The Sleeping Sword by Brenda Jagger Page A

picking up the pot and pouring would be too much for him.
    â€˜Oddly enough,’ he said, still smiling, ‘there’s really no need to be sweet with mother. That’s the great thing about her, you know. She actually likes the kind of man I am. In fact, I’ll go further than that, and say she rather thinks that’s the way men ought to be.’
    For a moment there was a heavy silence, Venetia leaning forward perplexed and frowning, while Gervase, his eyes half-closed again, seemed very far away.
    â€˜Do you want that estate?’ she suddenly flung at him. ‘Are you going to let her down? I’m not so sure.’
    He got up and crossed to the sideboard, glancing with dislike at the overcooked sausages cowering in a corner of their dish, the congealed eggs and bacon, and then, helping himself rather gingerly, came back to the table.
    â€˜I feel I should eat something,’ he said. ‘In fact I absolutely must … So you don’t think I’m cut out to be squire of Galton, Venetia?’
    â€˜I didn’t say that. I said I’m not always sure you want it.’
    â€˜Mother’s sure.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜So we’ll consider it settled, shall we—since if you imagine I’m cut out to run those mills, then you haven’t been listening to father. And is it really all my fault, Venetia? We know why mother keeps up the illusion—to protect Galton for me. I’ll grant you that. But why does father do it? What does he want out of it? He wants you safely married and off his hands, Venetia—that’s what he wants—before the illusion cracks and the gossip starts. So if your heart is really bleeding for mother, then use that to bargain with. Tell him you’ll get married and he can pick the groom.’
    â€˜That’s terrible—’ she began, her mind on Charles Heron, her face as pale as if she were already a captive bride. But almost at once, with the lightning shifts of mood common to them both, her colour came flooding back, he smiled.
    â€˜Idiot!’ she said, her own mouth trembling into unwilling mirth. ‘They’d have to drag me down the aisle—’
    â€˜No, no—no need for that. I’d shoot you if it came to it—much kinder.’ And when their father came into the room a moment later they were still laughing, reconciled, joining themselves instinctively together in mutual defence against him.
    He was a very large man, as dark and solid as they were light and fine, a man of substance and presence who had been very handsome once and would have been handsome still, perhaps, had he been less morose. A silent man, accustomed to issuing orders rather than holding conversations, who did nothing without a purpose or the expectation of a profit, and who in my father’s informed opinion was the hardest and shrewdest of the very many shrewd and far from tender-hearted gentlemen in our Law Valley.
    â€˜Sir?’ Gervase murmured by way of greeting, a slight question in his voice.
    â€˜Oh—’ said Venetia, biting her lip, a child caught in a guilty act, although there was no reason why she, at least, should not be breakfasting at this late hour.
    But Mr. Barforth ignored both his children and, turning to me, said quietly: ‘Good morning, Grace.’
    â€˜Good morning, Mr. Barforth. May I apologize for calling so early?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t call it early,’ he said, his eyes straying to Gervase, implying, I knew, that he and the greater part of Cullingford had been at their work for some hours already. ‘And you are always welcome. You could give me some coffee, miss.’
    And although this last remark was certainly addressed to Venetia, she had become so strangely downcast—remembering, no doubt, that this awesome parent would never appreciate Charles Heron—that I took the pot myself, ascertained Mr. Barforth ‘s requirements as to cream and