Flint and Roses (85 page)

‘What shall I tell you about Georgiana, Faith?' And I knew he would tell me anything I asked, even if it hurt me, since I was no household angel to be protected and petted, but a woman capable of judging the amount of hurt she could withstand.

‘She was the rare and special person you used to talk about, wasn't she? The one who was always in the next room. You said you'd stopped looking, but, of course, since it was Georgiana all the time—It was Georgiana, wasn't it?'

‘Yes,' he said, quite gently, not out of kindness for me, but because it was a gentle matter. ‘So it was. And you must see that she remained rare and special precisely because I left her in that other room.'

‘Yes—but then, would you have parted with your half of the mills for
me?
'

‘I can't believe,' he said, looking at me very steadily, ‘that you would ever have placed me in the position of having to do so.'

‘No, I suppose not, which would be a compliment—'

‘It is a compliment.'

‘I daresay—except that it makes me sound so very boring.'

And once again we were close to that easy, pleasant laughter, that companionable surrender, until he took my hand, pressed it and said, quite ardently for him, ‘I have never—absolutely never—found you boring.'

‘Then tell me—'

‘Yes. Faith, I was twenty-three or thereabouts when I first met Georgiana, and it was too soon for me. If I'd been ten years older, perhaps, but I really don't think so. I wanted her as she was that first Christmas—do you remember?—with mud on her skirt and blood on her cheek, trampling her dirty boots on my father's carpet, because to a frank, free spirit like hers what could carpets matter? There was a skylark inside her sometimes, and I didn't want to see it crushed and caged. Nicky tried to do that, as perhaps any man would have done who really loved her—since what man could feel safe with a skylark. It escaped today and took flight. I'm glad—very glad for her, and for myself too, because it was a lovely thing to watch.'

‘And will it last?'

‘Possibly not. She's not Prudence, who can stand alone. She may come to earth and find herself tied to Julian Flood, for I believe he loves her—certainly he needs her—and if she goes off with him to provide grounds for her divorce he'll be unwilling to release her. He'll marry her if he can, which will make her our lady of the manor—I doubt if Nick will put any obstacles in her way. He'd rather see her settled, I imagine, with Julian Flood, than wandering alone a prey to any man. But on the other hand she may fly very high and very far. I wouldn't wish to follow her. I find myself somewhat firmly attached to the ground and—all that apart—I have lived with you now, Faith, for a long and valuable time. I couldn't welcome anything which might spoil that.'

‘Why?'

‘My word!' he said, but whatever easy, witty remark had risen to the surface of his mind was immediately suppressed as he saw the necessity for my question. Why indeed? And it must be stated, not masked by humour, but very clearly. The old limits we had set ourselves, which had long been crumbling, were now almost broken down, the old restraints abandoned. We were almost at liberty, had almost disentangled ourselves from the past. And there was no doubt it was a big step we were taking.

He got up and crossed, characteristically, to the fireplace, leaning one arm along the mantelpiece, looking reflectively, ruefully, at the arrangement of tulle roses I had placed in the empty hearth.

‘I think I can tell you why. But I would like you to tell me something first. When you heard about the plan to sell the Abbey, why didn't you come to me?'

And, although it would not be easy, it was certainly fair; for, if I had needed to know about Georgiana, I could not refuse to talk to him of Nicholas.

‘I think—really—it was because I knew he wanted me to tell you. And I concluded, in that case, that it would do you no good to know.'

‘You didn't trust him, in fact?'

‘No,' It had to be the truth, or else he would know it; and indeed it was the truth. ‘No, Blaize. Perhaps I never have trusted him. I thought otherwise, but now it seems to me that I never really did. I don't mean it unkindly. I think I mean, not that I didn't trust
him
, but that I never trusted his judgment. There is a difference.'

‘Yes, indeed. You mean that his judgment would always be heavily weighted to his own advantage?'

‘I suppose I do.'

He looked down at the flowers a moment longer and then, raising his head, gave me his brilliant, quizzical smile. ‘Faith, I must warn you that my own judgment is invariably weighted in the same direction.'

‘I know that. Perhaps I feel that your advantage is bound to be mine.'

‘Thank you,' he said and, coming to sit on the sofa beside me, took my hand. ‘I'll answer your question now. You asked me why I didn't want to spoil our life together. I should be able to make you a lengthy and beautiful reply. I can't. I find, in this one instance, that my salesmanship deserts me. I had occasion to wonder, some time ago, how I would feel if you left me. I found myself unable to contemplate it. I have never been able to contemplate it.'

‘Blaize—I have never thought of leaving you.'

‘Of course not. I realized that, which indicates—surely—? Now what does it indicate? That I suspected your reasons for remaining beside me were not so strong as I would like? That I wanted to make them stronger? Good heavens! must I make a declaration? You know perfectly well what I mean—perfectly well—but if it pleases you to see me stumble—'

But he was very far from stumbling, was treading as surely as he had ever done and, squeezing my hand once again, he got up and crossed to the window, making a great and totally false display of impatience.

‘Dammit, Faith, I have had a very difficult day, you know. I hardly slept a wink in the train last night. I am greeted this morning by my sister-in-law swooning in my arms, and, when I pick her up, my wife can do nothing but glare at me, claws out, like an angry cat. I am then obliged to dash off on a wild goose chase into town in search of my brother, who was in none of the places he should have been, and then home again to find my wife in no mood to care that I had a raging headache and had missed both my luncheon and my tea. Tomorrow morning I have to get up early to go and sign my freedom away, and I have just had the devil of a job to persuade my wife that it is her duty—and ought to be her pleasure—to honour and obey me, and should she care to cherish me as well I'd hardly complain—and would be well-pleased, exceedingly well pleased, to cherish her in return.'

I crossed the room to him, my throat tight with tears, and put an arm around his shoulder, one hand under his chin to turn his subtle, mischievous face into the light.

‘Blaize—such a declaration—'

‘Indeed—such as I have never made before, and sincerely meant.'

And then, as his weight seemed greater than I had expected: ‘Darling—you really are tired, aren't you?'

‘I really am. My head really does ache. On such basic issues you have no reason to doubt me. I think it is high time you sent me to bed.'

He went upstairs while I, lingering a moment in the hall, gave instructions for his early breakfast, named the hour he would require to see his carriage waiting on the drive, and then walked slowly, one step at a time, delighting in my body's every movement as it took me, not in the direction which had been chosen for me, or which I had accepted as a compromise, but in which I truly desired to go.

I reached the landing, turned down the hushed, deep-carpeted corridor, remembering my past desires without regret, with the affectionate amusement that can only arise from self-knowledge. I had wanted to be adored, and Blaize would not adore me, since adoration is given to idols, the passive objects of men's imaginings. And a man cannot share his warm, imperfect humanity with an idol. I had wanted to be needed, but Blaize, self-contained and elusive as he was, would never need me as Giles and perhaps even Nicholas had once done, refusing to weaken either of us by dependence. I had wanted a rock to lean on, but he had paid me the compliment of allowing me to stand alone; and, when circumstances required it, we would lean on one another. I had wanted to trust him: I did trust him. I had wanted a homecoming: I stood already at the door.

He was waiting in a room that was darker than usual, a single lamp, well-shaded, on my toilet table, showing me a mere outline of his head and shoulders, very little of his face.

‘I thought,' he said, ‘that—perhaps—you might have something to tell me.'

‘Yes. I love you, Blaize.'

And although he smiled—wishing to make a show of lightness, of accepting it merely as homage due—I couldn't miss the tremor in his face, the flicker of relief as his arms came around me, holding me with all the warm assurance I had required, and then passing through trust and cherishing to an intensity I had never shared with him, no familiar ease now but an emotion new-born, uncertain as yet but ready to grow.

‘Thank God,' he said, the words whispered so lightly against my ear that I could have missed them, although I seized them and held them fast, knowing he could not sustain himself much longer at this high key.

‘How very pleasant,' he said, ‘to be so consistently in the right.'

‘Yes, darling?'

‘Well—you can do no more than agree: I have been saying all my life, have I not, that sooner or later the Barforth one prefers is bound to be me? And if you have taken a great deal of convincing, then at least—?'

‘You have convinced me now.'

And it was all I had ever needed to say.

First published in 1981 by Macdonald

This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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Copyright © Brenda Jagger, 1981

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