Flint and Roses (40 page)

I thought of it and found that I was not even mildly curious.

‘My brother will be exhibiting something, I suppose,' she went on, ignoring my polite but totally disinterested smile. ‘He scoffed at it to begin with, as did everyone else, but since there is to be a textile section and a prize to be won I cannot imagine that my brother will let it go to someone else. I imagine we shall all be taking a trip to London next summer to congratulate him. That is something to look forward to at any rate.'

‘Yes, indeed it is.'

She poured more tea, stirred her own cup reflectively, approaching, perhaps, the end of her patience.

‘When you write to your mother again, Faith, you might mention that we have a slight problem with the concert hall. It has always been my intention that it should be dedicated to your father. His name was clearly stated when I sent out my original requests for subscriptions, and until recently I have considered the matter as being entirely settled. However, since the unfortunate accident to Sir Robert Peel—my dear, you cannot be unaware that he was killed in July by a fall from his horse? Really, Faith! Well, since then it has been suggested to me that the hall should be dedicated to him. There is no denying the extent of his claims. He was a Prime Minister. He
did
abolish the Corn Laws, greatly to our advantage, while your father—as someone quite rudely pointed out—never served in anybody's Cabinet. And recently, of course, even his building work in some areas of Cullingford has fallen into disrepute. But he was our Member of Parliament for many years, he
did
contribute most generously towards local charities, and although it now appears that the quality of some of his lower-priced dwellinghouses left much to be desired—in fact my husband means to use them as an example to persuade his colleagues to introduce building regulations—Well, times were different then. We were not so aware of sanitation, and one cannot doubt that had your father realized the consequences of poor drainage he would not have hesitated to put things right. But I see no point in involving myself at this late stage in arguments as to merit or lack of it. The project from its very conception was mine. The Aycliffe Hall it has always been, and I am quite determined to make a stand. I trust I may rely on your support?'

‘Oh—absolutely.' But she couldn't, and she knew she couldn't, for the Morgan Aycliffe Hall, the Robert Peel Hall, even the Giles Ashburn Hall, meant nothing to me.

‘Very well,' she said, straightening her back, smiling at me across the tea-cups, the smile I had seen her offer, sometimes, to Mrs. Hobhouse, at Mrs. Mandelbaum, before the delivery of a telling blow. ‘And what is your news, Faith? Have you decided to wait until springtime to put your house up for sale?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Springtime, dear. Much the best season for disposing of property, and that house of yours will not be easily disposed of. I always told you that Millergate was not a residential location and you will be lucky to get a decent price.'

‘Aunt Hannah, who on earth can have told you that I wish to sell my house?'

‘Why, no one, dear,' she said, giving me that cold smile again. ‘No one told me that it is Tuesday today, either, but I am well aware of it. I am merely surprised that you have not already moved back to Blenheim Lane and left your Mrs. Guthrie to take care of the property until it is sold.'

‘Aunt Hannah. I have not the slightest intention of returning to live with my mother.'

‘Nonsense, dear,' she said sweetly. ‘Of course you want to go home. And, even if you did not, I cannot imagine any alternative. I have already asked Jonas to look about him for a possible buyer, and there is no reason at all why you should stay in Millergate and give yourself the trouble of entertaining strangers when they come to view. You may leave the management of your money entirely to Jonas, who will invest it most shrewdly and carefully, while the management of yourself must belong once more to your mother.'

I put down my cup, feeling the need to keep my hands free, aware, beneath the fog-bound ice in which my mind had been swimming, of a tiny, healthy spark that would—in a moment or two—be anger.

‘I appreciate your concern. Aunt Hannah, but it is entirely misplaced. I shall be staying in Millergate.'

‘I think not.'

‘Then I am sorry to tell you that you are mistaken.'

‘Hardly, dear. You have always been scatterbrained, Faith, but even you could not be contemplating the possibility of living alone. You are far too young for that, and have far too little knowledge of the world. You may have been married, dear, but now your actual situation differs little from that of Prudence, except that you are somewhat the richer. No, no, you must return to Blenheim Lane at once. There is nowhere else for you to go, unless of course your mother should decide to marry again. Mr. Oldroyd, I understand, has been most pressing in that direction, and should she decide to take him—which would seem likely and not at all unsuitable—then you will be obliged to go with her to Fieldhead. I think you would find it a pleasant enough house in which to spend the time before you could decently consider a second marriage for yourself.'

‘Aunt Hannah,' I said, hands clenched, a quite painful splintering inside my head as the ice gave way to let that spark of anger leap through. ‘How dare you say that to me?'

‘I dare say anything I choose to you, dear,' she told me, remaining completely calm. ‘You were an excellent matrimonial catch in the first place, you know. But, now that you have an additional income and are quite pleasant to look at, you will soon find yourself in demand again. Emma-Jane Hobhouse has already mentioned your name to me in connection with Freddy, since Prudence, is so slow to make up her mind. And, although I could not recommend him, the way things are going at Nethercoats, there will be plenty of others. No dear, we shall have no trouble at all in settling you.'

‘No,' I told her, shaking with a most uncharacteristic fury. ‘You will have no trouble in settling me, because I will not be settled.'

‘Really? You mean to be defiant then—and rude?'

‘Possibly, and I am sorry for that.'

‘And what do you mean to do with yourself then, for I am bound to warn you that, if you continue to sit in the dark and brood, then it is not only your aunt who will recommend your return to parental control—I believe that both Dr. Overdale and Dr. Blackstone would insist upon it.'

‘That will not be necessary.'

‘I wonder.'

‘Then please do not take the trouble. I am twenty-one years old, Aunt Hannah. I am no schoolroom chit, to be disposed of like a parcel—with no more sense than a parcel. I am a woman who has been married and I will decide what is to be done with me. I shall stay in Millergate, or I shall go elsewhere, but it will be
my
choice. I promised to obey my husband, and I did obey him, but I have never promised to obey anybody else. I am not sure what my rights are, but I am sure they exist and if Jonas will not explain them to me then I shall find someone who will. I don't believe that any of you—any longer—have the power to interfere.'

‘Good,' she said, again with the utmost composure. ‘I cannot agree with you, of course. You may be of full age, but you are quite incapable of managing either your money or yourself. A widow of twenty-one years, my dear, must be a prey to every kind of malicious gossip, to every unscrupulous male—of which there are very many—and to every possible temptation, which you do not strike me as being strong-minded enough to resist. It is a most unsuitable arrangement, and I shall continue to “interfere” with it as much as I please. If you persist in this folly, then I shall consider it my duty to keep a strict eye on you and shall require Jonas to do the same. However, I shall pardon your rudeness, since even your display of ill-nature and poor judgment is preferable to the poor little drab who crept in to take tea with mean hour ago.'

And she smiled at me again.

‘Thank you,' I said after a while and, looking round, imagining I had heard Prudence returning, I saw the sun, flooding through the window again, bringing me not only the memory of Giles, standing there so quietly, explaining to me the six points of the People's Charter, but Aunt Hannah herself walking down to the garden-gate, and my mother telling us, ‘Poor Hannah. She is making a pilgrimage. She has gone down there so that we shall not see her cry.' And, taking advantage of her unexpected compassion, which I knew would not last, I asked her. ‘Aunt Hannah, my mother told me once that you were to have married Aunt Verity's brother.'

‘Edwin Barforth,' she said, understanding why, and how much I needed to know. ‘Yes. He was murdered down there in the mill yard, while I sat in the mill house and made plans for our wedding' day. The old mill house has gone now. It was pulled down some years ago, when Mr. Agbrigg and I felt the need for a larger garden to accommodate a carriage-drive. Look—you may see from the window—it stood there, near the gate, just a small house, although it seemed ample to me then, and indeed, oddly enough. Mr. Agbrigg lived there with Jonas when he first became manager at Lawcroft. And I spent my first year there, too as his wife. Things turn out very strangely, do they not? I should have gone into that house as Mrs. Edwin Barforth: I eventually occupied it as Mrs. Ira Agbrigg. And now the house is not there at all. It was used for offices before we pulled it down.

‘Did it trouble you?'

‘Demolishing it? I don't think so. Aunt Verity seemed more moved than I, since she and Edwin were both born there. She was sixteen the night Edwin died, and I was twenty-three—Edwin a year older. We had been childhood sweethearts, I suppose one may call it, and I had grown up believing my future could only be with him. It happened a little after supper-time. Verity had gone outside and wandered down to the mill, shocked and upset, of course, since she had seen her father killed by Luddite rioters the night before. Edwin and I stayed at the mill house, telling each other we would soon be married, but I began to be alarmed about Verity and sent him to fetch her. We believed there was no danger. The Luddites had been rounded up, were on their way to be hanged at York. But one had made his escape and had come back to set fire to the mill. Foolish boy! He had brought a kitchen knife with him, a common carving knife, and when Edwin tried to arrest him there was a scuffle. My brother Joel found them, ten minutes later. Verity screaming. Edwin dying—'

‘And that is why you went down to the gate when the Chartists were here—to the place where the mill house used to be?'

‘Did I? Yes, I suppose I may have done. Quite stupid of me. Is there anything else, of these matters which do not concern you at all, that you wish to know?'

‘Do you think of him still?'

She smiled. Aunt Hannah who might not be kind to me tomorrow, who would certainly interfere with my life, would pry and attempt to manipulate me every bit as much as she had promised, but who was ready to help me now.

‘I thought of him every day of my life—for a year or two—and I believed it would always be so. And that was hard. But then I came to realize, quite gradually, that I could not exactly recall the lines of his face—that he was slipping away. And that was much harder. I tried for a while to bring him back, but I am an honest woman and I was forced to acknowledge that I had lost him. That was not easy. Other matters intervened, you see—not least a husband and an exceedingly brilliant son. No, I rarely think of him any more. He was a young man of twenty-four; I am a woman well into middle life. What could we have to say to each other now? I would recognize him, perhaps, but he would certainly not recognize me. Come dear, I believe Prudence is returning—and you will not forget what I told you about the concert hall?'

I shook my head, straightened myself, not strong precisely—not yet—but stronger.

‘Prudence,' she called out, ‘I would like you now—since you seem to have possession of your mother's horses—to deliver a message to Celia. And, since you are bound to pass the Mandelbaum's on your way, you may step inside for a moment and tell them—'

And I knew I would not return to my sick hole again.

The Morgan Aycliffe Hall, which in spite of all delays and anxieties as to rising costs had not exceeded Aunt Hannah's original estimate of twenty thousand pounds, opened as promised the following April with a musical festival Aunt Hannah declared should be an annual event.

The hall itself, a solid structure of Yorkshire stone, a soft, mellow shade of brown that April morning, although we knew it would soon be blackened like everything else by its share of Cullingford soot, was a fitting memorial for any man, the entrance, flanked by Corinthian columns, opening into a vestibule from which a much ornamented staircase opened two wide arms, giving access to stalls and galleries where three thousand persons could sit, some of them more comfortably than others, and improve their minds. And here, during that first week in April, I sat every evening, the widow of the deeply regretted Dr. Ashburn, the daughter of the now almost forgotten Morgan Aycliffe; imbibing a strong diet of Handel, Bach, Haydn and Beethoven—selected largely by the Mandelbaums—while Aunt Hannah, who was tone-deaf, accepted her personal applause, drawing our attention, since the music defeated her, to the impressive proportion's of the organ, the fact that the orchestra contained no fewer than eighty instruments, the choir more than a hundred singers.

My mother, attired in a different pastel-tinted evening gown at every performance—since her mourning, for a son-in-law, had already ended—was presented with a bouquet of spring flowers at the conclusion of the proceedings, and melted most obligingly into tears. Celia, who had miscarried early this time, and was consequently well enough to attend, joined poignantly in the weeping, although I doubted if her recollections of our late parent were either particularly clear or particularly fond. Prudence, in dove-grey half-mourning with a stylish fall of white lace at neck and sleeves, remained dry-eyed, while I, in black, beaded with jet, could see no reason for tears, preferring my mother's speedy return to laughter when Mr. Oldroyd of Fieldhead began to ply her with champagne.