Shining Threads (32 page)

The expedition to invade Sebastopol led by Lord Raglan reached the Crimea at last. He had been informed that a safe and honourable peace could be obtained in no other way. The
nation thought so and the government thought so and he was not to delay his decision to attack. Despite the sickness of the troops and their complete lack of preparation for war, he set forth
bravely to do as he was bid.

The first mistake was caused by the misunderstanding between the systems of the French and British armies. The British, as Wellington had always done in France, were prepared to purchase at a
fair price the carts and bullocks they needed, having brought no transport of their own, from the simple country folk who came into their camp. The French, on the other hand, believing that stores
belonging to the government of one’s enemy are a fair prize, entered and plundered villages within the British lines, abusing men and even women, and like snow before the sun the supplies on
which they had counted simply melted away.

That was the first mistake but certainly not the last as Lord Raglan looked about him for the transport needed to carry the expedition consisting of 61,000 soldiers and 132 guns. Somehow it was
accomplished and on a soft and sunny day a week later, they prepared to set off but, staggeringly, it was found that the British were not ready. They should have been in lines of seven and where
was the delay, they were asked. No answer seemed to be forthcoming but at last they were prepared for the daring exploit of invading the Peninsula. They marched gloriously towards the banks of the
Alma where a great battle was fought and despite the initial blunders, was won in triumph and the Russians were forced to retreat.

Pearce Greenwood read the account of it in the newspaper and his eyes gleamed in his sun-browned face. He savoured phrases such as ‘irresistible vigour in all parts of the field’,
‘immediate advance’ and the words spoken by Brigadier Sir Colin Campbell: ‘It is better that every man of Her Majesty’s Guards should be dead upon the field than that they
should turn their backs upon the enemy.’

What splendour! What magnificence, the newspaper reports declared. Did it not describe exactly what every right-minded Englishman, if he had hot blood in his veins, which Pearce did, was
thinking as he ate his bacon and eggs that morning? The names of the divisions of which the British army was composed were enough to make any man reach for his rifle and his horse and travel
immediately to the Crimea to see for himself what was going on: the Light Division’, ‘the 2nd Battalion Rifle Brigade’, ‘the Grenadiers’, ‘the Fusiliers’,
‘the Coldstream Guards’, ‘the Light Dragoons’, ‘the 11th Hussars’. They painted pictures of flags snapping in the breeze, the sun reflected on polished sabres
and boots; the flare of the kilt above brawny knees; scarlet coats and sleek, well-bred horses and the roar of battle-hardened men, the cream of Britain’s finest, for surely that was what
they were, as they whipped the enemy from the field.

He sighed forlornly as he lowered his newspaper and looked about the room. Briggs and Dorcas, one of Mrs Shepherd’s clean, respectable and efficiently trained parlour maids, stood to
attention by the sideboard, their eyes somewhere over his head, their faces expressionless. He wondered what the hell they thought about as they waited for him to tell them what he would eat for
breakfast, if he would eat anything at all from the dozen silver platters which stood under their silver covers on the sideboard.

He was alone at the table, Laurel ate breakfast in the peace of her own small sitting-room and his Aunt Jenny and Charlie had gone to the mill an hour ago, as he was only too well aware. His
brother . . . well, God knows where his brother was at this moment. Some actress in Manchester, he had said vaguely, as he had ridden off into the night, and to expect him when he saw him.

The door opened and the subject of his thoughts lurched across the threshold, dressed as he had been last night before he took the train to the charms, one supposed, of the actress. It was
obvious to Pearce and to the servants that he had been drinking heavily, and alone, by the look of sullen oppression which hung about him like a mist. Pearce, in his own misery, recognised his
brother’s, and the unhappiness was made worse by the knowledge that for the first time they could not share it. How could one console a man who suffered the same malady as oneself? In one way he did
not care about Drew since his heart ached only for himself and yet, in this ludicrous situation, they were the same person.

The thought gave him the strength to speak sympathetically to his brother. Really, he thought, with a sardonic twist of his young mouth, one could almost laugh about it had it not been so
painful.

‘Do you want something to eat?’

‘No.’

Drew sat down heavily and stared moodily at the empty coffee cups in front of him and the two servants exchanged glances which asked quite clearly what the devil the young master had been up to
now? If he had nothing better to do than fiddle with a teaspoon all day, they had, and if he was not to break his fast why didn’t he beggar off and get changed for his day’s work at the
mill and leave them to theirs?

He lifted his head suddenly as though seeing them there for the first time. ‘You two can go,’ he muttered. ‘If I need anything I’ll help myself.’

The servants, all bustle and activity now, left the room smiling, relieved to escape for the time being the uncertain tendencies of the Greenwoods’ volatile nature which could, at a
moment’s notice, turn from the blankness of utter boredom to the sheer exuberance of some anticipated escapade. God knows which would take shape today with the pair of them looking as though
they’d lost a guinea and found a farthing.

They sat for five minutes without speaking, then Pearce cleared his throat painfully.

‘What are we to do, brother?’

Drew laughed harshly. ‘Only God knows and He’s not speaking to me.’

‘Perhaps not, but we must speak to one another.’

‘Oh, absolutely.’ He twisted round in his chair to stare blindly out of the window. ‘Do you know, when I was having a quiet drink with myself last night – I
couldn’t face the actress, you see – out on the moor actually, I had the strangest thought.’

‘Oh, yes, and what was that?’

‘What would have happened if she had chosen one of us?’

‘The irony of it has not escaped me, either.’

They were silent for a distressing moment while Drew blinked rapidly.

‘I would have killed you for her.’

‘I know, so at least that has been averted.’

‘Yes.’

‘One must try to see the bright side, I suppose, or so they say, but I’ll tell you this. I’m not hanging about to see her go up the aisle with that bloody . . .’

‘You think it will come to that?’

‘He’s calling tomorrow, isn’t he, with the express purpose of seeing Aunt Jenny. What else could it be but . . . ?’ Pearce could not continue and felt his heart constrict
with angry pain. My God, was this what it did to you? This raging, savage jealousy which ate into him. It had him in such a damaged state he could not think beyond the desperate certainty that he
could not stay here to see her married to another man. And the laughable thing, the almost hysterical thing that had him nearly in tears was that he was suffering it
twice
, for himself and
his brother, and he knew Drew felt exactly the same. They had shared most things: their hatred of the mill and their hopeless attempts to escape it; their love of this land, this harsh
north-country land which had bred them; their light-hearted disposition, their arrogance, their hot heads and warm hearts which had fallen in love a dozen times, often sharing the favours of the
same pretty girl. And now, irony upon irony, they were in love, both of them, with Tessa Harrison.

‘Seen the newspaper?’ he went on curtly.

Drew turned to stare at him. His face was drawn, unshaven, his eyes quite blank, dead somehow, and yet in them was a prick of bewilderment as though his brother’s question was beyond him
just at the moment. His shoulders sagged.

‘I can’t say that I have. Is there something interesting in it?’

‘Read that.’

‘I don’t think I can drum up a great deal of concern.’ Drew turned away again, then stood up and walked slowly to the window. Putting a hand on either side of it he leaned
against the frame and stared down the long sweep of lawn towards the lake and the trees on the far side.

‘I love this place, you know,’ he said almost dreamily and Pearce knew, with a kind of surprise, that his brother was near breaking point and that it was up to himself to provide the
answer for both of them; that for the first time in their eighteen years, one of them must take the lead.

‘Listen, Drew,’ he said quietly. ‘Listen to this.’ And he read the report of the Russian defeat at Giurgevo.

There was a long, almost death-like silence. Then Drew turned to him and this time Pearce knew he had his attention.

‘Stirring stuff.’

‘You know what I’m saying, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘An adventure at last. We have always, since we were boys, dreamed of one but we were forced into the mill. Made to see where our duties lie. And for the past year we have done it. Now,
for a little while at least, I think it is
our
time. It might put Charlie and Aunt Jenny in a bind but I’m certain our combined contribution to the running of the mill could be easily
taken care of by one little piecer! There will be someone to take our place for a . . . well, however long it takes. A month or two, perhaps . . . until the . . . wedding is . . .’

‘Don’t.’

‘It has to be faced, dammit.’ Pearce’s voice was hard and angry. He was suffering pain for the first time in his life and he was angry. He did not know how to deal with it
beyond getting away as far as possible from its source.

‘How are we to manage it?’ Drew’s voice still dragged but he had straightened up. There was a look almost of hope about him, as though the torpor had shifted somewhat like a
mist when the breeze touches it, revealing a path which might be explored, a path which might lead to a way out of it.

‘Get on our horses and simply ride away.’

It was, strangely, Will Broadbent who drew to the attention of their uncle when he returned from London that Drew and Pearce Greenwood had not been seen for a couple of days.

‘Maister says ’as ’ow he wants to see them lads of ’is,’ the young lad who had been sent to deliver the message, told Will.

‘Well, they’re not here, tell him,’ Will answered flatly, not at all sure he wanted to be involved with
any
of her family just now. ‘I was told by Mr Wilson they’d
gone away.’

‘Gone away?’ Mr Greenwood repeated to him ten minutes later. ‘Gone away where?’

‘Nay, don’t ask me.’ Will’s voice was short, curt even, but Charlie did not notice as the first trickle of annoyance ran through him. ‘Who told you they had gone
away?’

‘Well, I suppose it was Mr Wilson, but he’d been told by . . . Nay, I don’t know. It seemed to be just sort of accepted . . .’ To tell the truth he could not for the life
of him remember how he had come by the knowledge, or the rumour, if that was what it was. It seemed that all those in the managers office, each one assuming it had come from the other, were
convinced those ‘damned lads’ had been given permission to absent themselves and yet here was Mr Greenwood looking madder than a wet hen. Perhaps this time he’d give ’em
what for.

‘Have they not been home, sir?’ he said calmly. Dear God, they’d bred a pack of wild cats, untamed and unreliable, this family of decent, hard-working,
working-class
folk, for that was what they were. Yet from them had come these uncontrollable lads and that . . . that lass whose claws had raked his own heart almost to shreds.

‘I’ve not seen them, Will, but then they often don’t dine with us, or breakfast either, come to that, so I wouldn’t expect to. They come home late . . .’ He shook
his head in exasperation. ‘Has no one seen them at the mill?’

‘Not that I know of, Mr Greenwood, but I expect they’ve gone off on some junket . . . some adventure which has taken their fancy . . .’ He stopped, realising who he was talking
to, realising that he was talking about two young men, eighteen years old and no longer schoolboys who were expected to indulge in such nonsense. They had never grown up, never come to the maturity
expected of most men. For the past year they had been made, half-heartedly, to present themselves at the mill and it was a wonder to him that they had lasted as long as they had. No doubt they were
in London or Paris, living high and dangerously, recklessly risking their young lives on anything which seemed foolhardy. And so he was not surprised a week later to hear that those ‘damned
lads’ had fetched up with Lord Raglan’s army in the Crimea.

15

She was at the door to meet him when Briggs opened it. Her mother waited in the drawing-room, promising nothing, she said, for it was far too soon, declaring she would reserve
her opinion on this ‘Robby’ her daughter spoke of, until she had met him. Tessa was seventeen, ready for marriage and, from the look of her, rapturously in love with this man she had
met on Whit Monday and, she admitted, a time or two at the Hall. She would see him first, a proper introduction, question him about his intentions, his family, his suitability as a husband for her
daughter, and Tessa had her permission to ask him to call.

Briggs took his top hat, bowing reverently for this was a gentleman and not many of those stood in this hall, not real gentlemen. Then obeying Miss Tessa’s instructions, he left them alone
together. There had been talk about her – when had there not been? – and the Squire’s Friday-to-Monday guest, which had reached the servants’ hall, and now, it seemed, there
was more to it than talk for as he closed the door behind him Miss Tessa flung herself into the gentleman’s eager arms.

‘There’s something in the air, Mrs Shepherd,’ he told his only confidante in the kitchen, the housekeeper, ‘and I wouldn’t be surprised to see a wedding very soon
and on a very grand style. A gentleman, this one.’