Flint and Roses (80 page)

‘Jonas—it could happen. You haven't looked—you haven't tried—'

‘Nonsense,' he said flatly, a lawyer once again, demolishing my immature logic, my foolishness. ‘We are talking of marriage—an exceedingly tight contract which requires obedience from one party and supportiveness from the other, happiness, so far as I am aware, from neither.'

‘Jonas, that is legal jargon and you are hiding behind it.'

‘Faith, it is the truth. I married your sister for a down-payment of twenty thousand pounds because I was desperate to buy out old Corey-Manning. On the very day I buried her I
knew
the way to Fieldhead Mills was open to me if I chose to take it. Walking back from the cemetery I knew I
would
take it. I have no excuses, Faith. I am no longer a poor man. I could live comfortably on my present income, here, in my pleasant house with my very charming daughter. We have a great deal in common, Grace and I. We could read together, travel abroad together. We could talk together. I could become very scholarly and possibly very content. The thought of it, even now, gives me a whisper of pleasure. And, failing that, I could many Rebecca Mandelbaum, who would suit me well enough, and buy myself a seat in the House of Commons with her dowry. Political power interests me. For many years I wanted it rather badly. I believe I could have it now. So—there you see my choices. Contentment, power, or cash. It took me moments, Faith—no more—to decide. Do you still want to defend me?'

‘Yes.'

‘Knowing how miserable your sister was with me?'

‘Yes. Celia carried her misery inside her. You were not to blame.'

‘Once again, she would not agree with you. I'm not sure I agree with you myself.'

‘Then you should. My father crushed her, Jonas. You should know that. He took everything that was real and special out of her and filled her up again with the trivial little bits and pieces he thought proper in a woman. And so she was never a woman at all. I don't know why Prudence and I escaped without too much damage. Perhaps it was because we never really believed in him. And in that case—if that is true—then Celia must have loved him. Poor Celia—that was her misery—not anything that happened to her afterwards—not you. You wanted more than she knew how to give, that's all. Any man would have wanted more.'

He turned his head sharply, a moment of emotion to be concealed instinctively, as he had always concealed such things, an act of self-preservation in a world which did not encourage the finer feelings in a lad from Simon Street.

‘Yes, Faith, I wanted more. Six months before I married her, a house in Albert Place, an income, a decent working capital—all that—seemed beyond my wildest dreams. Six months later and it was—well—inadequate.'

‘And now, Jonas?'

‘What now?'

‘Will Fieldhead suffice you any better?'

‘Probably not. But I could never live at peace with myself if I let it pass me by. It will make me almost as rich as Nicholas Barforth—certainly as rich as Sir Blaize. Now ask yourself, Faith, how a man of my origins could turn his back on that?'

‘And Mrs. Delaney?'

‘Yes—Mrs. Delaney?'

‘Is she—agreeable to you?'

He smiled at me again, wryly.

‘You mean do I desire her? Not particularly.'

‘Then how can you commit yourself—Jonas? You can't force yourself—surely—not all the time—not forever—?'

‘I could,' he said. ‘If I had to. Fortunately it is not quite so bad as that. Mrs. Delaney is experienced enough in that direction to know how to please any man—she does please me, in fact, since we have already consummated our intentions, at her suggestion, not mine. I believe her motive was kindness. She could see I had been somewhat deprived—frustrated would have been my description, famished was hers, and no doubt she was right. She satisfies my appetites most thoroughly—and pleasantly—and I am grateful. It is not the same as desire.'

‘You mean it is not the same as love.'

‘Yes, I suppose that is exactly what I mean. I hesitate even to use the word.'

‘Is Mrs. Delaney in love with you?'

‘My dear—hardly that. She has a weakness for intellectual men and a hankering, not for respectability, since she recognizes it to be beyond her, but for stability perhaps. She has led a wandering life and, like Rebecca Mandelbaum, she feels the need to be settled. Oh yes, I have been obliged to serve my apprenticeship to her cause. She has allowed me to manage Fieldhead since Mr. Oldroyd died and has kept an eagle eye on my methods. She required very definite proof of my commercial acumen, I do assure you, before expressing herself willing to place her fortune in my hands. She is a sensible woman, who accepts my limitations, and her own. Naturally she realizes I can no longer make her a mayoress, since the city fathers will have none of me now. She understands that my mother, and your mother, and a great many other ladies, will never receive her. But in her own eyes and in the eyes of her past acquaintances she will be a married woman. She trusts me in so far as it is in her to trust any man. And my presence beside her spares her the attentions of other fortune-hunters. Small matters to you, perhaps, but then you have never been much exposed to the coarser side of the great world.'

‘And Grace?'

He sighed.

‘Yes. Grace. She may, I imagine, entertain some doubts as to my rightful place in her estimation, but at the same time she will be one of the greatest heiresses in the Law Valley. She will have Celia's money, Matthew Oldroyd's money, Tessa Delaney's money, my money, all in due course—and I shall make a great deal of money now, Faith, in addition to all the rest. Fieldhead will be her official home, of course, but I think I may leave her with Prudence for a while—Monday to Friday. Remember, Faith, I
am
a lawyer. My new will is already drawn up and waiting to be signed after my marriage. In the event of my death, the guardianship of my daughter will pass to you and Blaize, if you will accept it. You may be sure that where Grace is concerned I have left nothing to chance.'

The maid came in to light the lamps and check the fire, glanced enquiringly at us and went out again, her interruption conveying to me the lateness of the hour but inducing no inclination whatsoever to take my leave.

‘You may lose her, Jonas.'

‘I know. But I would lose her in any case. She will marry, sooner or later, and at least now I can give her the freedom of choice I lacked myself. With Fieldhead behind her she can afford to marry where she pleases. She can even afford not to marry at all.'

‘It is all decided, then?'

‘Yes, quite decided.'

‘What can I do for you, Jonas?'

And for just a moment, caught unawares by my offer of help when he had anticipated condemnation, there was pain in his face.

‘Should Grace turn away from me, you could offer—such consolation as occurred to you and which she might be ready to accept. You could express the opinion, at Gullingford's tea-tables, that my daughter's reputation cannot suffer from exposure to such a step-mother.'

‘Jonas, I would do that in any case.'

‘Of course you would. I have simply allowed myself the pleasure of asking, since there is no one else I would wish to ask.'

‘Prudence—?'

‘Of course. There is Prudence, who may never forgive me, but who will help me just the same. Nevertheless it is you I wish to ask. That is the place you hold in my life. You must know why. It seems pointless to deny it, just as it would seem equally pointless, at this late stage, to put it into words.'

He got up and moved away from me, quite deliberately putting distance between us—allowing me a moment to realize that he had almost said he loved me, that, in other circumstances, I could almost have welcomed it—and then he resumed his seat, composed, neutral as always, his face serious but gentler, I thought, than before.

‘You should not worry about me, Faith. You should think of your own affairs, which may need thought.'

‘Why do you say that, Jonas?'

‘Because I am a devious man, an expert in the deciphering of motives and meanings, and the drawing of conclusions. And it is no secret that the Barforth pot is about to boil over. I see you in the midst of it and it troubles me. Faith, I have no right to ask and you are not obliged to answer, but there is something amiss with your life, is there not? It gave me pleasure just now to ask for your help. It would mean a great deal to me if you would allow me to help you.'

And, having accepted for so long his own personal judgment, that he was indeed devious and calculating and self-seeking, it amazed me that I could now turn to him with the perfect trust I had previously extended only to Giles. All my life I had seen him through other people's eyes, through Prudence's hostility for the brother-in-law who could cheat her of her inheritance, through Aunt Hannah's driving ambitions, her almost pathetic desire to fulfil herself in him, through Celia's fretful complainings, through Caroline's frank contempt for ‘the Agbrigg boy'. I had believed him to be cold and crafty, and so on occasion he was. Only recently had I come to realize that in gentler circumstances, like those which had moulded Giles Ashburn's character, he would have grown differently. Only now did I realize it fully and my heart ached for the waste of him.

‘I don't know what is wrong with me, Jonas—only that something is.'

‘Blaize?'

‘I don't know anything about Blaize. I thought him my dearest friend, but I seem to have rather lost him, now. We are beginning to lead our own lives, except that I am not physically unfaithful—'

‘There are other kinds of infidelity.'

‘Yes. I believe he may think so. But I don't know how to defend myself. I don't really know what I am guilty of. Our marriage was bound to be difficult. Blaize himself is difficult. But it isn't that. Something, at some point, came between us, something large and definite and quite invisible. There's nothing to grapple with. And if Blaize knows what it is, then he won't tell me. He won't tell me anything at all.'

‘And have you asked him?'

‘No. I can't ask him.'

‘In fact you have allowed the silence to fall and now you can't find your way through it.'

I shuddered. ‘Well, I shall just have to go on as best I can.'

The maid appeared again, hovered, her agitation reminding him that he had ordered his carriage an hour ago, reminding me of the woman whose claims on him were far more valid than mine.

‘Heavens! It must be getting late.'

‘Yes, I fear so.'

I got up shakily, against my will. ‘I don't want to go home, Jonas.'

‘My dear, where else is there for you to go?'

‘I know—I know.'

‘Faith—listen to me. I understand the art of being alone. I have always lived separately, and inward—and I shall simply continue so to do. You are not made that way. When the conflict in your family comes to a head, and if you are forced into a position of choice, you will have to choose Blaize. You must know that. My hope for you is that you will want to choose him.'

I could find no member of my family willing to accompany me to the wedding of Jonas and Tessa Delaney. My mother and Aunt Verity, at Aunt Hannah's urgent request, declined, feeling that their loyalty was to her rather than to her adopted son. Prudence, fearing the effect of the marriage on Grace and bitterly disappointed in Jonas himself, declared that wild horses would not drag her to see the foul deed done. Blaize was out of town. ‘I'll come with you,' Georgiana offered. ‘I don't care a scrap for Mr. Agbrigg or Mrs. Delaney, but if you want my company you shall have it.' But her grandfather, who had been ailing for several months, took a sudden turn for the worse, so that instead of a wedding she was called to a death-bed; and I went to the parish church alone.

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.