The Sleeping Sword (49 page)

‘With you?'

‘Yes—in time.
Yes
. Grace, look at me—if you had not married him in such a rush I believe you would have married me. You ought to have married me, and I think you know it.'

‘You did not ask me to marry you, Gideon.'

‘I was given no opportunity to do so. Suddenly you became the property of Gervase Barforth—or so his father would have me believe—and I was warned off. And it has not been easy, Grace, believe me, these past years, living in that house with you, seeing the evidence, every day right beneath my eyes, of how perfectly we would have suited each other.'

‘And now you want me to remain married to Gervase so that I can stay at Tarn Edge and continue to suit you perfectly—to be your mistress, in fact?'

‘Yes,' he said, bowing his head. ‘In time—I said in time. Put like that—and so soon—it can only shock you, I know. But I could hardly take the risk of keeping silent and allowing you to go on with your present plans. Grace, believe what I say. It would be right for us.'

I shook my head, compelled to deny it, and with great audacity—foolhardiness—force of habit, I couldn't tell, he put a hand on the nape of my neck, a large, warm hand as unlike Gervase's cool, narrow touch as it could possibly be, and let it stay there just long enough to be sure of his welcome before he began to stroke reassurance into my shoulders and the length and the small of my back, reminding my body—which had not forgotten—of hunger and pleasure, of the healthy need for a man's caresses.

‘Yes, Grace, it is right. We know each other. You understand the life I lead and I understand the life you should be leading. I can give you that life. Gervase will be far away and will not trouble us. I want you, darling, and I think—I know—you want me.'

Of course I wanted him. I had stood years ago in the Long Gallery at Listonby and wanted him so much that it had terrified me and driven me to what had seemed the lesser peril of Gervase. I wanted him now and was no longer afraid of the physical consequences, indeed I was only too well aware of how glorious those consequences could be. I had only to take one step towards him and at once—tonight and in this house—he would possess me, claim me, take the whole course of my life into his capable, challenging hands. I could wake in the morning as his mistress, replete, perhaps, and purring like a satiated cat but entirely dependent on the duration of his desire, on how long and how much I could continue to please him. And what greater risk, what greater humiliation could there be for any woman than that?

I needed anger to combat that dreadful, wonderful melting of my limbs, disgust to subdue that quick, hungry stirring at the pit of my stomach. I needed a weapon. I found it, hurt myself a little against it, and then pointed its keen, cutting edge straight at him.

‘Why don't you ask me to marry you now, Gideon?'

But perhaps he had expected this and had taken thought what to say.

‘How can I do that?'

‘After my divorce I believe you can?'

‘If it were so easy I need not have spoken to you now. I could simply have waited and then, when the time was opportune, come a-courting in the proper manner. I should have enjoyed that, Grace. But a man may not marry his deceased wife's sister, that much I do know. What the law says in the case of a sister-in-law who is divorced from a deceased wife's brother, I don't profess to know. But it has an illegal ring to it, somehow. One would have to make very sure.'

I needed scorn now to match my anger and disgust and, catching my breath—taking note of his smooth, easy manner, his confidence in his ability to persuade me—I found that too.

‘I think such enquiries would be a waste of time in our case, Gideon, and had you thought otherwise you would have already made them.'

‘Come, darling—really, I had to seize my opportunity and could hardly equip myself with every detail—'

‘Oh yes, you could—and did—for the truth is that you do not wish, whatever the law may say, to marry a divorced woman, do you?'

‘Darling—'

‘And I think you will never call me darling in public, Gideon, because—well, because your mother, the Duchess, would be likely to throw a fit at the very idea, and your brother, the baronet, would not like it. And moreover—and far more to the point—I think your own sense of good taste and expediency is rather revolted by it too.'

‘Grace—that is not kind.'

‘No. But true, I think, because—Listonby and Westminster apart—the Goldsmiths and the Fauconniers would not care to associate with me either. A divorced woman is a social embarrassment. I have been warned of that often enough, and that would not do for you, Gideon. After all, my skills as a hostess would be no good to you, would they, if no respectable—
useful
people could be persuaded to accept my invitations. But if I remained your sister-in-law, safely married to Gervase who would never be there,
then
I could be a social asset, I quite see that. And if at the same time I discreetly shared your bed, your friends would not mind that at all and—well, how very much more convenient to have a mistress waiting in one's own home than to be obliged to pursue one in the Park. I see that too. Yes, I could be of great use to you, Gideon, until your mother found you the earl's daughter or the merchant princess she has always dreamed of.'

I saw the colour leave his face, felt his body harden and turn cold, and then, stepping away from me, he bowed, not, I thought, accepting defeat but disdaining to make any defence.

‘I am sorry your opinion of me should be so ill,' he said curtly. ‘If you would care to give me the parcel you spoke of, I will see that it is delivered to Fieldhead.'

But there could be no question now of parcels for Fieldhead or anything else. If Gideon remained in this house tomorrow, then I would be obliged to leave it, for I could face him neither as the man I had insulted nor as the man I had desired and might—very probably—desire again. But I came downstairs in the morning to find all changed, for news had been delivered in the night that Noel Chard had indeed been wounded at Ulundi, how seriously was not known. Blanche was in despair, had already sent a flurry of telegrams to her father in Cullingford who, she said, would have contacts, would know what to do; while both Dominic and Gideon were arranging to leave for Natal at once.

I remained in London with Blanche through a stifling August, a September that was wet in patches, hot and overcast in others, my own concerns overshadowed by her agonized waiting for telegrams, letters, casual, unfeeling gossip that prostrated her on her bed, struggling with the first passion of her hitherto passionless life, terrified as a child because, like a child, she believed it would go on hurting forever.

I gave what comfort I could, sat with her and shared her vigil, the Season being over now and all her acquaintances gone to their shooting-parties, their country estates escaping her demands only rarely to walk alone in the empty autumn streets. And it was on one such solitary outing that I came face to face with Gervase.

It was not, of course, by chance, and seeing my shock and my inability to conceal it, he came hurrying forward, light and pale and thinner, I thought, than I remembered, the skin at his eye-corners crinkling as he smiled, his hat tilted at the rakish angle he always wore it, carrying himself with all the accustomed young man's dash and swagger but his face hollower somehow, and a little older.

‘Grace, you look as if you had seen a ghost. Don't worry. I know the court order has nearly expired, but I have not come to comply with it and ruin your life all over again.'

‘They said we should not see each other.'

‘I know. But we shall not tell.'

And for the first time in our lives the hand he put on my arm was firm and purposeful while mine was trembling, the strength of his will the greater, since I was too shaken to have any strength at all.

‘One moment only, Grace. I am in London on other business and it seemed ridiculous to go away without seeing you, since there may not be another chance.'

And to avoid the certainty of bursting into tears I could not ask him what he meant to do, could only question him by a glance, a movement of the hands, the whole of my mind overwhelmed not by pain but by a deep sadness. There was no bitterness left, no need to strike out, no sense of outrage, no sustaining anger. I felt like the parkland and the trees all about me, waterlogged, fog-bound, wet and weary.

‘It seems I have a son,' he told me, and through the mist which seemed to have settled around me I smiled weakly, knowing full well that I was here, wide awake, hearing this and believing it, yet feeling myself to be in a dream.

‘Yes—and what now, Gervase?'

He shrugged, smiling too, his eye-corners creased again, those first marks of age sitting oddly on his boyish face, a mask he might suddenly remove and throw away.

‘Well, I shall see Diana settled first, one way or the other. And then I shall go abroad if I can.'

‘Settled?'

‘Yes. Compton Flood is to be Lord Sternmore any day now, and Diana is still rather keen on that. At first he said no, wouldn't hear of it. But the title has no money to go with it, you see, and at the moment he's having a good long think about that. If Diana goes abroad for a bit after you've done with her, to let the talk die down, and comes back a little richer, then he might forgive her. I expect he will. But if not she'll have to go abroad again, with me.'

‘Gervase, are you still in love with her?'

‘No. I'm not in love with anybody, Grace.'

And feeling misty still and far away, I nodded and smiled.

‘Do you understand why I'm going through with the divorce?'

‘I do. Otherwise I would have come back to you, wouldn't I, like the court order said, and saved Diana. That's what they wanted me to do. I didn't—for what it's worth to you.'

‘It's worth a great deal. Where are you going?'

‘Oh—sheep-shearing in Australia, perhaps—or herding cattle in America. It doesn't really matter. Not running, as I suppose you think. Searching might be nearer the mark. But why I'm here now is to put your mind at rest. I'll raise no sudden obstacles in your way, Grace. That's all.'

He took my hand and pressed it, the cool, light touch I knew, the sad smile I had not met before, my own sadness settling around me like a cloud, insubstantial but impenetrable, weighing me down.

‘Goodbye, Grace—and good luck.'

‘Gervase—take care.'

‘Well, I don't know about that.'

He walked away and the cloud was all over me, a soft barrier dimming my sight and my senses, making it impossible for me to cry out, since all sound must have died away in that thick, sorrowful air. And I walked back to Blanche's tall, tense house, tears dripping from my eyes like raindrops from those sodden trees, remembering that he had had no cloak, thinking of the dust and dangers of cattle stations, sheep stations, his eyes that betrayed lack of sleep, his fancies and his fears; his tendency to take cold.

And so it was done. I entered a bare court-room in the company of lawyers whose main concern was for their fee, and placed before a judge who did not like me the better for it the evidence of servants and of a new-born child that my husband had committed adultery with the wife of Colonel Compton Flood—Lord Sternmore any day now. I proved conclusively that the guilty pair had lived openly together for some months at Cullingford Manor and before that had been seen in the most compromising of situations, quite regularly, by Mrs. Flood's maid. I proved that my husband had abandoned me and refused to return. I tore to pieces the reputation of the aforesaid Mrs. Flood, causing her to seek refuge abroad. I broke the heart of Colonel Compton Flood who, while the trial was in progress, finally became Lord Sternmore, leaving his uncle's death-bed a nobler and, if he chose to compromise, a richer man.

I forced my own husband to abandon his home, his inheritance and his mistress, to hide his disgraced head in rough colonial pastures, very likely never to return. I branded a tiny baby boy with the stigma of bastardy. Or so a certain section of the Press implied, finding more drama and consequently more sympathy in the plight of the disgraced but evidently warm-blooded Diana Flood than in the cold-hearted wife who had taken her revenge. Had I plunged a jealous knife into Mrs. Flood's heart perhaps I would have been more easily forgiven. But my vengeance had been cool, calculating and very mercenary, since far from making any sacrifices I had actually gained by it. A little womanly compassion, the newspapers thought, would not have gone amiss among so much self-righteousness; while certain among them suggested—in general terms—that when a husband went astray it might only be realistic to assume that he had his reasons.

The judge, in the moment of pronouncing the decree, could not conceal his distaste for it. The barrister who had represented me, although an old college friend of my father's, treated me with great caution, feeling, perhaps, that a woman who could divorce her husband might be capable of anything, while his clerks and the officers of the court stared at me speculatively, rudely, and did not always drop their eyes when I caught them at it, as they would have done had they still considered me a lady.

Our marriage had taken a whole day to perform, flowers and white horses, organ music, champagne, two hundred happy guests. A few caustic words accompanied by a bad-tempered sniff ended it. But I knew that our divorce had really taken place on a wet afternoon in Hyde Park when he had made no excuses, asked no pardon, but had simply said ‘Goodbye—good luck', and I had replied ‘Take care'. He had brought me a gift that day, not of love, for I believed him when he said he loved no one, but of understanding, and I had wept—could still weep—with gratitude and with loss.

I walked from the court a single woman again, an adult with a legal identity of my own. Mrs. Grace Barforth now, no longer Mrs. Gervase. I went to bed, slept the rest of the day and the night, and the next morning came North again to Scarborough where my Grandmother Agbrigg, who had decided she was too old now either to understand or to criticize, was nevertheless deeply shocked when she noticed I had taken off my wedding ring.