Flint and Roses (84 page)

‘I take it you are thinking of leaving me, then?'

‘Yes.' she said without hesitation, but without hurry, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘I have been thinking of leaving you for some time.'

And when I made a flustered movement of escape, a muttered plea that they must wish to be alone, Blaize silenced me with a gesture, while neither Nicholas nor Georgiana appeared to notice my interruption at all.

‘It can hardly surprise you, Nicky.'

‘It doesn't. I suppose you had planned to live at the Abbey.'

‘Yes. I had planned to be discreet, as a woman should. I thought if I went over there for a month, three months, six months together, then there would be no gossip when it became a year—forever.'

‘You could still do that, Georgiana.' But even before she shook her head I doubt if he expected to be taken seriously. For the Abbey, as a weapon, had lost its cutting edge. Whether in the end it would be relinquished or not, she had shown Nicholas that she could live without it, and I understood, with a mixture of respect and sorrow, a touch of grudging amusement, that he had put it out of his mind. The Abbey had been a possibility. It was so no longer. And his acute, deliberately narrowed brain would soon be leaping forward—if it had not already begun—to explore other possibilities, some other way of settling his differences with Blaize. I had been reluctant to witness his defeat. He was not defeated. He had simply put the matter into abeyance.

‘No, Nicky. I wouldn't like to do that now.'

‘What would you like, then?'

And, lowering her eyes, she said, almost in a whisper, overcome even in her new-found strength, by the enormity of the request she was making. ‘I think—in fact—is it possible for us to be divorced? There have been some new laws, have there not?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then what must I do?'

‘Please—not here,' I said in anguish, for divorce, although possible now in law, and in London, was unknown in Cullingford, was as shameful, as unforgivable, as great a casting-out as it had ever been, and I didn't want that for her. But, turning to me, half smiling, she said, ‘Oh Faith, I am so sorry, but please don't stop me now, for if you do I may never find my voice again. And it must be said. I can't live with you again, Nicky, and it is for your sake as much as mine. We have not been good for each other. No—
that
we have not. To begin with, I was foolish and inexperienced and easily hurt, and you were never altogether sure you loved me. Sometimes it was to distraction—although that was long ago—sometimes hardly at all, even from the start. You confused me, Nicky, and by the time I gained some understanding of the things you needed in a woman I rather imagine you had discovered them elsewhere—and I was very lonely. I was not self-sufficient, you see, when we married. I had never needed to be. I had grown up among people who loved me and who told me so. We lived
together
, not separately each, one in his private egg-shell. And silence terrifies me. Sometimes I had to get to Galton just to convince myself that I wasn't dying. I could feel the blood turning sluggish in my veins and I had to keep it flowing. Well, I am a little more in command of myself now, and a good deal older. I have learned, really, that what I must do is the best I can, and our remaining together would not be for the best. It would not be honest. We have damaged each other enough. And I think we have failed each other enough. I have seen your father, sometimes, as hard as you. But what he felt for your mother always came through it. I have never been able to do that for you. Nicky. And you have never learned to accept me as I am. You have wanted me to be myself and different from myself all together, and it has been too much to ask. I have soured you and you have stifled me. And why should we continue to spread the misery of it through our lives, and our children's lives, so that the Cullingford tea-tables might not be shocked? I suppose they will call me a whore when I leave you, but I shall not feel like one, and you will know I am not. Will it be very difficult?'

For a moment I thought he couldn't answer, but then he spoke gruffly, gratingly almost, as if the words had been forced through some blockage in his throat.

‘To leave me? No—no difficulty except that you have no money and I would not be obliged to support you. Divorce? Relatively simple nowadays—if you are ready to supply me with proof of your adultery.'

‘I have not committed adultery, Nicky.'

‘No. I never thought you had. But if you wish to obtain a divorce there is no other way.'

‘You could not—'

‘No. Adultery on the part of a husband is not a ground for divorce unless it is accompanied by other offences of which I am not—and couldn't be—guilty. I'm sorry. I don't make the law. In this instance I simply benefit from it. I would have to track you down like a criminal—which is how the world would see you and treat you. I would have to catch you with your lover, like a thief caught with his loot. And then I would have to take action against you. If I succeeded, then it could only be because the charge of adultery had been proved, which would allow the Cullingford ladies to call you whatever names they liked. I am not squeamish, Georgiana, but I wouldn't enjoy doing that to you. And even then you would not save the Abbey. Should our marriage be dissolved, you could take nothing away with you. Your Abbey, your children, the few hundred pounds your grandfather left you, would still legally belong to me—unless I chose to be generous.'

‘And would you?'

‘I don't know.'

‘We'll talk about it, shall we?'

And when he quite clearly had no answer, she made it for him. ‘Yes, I believe we will. My goodness, how strangely our prayers are sometimes answered. What I hoped for—even a day ago—was that we could somehow begin to talk to each other. And now—Ah well, I am no schoolroom goose. I won't live with you again, Nicky. Oh no—I haven't altogether displeased you tonight, have I? I may have spoiled your scheme, but you don't really mind that. You'll soon concoct another. And I've been bold, at least, and interesting. I've struck back at you, which you can't quite help liking. I know. And I know it wouldn't last. There'd be silence again very soon, and it's far better for us to live apart and learn to talk. Oh dear—I think—yes, really, Nicky—I would like to go back to Tarn Edge now. Faith, if I may use your mirror a moment?'

And as I made a move towards her I had no need of Blaize's restraining glance to tell me she needed to be alone.

I didn't believe that anything more could be said; certainly I could not have spoken. But after a moment Blaize got to his feet and, looking at Nicholas, nodded and smiled wryly, almost wonderingly, his face plainly showing the stress of the day.

‘It occurs to me that the lady may have won herself an Abbey all on her own,' he said.

‘It could well be—or not. Who knows?' and picking up the long brown envelope Nicholas looked at it for a moment and then tore it neatly into two even pieces.

‘All right, Blaize. So much for that. I don't see the point in suggesting we could work together again. Do you still want that split?'

‘I'm not sure I want it, but I'll take it. I think it's the best we can do.'

‘We'll see Agbrigg in the morning and get the figures right. And then you can set yourself up as a manufacturing man. I'm not usually free with advice, but I'll tell you this much—you'll need somebody reliable to look after your sheds.'

‘Yes, I know. Are you starting to worry about me, Nick? I thought I might take Freddy Hobhouse off your hands. He's reliable enough, and he might feel easier about taking my money than yours.'

‘He might at that. I wouldn't stand in his way—since I don't need him. And, if you should happen to sell the sheds back to me in a year or two, it would help to know they'd been properly managed.'

Blaize smiled, nodded again, a swordsman, I thought, accepting a challenge.

‘I'll have a word with him, then. Who knows—it might even boost his confidence so high that he'd marry my wife's sister and make himself a rich man again—rich enough to buy his own sheds back, I reckon. And Nick—since we're exchanging advice—don't rely too much on Dan Adair. He's good, but he's not young, and it's hard out there on the road—harder than it used to be.'

‘I know. I've got a lad or two coming up. I wouldn't waste your time worrying about me, Blaize. There's no reason for it.'

‘No reason at all. I notice you can't say the same for me.'

And this time it was Nicholas who smiled. ‘I reckon not—but we'll see how it goes. And if it goes downhill, Blaize, then I expect you'll have the sense to pull out before it's gone too far. Because even for Tarn Edge I'm not the man to throw good money after bad.'

‘That's what you're hoping for, is it, Nick? That I'll pull out at the first slump in trade or that I'll get bored?'

‘No. I don't deal much in hope. It's what I'm expecting.'

‘I'll see you in Croppers Court then, first thing tomorrow—if Agbrigg's wife allows him to practise law so early in the day.'

‘Aye. And after that we'll meet in the Piece Hall—if you can remember where to find it.'

Georgiana came back, not entering the room, but hovering in the hall, wanting urgently to be gone, an air about her of a woman who has been very ill, resolute in spirit but still bodily frail.

‘Is the carriage coming, Blaize? I need a breath of air.'

And, as they went outside to await the arrival of Nicholas's horse and the ancient sporting curricle which had been Perry Clevedon's, I stood at the window and looked out at them, no longer shivering with that inner cold, but far distant, yet, from any certainty of warmth and ease.

I saw Georgiana lean down a moment as she drew on her driving gloves to say a word to Blaize and then drive off, steadily, skilfully, her destination apparently clear. I didn't know if she would succeed, or could succeed. I was proud of her. I loved her.

I saw Nicholas lift himself briskly into his saddle, a powerful silhouette in the twilight, quite certain of his own success, as I was certain of it too. And, as I watched him ride away I knew, with the relief one feels at the ending of physical pain, that he had no need of my anxiety, my remorse; no need, in fact, of me at all. I had seen him change and had believed myself responsible for it. I realized now that he had not changed, but simply progressed quite normally to the man his nature and his ancestry had always intended him to be.

Had Georgiana never come his way, had he married me instead, I would not have contented him. He would still have required Nethercoats from the Hobhouses, Tarn Edge from Blaize, anything and everything that challenged his ingenuity, any woman, perhaps, who—like the widowed Faith Ashburn—had said ‘we must not'. And although, had I understood all this a dozen years ago, I would still have married him, I had not done so. I had take other directions, opened other doors, so that now I could look back at him, from their various thresholds, and understand that neither of us had been to blame.

I had sat, long ago, by my fireside and told my sister, ‘I am a woman who loves Nicholas Barforth. That is all there is to me.'

That woman had meant what she said. For her it had been true. But that woman very gradually had become a chrysalis for someone else, who for a long time had been painfully, sometimes eagerly, emerging. It was no longer in me to love with that overwhelming, self-destructive intensity. I was no longer capable of submerging myself in another person, nor did I wish to do so. I had indeed loved Nicholas Barforth, but there was far more to me now than that. What I wanted now was to love, with clear eyes, a man who saw me clearly, who would allow me air to breathe and space to grow, who would not need to prove his manhood by reducing me to a state of slavish adoration or childlike dependence, a man, in fact, who was strong enough and sure enough to value me as a woman. And there was only one man who had ever offered me the enormous gift of freedom.

‘Faith,' Blaize said, somewhere in the room behind me, my first awareness of him being the warm odour of his cigar, the fresh citrus of the toilet-water he wore.

‘Yes.'

‘I was sharp with you earlier. I'm sorry.'

And for a few moments we talked around ourselves, of other people, other aspirations, approaching each other slowly, and with care.

‘Will Freddy Hobhouse come to you, Blaize?'

‘Oh yes—not that Nick will worry about that, since, whatever Freddy can do, he can do it better. He'd be hard pressed, perhaps, if I took Dan Adair.'

‘But you won't?'

‘I can't. I've asked him already and he'll use me, I imagine, to push up his value with Nick. But he has the sense to stay where he's needed—which is hardly with me. Even Freddy knows that much, or if he doesn't then Prudence will soon explain. If she marries him she'll learn how to drop me a hint occasionally that he's thinking of starting up on his own with her capital—knowing I'll be inclined to change his mind with pound notes.'

‘Prudence wouldn't—' I began and then, meeting his quizzical eyes, ‘Yes—so she would.' And, although he was smiling at me, the time had gone when I could have leaned towards him, surrendering into laughter. It would not suffice.

‘And Georgiana?'

‘Yes?' he said, cautious now and very intent; and, sensing the change in him, remembering acutely the comforting arch of his arm around her, I shivered, feeling a sharp stab of pain, a swift upsurging of hope—of excitement almost—when I saw he understood the reason why. And I knew I could say anything to him. Here was the man who knew me best, the friend, the lover, who expected me to be neither better nor worse, nor anything other than myself. Here was the man who required to maintain his own individuality, but would allow me to keep mine, and I was at ease with him, warm with him, stimulated by him; I was adult with him.