The Sleeping Sword (67 page)

‘It occurred to me, Gideon, that your letter came very promptly.'

‘And you see some significance in that?'

‘I am not sure. Perhaps you can enlighten me.'

He leaned slightly towards me, assured and sardonic, a man in his own territory, abominably at ease.

‘My dear, you have worked for the gutter press until it has affected your judgement. Can you seriously imagine I would hire a gang of drunken navvies to break into my own property and smash a few machines which would have fallen apart ere long in any case? It would make a good headline in the
Star
, I admit—except that the
Star
is no longer with us, it seems.'

‘You have missed my point, Gideon.'

‘Then do please correct me.'

‘I shall. It is my opinion that you did hire those navvies. Not as Luddites, of course, but as building workers on your sites at Black Abbey and Low Cross. And if you cannot keep your employees in order, it is my further opinion that you have no claim against Liam Adair or anyone else for the havoc they create.'

He leaned forward again, a great deal of incredulous amusement, even a very faint, very grudging respect in his face. But then, perhaps, he too remembered the purpose of my last visit here and all tolerance was gone.

‘Unfortunately the law does not share your opinions. You might advise Adair to cast a glance at the terms of his lease. I understand the damage was very extensive.'

‘Yes. I understand it would be in the interests of anyone who did not entirely approve of Liam Adair if the damage should be very extensive indeed. So—by that reckoning—Tom Mulvaney has done a very good job for you.'

‘How very ably you defend your—well—what shall we call him?—your friend?'

‘Yes, you may call him my friend. And the reason I defend him is called loyalty.'

‘Whatever one calls it, my dear, it will not suffice. I did not order his machines broken, as even he must know. But just the same he is quite finished now. I would have arranged it differently, but one way is quite as good as another.'

‘I am not so sure he is finished.'

‘Oh, yes. He may extricate himself from the worst of it with the help of some foolish woman or other. But he knows now how vulnerable he is and he will not be quite so brave, you can be very sure, if he ever acquires a platform again. I must offer you my commiserations, I suppose, on your loss of employment. You will no doubt find some other way of passing your time.'

‘You have intended to close down the
Star
for some time, have you not, Gideon?'

‘Naturally.'

‘I see nothing natural about it.'

‘You were not the subject of Adair's slanders.'

‘There was more to the
Star
than the slandering of Gideon Chard—my dear Gideon Chard.'

‘Yes, tales of whores and thieves and child-molestation—titillation for perverse appetites—vice made available and interesting to the general reader by the pen of a lady—'

‘How
dare
you say that to me?'

‘I dare say anthing I like to you. If you choose to lead a man's life, then you must take the rough with the smooth. One feels obliged, often enough, to curb one's tongue when dealing with a lady. One expects a man to be
man
enough to handle the truth.'

‘Very well,' I said. ‘Yes—very well.'

For it was this I had come for. He was hurting me, goading me, giving me every reason I needed to strike him a foul blow. It was just as it should be.

‘You call it a man's life, Gideon, because I earn my living?'

‘You do not earn your living. Your living comes to you from your father. You are supported by a man as women are and should be. The pittance you
earn
, as you call it, would not pay your own servants'wages.'

But I had expected this, for in his place it was the line of attack I would myself have used; and I was prepared for it.

‘I take nothing from Fieldhead to which I am not entitled, Gideon. My allowance comes from money left in trust for me by my mother. And you are in no position, you know, to dispute my right to that, since so much of your own good fortune has been willed to you by a woman.'

It was done. I had struck hard and foul, and it should have been enough. But that heavy, angry boulder was still there in my chest, pressed tight against my lungs. The remnants of what I had once felt for him had not been wrung out of me yet. I would have to strike again.

‘Bitch!' he said very quietly, rather pleasantly, as if it pleased him to call me so. I understood that it did please him, that he wished to abuse me as much as I desired to be abused. His need was exactly the same as my need, his aim identical to mine. We were playing the same game by the same rules, and if we were harsh enough and hateful enough we might succeed in making the next half-hour too painful to remember, and in consequence would have good reason never to think of each other again.

‘So we are to exchange insults are we, Gideon?'

‘Why not? I imagine Grace Barforth of the
Star
might know a filthy name or two.'

‘She might. However, all I really want to say to you is that I find your conduct towards Liam Adair astonishing.'

‘
My
conduct? Would I have done better to break his neck?'

‘I think you would have done better to remember this famous public school training we hear so much about. I thought it contrary to the code of a gentleman to strike someone in a weaker position than himself, or to hit a man when he was already down?'

‘Very clever, Grace. But a gentleman does not allow himself to be stabbed in the back. And when he deals with a scoundrel he deals accordingly. Adair began this.'

‘He had his reasons.'

‘Yes. He was in love with my wife.'

‘She was a lovable woman.'

‘I don't deny it. And I was the brute, in his opinion—and I suppose in yours—who did not deserve her?'

‘You did not understand her.'

‘Did she understand me? I am not so hard to please.'

‘I know. You take the view that women should be seen and not heard—like children—which is easy enough for a woman who has nothing to say.'

‘I take the view that women should be women—'

‘Ah yes—gentle and sensitive and clinging—'

‘I see nothing wrong with that. Women who
are
women seem to thrive on it.'

‘Domestic drudges.'

‘Domestic angels, cherished and respected in their own homes, as any woman would be, if she could—'

‘One does not respect a dressed-up doll who might open her mouth occasionally to say “Just as you wish dear, how very clever of you dear.”'

‘One might prefer her to a woman who talks too much and to no good purpose, to prove what?—that she cannot face a woman's responsibilities and is only playing at taking a man's.'

‘So I am irresponsible, am I? Well—of course I am. For I refused to devote my life to the care of your shirt-cuffs and the temperature of your bathwater, did I not? How terrible!'

‘I shall survive it. I may even consider myself well out of it.'

‘I do hope so, Gideon, for let me ask you this. What makes you—or any man—imagine he has the right to a servant of my calibre? What makes you think yourself entitled to the lifelong obedience of a woman—another human being—who has a brain every bit as good as yours and whose talents may be different from your talents but just as valuable?'

‘Because I pay for it,' he snarled, a very dangerous man now.

‘Pay for it?' I snarled back at him, feeling dangerous, if a little dizzy, too. ‘The devil you do! You take it. You have made laws that allow you to do as you please.'

‘I?'

‘Yes—and the rest of you—and you have been able to do it because you have the physical strength and you do not bear children.'

‘Ah yes—I have read something to that effect in the
Star
.'

‘Then pay heed to it. You admire gentleness and sensibility in women because it flatters you and because it is easy to use against us.'

‘Easy? Perhaps. But expensive too, you know, for the very gentlest of women, in my experience, are never averse to life's little luxuries. And one needs a generous man, my dear, for that—any gentle woman will tell you so.'

‘I daresay. And what about the women you employ in your mills because they will work for lower wages than the men and are easier to handle? And why are they easier to handle?'

‘I feel sure you are about to tell me.'

‘I am. Because you—and the rest—have informed yourselves in advance as to the nature of motherhood and you know a mother will put up with anything, for as little as you are inclined to pay her for it, so long as her children can be fed.'

‘Forgive me for mentioning it, but I seem to have read something about that too—one is obliged to conclude in the
Star
.'

‘If you wish to make me lose my temper, then you have succeeded very well, you know. There is no need to continue, Gideon.'

‘Ah—but I suppose one can hardly hope that
you
have done?'

‘Assuredly not. You call those women who accept your pathetic wages weak and foolish. You ought to call them victims of exploitation. You make laws to prevent your wives from owning property so that they are obliged to depend on you and obey their marriage vows. And I wonder—if you are really so lovable and wise—why you need the power of the law to make your women honour and obey you? You talk about women who
are
women and you know nothing about it. You just want a silly sheep to bleat at you and breed for you, and that—my dear Gideon—is not a woman. It may, of course, be called Madeley-Brown, but what sort of a brood-mare is that?'

His hand shot out and fastened around my wrist—his attack now as crude and brutal and childish as mine—dragging me forward so that the desk bit hard into my legs.

‘That is quite enough.'

‘When I say so.'

‘When
I
say.'

‘You have no authority over me, Gideon Chard.'

‘And want none.'

‘I am delighted to hear it.'

‘In fact I will tell you what it is that I do want. I want a woman called Hortense Madeley-Brown, who is beautiful and much younger than you are—'

‘Oh, fresh from her schoolroom, Gideon—that is very clear—'

‘—who satisfies me most perfectly in all of my appetites—'

‘I hope you may satisfy hers—for they seem hearty to me.'

‘—who will give me beautiful children and plenty of them, being of an age and a disposition for maternity—
that
, Grace Barforth, is the sum total of my desires.'

‘Then let go of me.'

‘When it pleases me—for I have the physical strength, as you pointed out just now, and do not bear children. But then, neither do you.'

I tried very hard to hit him with my free hand, this being no time at all for dignity, but he caught it and held me fast, exultant now that he had located my most vulnerable spot—the one wound that did not seem likely ever to heal—and had used it so ruthlessly against me. Perhaps I had expected him in the final instance to be merciful. I had been wrong. I must show no mercy either.

‘You had better wait nine months after your marriage, Gideon, before you taunt me with my sterility, for we may be in the same boat together since I know of no child you could
honestly
lay claim to.'

And although the words meant very little, were on the same infantile, foolish level as the rest of it, their intention to insult and to maim, to probe and reopen the very rawest of wounds, was enough.

‘One day, Grace,' he said, his voice only a whisper, ‘one day—if I could contrive it—I would like to see you helpless and penniless and—'

‘And what Gideon? Pregnant and
manageable
—like Venetia?'

It was done.

‘Get out!' he said, dropping my wrists as if suddenly he was aware of their contamination. ‘Get out!
Now
.' And it was part threat, part plea, for he could no longer bear to be in the same room with me. It was done.

There had been no victory and no defeat, not really a battle. I had performed an amputation, had destroyed one unreliable, troublesome part of myself for the benefit of the whole. It had been essential. ‘Get out!' he said, and he was right—quite right. I must go now and quickly, so that I might heal myself cleanly, and fast.

I went through the outer office quite blindly and then, turning right instead of left, going up instead of down—I am not certain—missed my direction, the sound of machinery, the rancid smell of raw wool, warning me I was approaching the weaving-sheds when I should have been leaving them behind.

‘Can I help you, ma'am?' And a puzzled junior clerk escorted me back to the imposing main staircase, the marbled and panelled walls, and then to my carriage.

‘Where to, ma'am?' Richards asked me and I could not tell him.

‘Home ma'am?'

No, not home. Not yet. I told him to take the road to Elderleigh and then, when the town was far behind me, I got down and entered a little wood, just an acre of naked, winter trees, leaves silvered and crunchy with frost underfoot, a pink December sky feathered with white cloud, approaching twilight. I felt the cold and welcomed it, drawing it into my lungs, its sharpness awakening me to other sensations. I had been a stranger to violence but I understood something of it now. There were lads in Gower Street who would batter each other until they bled, who would get up no matter how many times they were knocked down, no matter how tough or how numerous the opposition and come back for more. I understood now that while the killing rage lasted they felt no pain, did not care how much damage was done to them so long as they could continue to damage their adversary. But when the rage had cooled, when the lad finally crawled away to count his wounds, he would find them to be many and grievous.