—the futility of letting it show.
A year passed and the half of another. I was purposeful, successful, had established myself as the mistress of an impressive household, as a hostess and as a wife. I had achieved, within the limits of my sex and my class, my cherished measure of authority and freedom. My father and my father-in-law were pleased with me. My mother, had she been alive, could have held me up as an example to other women’s daughters. And how can I say just when it was, in those busy, commonplace months, that I lost Gervase?
Chapter Eleven
I saw less and less of Blanche. She had returned to London shortly after Venetia’s marriage to participate in the festivities occasioned by the arrival of a number of Russian ‘Imperials’, a state visit which had a distinctly family flavour about it, Queen Victoria’s second son, Prince Alfred, having recently married the Tsar’s only daughter, Marie, whose brother, the Tsarevitch, heir to the Russian throne, was the husband of Princess Dagmar, sister of our own Princess Alexandra of Wales.
There was, of course, the possibility that we would have to fight Russia ere long to safeguard our interests in India, but the next Russian tsar would be the brother-in-law of our future king, the tsar after him would be our king’s nephew, and until hostilities broke out—if they ever did—London was prep
ared to be very gay.
The Duchess of South Erin served caviar that season, discovered a balaleika player to serenade her guests and procured invitations to a costume ball at Marlborough House, where the bare-shouldered, enticing but altogether untouchable Blanche had been noticed by no less a person than the Prince of Wales. Had she been of a warmer or more adventurous disposition, the degree of his interest was such that she might well have become a royal mistress as famous as Mrs. Langtry, Lady Brooke or Mrs. Keppel. Perhaps the offer was made and Blanche, in her cool, vague fashion, pretended not to understand it. Perhaps—and this seems rather more likely—the Prince was far too experienced in the ways of women to look for passion where quite clearly there was none to be found. But, just the same, my cousin pleased his eye, and when it was realized that he would be far more likely to accept a dinner invitation if Blanche was invited too, then her place not only in society but in her mother-in-law’s heart was irrevocably secure.
With no greater effort than the dressing of her silver-bond hair, the displaying of her magnificent bosom and her sleepy smile, Blanche had filled Aunt Caroline’s drawing-room with the world’s élite, and transformed herself in the process from the little manufacturing niece who had not been quite good enough for Dominic to the Duchess of South Erin’s pride and joy. There could be no question now of those arduous domestic duties at Listonby, no question of playing the hostess, the chatelaine, or even the mother, when all these matters could be delegated to others, leaving Blanche free to practise her supreme art of attracting the rakish heir to Victoria’s throne.
But in the October of 1875 the Prince set off on a six months visit to India, and the Chards, whether by mutual agreement or separate inclination, decided to use this time as profitably as they could by making a more prolonged autumn visit than usual to Listonby, where Sir Dominic could attend to his stock and his estate, the Duchess to her son’s house and his larder, and where Blanche could produce another child, preferably male, no gentleman being able to feel himself secure with only one heir to his name.
There was, of course, a dance, the ballroom having been redecorated in white and gold for the occasion, the chairs in the Long Gallery re-covered in oyster satin, every chandelier in the house dismantled for cleaning, every item of plate, linen and china got out for the inspection of Aunt Caroline, while Blanche, installed by the fire in the Great Hall, took it upon herself to acquaint me with the details of upper-class adultery which she seemed to find not so much immoral as unnecessary.
‘Naturally,’ she said, ‘Aunt Caroline would not hear of it in this house, nor at South Erin, and she appears not to notice it in the other houses we visit. But in fact there is a great deal of it about. No one seems to mind so long as one obeys the rules.’
‘And what are the rules, Blanche—in case I should ever need to know?’
‘Oh, quite simple really. If Lord A and Lady B decide to fall in love, all may go swimmingly unless his wife, or her husband, should decide to make a fuss, in which case one cancels immediately, since it would be embarrassing to do otherwise. After all, one could hardly expose one’s friends to jealous scenes or oneself to the Divorce Court.’
‘I should think not.’
‘Exactly. Which is why the Prince and Princess of Wales get on so famously. When he takes a fancy to someone or other, Alexandra simply looks the other way. She keeps herself busy with her knitting and her children and leaves him quite free to please himself.’
‘How convenient!’
Blanche pouted and shrugged. ‘For those who care for it, I suppose it is. You have seen the new skirts, have you, Grace? Very tight in front with almost no bustle. They will suit you this winter far better than they will suit me, for I am already three months in the family way, although I am determined to have it over and done with by March. Yes, a boy in March, April and May to recover, and back to London in June. I feel I shall have earned that.’
But I was no more confident of my ability to wear the new tight skirts than Blanche, having experienced, these past few weeks, the symptoms of a pregnancy I could not quite bring myself to admit. I knew of no contraceptive practices in those days and had not sought to discover any. I belonged to a society where women were expected to bear children. I was a woman. I would probably bear children. It should have been as simple as that. Indeed, being already in the third year of marriage, I should have been glad of it, and only too anxious to rid myself of the stigma of sterility. But every morning since the start of my suspicions I had awoken not only to nausea but to a burden of unease which grew heavier throughout the day.
I was neither physically afraid nor emotionally ill-equipped. Women died in childbirth in their thousands, I well knew it, but I did not expect to be among them, nor to shirk in any way this supreme responsibility. I knew exactly how a nursery should be staffed and furnished and had my own notions as to the care of the young. I would be a good and conscientious mother. I had quite made up my mind to it. Yet somehow, for all my good intentions, I could not contemplate my condition without panic, and quite soon could hardly contemplate it at all.
Three times I drove to Elderleigh to tell Aunt Faith. Three times I failed. A hundred times, with stiff lips and a tight, dry throat, I began to tell Gervase who had, after all, a right to know. A hundred times I heard my voice inform him instead that the night was fine, that dinner would be late or early, that it would probably rain by morning, and on the night of the Listonby ball he was still—perhaps happily—unaware of his approaching fatherhood.
It was from the start a difficult evening, Gervase arriving home late and in an odd humour, out of sorts and disinclined for company.
‘Do we have to go, Grace?’
‘Of course we do.’
‘Why? Because Princess Blanche is expecting us? Listen—take off that ball gown and come to bed with me. And then pack a bag and we’ll go off to Grasmere until Monday. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I would. And you know quite well it can’t be done—not tonight.’
‘I know quite well you can’t do it tonight, Grace. That’s not the same thing.’
And when I had told him how unreasonable he was, that he should have taken me to Grasmere two weeks ago when I had suggested it, instead of going off with the Lawdale, that in any case one simply could not please oneself in these matters when it involved letting other people down; when I had said all that and he had grudgingly, sourly, got into his evening clothes, it was Venetia who delayed us, losing first an ear-ring and then a glove, dashing upstairs again when the carriage was already at the door, to put another comb in her hair, so that Gideon’s impatience, never well concealed, became black enough to feel.
‘We shall be very late, Venetia.’
‘Lord, yes! But does it matter? After all, it is only kings who are obliged to be punctual—or queens. And Aunt Caroline is hardly that’
‘Quite so. But she is my mother, to whom courtesy—I should have thought—is due.’
‘And Listonby, after all, is where you belong, Gideon, wouldn’t you say so,’ drawled Gervase, leaning against the mantelpiece as if he had all the time in the world at his disposal.
And for a moment, before he gave his answer, Gideon stood and measured us all with an angry but careful eye, accepting both the challenge of Gervase’s hostility and the reasons for it, calculating with a swift glance that, although he was outnumbered, he might just as well take up that challenge now as later.
‘I might say that,’ he agreed looking directly at Gervase. ‘I was born at Listonby, which has to mean something. But I believe a man belongs where he decides to belong—where he can carve out a place for himself.’
‘Or take somebody else’s place?’
‘Yours?’
‘If you like.’
‘Are you making me an offer, Gervase—or a gift?’
‘I might be stating a fact.’
‘That’s very civil of you, Gervase. If I had a place ready carved out for me, I doubt I
’d let another man step into it.’
‘Then you’ve no need to worry, have you, Gideon, since there’s not much competition in the world to be the third son of a baronet.’
It was the moment I had dreaded, the confrontation I had made up my mind must not take place, but which now, when I needed to be strong, touched my already uneasy stomach to nausea, reminding me of my condition—my frailty—precisely when I could not afford it.
‘Oh lord—’ Venetia said, her hands clasped tight together, her voice trailing off into a faint, nervous breath of laughter. And then—because it was the very best I could do—I said tartly: ‘Well, if it’s to be pistols at dawn perhaps you’d have the good manners to wait until dawn. There’s no sense in spilling blood on the drawing-room carpet.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Gideon, bowing stiffly.
‘Ah,’ said Gervase, ‘it goes against your commercial instincts, does it, Grace?’ And although he had said much the same thing to me often enough before with the wry, teasing humour of our love-games, I heard the insult in him now—the distance—the deliberate separation of his values from mine, and turned cold.
He did not speak to me through the drive, did not help me to get down from the carriage, walking ahead of me into the house where he tossed his hat and cloak irritably down. But he made his greetings pleasantly enough, kissed Aunt Caroline on her hand, Aunt Faith on the cheek, Blanche, to her great distaste, on the corner of her mouth, a procedure designed, I thought, not only to upset Blanche but her brother-in-law, Captain Noel Chard, who during his frequent leaves of absence from his regiment rarely strayed from her side.
‘Gervase—really!’ she said, pushing him away. ‘Why must men carry on so?’
‘Men are made that way, Blanche, don’t you know? Or don’t you know?’
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