The Sleeping Sword (37 page)

‘Liam, tell me the plain truth. What chance does she really have of any kind of happiness?'

He glanced at his watch again, took his coat from a peg behind the door, thinking carefully, trying perhaps, to rid himself of the hope that he might find her already disillusioned and willing, at last, to accept a compromise; to let Liam Adair love her since no one else would. But the memory of Venetia herself forced him to be honest.

‘Just what was she leaving?' he said. ‘It may seem a lot to most people, but it was nothing to her because she didn't want it. She was sick of her life and of her husband long before Robin came. No—she won't regret anything she's left behind. And yes—he does love her. Yes—he is sincere in his aims. It's quite true that if he went home to Wiltshire they might not kill the fatted calf, but they'd give him a decent allowance so as not to be embarrassed by that threadbare coat. He won't take their money because he doesn't need it. I don't think he'd take it if Venetia needed it. He might not even notice she was in need. Money is excess baggage to him. It clouds his vision and makes it harder for him to see the truth. He's not a religious man—he calls that excess baggage too—but that bit about it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven—that reminds me of him. He believes in that. I don't know that happens to men like him when they get old. Perhaps they never do.'

I shivered, badly feeling the cold.

‘Do you know where he is?'

‘No. He didn't tell me and I didn't ask. I'll just go up there, in the general direction, and let it be known who I'm looking for, since a pair like that won't be anonymous. And if I make it worthwhile, somebody will let me know. If that's your carriage down there you'll be wanting to take me to the station.'

We walked downstairs together, his large warm hand under my elbow, and drove in silence to the cobbled station yard.

‘If you see her, will you tell her that I—that I am still the same—that she can rely on me—for whatever—?'

‘Aye—if I see her.'

And this sudden wavering of his confidence caused me such evident alarm that he put an arm around my shoulders in a companionable hug and kept it there, despite the astonishment of our stationmaster.

‘All right, Grace, let's look on the black side. I reckon the worst that could happen is that I don't find her at all.'

And looking down the track at the panting approach of the train, he smiled into the far distance and sighed.

‘Aye, that's the worst.'

‘And the best?'

‘Well—I reckon the best we can hope for is to find her living like a coalminer's wife. And I doubt either one of you can even imagine a kind of life like that.'

My father appeared at Tarn Edge the following day and for several days thereafter, was instantly admitted to Mr. Barforth's study, to be joined at various intervals by Gideon, by the Barforth and Agbrigg lawyers, by Sir Dominic and the Duke of South Erin; by the males of the family gathered together in judgement upon one of our women, to condemn her sins and to reapportion her wealth.

Gervase came home, furious, hurt and spoiling for a fight, grieving for the loss of his sister yet unable to suppress a pang of malicious pleasure at seeing Gideon in the sorry position of a deceived husband. But the confrontation Gervase attempted to provoke was prevented by his father, by that solemn conclave of family lawyers, and by the dignity with which Gideon seemed determined to conduct himself. Gervase's belligerence giving way in an abrupt swing of mood to a contemptuous rejection of the proceedings and all who took part in them.

‘To hell with it!' he said, slamming the study door behind him and very nearly pushing me aside when I tried to intercept him. ‘They're carving it all up very nicely in there. But don't worry, Grace. You've got your father to make sure they don't carve you up, too. And as for Venetia, I believe she's better off where she is.'

I sat in the drawing-room again, not alone this time but with the other women who had strong interests in the negotiations taking place, with Aunt Caroline who insisted that Gideon's position must now be clarified, with Mrs. Agbrigg who did not intend to allow the Barforths to swallow Fieldhead, with Blanche who, to my everlasting gratitude and slight surprise, was obviously saddened and alarmed for Venetia. Even my mother-in-law, who was so rarely seen in that house, kept vigil with us, looking, one supposed, for an opportunity of freeing Galton and herself from Barforth control, she and Aunt Caroline facing each other like a pair of spitting cats when, after several hours of polite whispering and several dozen cups of tea, the Duchess could no longer contain her indignation.

‘It is my son who is the victim, Georgiana. And it is your daughter who has wantonly betrayed him.'

‘I suppose that is one way to look at it, Caroline. But it might also be said that your son had driven her away.'

Opposing points of view which would never be reconciled, although they both did agree wholeheartedly that something must be done about it. In Aunt Caroline's view, Mr. Nicholas Barforth, her brother, must now make a legal and binding statement of his intentions with regard to Gideon's future. In the natural course of events Gideon had expected to inherit one half of Mr. Barforth's assets and holdings, but that inheritance had depended on his marriage to Venetia. Mr. Barforth's existing will, Aunt Caroline believed, covered the possibility of Venetia's death, but no provision had been made for her adultery. God alone knew what might happen to her now, and those family lawyers must stir themselves and devise some scheme which would make it impossible, no matter what the circumstances, for Robin Ashby to touch a penny that might even loosely be called Venetia's. In fact Mr. Barforth, however painful, must in his new will strike out the name of ‘Venetia' altogether and substitute ‘Gideon'.

‘Really?' said Mrs. Georgiana Barforth, for although she genuinely wished for no more than her widow's portion when her husband came to die, she was ready to do battle for her daughter. ‘Are you not being a little premature in your judgement, Caroline? It may seem unlikely at the moment, and
you
may not consider it even desirable, but it is surely not impossible that they might be reconciled. And before we cast my daughter once and for all into the pit, may I remind you of your Christian charity? I am not religious myself but I have seen you on your knees many a time, Caroline Chard, in the church at Listonby. And with all your preaching of morality and decency, it seems a pity you have not learned anything at all about compassion.'

‘I have never liked you, Georgiana Clevedon,' said Aunt Caroline, her eyes blazing, to which my mother-in-law responded by tossing an aristocratic, auburn head.

‘I shall lose no sleep over your opinions, Caroline, for I must tell you that when you married my cousin Matthew Chard you were so gauche and your views so narrow and middle-class that you provided amusement for the entire county. I suppose you entertain London just as thoroughly now that you have started to play the duchess.'

I believe they could have come to blows had not Mrs. Agbrigg inserted her persuasive, velvet voice between them, Blanche being far too amused by the possibility of their combat to intervene, while I quite simply did not care a rap. And when their grudging truce had been declared and I had sent yet again for more tea, it was not long before the study door opened and those sober, dignified gentlemen emerged to inform us of our various fates.

Mr. Barforth, certainly, had been subject to a great deal of pressure, but he was accustomed to that and I think all the Chards had really achieved was to hurry him a little in the direction he had already decided to go. There was to be a limited liability company, the previously separate mills of Lawcroft Fold, Low Cross and Nethercoats being welded together and given the commercial identity of Nicholas Barforth and Company Limited. Mr. Barforth, naturally, would hold the position of chairman and a hefty eighty per cent of the shares, while Gideon and Gervase would each occupy a seat on his board and divide the remaining twenty per cent shareholding between them, a concession which in itself made them independently wealthy men. But Mr. Barforth, for the time being—and he did not specify how long that time might be—would serve as his own managing director, and furthermore would retain the immensely profitable Law Valley Woolcombers and the Law Valley Dyers and Finishers as his own. And when this had been settled, not entirely to Chard satisfaction but a step at least in the way Gideon had determined to take, they turned their attention to Venetia.

Perhaps—I am not certain of this—but perhaps Mr. Barforth did not want to change his will, being accustomed to the fact of a married woman's property passing automatically to her husband who, when all was said and done, remained Gideon Chard whether she was sharing his roof or not. But it was pointed out to him by the lawyer representing the Chards that there was a growing inclination in the land for legal reform, that it might one day be possible for a married woman to inherit no matter what vast fortune in her own right, to administer it, spend it, give it or fritter it away without so much as asking leave of the poor husband, who would have no claim on it whatsoever. And when he had digested the implications of this, when heads had been shaken and they had all wondered at the state of a world where such things might come to pass—while Gideon stood silent, I suppose, looking if not disinterested then certainly not greedy—Mr. Barforth gave a curt nod.

‘See to it, then.'

And for the purposes of his last will and testament Venetia was no more. The bulk of his fortune—after due provision had been made for his wife—was to be safeguarded for his son and his son-in-law, while if his daughter was to be mentioned at all—and he made no promises either way about that—it would be in some codicil among the bequests made to his staff.

Aunt Caroline was jubilant. My mother-in-law asked for her hat and gloves and went away, although her distress over Venetia must have been to some extent offset by the new independence of Gervase.

‘There'll be no profit to anybody in talking to me about this matter again,' said my father-in-law and went out to dinner with Gideon at the Station Hotel, to discuss, in a more congenial atmosphere, the details of Gideon's trip to New York.

And there began a sad, slow year, a wasteland in my memory. There was gossip, of course, but no information was ever forthcoming, and Cullingford was obliged to content itself with the bare and eventually boring fact that Venetia Barforth—Mrs. Gideon Chard—was no longer in residence at Tarn Edge. But where she was, and with whom, Cullingford could not say. Probably she had absconded with a man, but there again it was possible she had lost her flighty wits and been expensively confined somewhere, out of harm's way. How dreadful, they said, for her husband. But the romantic aura which settled on Gideon for a while was soon dispelled when he made it abundantly clear that he did not welcome sympathy. He went to America as planned, then to Germany and France, spent long days at the mills and two or three nights a week away from home, finding consolation, one supposed, in approved bachelor fashion, since no one expected him to live celibate.

I kept the house and waited, one day following another, faceless, lacking colour and flavour. Waited for something to crack the thin but nevertheless restricting ice which had overgrown my capacity to feel. Waited for something to move me nearer or further away from Gervase. Waited most of all for news of Venetia. I wanted to hear that she was well and happy, that her decision had been right for her. I wanted to hear that she had not been mistaken in herself, that Robin Ashby was truly the kindred spirit she had always craved, that his values really were hers, that this was indeed her crusade.

Our lives went on. I heard that Liam Adair had involved himself romantically with a widowed lady who might make a substantial investment in the
Star
, unless of course she should discover that he was equally involved with her niece, also widowed but ten years younger, who shared her home and had no money at all.

I heard, with a polite smile, that Colonel Compton Flood had gone with his regiment and his wife to India, and responded with the same smile—having gone far beyond hope—when I was told some months later that Mrs. Flood, unable to support the heat, had returned to Cullingford Manor. Her husband would join her in six months, a year. How very interesting, I said and was appalled to realize how little I could manage to care that she had come back to Gervase.

My waiting ended the following autumn on a day of high wind, a hurrying amber sky, when Liam came at last to see me, having just go off the train he said, hungry and thirsty—yes, muffins and gingerbread and hot, strong tea would go down a treat—his manner as jaunty as ever, his eyes tired.

‘Have you an hour to spare for me, Grace?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then ask them to bring a fresh pot of tea and tell them you're not at home. There's no chance of Gideon walking in, I suppose—or old Nick?'

‘They're out of town, both of them. Is it Venetia?'

‘It is.'

And my whole body turned cold, so badly did I want her to be well, so completely did I doubt it.

I waited just a little longer until he drank his fourth cup of scalding tea and ate several quick slices of gingerbread, as if his hunger had been with him all day, all night in the train and he had only now become aware of it.

‘Grace, can you get away for a day or two?'

‘Yes.'

‘Without anybody knowing?'

‘I could say I was going to Scarborough to my grandmother. Where will I be going?'

‘Glasgow. And one way or another you've got to bring her back with you.'

I heard the story little by little, first, as he sat still swallowing that scalding tea, the things he knew, the framework of facts with the substance left out; then, as we boarded the northern train, the things he had guessed, the conclusions he had drawn, the things he wanted to believe and the things he could not avoid believing.