The Sleeping Sword (48 page)

‘They have left you alone, have they?' he said, although I believe he had expected to find me so.

‘As you see. Is there any news of Noel?'

He shook his head.

‘We know Chelmsford lost a hundred men and Noel does not seem to have been among them. The chances are he is perfectly fit and well, and has won medals and promotion—which pleases me enormously when one considers he is the least warlike of the three of us.'

‘Yes. But if you will excuse me, Gideon, I am rather tired.'

Again he shook his head and smiled a little wryly but with a great deal of studied charm; the smile, I thought, of a man who wishes to persuade, or who has something to sell.

‘I am sorry for that. I came back early on purpose to speak to you and would be grateful for just a moment—'

‘I am really very tired—perhaps tomorrow?'

‘I may not be here tomorrow.'

‘Then I am sorry but I must say good-night.'

‘No, Grace.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I have something to say to you. I intend to say it.'

‘Oh—do you catch the early train tomorrow?'

‘My plans are uncertain. Sit down, Grace. Please.'

‘No—no—I simply wondered if you would take a package for me to Mrs. Agbrigg—something she asked me to buy for my father?'

‘With pleasure—when we have had a word.'

‘I will let you have the parcel in the morning then, at breakfast—'

‘Grace.'

And as I moved to the door, pushing the air away from me in my haste, he rapped out: ‘Grace, I will follow you upstairs if I must, which will do nothing either for your nerves or your reputation.'

I paused, my hand on the doorknob, willing myself to turn it and walk up the stairs without looking back; willing myself to shrug off the claims he was about to make, the restraints he was about to impose, like the free spirit I wished to be I paused—for how dare he speak of
nerves?
—and hesitated, feeling, in fact, as nervous as I had ever done.

‘Grace,' he said, no hesitation anywhere within him. ‘Unless you wish me to shout my questions through your bedroom door for all to hear, you will remain in this room and you will tell me why you are set on this folly.'

‘You have no right to ask that question.'

‘I daresay. But I insist upon an answer and you should know me well enough by now to realize that I will go on asking until you give it to me.'

I knew him. I knew him far too well. I walked back and stood on the hearthrug before the empty summer grate in the favourite vantage point of authority, the spot where he and Mr. Barforth and my father and all the other masters of households and fortunes and destinies were accustomed to stand, my hands neatly folded, my back straight, the posture I had adopted for my confrontation with Sir Julian Flood, telling myself—without believing—that this confrontation could be no worse.

‘By “folly”, Gideon, I presume you mean my divorce. And what I have to say to you on that score is quickly done, since it does not concern you in the very least.'

‘You are quite wrong, believe me.'

And now, forcing myself to look at him, I saw that the charm was gone, leaving his face careful, serious, very determined.

‘Grace, when all is said, and done, we have shared a roof these past few years. I have come to value you very highly and cannot keep silent when I see you embark on this course of self-destruction. Whether you realize it or not, you have lived very sheltered and somebody must tell you what the world is like.'

‘There is no need for you to take the trouble, Gideon. Mrs. Agbrigg and Sir Julian Flood have done it for you.'

He made a movement that was both contemptuous and irritable, dismissing Sir Julian as an older man and consequently out of touch, Mrs. Agbrigg as a woman of dubious reputation herself, who, being unreliable in her morals, could be trusted in nothing else.

‘I daresay—in fact I heard something of your interview with Flood. But he has his own axe to grind.'

‘And you do not?'

‘Yes, if you like—if concern for you can be called an axe, then yes, I have one. I do not mean to stand idly by and see you go to your ruin.'

‘Good heavens! Gideon, your knight-errantry does you credit, but I do not expect to find myself entirely beyond the pale. I do not intend to set up house with a lover, you know.'

‘You intend to live alone,' he said, his jaw clenching as if the words made him very angry, ‘which is just as bad.'

And his loss of temper where there should have been nothing warmer than a faint irritation, this smouldering anger when all that was required of him was to be mildly disappointed, alarmed me, for I did not feel very composed either, having far less inclination than usual to defend myself.

‘There is no need for this, Grace,' he said, speaking quickly while I still seemed disposed to listen. ‘What do you really have to gain by it? Yes—I know, I know—I have seen the difficulties you have had to face. I know what Gervase is, and what he does. I have seen your courage and feel no surprise that your patience is at an end. But why give up your home for his sake? And Tarn Edge
is
your home, Grace. If he could be persuaded to leave you alone—and he
could
be so persuaded—there is no reason why you should not continue to live there and enjoy the same respect, the same authority—the same
independence
, for who has ever attempted to restrain you? You are valued at Tarn Edge. Why cut yourself off from that? And for what? The pleasure of setting up in some poky place of your own and enduring the insults of those who—well, for want of a better word, those ladies who cannot hold a candle to you, and of those ‘gentlemen'who will come swarming like bees around clover. Surely, Grace—since you would be free of Gervase either way—what is the sense in deliberately exposing yourself to harassment and injury? I see no sense in it.'

‘Ah—and
I
see that you are not satisfied with the way they have been laundering your shirts since I went away.'

He could very easily have thrown back his handsome head and laughed. I hoped rather earnestly that he would. But instead his heavy eyebrows flew together, his face not flushing but darkening with a rush of temper which would have gone ill with me had I been in his employ or had I been his wife. Yet when he spoke again his voice was low and even.

‘Grace, since we are speaking plainly—I know there are times when you dislike me. I am not sure I merit it, not every time.'

‘Probably you do not.'

‘Very well. You believe I married for money. You are quite right, of course.'

‘Gideon, it has absolutely nothing to do with me—'

‘
Grace
—will you leave off this constant side-stepping of every important issue, for God's sake! If I wish you to be concerned in it, then you are concerned, and I am entitled to defend myself. Yes—it was for money. But I wonder if you realize what small provision is made in families like mine for younger sons? We are all brought up to be princes, but in the end everything, the land, the title, such money as there is—everything—is for the eldest son, the heir. I don't quarrel with that. It is the only way an estate can be kept intact. If every son took his share there would soon be no great estates at all, important houses would fall into decay, and no man would have the means to support his title. I know that. Younger sons are obliged to do the best they can within the limits custom permits—and the one thing custom positively encourages is the making of a good marriage. Grace, I saw my way to the kind of life I desire by entering the mills, for my tastes are luxurious and exacting, I cannot deny it. And nothing—
nothing
—either in my upbringing or my education told me I was wrong to marry my employer's daughter.'

‘Of course not.'

‘Yet you have accused me, in thought, I know it, and now you will listen to my defence. Was I cruel to her? She believed I took her solely for the money, insisted on believing it, and it is perfectly correct that I would not have taken her without it. But the truth is that I found her attractive to begin with and if she had allowed it I would have—Damnation! Grace, you know exactly what I mean. You saw me today with that woman in the Park. You must know how little that sort of thing can matter—'

‘Of course—just a woman for your convenience, at your convenience. What can it mean?'

‘It means,' he snapped, ‘a woman who gives me what I pay for and no more, and with whom I know exactly where I stand. Not an ideal arrangement, but businesslike—the best, from time to time, that one can manage—and which has the advantage of hurting no one.'

‘Yes. I beg your pardon.'

‘Will you agree, then, that my intentions were not wholly callous—that I may have had
some
fondness for her when we married, and that when I took her back I may have felt some pity? Do you think it was done entirely for the sake of that managing directorship?'

‘Venetia thought so.'

‘Yes. Venetia thought so. What does Grace think?'

‘I think you asked for your promotion, or made it clear you would expect it.'

‘Yes,' he said unexpectedly, somewhat disarming me. ‘I did.'

‘Gideon.'

‘Why not? Mr. Nicholas Barforth, in my place, would have done the same. He knew what I wanted and how long I had waited for it. He also knew that I had earned it. When Venetia left me he gave only half of what he had promised—the limited company. When she came back I had no need to tell him I wanted the other half—to be managing director of it. He knew. I sat in his office and waited for his offer. And then I made sure it was exactly the offer I required before I took it. But he can't know—and you can't know, Grace—what I would have done if the offer had not been made.'

‘It can make no real difference now.'

‘Yes, it can, if I can gain your good opinion. And if not then—listen, Grace, if I am the reason you cannot return to Tarn Edge then
I
will leave, not you. A man can live anywhere, and I am away a great deal in any case.'

‘Yes Gideon—and for how long?'

And feeling suddenly hemmed-in with him in this large, high-ceilinged room, too close to him, impeded by him, although we were a yard apart, I knew I must end it as quickly as I could and walk cleanly and decisively away.

‘I ask for how long because in fact once I was safely back at Tarn Edge and had rendered my divorce impossible, you would come back too.'

‘I would hope to do so—at your invitation—I admit it.'

‘And if I did not invite you, you would come back just the same.'

He grinned, quite boyishly, my stomach lurching at the display of his charm in an altogether dreadful fashion.

‘I imagine I might try that.'

‘I am sure of it. And I quite understand why. A house the size of Tarn Edge needs an efficient mistress, for even the best of housekeepers grow slack after a time. I suppose things are sliding already and my return would quickly put that right. I know, Gideon—there is a house to run and even a child to educate. I also know that sooner or later you will marry again. My presence at Tarn Edge would be less convenient to you then, and possibly most unwelcome to your new wife.'

He came quite close to me, his feet on the hearthrug only an inch away from mine, the frilled hem of my skirt touching his polished evening shoe; his hand, on the mantelshelf behind my head, allowing his body to lean forward, not touching me but
over
me, my own awareness of his breathing, the movement of pulse and muscle and vitality beneath his skin, the skin itself, a great trouble to me; my own senses, which I had allowed to grow sluggish, stirring now to curiosity and excitement, for those senses, after all, were barely twenty-five years old and had once been very strong.

‘I will not marry again,' he said.

‘Nonsense!'

‘
Grace
—I will not marry again and for a very good reason which you should understand—which you
do
understand.'

And leaning closer, his eyes seeming to bore into my skull as if he meant to inject his meaning inside it, he repeated his words over again, his face grim and hard with concentration, the force of his will taking me prisoner so that my breathing came no longer at my own pace but at his, my pulse catching the rhythm of his pulse, quickening to meet it and match it and be absorbed by it. Yes, I understood. And how could I be shocked by the desire which had existed for so long, dormant yet terribly present, in all our dealings with one another? All he was asking me to do was call that desire by its proper name, to receive it, to
accept
it, now that the obstacles to its fulfilment—my husband, his wife—no longer stood quite so visibly in our way. He was asking me to do what the very root of my body longed for and which only a portion of my mind resisted. I was not ashamed of my body. I was glad of the joy it had once brought me and could readily admit how urgently I often craved that joy again. But if Gideon was desire then he was also captivity, strong arms to enchant me and bind me; demands that would obliterate my own demands; needs that would soon swallow up my needs; an identity that would overshadow mine. And I did not trust him.

His hand tightened on the mantelshelf, his face hardening still further, not with anger but the sheer effort of his control.

‘I should not speak to you now, I know it, and would have said nothing, except that you leave me no choice. If you had stayed at Tarn Edge as I expected, there would have been no need for this. I could have bided my time—chosen a better moment.'

‘Gideon—'

‘Yes—and even now, when I am driven to speak, what can I say that you will listen to? How can I make you understand the necessity—that this is
right
for you, Grace? I am saying come back to Tarn Edge, not to keep the house nor raise the child, but to make your life there.'