The Sleeping Sword (46 page)

‘Be charitable, m'dear—and sensible. I daresay you can't forgive, and I suppose women never forget. But be sensible. You know the fix Diana is in. Don't hound her, Mrs. Barforth. Let her have her child in peace and whatever arrangements are made for it afterwards—well, there's no reason why you should be troubled by them. That's the way these things are done, believe me. No need to go to extremes. And afterwards she'll be off to India to make her peace with her husband. No fuss, no mess, no proof, Mrs. Barforth—no scandal. That's the thing. Water under the bridge next year, or the year after. It's the only way.'

‘I almost wish I could agree with you.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I am sorry, Sir Julian. I fully realize the seriousness of Mrs. Flood's position. But I have my own position to consider and intend to do so. It seems to me a great pity that Mrs. Flood failed to realize the consequences of her actions before it was too late—or before those actions had taken place at all. I repeat I am sorry, but I do not hold myself in any way responsible.'

He gave me a look of the most complete loathing and then, still restlessly flexing his hand, his lips drew apart in a grimace that was intended, but did not succeed, as a smile.

‘So that's it. Vindictive, eh?—want your pound of flesh, do you? But I won't have it, Mrs. Barforth. I won't stand idly by and see you ruin a thoroughly delightful girl for your sanctimonious whim. I warn you, madam, this shopkeeper's morality is not to my liking and I shall not tolerate it.'

I could have said, How dare you speak to me like that? I could have ordered him from the house, or I could have burst into tears. I believe I wanted to do all these things, but instead I remained quite still, hands folded, back very straight, rigid with my determination that I would not flinch. For, if this was the first abuse I had ever received, it could not be the last and I must school myself to meet it.

‘Sir Julian, you may call me whatever names you choose, but the plain fact is that I have committed no offence against Mrs. Flood. When she became my husband's mistress she was surely aware of the risk she ran. She must have known what the consequences might be to herself and to Colonel Flood, and I do not feel called upon to bear those consequences for her. This divorce is of the utmost importance to me. It is the only possible course I can take in order to lead what I believe to be an honest life, and I will not sacrifice that for the sake of Colonel Flood's career nor Mrs. Flood's reputation. Would they put my interests before their own? Of course they would not, and neither would you. It is quite useless, Sir Julian, to bully me or intimidate me or to make me feel guilty, for I will not change my mind. I am prepared to take full responsibility for my own actions and Mrs. Flood must do the same.'

He stood and glared at me for what must have been a full minute, his mouth a thin line, his face taut with anger, although suddenly and quite shockingly there were tears in his eyes.

‘This could kill her you know. Damnation, woman, can't you see that?'

And when I made no answer but continued to stand as tall and straight as I could, he clenched those nervous fingers into a fist, smashed it hard into the palm of his other hand, and rapped out: ‘Self-righteous bitch!'

‘Good-day, Sir Julian.'

‘Not for you, madam—there'll be no “good-day” for you, I promise it.'

He took his thunderous departure and I sat down on the nearest seat, my legs trembling, my whole body, as it relaxed from its awful rigidity, full of little aches and pains, my mind far too distracted in those first moments to realize that this attack could only mean that Gervase had refused to put an end to the matter by coming back to me.

Beyond the window, the spring afternoon continued to sparkle, daffodils tossing their bold heads in the fresh breeze, new green on the trees and a hint of pink and white blossom; an impulsive, passionate season, more adapted to the making of light-hearted promises than the grim keeping of one's resolve. I heard a bee, the first of the year, new-born and boisterous on the window-sill, a voice in the hall saying something about tea, a deeper voice answering ‘Presently', and then Mrs. Agbrigg came into the room and sat down in the chair opposite mine, choosing her moment well, I thought, since I was still too exhausted by my confrontation with Sir Julian to engage successfully in another.

‘Grace, I think it is time we had a word about your situation,' she said, and I looked across at her, the dragon of my childhood, velvet-pawed now but still very powerful, and smiled.

‘Yes. But you must not be afraid that I have come to seek permanent refuge here, you know. You will not be troubled with me forever, Mrs. Agbrigg, for it is my intention, when everything is settled, to live alone.'

She returned my smile, her large, handsome face hardly creasing, folded her smooth hands, her rings catching the light in the way I remembered, the heavy gold cross still at her throat.

‘Your father has explained all that to me and I have every confidence in your ability to keep your own house in order. It is the, shall we say
social
, aspect of the matter I would like to take up with you.'

‘My goodness, Mrs. Agbrigg—you mean Mrs. Rawnsley will cross the street to avoid meeting me and Miss Mandelbaum may feel uneasy about asking me to tea?'

But she shook her sedate head with an unruffled, almost placid motion.

‘No Grace, I do not mean that at all. I would not expect you to value the good opinion of Mrs. Rawnsley and Miss Mandelbaum since you have never been without it—as I have. Tell me, Grace, was Sir Julian very rough with you?'

‘Yes.'

‘In fact he spoke to you as no gentleman has ever spoken to you before?'

‘Yes, he did.'

‘I wonder if you know why? No, not entirely because of Mrs. Flood, but because you had placed yourself in a situation where he was no longer obliged to consider you a lady. Men have a keen nose for these things, my dear. And when a woman ceases to be a lady, she is just—well—just a woman and consequently fair game for anything a gentleman may have in mind. For a gentleman, you know, will do what he likes, or what he can, with a
woman
.'

I moved uncomfortably in my chair, surprised not only by her words but by the sincerity and the concern with which she expressed them.

‘But Mrs. Agbrigg, why? I am not an adulteress—I have done nothing to lose my reputation.'

‘My dear, indeed you have. You have flouted convention, don't you see? You have shrugged off the authority of your male relations and are setting yourself up in an independent fashion—your own home, your own income, keeping your own carriage—while your husband and your father are still living. You are a threat to society, my dear, for what would happen if the rest of society's wives and daughters were to follow your example? Domestic chaos, dearest, and—which is a far more serious matter—
financial
chaos too. No, no, you cannot be allowed to live free and happy, for that would be an inducement, would it not, to other women. And so what can society do but shun you, impose a total ban on you, fill your life with as much insult and irritation as possible? My dear, they would find it easier to forgive you if you
had
committed adultery. And that apart, what man, meeting you in the years to come, will enquire into the exact circumstances of your divorce or even care about them? You will have a label, “Divorced Woman”, that is all he will see. And what it will mean to him is “Woman of Easy Virtue”. Once your divorce is granted—if it ever should be—no man who desires you will feel obliged to restrain himself from telling you so. You will be subject to the most positive advances, my child—to a degree of aggression which I doubt you capable of imagining.'

‘Mrs. Agbrigg—I believe you are afraid for me.'

She sighed and unclasped her hands a little, looking fondly down at her rings.

‘And of course that surprises you? You do not know me very well, Grace. I wore a label too, you see, from the start which said “Wicked Stepmother” in bold letters, which was natural enough. You had made up your mind to dislike me and I saw no real harm in it. My maternal instinct is not strong. I wanted to be your father's wife, not the mother of his child, and beyond the physical comforts of good food and good shelter I had nothing to offer you. You had your Aunt Faith and your friends. I had your father and intended to keep him. You know that. But your Aunt Faith cannot tell you how it feels to be treated like a whore. I can. Will you listen to me?'

‘Gladly.'

‘I made my first money, Grace, by satisfying the perverse appetites of a man who—well—let us say I was thirteen years old at the time and he was at leasty fifty years older than that. And if it shocks you that there are women—and children—who do these things for money, may I remind you that it is only men who do them for pleasure. When he died I found another “protector”, which is an excellent description, since that is what a woman of my old profession most needs—protection. And not only from the lusts and hazards of her clients and of the streets but protection from the self-righteous, who are rarely charitable, and from the “godly”, who more often than not have no imagination and not much compassion. I soon understood that the only real protection was respectability. I earned money. I learned to speak and dress like a lady. I tried, when my circumstances allowed it, to live a decent life among decent people. It always proved impossible. I was always “exposed” and suitably punished. Eventually I came north and one night, at a music-hall in Leeds, I met Mr. Matthew Oldroyd of Fieldhead Mills, another old man of the type I was used to, although I was myself no longer thirteen nor even thirty. He brought me to Cullingford and set me up in the kind of little “love-nest” I had inhabited often enough before—my last, I thought, considering my age and my competition, and so I was determined to make the most of it. I was warm and comfortable. I had gold rings and more than enough to eat. But the ladies of your town still drew their skirts aside, still looked down their noses as if I had sprayed myself with their own foul sewage water instead of the most expensive perfumes of France. Well, you will not find yourself in quite those circumstances, Grace, but once you step outside the charmed circle of respectability you will enter a jungle—believe me—where the hunters are very far from gentlemen.'

‘But not all beasts, surely, Mrs. Agbrigg.'

‘No,' she said, looking into the far distance. ‘Not all. There was Tom Delaney, for instance—yes, there
was
a Mr. Delaney, who was my husband, if only in common law, until he died in prison, at twenty-five years old, of the fever. And Matthew Oldroyd was not a beast either, just old and sour and fool enough to marry me to spite his relations. And your father—dare I mention your father?'

I nodded, and for the first time since I had known her she leaned back in her chair, her large, handsome body arranging itself with less grace than comfort, a woman of a certain age who, having found a secure refuge, no longer felt the need to be young.

‘I like your father,' she said, a simple statement of which no one could have doubted the truth. ‘Indeed I do. I made up my mind from the start, when we were both employed by Matthew Oldroyd—your father as his lawyer and myself as his mistress—that I would get him one way or another.'

‘And he?'

‘Oh no—he was still half in love with—well, with a dream he once had, I suppose. But he found the reality—my reality—very comfortable. He wanted my money, of course, and I wanted the respectability I knew he would somehow contrive to give me. That was the bargain he thought we were striking and he expected nothing more, for his life had been meagre and at the start he was shy of taking. But I am very determined, Grace—as you are—and I made up my mind that if I'd survived what I
had
survived, if I'd kept body and soul together on fresh air and cold water sometimes,
and
made myself a fortune out of Matthew Oldroyd, then surely I could make my husband like me. He does. There now, I've got more than I deserved, but I came here to talk about you. Do you mean to go through with this, Grace?'

I nodded.

‘I thought so. I don't like it, child, because it hurts your father. He doesn't know, you see, just how long it's been hurting you—as I know—and he's afraid you might not stay in Cullingford when it's done.'

‘I hadn't thought of it.'

‘Think of it now. Much easier, of course, to go away—a clean start where no one knows enough to tell tales. You could lose yourself in a big city, go abroad, buy a cottage in a country town and call yourself a widow.'

‘Yes—'

‘It would ease his mind if I could give him the impression that you mean to stay here, where he can keep his eye on you.'

‘Yes,' I said once again, and, smiling, she leaned forward and put her smooth, brown hand over mine.

‘You see, Grace, there is no real freedom—not until the last person you care about is gone. I believe you were planning, were you not, on that fresh start?'

‘I think so. I suppose a man would just get up and go, wouldn't he—regardless of anyone else?'

‘Not your father.'

She stood up, having achieved her purpose as she always had, but I understood her now and it seemed right to me that she should go and lay my promise to remain in Cullingford at my father's feet as another gift of love—
her
love, she would make sure he realized, and not mine. And that seemed right to me too.

‘Mrs. Agbrigg.'

‘My dear?'

‘Is there a name I can call you? Mrs. Agbrigg no longer seems appropriate and I think we have gone rather beyond stepmamma.'

‘My name is Tessa,' she said. ‘Why not? Call me that, dear, the next time Mrs. Rawnsley comes to tea, and when you see her pinched lips and her accusing eyes you will know that your apprenticeship in independence has begun.'