Flint and Roses (38 page)

I stayed at home—as a married woman should; obeying my husband—as a married woman should; deciding a dozen times a day that it was impossible, that I was, after all, a woman capable of decision, not a child to be protected and controlled.

‘I can't tolerate it, Giles.'

‘I can't tolerate it Faith, unless you do.'

‘I am sure you can.'

‘I do not know. But what I do know is that I should not forgive you.'

‘Do as he asks,' Prudence said sharply. ‘Can't you see how weary he is? Dr. Blackstone collapsed this morning—no, not the cholera, thank God; old age, I suppose, and the strain. They were obliged to take him home, and Dr. Overdale is not young, either. The rest of them are too young, perhaps, and they rely on Giles. Don't trouble him. He has enough to bear, knowing that there's nothing he can really do—having to watch people die, with no real hope to offer them. Leave him alone.'

And, seeing beneath the hard lines of her face a reflection of the horror she had experienced that day—a horror which set her apart from all those who had not shared it—knowing that the foul odours of the sickness were still in her nostrils, the futility of human despair still clawing at her heart, I desisted, fed her and Giles when they came home and could bring, themselves to eat, provided clean linen, cool beds in which I occasionally persuaded them to sleep, prayed a little, waited.

My Uncle Joel sent instructions from Bournemouth that beer was to be issued to his operatives in any quantity they were able to consume a gesture at once philanthropic and sensible, since if the disease was really carried by bad water, as Giles increasingly believed, it was as well to offer an alternative drink. But, if the Barforth mill-hands were grateful and a little more cheerful than some others, they continued to die just the same, and, as that bright, blue and gold June began to merge into a hazy, slumbrous July, it was known that seven hundred people had perished.

I was quite alone now, except for Mrs. Guthrie busying herself in my kitchen, with nothing to see from my window but an empty, sun-baked street which had once been the brash, bustling thoroughfare of Millergate—few carriages now, such as there were rushing by closed and furtive despite the heat; an occasional woman, head bowed, handkerchief to her mouth, hurrying on some essential errand, plainly terrified of the poison that must be rising from the very cobbles, seeping like slime down every wall, gathering itself for fresh onslaught in the heavy yellow air. Long, terrible days, appalling nights when Giles, having slept an hour in his armchair, his stomach unable to cope with anything but brandy, would get carefully to his feet, put on his hat again and go quietly away. Hours that stifled me, each one extending itself into an isolation without end, a walking through the empty corridors of an evil dream, so that I was startled one afternoon when my door opened and Georgiana walked into the room.

‘Yes,' she said without any explanation. ‘I was told you would be sad and sorry, and so you are. I am come to cheer you up, since it seems everyone else is terrified of setting foot across your threshold. Heavens, they do so like to imprison us, these husbands, do they not? Well, I have escaped mine today, but when I called in at the Infirmary to see what I could do, I fell foul of yours, who at once ordered me away. Goodness, he was cross. No place for a lady, he said, which was unjust of him, since Prudence was there—so I can only conclude he meant no place for a married lady unless one carries written permission from one's lord. I cannot understand it. My grandfather would never have forbidden me to be of service if sickness had come to Galton: he would have expected me to do my utmost, since it is one's duty, surely, to look after one's own people? He would have been positively ashamed of me, I can tell you, had I attempted to shirk. After all, if we do not set the example—I mean, if we accept the privilege, then we must also accept the responsibility. That is what I have been taught, in any case, and it sounds very right to me. Well, Nicky does not think so, of course. He has gone to his mill every day because business is business, he tells me, and it is not my business to nurse his operatives. Goodness, at Galton I have always gone into the cottages when there was fever, and so did my mamma and my grandmamma. They are our people, after all—we knew their names and their faces. Yet I have heard Nicky call out “Hey, you there—you with the checked cap”, to a man who, it turns out, has been employed at Lawcroft for twenty years. I cannot understand it.'

‘Did Nicholas forbid you to come into town?'

‘Oh yes,' she said, accepting my offer of tea and settling herself comfortably on my sofa as if she meant to stay as long as she pleased. ‘So he did. But he is so cross with me today in any case that a little more will make no difference. I have been spending too much, you see—or at least, not spending, since I am allowed to buy whatever I choose, so long as it is gowns and fans and shawls and trinkets of any imaginable variety. But I am not allowed to give my money away. I have told him, either my allowance is mine or it is not, and he says it is mine, but, whenever I am penniless, which seems to be very often, he requires to know why. What have I to show for it, he asks, and, of course, if I have been over to Galton and bought new pinafores for the little girls at the village school, or have made a little loan to my brother, then I can show him nothing at all. And I wish he would not ask me, in that stern fashion, when I think Perry means to repay me, since he knows quite well that there is no chance of it. Is your husband so particular?'

‘No. But I have no brother—at least, I have, but he is far away and has never asked me for money.'

She refilled her cup, standing on no ceremony with me, her slender, abrupt body altogether relaxed, her pointed kitten's face warming to its task—apparently not unpleasant—of cheering me.

‘Then you are fortunate, for Perry is always in disgrace. My word, if my grandfather had but a suspicion of the half of it—but I am quite determined to keep it from him. When all this is over you must come again—come often—to Galton, for you would so like my grandfather. He is the very kindest of men, and I know of no one with such perfect integrity. But, of course, his standards are so very high, and Perry has always been a scamp. It is a part of his nature one accepts. It is simply Perry. My father was much the same, and since my grandfather has had a great deal to bear in the past—and takes Perry's escapades far more to heart than I—I do not wish him to be troubled again. I have dozens of new dresses, Faith. One cannot always be buying more of the same thing, and, if I have money in my hands and Perry does not, then how can I refuse him? I could not, even if I wanted to. My grandfather will take nothing from me, and so if I choose to help my brother I cannot think why it should be thought unnatural.'

We talked an hour longer of this and that, her horse, her child, her inability after almost two years as a manufacturer's wife to find the wherewithal to fill her days and then, as my clock gave warning that the hour of four was upon us, she got to her feet, pulling on her gloves and her perky chip hat with its audacious green feather.

‘Heavens—I must be on my way.'

But hesitating, frowning, she held out her hand and then, pausing in the doorway, came back into the room again.

‘Faith—tell me—you understand these things better than I, and may be able to advise me.'

And, still frowning, she sat down again.

‘Well, this is the way of it. Perry approached me a few days ago, in a great fix as usual. Not a great sum—a hundred pounds merely—not owing to a tradesman, unfortunately, since tradesmen can be asked to wait, but to Julian Flood who has debts of his own and cannot. Oh dear, I did not wish to approach Nicky, since he had scolded me just the day before about not throwing good money after bad, and so—because Julian can be very pressing and has right on his side after all, since it is a gambling debt, and gambling debts
must
be paid—well, I went to Blaize, who was kind enough to oblige me, saying I may repay him when I can, Faith, if Nicky knew of it, would he be—very much put out?'

‘Georgiana,' I said, the whole of my middle-class, commercial mind aghast at her rashness, ‘he would be furious—and horrified. Georgiana, you must never, absolutely never go into debt.'

She laughed, just a shade nervously. ‘Goodness, you are as shocked as if I had confessed to adultery.'

‘Georgiana, in Cullingford adultery and debt amount to very much the same thing. In fact debt is probably worse.'

‘Yes, I suspected as much. But only a hundred pounds, Faith—from my brother-in-law who seemed ready enough to spare it. And Nicky will never know. I can trust you not to tell him, and Perry will not.'

‘No. But Blaize may do so.'

‘Faith!' she said, as shocked as I had been a moment before. ‘Whatever do you mean? Blaize would not betray a confidence of that nature. No gentleman would do so!'

‘Blaize would,' I told her, suddenly very sure of it. ‘I am not saying he will, or that he intended it when he advanced you the money. But if it should suit his purposes tomorrow, or whenever—since you will be a long time in paying him back, if you ever do—then he would.'

‘But why? He does not dislike me, does he?'

‘No. In fact I think he likes you very much. But Blaize is not a gentleman in the way you understand it, Georgiana. He may appear so, and he is certainly very charming and can be kind-hearted—but his code is not the same as your grandfather's. He's a Barforth and, if he can get a return on his investment, then he will.'

‘Then he dislikes Nicky—his own brother?'

‘No, he doesn't. He may not have taken this affair of the combing company quite so calmly as he likes people to think, because it looks as if Nicholas is going to make a lot of money for himself, and Blaize can't really enjoy that. But it's not dislike. Listen, Georgiana, we were brought up together, and always, if Blaize had something, then Nicholas had to have it too, no matter what it cost him; and if Nicholas had something, then Blaize either had to have it, or spoil it, or get something better to make whatever Nicholas had look small. Their father wanted them to be aggressive and competitive, and so they are. The difference is that Nicholas shows it and Blaize doesn't. But he's exactly the same. If he needs a weapon one day, he'll take whatever comes to hand. And, for heaven's sake, you may owe him a hundred pounds now, but what happens the next time you need money quickly and can't ask Nicholas? You'll go to Blaize again, you know you will, and in the end it could be thousands. What would you do if Nicholas found out then?'

‘Shoot myself,' she said, half ruefully, half carelessly.

‘I doubt it. Have you actually given the money to your brother?'

‘No. I have it here in my reticule. I'm to meet him in half an hour oh the outskirts of town.'

‘Then give it back to Blaize. I don't believe he'd really allow you to borrow and borrow, again until you were in a desperate plight, but no matter. A hundred pounds would be enough to infuriate Nicholas. I can't tell you how angry he'd be. And, apart from that, if it became known that his wife had been obliged to borrow, then the whole of his commercial credibility would be damaged in Cullingford. Blaize wouldn't expect you to think of that, but he's certainly thought of it himself.'

‘Oh dear,' she said, looking down at the green velvet reticule in her hands, weighing it, considering, and then with that birdlike movement of her head looking up at me with her sudden smile. ‘I do see. Well, never mind, Faith, at least I've provided you with something to think about besides the cholera, which means I have done you good. Good-bye then, I must dash; since my brother doesn't care to be kept waiting—even for money. I'll come and cheer you up again, and if I don't then you'll know it's because we've gone to a debtors'prison. Perry and I together.'

And so it continued, time running slow, an airless July, the burnt-yellow skies of August, my fearful days made bearable only by the demands of Prudence, the occasional hour when Giles would allow me to approach him, a lightning visit every now and then from Georgiana, her raindrop chatter diverting me sometimes to sympathy, often to amusement and gratitude.

‘I believe it will soon be over,' Prudence said. ‘You will see—by September they will be haggling about the cost of a decent water supply again. There have been fewer cases this last week, and many of them seem likely to recover. It is abating—'

So it continued. Heat, fear, the lethargy of strained nerves that could strain no more and began to atrophy, an enforced idleness that, an instant before it maddened me, engulfed me in a strange, torpid doze, the constant fatigue of doing too little, which was fast rendering me incapable of doing anything at all.

So it continued, until the evening, late, when Prudence came home, not alone, but without Giles.

She came into the room and stood by the empty hearth, Mayor Agbrigg beside her, their faces only half visible, since I had not troubled to light a lamp. And, although I could not have said for certain—the next morning, the morning after—whether or not I had guessed their task, it seems to be now that I did.

We looked at each other for a while, and then Prudence said in the crisp tone of every day, which is perhaps the only manner in which one can bring oneself to say such things, ‘Faith—Giles was taken ill today while he was out visiting. He drove himself to the Infirmary and wishes to remain there.'

I don't remember what I answered, or if I answered anything at all. I simply remember moving to the door, assuming they would follow me, knowing the Agbrigg carriage must be in the street and that someone would drive me to Sheepgate.

‘You cannot go to him,' Prudence said, and I remember quite clearly how my incredulity, my inclination to scornful, nervous laughter gave way to anger as her hand descended on my arm, her arrow-straight body blocked my way.