Flint and Roses (16 page)

‘Yes—but I suppose I had better go after her and say I am sorry—which indeed I am, since I think she is very sorry herself. What on earth can Julian Flood have done to her?'

‘Nothing much. Tried to kiss her, I expect, and if she don't like it then she should stop thinking about the manor, since one thing goes with the other. Leave her to it. She'll come looking for you tomorrow to apologize and tell you all about it. But come, Faith—quickly now—for we have been away long enough.'

Taking my hand he hustled me to the end of the passageway and out through a little side-door I had forgotten about, not into the deep midnight I had expected, but a clear, rose-tinted, daybreak.

‘Oh, Nicholas—look. I have never stayed up all night before.'

‘No, I suppose you have not. Listen, we cannot go in together now. You must go round the side of the house and through the garden-door to the back parlour, and then go through into the hall. Do you remember the way?'

‘Oh yes. But what a pity to go in at all.'

‘Faith,' he said, ‘don't you know the fix you could be in?'

But he was laughing, anxious and amused at the same time, a Barforth who did not wish to compromise me because he did not wish to be compromised himself, but who, with his share of inherited recklessness, of lusty Barforth appetite, was unwilling to miss an opportunity, so that naturally and easily he bent his head and brushed his mouth lightly against the corner of mine; a half-kiss which would have been acceptable between cousins under the mistletoe at Christmas time, no more than that now perhaps, to him; but the most important thing. I believed, so far—the most thrilling—in my life.

‘Run,' he said, and I ran giddy and glowing, through the garden-door, not caring if even Aunt Hannah should be there, since Nicholas had kissed me. The back parlour was empty, the crowd thinning in the hall, music still playing, servants still hurrying to and fro, but an air of impending departure, of cloaks and carriages, of battles already won or lost. Surely I had been missed? Surely there would be the ugliness of questions and recriminations, a dreadful poking and prying into the crystal-clear enchantment I was still feeling, that I believed I would feel forever? But reaching the ballroom door in a state of considerable alarm; I saw, as often proves the case, that everyone had found their own affairs more interesting than mine. My mother was still lounging in her chair, murmuring wicked replies to whatever Mr. Oldroyd, on the chair behind, was whispering over her shoulder; my forgotten, abandoned sister Prudence was sitting patiently beside Aunt Hannah; while a chair or two away from them, Jonas—desperate, hard-pressed, offended Jonas—was most surprisingly deep in conversation with Celia.

Aunt Hannah, it seemed, was not so entirely in her stepson's confidence as she imagined, for when he proposed to my sister Celia the following week, during the course of an Assembly Rooms charity ball, she was quite taken aback, and to begin with not greatly pleased.

‘Jonas—what do you mean?' she said to him when he and Celia approached her hand in hand at the close of the dance. And since she could not believe Jonas capable of impropriety, she turned her for midable Barforth eye on Celia—recognizing a scheming young hussy when she saw one—and ordered, ‘You had best go to your mother young lady, and inform her that I shall have a word to say on your account.'

We took Celia home in a state almost of collapse, weeping in a corner of the carriage and complaining most bitterly that the whole world was against her, that neither Prudence nor Faith would have been treated in this fashion, that she had done nothing wrong.

But the next morning, when Jonas had made it clear that Prudence would not have him and stressed, no doubt, what Mr. Corey-Manning's retirement could mean to them both, my aunt appeared very early in Blenheim Lane to announce herself highly delighted, and to set Celia's mind at ease.

She was prepared within the privacy of the family circle to admit—although not in Celia's hearing—that Jonas's attentions to one sister and his subsequent proposal to another might be thought rather bold, but then, it was well known that young people were impulsive, apt to be carried away by their tender feelings, and so far as the outside world was concerned Jonas—clever, crafty Jonas—had not committed himself to Prudence, and there could be no question that she had been jilted or that Celia was second-best.

It had of course, been somewhat headstrong of Jonas to approach Celia direct, without first requesting the opinion of her guardians, but once again, the natural ardours of youth must be held to blame, and before calling on us she had gone first to Tarn Edge and spoken to Uncle Joel—whose consent, by the terms of my father's will, would be necessary—and had made all smooth with him. His niece might be married, he had declared, whenever she pleased, and there seemed little doubt that, in his desire to see her well settled, his assistance to Jonas in a certain matter of business would not be denied.

Aunt Hannah in fact was happy, for now, with the solid capital of Celia's dowry behind him, Jonas had set his foot on the first golden rung of the ladder she had long ago designed on his behalf. Mr. Corey-Manning's business would soon be his. He would be a householder, a man of substance and authority, while she relieved of the anxiety of his expenses, could devote herself entirely to her civic campaign. Jonas himself, one supposed, and for the same reasons, was happy too. Celia, having received her first and presumably her last proposal at the tender age of fifteen—before either of her elder, more highly regarded sisters—could hardly contain her bliss. But when Aunt Hannah had gone to announce her news elsewhere, and Celia, exhausted by rapture, had retired upstairs with Miss Mayfield to discuss her trousseau, Prudence, who had been ominously silent all morning, planted herself firmly in front of my mother, and said. ‘You cannot permit this, mamma.'

‘My dear, what an odd notion!. Why on earth should I wish to prevent it?'

‘You know very well why, mamma, for they are totally unsuited. She is not yet sixteen and she is not clever. She has no idea of the consequences—'

My mother smiled. ‘Oh, cleverer than you think, my dear, surely—since she knows exactly what she wants in life, as you do not. And as for the consequences, if one gave too much thought to consequences I doubt if one would do anything at all.'

I saw Prudence flex her hands slightly, a movement as nervous yet as fastidious as a cat, expressing her utter dislike of artifice, her rejection of all those—my mother among them—who lived by it.

‘Quite so, mamma. But in fact she is being manipulated to suit the interests of others, who are not greatly concerned as to what Celia's own interests might be. And if you do not choose to understand that, then really, mamma—I shall have no alternative but to go and see Uncle Joel.'

‘My word!' my mother said, her face dimpling and twinkling with smiles. ‘How brave you are! Would you really go to my brother and demand his attention? Why yes, I believe you would, for truly you are so much like your half-brother, of whom we were never allowed to speak. Dear Crispin, so prickly and difficult, and such a great romantic, just as you are, dear—he had such wide, shining ideals. I daresay I am not the only woman in Cullingford who sometimes wonders what has become of him. But never mind that—You would go to your uncle, would you, Prudence? And what would you tell him? That Jonas Agbrigg wishes to marry your sister for her money? He is perfectly well aware of that, dearest. Money is a perfectly acceptable reason for a young man to marry. In fact, when Jonas approached your uncle some weeks ago about this business of Mr. Corey-Manning, your uncle himself suggested that the quickest way out of the dilemma would be to find a suitable wife. My brother's generosity is realistic rather than philanthropic, and, although he has great faith in Jonas'ability, he was unwilling to elevate him to a position he could not maintain. His marriage to Celia will provide him with the means to maintain it and will provide her with the wedding-ring which, you cannot deny, is the one thing she desires. My dear, I am not forcing her to the altar. You may think me insensitive, but I can assure you I would never do such a thing. She wants to marry him. You tell me I cannot permit it, but even if you could prevail upon me, and Uncle Joel, and Aunt Hannah, to cancel, then Celia herself would thwart you. I believe you will find, when you are calm enough to talk to her, that she has fallen in love. Oh yes, my dear, and why not? In a few months'time she will be the mistress of her own home, with her own servants to do her bidding and her own horses to be got out whenever it pleases her to drive into town, while you and Faith remain here with me. She will have her own calling cards to deliver, with her own name writ large for everyone to see, while you and Faith will have to make do with your names printed, very small, under mine. And she can do no less than fall in love with the man who has made such wonders possible.'

‘I
will
talk to her, mother,' Prudence said, her chin at a mutinous angle. ‘I
will
point out to her the sheer folly of it all, the incompatibility of their natures and what it could lead to—and then at least one of us will have made an attempt to do right by her.'

‘As you wish, dear,' my mother murmured very sweetly. ‘But I cannot advise it. It will merely convince her you wanted Jonas for yourself—which is something she will be well pleased to believe—and, since he did not actually propose to you, did not in fact give you the opportunity of refusing him, she may feel quite justified in saying so.'

We went upstairs together. Prudence and I, hesitating at Celia's door.

‘It's my fault, of course.' Prudence said, straight of back, straight of soul. ‘If I had done as I ought and allowed him to propose to me instead of scuttling upstairs in a panic, then he could hardly have gone from me to her a week later. There would have been at least a decent interval, time for her to think. Well I have never shirked anything before, and I promise you I will never do so again.'

‘It was not like you to run away, Prue.'

‘No. And if I had seen any possibility of an honest exchange of views between us I would not have done so. If he could have brought himself to say to me “I need your money, Prudence. And in exchange for it I will make you independent of your mother, who irritates you, and of my mother, whose interference you cannot tolerate. Marry me, and I will be rich and you will be free to lead the life of an adult female, not a grown-up child at home”—if he had said that, then I would still have refused him, since there is much in his nature I cannot like, but I would have respected him. I would have given an honest answer to an honest question. But no—I knew he would feel obliged to offend my intelligence by talking of his tender feelings, as he has clearly done to Celia, and that I would have been forced to play out the sickly charade by murmuring something about being honoured by his attentions. I could not do it. And mother, for once, is quite right. Anything I might say to Celia would be instantly misconstrued as jealousy.'

‘Mother is often right. Prudence, if one listens carefully. Say nothing. We always knew Celia would take the first man who asked her and Jonas is not so … so very much worse than anyone else, is he?'

‘Worse? No, I do not think of him as bad. In fact, if Aunt Hannah had not got her hands on him so early and filled him so full of her social climbing nonsense, then he might have been a great deal better. He is very clever, and perhaps he is rather cold by nature, but I think it is Aunt Hannah who has made him so resentful. Whereas Celia—oh heavens, Faith!—Celia is such a goose.'

There was in fact very little amiss with my sister Celia that a few more years of residence in the world would not have mended. She was, quite simply, too young—for which the cure was obvious—too apt to feel herself slighted and to draw attention to herself by falling unwell, natural, perhaps, in a younger child too often excluded from the pastimes and confidences of her sisters. But when I went in to see her that morning, as my mother had said, she had already passed from the smug contemplation of herself as a bride—the very first of her generation to marry—to a state of blissful if self-manufactured love which was undoubtedly giving her immense satisfaction.

‘I know he paid attention to Prue,' she told me with genuine concern, since, in the overflow of her own heart, she had no desire to wound others. ‘But he explained all that to me. He considers Prue to be an admirable girl, which indeed she is, and when Aunt Hannah suggested she would make him an excellent wife, he was bound to agree. But gradually, during his visits, he found himself drawn quite against his will to me not realizing the implications until it was too late—and I will confess, Faith, that I had begun to suspect it, for I told you, on the night of Caroline's dance, which way I thought the wind was blowing. Well, I found myself thinking about him too, far more than I should have done, and he was in a positive quandary in case he had committed himself too far with Prudence. Only think of it, he was worrying about upsetting Prudence all the time I was worrying about Prudence upsetting him, which seems so foolish and so sweet now, the way things have turned out. Of course, he didn't mean to propose to me last night. He'd made up his mind that he was honour bound to withdraw a little—cool off, you know, with Prudence, before he could decently approach me. And naturally he thought I was too young and would take fright, and he felt he should be very careful so as not to risk losing me. My word—how sweet! But then, last night, we danced and talked—you know how it is—and it just happened. He was so correct and polite, and then, when I had accepted him, so masterful. I was to leave everything to him—Aunt Hannah and Uncle Joel and everything. Prudence will have chances to spare, you know she will. There is Freddy Hobhouse, who thinks the world of her—and I have seen Jacob Mandelbaum looking at you.'