Shining Threads (12 page)

It was then Tessa recognised him. She had last seen him in the mill yard when her cousins had run off with her to the moor. They had all three laughed at him since he had Drew and Pearce in his
charge that day and their defiance of him had excited them. He was watching her steadily now, his soft, smoky-brown eyes concerned, with no hint of the coolness with which he had looked at her
then, and not only then but the first time they had met when he had threatened to put her over his knee and spank her, like a naughty child.

‘I’ve sent Jack to let your family know where you are. When you’re ready I’ll take you home . . .’

‘That you’ll not. Not while you’ve summat inside thi, both o’ thi.’ Annie began to crash plates about, sending their Nelly to stir the stew, their Polly for some
peat for the fire and their Gracie to bed.

‘Aah, Annie . . .’ It was not often anything as exciting as this happened to the little girl, ‘. . . can I not stop up . . .’

Gracie began but Annie, whose word, it seemed, was law, would brook no argument and the child, taking a candle from the dresser, went obediently up the stairs.

Tessa was put on a bench by the table, shoulder to shoulder with Nelly. A plateful of stew with the precious scrag end plainly on view – most on
her
plate though she didn’t
notice – was set before her and she was told sharply, as the child had been, to ‘eat up, lass’. To her surprise she found the food quite delicious.

She was feeling better now. No one took any notice of her. Polly was telling the big man, Mr Broadbent, they all called him, apparently well used to his company, about some wondrous thing she
had become acquainted with at Sunday school the day before. Annie moved briskly between the table and the hearth in which an iron basket, fixed to the back of it, held the open fire where the
cooking was done. When the meal was eaten Polly and Nelly took up a bit of plain sewing, mending what looked like a cotton sheet, whilst Annie moved about, performing tasks the function of which
were a mystery to Tessa, with the energy and vigour of a whirlwind. Mr Broadbent lit his pipe. The room was peaceful, warm with nothing of tension in it and Tessa looked about her with growing
interest.

She had never seen a room so small and cluttered and yet so achingly clean. Where did they get their water, she thought, and how did one cook on that . . . that contraption in the hearth? And
what on earth had been in the tasty meal she had just eaten? Who were these people, the girl and her family who, now that they had become used to her presence, acted as though she was one of them?
Where was the mother, the father, and what was Mr Broadbent who was an overlooker at the mill doing here? Surely
he
could not be the father? The girl, Annie, had said he lived up her way
which did not seem to mean with her. She studied the tall oak settle to one side of the fireplace, used as a seat but with a cupboard underneath. There were barrels against the wall and stoneware
storage jars and on a shelf what looked like wine in glass bottles. She watched Annie take a spoonful of salt from a pinewood box mounted on the fireplace wall, then select a few dried mushrooms
from a net which hung from the beam above the fire.

‘Isn’t bread done, lass?’ she asked Polly and when the girl nodded, as sparing with words as her sister, Annie opened the door of the baking oven beside the fire. She nodded
her head approvingly in Polly’s direction, apparently well pleased with the girl’s efforts and Polly, perhaps six or seven years of age, though she did no more than nod her own head,
looked gratified; Annie’s unspoken praise was something to be treasured.

The clock on the wall struck seven; they all turned to look at it and as they did so the boy returned, nodding in Mr Broadbent’s direction.

‘That lass’d better be gettin’ off ’ome, Mr Broadbent,’ Annie said firmly as she pushed her brother into a chair and put a plate of the stew in front of him. When
she was satisfied that he was filling himself in what she considered to be an adequate manner, she turned in a bustling, efficient way to Tessa, her attitude so completely like Nanny in the nursery
of her own younger days that Tessa began to smile. ‘See, put that there shawl about thi . . . no, give over arguin’ wi’ me. I’ve another. It were me . . . me
Mam’s.’ Her voice was almost ungracious but Tessa was getting the measure of this Annie by now and did as she was told. Nor did she say much in the way of thanks for somehow she knew
Annie would not care for it.

‘I’ll si thi in’t mornin’, Mr Broadbent,’ Annie said, wiping her hands on her coarse apron.

‘Aye, lass. Five sharp at the top o’t street.’

‘Right. Well, good night then,’ she said and before Tessa and Will Broadbent were hardly over the doorstep the door was shut resolutely behind them.

They walked in silence for five minutes or so. Tessa was inclined to look stealthily over her shoulder, keeping close to Will Broadbent’s strong left arm and when she stumbled he took her
hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. She clung to it gratefully, still fragile in a way that surprised her. She was a young woman, tall, and strengthened by the hours she had spent in the
saddle, by the outdoor life she had led. She had been afraid of nothing in all her life since, she supposed, nothing had ever threatened her until today; but the ordeal she had suffered, though no
harm had come to her, had for the moment sapped her confidence in herself and she was glad of this man’s quiet, unflaunting strength beside her.

‘You’re not to come out alone again,’ he said definitely, another who believed he was not to be disobeyed, apparently.

‘Indeed I won’t,’ she answered readily enough, not adding that from now on, when she was not with her cousins, she would bring the dogs, knowing that was not what he meant.

‘Good lass.’

There was silence again for another few minutes, then she broke it.

‘Who is that girl, Mr Broadbent?’ In the darkness she did not see ‘Mr Broadbent’s’ smile at the sound of this imperious young girl, who thought herself to be only a
stratum or two below the Queen up in London, addressing him so respectfully.

‘She’s called Annie Beale. She works in the spinning room at Chapmans.’

‘Really? She doesn’t seem very old.’

‘They start young, lass. She’s been a piecer, then a spinner since she was nine. Their Nelly pieces for her now. I think Annie’s about sixteen.’

‘But why are she and her family alone?’

‘Her mother died a while since. I don’t know what happened to her father. Annie never speaks of him. She and Nelly are the only earners.’

‘How on earth do they manage?’

‘They rent that cottage from Chapmans. Your mother lets her have it cheap, and they live off the land. Jack goes full time to the school at the factory. He’s a clever lad and Annie
wants him to have his chance. You saw the peat they use on the fire? Well, he collects that from up on the moor. Coal’s too expensive, you see. He has an allotment and grows potatoes and
onions, carrots and such.’

‘But how can they afford wine?’

‘Wine? Dear God, they only just scratch by as it is. What makes you think they drink wine?’ He was laughing out loud and she felt the strength of her recently wounded spirit return
to her.

‘I saw it in the bottles on the shelf.’

‘Nay, Miss Harrison.’ At his words she realised that though she clung to his arm in the most intimate way he was telling her that they must now resume the relationship they had known
before the attack. ‘That wasn’t wine, t’was cordial. Nelly and the others gather field and hedgerow fruits, cowslip and sloe and elder, and Annie makes them into . . . well, what
you thought was wine. She’s a grand lass. She made up her mind when her Mam died she’d keep her family together and she’s doing it. It’s a bit of a tight-rope at times, one
slip and they’d all be off, but she works hard and gets on with life especially when you consider what happened to Nelly . . .’

He stopped speaking suddenly, his face expressing his irritation at himself, it seemed, and even in the enveloping darkness she sensed it.

‘What is it, Mr Broadbent?’

‘You’ll not want to hear it, Miss Harrison, not after . . .’

‘Oh, please, I’m all right now, really, I am.’ Something told her that whatever it was that had happened to Nelly had a connection with today’s events.

Will hesitated, evidently made uneasy, not only by speaking of such a thing on this occasion, but of perhaps revealing a confidence which was not really his to disclose.

‘It was your uncle told me . . .’

‘Charlie?’

‘Aye. He was involved . . . well, not involved but it was brought to his notice. He didn’t like it, you see, not in
his
mill and I think he felt responsible. That’s why
he asked me to keep a . . . well, you might say a
brotherly
eye on Annie and the children.’

‘Yes?’

‘Nelly’s only a little lass. You saw her. An overlooker took her into the cabin . . . a few months back . . . you know, the one in the spinning room.’

She didn’t since she had never been in the spinning room but she nodded just the same. The skin on her arms and the back of her neck began to prickle.

‘I’ll not go into detail, lass.’ Will’s voice was quiet and he put his other hand over hers where it lay in the crook of his arm. ‘But . . . well, Mr Greenwood
didn’t get to her in time. Nelly wasn’t as lucky as you.’

‘Dear God . . .’

‘I reckon
He
was looking the other way that day.’

‘Yes.’

‘But Annie cleaned her up, made no fuss, nor did Nelly and that’s what infuriated Mr Greenwood, I reckon: that they should just accept it as though they’d no rights to be
defended and must take whatever life chucks at them without protest. They would have been back on their machines a few minutes later if Mr Greenwood hadn’t sent them home. He paid them while
they were off an’ all. A grand chap, Mr Greenwood.’

‘Yes, yes, he is. Thank you for telling me, Mr Broadbent. It seems you are meant to reveal a side of life I know nothing about. First yourself and how
you
survived . . . no, indeed,
I had not forgotten . . . and now about Annie and Nelly.’

‘You’ll not let on I told you, Miss Harrison? Annie doesn’t even know your uncle told me. She’d not like her private family business discussed, even by those who mean her
no harm. You saw how she was?’

‘Indeed. She is a . . . proud person, I’d say.’

‘You’re right there so we’ll say no more.’

They had reached the outskirts of Crossfold by now, just where Reddygate Way led out on to the bit of moorland between there and Edgeclough. There were lights and a carriage or two, the
beginning of paved streets and Tessa halted, turning Will towards her. Her face was earnest in the street light.

‘Do you think she would be offended if I . . . took her something. As a thank you, I mean?’ Her eyes were deep and shadowed but he could see a pinprick of light in each one, like a
tiny star and he felt that sweetness, that lurching tenderness she had awakened in him the last time brush against his heart.

‘I think she might, Miss Harrison.’ His voice was soft.

‘I would like to show my gratitude, nevertheless. She was very kind.’

‘I imagine the only thing she would take from you would be your friendship, Miss Harrison, if you could spare it. Why not start by returning her shawl next Sunday?’

She looked up at him, astonishment plain on her face, even in the shadowed darkness.

‘My friendship?’

‘Aye, for she’s got little enough of that and it’d cost you nowt. And, by the way, I sent a message to your Mam to say there was nothing to worry about; you’d had a
tumble from your horse and you’d be late home – that Will Broadbent’d be bringing you. I knew that’d satisfy Mr Greenwood and it’s the truth.’

He was sitting by the fireside reading from a book, the three girls at his knee, when Annie’s astonished face peered at Tessa through the open door. Somehow she was not
surprised to see him and was glad that she had tied up her hair with a bright knot of scarlet ribbon before she left Greenacres. The ride over, with the dogs, had put colour in her cheeks to match
the ribbon and her silvery grey eyes were brilliant as they searched out his. With an effort she dragged her gaze away from him and back to Annie.

‘I brought your shawl,’ she said awkwardly, standing on the doorstep. Her usual high-handed assumption that she was immediately welcome wherever she went was sadly lacking this
day.

‘You’ve not come on yer own, not after what ’appened t’other day?’ Annie gasped, her disbelief in this girl’s daft and foolhardy ways taking her breath away.
‘I’ve never known ’owt like you, really I ’avent.’ She peered over Tessa’s shoulder as though fully expecting to see a complete battalion of soldiers guarding
this feckless girl; when none appeared she ‘tcched-tcched’ angrily, reaching out to draw Tessa in before she was attacked by some dreadful mob which must have followed her across the
moors. ‘And I ’ope that animal out theer won’t eat me daisies,’ she added crossly, referring to Tessa’s mare, ‘an’ them dogs ’ad better not mess me
clean step, neither, or I’ll tek me broom to ’em. Look who’s ’ere, Mr Broadbent, an’ after all as we said to ’er.’

She shook her head, shoving Tessa quite rudely into the chair opposite Will, taking the neatly wrapped, freshly laundered shawl from her and throwing it impatiently on to the table where she was
evidently making blackberry pies.

‘Tha’d best pour thissen a cup o’ tea for I’ve no time ter bother, what with them childer ter see to an’ pies ter get in th’oven . . .’ Without further
ado, just as though Tessa was the last person alive she could do with right now she continued, with a curiously delicate hand considering the noise she made with pots and rolling-pin and dishes
which all got in her way, to roll out the pastry. But in her cheek was a touch of colour and her eyes were soft with pleasure.

Tessa chanced a swift glance at Will and her insides turned right over in the most unusual way as he winked at her.

6

She sat on the round-topped stool in front of her dressing-table and stared at her own reflection in the mirror while Emma brushed her long, difficult hair. At each stroke her
head snapped back on her neck and the maid watched her anxiously. Miss Tessa’s temper was always uncertain: she could be sweet-natured and generous, carelessly bestowing ribbons and
lace-trimmed handkerchiefs on her maid when she was in the mood. Lately she had been somewhat softer, dreaming and seemingly unaware of Emma’s presence, allowing her hair to be brushed and
brushed for the required five minutes without uttering a word of protest, her face absorbed, deep in some reverie. Emma was grateful for a moment’s respite in the drama that was often enacted
in the dressing hour before dinner.