Flint and Roses (31 page)

I didn't know why he loved me, but I wanted his love, that much was certain. I respected him, trusted him, admired him, recognized him both intellectually and morally as my superior, I was grateful for him. And, as I watched Nicholas and Georgiana exchange their wedding vows, I closed my mind to them and made a personal, irrevocable vow that henceforth I would not only behave as if I loved Giles Ashburn, I
would
love him, as passionately and tenderly as he desired, in any way that he desired. And to do that it would be necessary not merely to conceal my feelings for Nicholas or suppress them: it was essential that they should be destroyed.

It was no longer a matter of pride, no longer a need to spare Nicholas the embarrassment of feeling he had jilted me. What mattered now was that no one should ever say I had turned to Giles Ashburn as second-best. I must present myself as a girl radiantly in love, not only to Giles—astonishing and delighting him each evening in my mother's hall by my response to his kisses, the eager up-tilting of my face, my growing need to fold myself into him, to be warm again, and safe—not only that, of which only he could be aware, but a glow of joyful anticipation which would be apparent to everyone.

Nicholas must be my cousin again, no more and no less, since coolness would be regarded by some—by Jonas—as suspicious; and so I looked him directly in the eye as he came out of church with his bride, took his hand and kissed his cheek as a cousin should, and then kissed his wife, reminding her of our new relationship.

‘I hope we may be friends, Georgiana, as well as cousins, now that you are to live in Cullingford.'

And Blaize, standing between us, his smoky eyes seeing too much as always, but not unkindly, advised her, ‘Accept the offer. Georgiana, for you may need a friend—in Cullingford.'

There was no great gathering of prestige and power this time, a simple family ceremony in the chapel at Galton Abbey, slices of cold roast beef afterwards on a refectory table, a log fire barely warming the stone-clad hall, the aged Mr. Gervase Clevedon delivering up his granddaughter to the Barforths with as much reluctance as she was received. And once again the division of classes began to operate. Uncle Joel stationing himself before the hearth. Mayor Agbrigg beside him, dominating what warmth there was, since the July day had turned unseasonably cold. Aunt Verity and my mother attempting at first to entertain Lady Annabel Flood, who knew this house much better than they, and then drawing as near the fire as they could, to talk among themselves. Aunt Hannah did, indeed, make some attempt at conversation with Sir Giles Flood, who had installed himself in a high-backed oak chair of awesome, if uncomfortable, proportions, but she was too mature, too regal for his taste, her position as mayoress reminding him too sharply of the changing times, while it was soon clear that his talk of horse-racing, of which she did not approve, and of grouse-shooting, which she did not understand, irritated and bored her.

Nicholas, quite clearly anxious to see the end of it, to have done with the drama and recriminations and take up his life again, was standing in the scowling, lounging posture I recognized, talking to Blaize of mill matters, I thought, some crisis at Lawcroft he wished to be properly attended to in his absence, while Georgiana seemed occupied with her own brother, Peregrine Clevedon, the only person, perhaps, who really appreciated her marriage. Mr. Gervase Clevedon might never condescend to accept Barforth assistance, no matter how great his need; had, in fact, already gone deeper into debt so that Georgiana could have a dowry of sorts to take with her. But Mr. Gervase Clevedon was an old man, and when Master Peregrine came to succeed him at Galton I did not think he would be slow to see the uses of a brother-in-law with money to lend, nor would he be timid in the asking.

But Nicholas's affairs were no longer my concern, and as the awkward celebration came to its close and we went outside to speed the bridal couple on their way, Georgiana having changed her plain white gown for a going-away outfit of light green, a dashing feather crowning her copper-coloured head, only then did I falter for a moment, seeing the stern lines of Nicholas's face soften as he handed her into the carriage, looking at her as his father often looked at his mother—showing me the one thing I had desired in life for myself—his mouth curving into its unwilling laughter as she whispered something into his ear; relief in him, now, I thought, at leaving his father and the rest of us behind, satisfaction at having finally got his way, a snap of excitement at the prospect of the night ahead.

‘Good luck!' Blaize called out.

‘God bless you!' Aunt Verity murmured.

‘Well, that's it, then,' Uncle Joel said sourly. ‘I want you down at Lawcroft, Blaize, first thing tomorrow morning, and every morning until he gets home. Your Uncle Agbrigg already has enough to do,'

He was married and gone, his bird of the wild wood caged, if not tamed, willing to feed from his hand; and none of it had anything at all to do with me.

‘I see you've taken my advice, Faith.' Jonas said, appearing beside me in the sudden, silent way he had, my enemy, I was sure of it, not because I had once rejected him but perhaps because he needed an enemy, someone on whom to vent his long-stored bitterness.

‘Your advice, Jonas?'

‘Why yes, Faith—about not staying single. I feel sure that Nicholas will thank you for it.'

‘Dear Jonas,' I told him, with my mother's voice, my mother's air-spun laughter. ‘Did you really advise me to marry Giles? If you did, then it is I who should be thanking you—believe me.'

I had decided now what the whole course of my life must be. I could not devote myself to a cause, like Prudence, nor to bricks and mortar, upholstery and glassware like Celia, but I could devote myself, I believed, to a man who loved me. And I could see no reason for delay.

‘Are you sure, dear?' my mother had murmured on hearing my news. ‘Oh yes, I knew he meant to propose and he is altogether eligible—an excellent family and ample means, everything one could wish. It is just that I am surprised to find you so eager.'

‘You are providing yourself with a very peculiar son-in-law, Elinor,' Aunt Hannah said tartly, for although Giles's income was more than adequate, he had no vast estates for Jonas to administer, no complicated business affairs for Jonas to entangle, no political connections which could serve Jonas's ambitions when the time came. But, he could support me in sufficient comfort. He had a house ready to receive me at the top end—the decent end—of Millergate, where it joined Blenheim Lane. He loved me. How long could it take to apply a coat of paint to the dining-room walls, acquire a trousseau and engage a personal maid, since he already had a cook-housekeeper, and an outside man? Not long. And I was unwilling to remain in my father's sterile drawing-room a moment longer than that.

There were to be no adult bridesmaids. My sister Celia, having miscarried her second child, was too frail in body and spirit, felt herself already too matronly, to oblige. I was uncertain of Prudence. Caroline was still honeymooning in the southern shires. Georgiana unthinkable. And I was grateful to my mother for the provision of some Aycliffe cousins, little girls, all six of them under twelve, who, in pale blue gauze with dark blue velvet sashes, would serve me instead. But, in my urge to give Giles Ashburn everything I thought he wanted, I designed myself a dozen wedding gowns and discarded every one, settling at last for a confection of lace and tulle, fifteen deep flounces from waist to hem caught up with silk ribbon, long flowing sleeves, a coronet of apricot-coloured roses securing my veil, the pretty anonymity which would make me simply ‘the bride'.

I was sure of myself, very sure for most of the time, and when I felt unable to ask Uncle Joel to give me away, refusing to admit to myself that I could not walk to the altar with a man who reminded me so strongly of Nicholas, and turned instead to my other uncle, Mayor Agbrigg, no one but Celia felt the need to question my judgment.

‘Naturally you must suit yourself,' she told me. ‘But I would not care to hurt Uncle Joel's feelings. He is not accustomed to being passed over, and people will wonder why.'

‘Nonsense,' Prudence replied. ‘What a goose you are, Celia, for there is no cause at all for wonder. Mayor Agbrigg and Dr. Ashburn are close friends, that is the extent of it, and Faith will get her bride-gift from the Barforths just the same.'

And when Celia had gone home, having too little trust in her new parlourmaid to remain long away. Prudence said with her habitual composure, ‘I had best set your mind at rest. Faith. I have never been in love with Giles, you know—at least, not in the way you understand it.'

‘Thank you, Prudence. I wasn't sure, and couldn't ask.'

‘Exactly. So now you may be easy. I have thought it over carefully, and to tell the truth I doubt if is in my nature to feel an exclusive devotion to one, person. I believe I resemble our cousin Blaize in that, respect—which, of course, is considered delightfully wicked in a man and quite shocking in a woman. Blaize will never settle, because the woman who may be waiting for him in the next room or round the next corner is always more enticing than the woman at his side. And with me—well, I am not light-minded like Blaize, but I am not ready yet to be restricted. Yes, I did think seriously of Giles once, I confess particularly when I knew mother was coming home and I would have to play the dutiful daughter again. I was not at all looking forward to it, I can tell you, serving tea and conversation in the drawing-room every afternoon and listening to, that silly little clock ticking my life away. I thought Giles would free me from all that. I am fond of him, I respect him; in fact he is worth more than two of you my dear, and possibly more than three of me for that matter. But then he saw you, and was so thunderstruck by you and I found I was not hurt by it, merely concerned that you would let him down. And I found, too, that I could easily manage mother.'

‘I shall not let him down, Prudence.'

‘My goodness, I should hope not. Why should you? If what you want from life is to be adored then I know of no one who could do it better than Giles. You will find it so very pleasant that you will soon be adoring him back, make no mistake about it, and will have quite forgotten why you didn't adore him in the first place. And when you move into your house in Millergate, dear you may invite me to stay with you should Freddy Hobhouse begin, to pester me again, or should mother try to take me to France. I am relying on you to be a most convenient chaperone.

We were married on a grey-gold October morning, the sun spread low across a hazy sky, my mind too occupied with ceremonial details to care that I had not entirely escaped the Barforths, Blaize having been asked to officiate as best man. And I was so grateful for the warmth and gentleness of Giles Ashburn, cushioning me from hurt, that the simple promise to honour him and obey him seemed inadequate when I would have cut off my hair and offered it as a sacrifice on that bridal altar, had he required it.

But later, alone with him in the train going south to the flat Cheshire landscape of his childhood, the fact that I had given my life irrevocably into his keeping, losing my very identity in his, and that my sister was better acquainted with him than I offered me a brief uncertainty. Yet he held my hand throughout the journey, assisted me from the train with the tender care my father had extended only to his Sèvres and Meissen, shielding me from a few scattered raindrops as if he thought me not only breakable but very likely to melt away, his every gesture a separate act of reassurance, an invitation to lean on him, to offer myself not as a sacrifice but as an object of devotion and cherishing. And few women in the world—or at least few that I have ever known—could have remained indifferent to that.

We spent the first few days in the pretty town of Knutsford, a bedroom and sitting-room tastefully prepared for us at an inn where Giles was known, a log fire crackling in the hearth, a comfortable woman offering us a wholesome dinner, hot chocolate at bedtime, her blessing for our future. And settling down in the vast, herb-scented bed, waiting for my husband who had tactfully allowed me to undress alone, my body, after the strain of the ceremony and the long journey, was too glad of the soft mattress and pillows, the flickering firelight, to be afraid. And I grew so drowsy that when the door did open I was startled and sat bolt upright my heavy hair spilling forward to cover me like a curtain.

‘I have never-seen your hair loose before,' he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, a careful hand resting, just for an instant, on my head.

‘I suppose not. I was almost asleep.'

‘Of course. You must be very tired.'

And, taking my face between his hands, he kissed each corner of my mouth very lightly and murmured, ‘Sleep then darling.'

‘Oh—should I?'

‘I think so.'

He got in beside me, again with the utmost care, so that no part of me was uncovered, and slid an arm beneath my shoulders, holding me not as I had expected but as if I had been a trustful, vulnerable child whose innocence must be protected, who must be rocked most lovingly and chastely to sleep.

‘There is no reason to be in a hurry,' he said into my hair. ‘We have all our lives, darling—every day of our lives. I don't want to rush you now, when you are tired and strained and worried, I suppose, about what is expected of you. Just go to sleep now, with your head on my shoulder. I shall be happy with that.'

But I opened my eyes, far into the night, aware, in the confused moment of waking, that something was wrong, that the warmth which had enveloped me and lulled me to sleep was different now, no comforting arms around me but a taut presence, his back turned towards me with what could have been anger, until with the part of me I had inherited from my mother I began slowly to understand.

‘Giles? What is it?' And receiving no answer: ‘Giles, I'm awake now. I won't go to sleep again.'