Shining Threads (38 page)

Annie turned triumphantly to Tessa as though to say, “There, see what can be done with what you considered a mere working-class man not lit for the likes of you,” but Tessa was
staring out of the window, her mind far away, scarcely listening and Annie sighed heavily.

Later Tessa rode down the long slope from Badger’s Edge to Crossfold. The sun was red as it sank over the Pennine hills. There was a great stillness in the air, as there was in her heart
and she wondered about it: was it a sadness about what might have been, or was it indifference to what had been?

She could hear a dog bark at the back of the house as she rode towards it and some bird singing in praise of the beauty of the autumn day. For a moment in the poignancy which drifted like
cobwebs about her, through which, if she was not vigilant, she might have to fight her way, she let Will’s face etch itself sharply on her mind. A strong face and arrogant. Not with the
arrogance of Drew and Pearce Greenwood nor of Nicky Longworth who all considered themselves to be somewhat above the rest of mankind, but with the sureness of a man who knows his own strength and
what he will do with it. Not a handsome face. Vulnerable at times in his love for her since she admitted now that he had loved her. Smoky brown eyes flecked sometimes with green and at others with
amber. Curling hair, ordinary, cut short to his head so as not to cause him any trouble. A slanting, humorous smile to his curving mouth, a sardonic twist to it, a lifting of his heavy eyebrows, a
smooth and freshly shaved brown cheek.

Will Broadbent, then. A man she had admired and in a physical sense of the word, loved. A dependable man, truthful, sensuous, gentle, all these words described him and once, years ago it seemed,
all this had belonged to her. She had turned away from him, chasing a dream of her own, careless of his hurt and the days which would be so empty for him without her. There were other women in the
world for him to love, she had told herself as she had wound herself into Robby Atherton’s arms, and now he had found one. What was so bewildering was the hard knot of something in the middle
of her chest which she could not identify and which would not go away.

18

The tall, extremely thin young gentleman had changed trains at Manchester and Oldham on his long journey from London. His bearing was very evidently that of an army man though
surprisingly, since he
was
a gentleman, he was not an officer. He was dressed in a motley collection of clothing: the peaked cap of a soldier of the line with the greatcoat of a foot
guardsman. His boots were of the Household Cavalry but they were unpolished. There was an air about him of indifferent disregard for his appearance as though that morning he had taken the first
garments to hand, whatever they may have been, and flung them on his uncaring body.

He got off the train at Crossfold and walked slowly along the platform. The station clock was five minutes fast, for every village and town in Britain kept its own time, several minutes before
or after that in London, and idly he wondered why.

The journey had been comfortable. Despite his extreme shabbiness he had travelled first class in a coach which was based on the style of the old stage coach. Through his inertia he had felt a
slight pang of pity for those who had travelled third class for the weather was wet and extremely cold. The poor devils had sat in waggons which, unlike some which had sides and seats, were open to
the elements and any stray spark from the engine was a definite threat. Passing through tunnels which poured down floods of dirty water, they must have arrived so wet, bedraggled, and begrimed it
was a marvel to him they travelled at all.

The station was almost deserted. A trolley heaped with trunks and boxes indicated that someone of importance had arrived while another was piled with milk churns which a porter was trundling
briskly towards the goods van. The gas lights had been lit for it was almost dusk. Soon spring would be here but this March day reminded him of the winter he had spent – was it only a year
ago – on the harsh Crimean plains with . . .

His face moved jerkily and his hand was seen to reach out as though to some unseen companion but he continued his slow and steady pace towards the ticket collector. He handed the man his ticket
and briefly their eyes met. The man had seen a hundred such as he in the past six months, dragging themselves back from the Crimea, many worse than he with no coats to their backs, no boots to
their feet, no feet, unemployable and bitter. This one, however, he knew personally. Well, not personally, but who in the Penfold Valley was not familiar with the Greenwood brothers? Those blue
eyes which were said to have dazzled and charmed the ladies from here to Burnley, were not so bright now, and not so insolent as once they had been.

‘Mr Greenwood, sir,’ he said respectfully, for they were all aware that these two lads had fought for Queen and country and were to be recognised for their bravery.

Two lads?
Then where was the other? He stared after Mr Greenwood’s retreating back, arrow-straight and with not so much meat as it had once carried, and wondered which one it was
who had been left behind. Not that it mattered really, for there had not been much to choose between them for devilment.

It was dark when the hansom cab he had hired reached Greenacres, the early dark of a dismal March day. As he stepped from the cab he could smell the rich, damp earth and the faint aroma of
daffodils. Daffodils have no perfume, he thought wonderingly, and perhaps it was his imagination but he knew he could smell them just as clearly as he could see them in his mind’s eye,
bobbing and dancing merrily in the wind which whipped straight down from the bleak moorland.

Light streamed from every window of the house, lying in bands across the garden: lamps lit in rooms in which no one would sit, fires glowing where no one would linger. So it had always been
since he was a child and before, he supposed, in this household where once there had been no mistress to supervise what the servants did and so they had done what their previous mistress had told
them. There was comfort and warmth, always, and an abundance of good, splendidly prepared and cooked food which the servants ate too, naturally, and he pondered on it for the first time in his
life.

The great oak door opened when he rang the bell and Briggs was there, his face smooth and expressionless, though it was certain that in his mind was the disapproving thought that it could be no
gentleman calling, unannounced, at this time of the evening.

His jaw dropped and he put a hand to his own heart and for a moment there was a warmth in his eyes, almost, one might say, a hint of moisture.

‘Sir . . . oh, sir . . .’ he gabbled, ready to move forward, to grasp the young gentleman’s hand. Then he remembered himself. He straightened and stepped back, his duties
recalled but the gladness still gleamed in his eye.

‘Welcome home, sir. It is indeed a pleasure to have you home.’

‘Thank you, Briggs. It is good to be home.’

The butler waited for a moment, holding the door wide open as the young gentleman stepped inside, smiling, looking beyond him to the porch, the beginning of bewilderment on his face as the
hansom disappeared into the darkness of the drive.

‘Master . . . ? Er . . . you are alone, sir?’ he ventured, slowly closing the door on the cold and windy darkness, reaching out to his young master, eager to take the shabby army
greatcoat from him, to relieve him of the quite battered cap and his one piece of pitiful hand luggage. Beneath the greatcoat he wore the torn and mouldering battle-dress, once a brilliant scarlet,
with one epaulette missing, of a common soldier of the line.

In Briggs’ eye flashed the picture of the last time he had seen Joss Greenwood’s sons, immaculately dressed then in expensively tailored coats and breeches, fine cambric shirts and
peacock, watered-silk waistcoats, with boots as superbly polished as the tall bays they rode. Their faces had been dark and dashing, excited by something known only to them, laughing, heedless and
reckless as they galloped off madly down the drive intent on some mischief, he had thought sourly.

And in the two years they had been away something dreadful had happened to them. Here was Master Drew – or was it Pearce? – looking as though he had had the stuffing well and truly
knocked out of him, and where was Master Pearce, or was it Drew?

‘Is my aunt at home, Briggs?’

‘Indeed, sir. She and the family are at dinner.’ He was about to ask should he announce him, for really he was a stranger but this was his home and he was at liberty to go where he
pleased.

His master swayed slightly and Briggs put out his hand solicitously.

‘Miss . . . Miss Tessa . . . ?’ he whispered so softly Briggs could barely hear him.

‘Indeed, sir.’

Master Drew – or was it Pearce for heaven’s sake? He must ask him, Briggs thought irritably – continued to stand in the middle of the hall, quite incapable, Briggs thought, or
so it appeared, of deciding whether to go or stay.

‘Are you unwell, sir?’ he asked, wondering whether to offer his master a seat.

‘Miss Tessa, you said . . . ?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And her . . . is she alone?’

‘Alone, sir? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ Dear God, surely he had not been . . . well, damaged in his head? He seemed quite dazed, and yet so quiet no one could be
afraid of him.

‘Has her . . . is her . . . ?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Is her husband with her?’

‘Husband?’ Briggs mouth fell open. ‘Why, sir, Miss Tessa has no husband . . . Dear me, what made you . . . ?’ Then he stopped for it was not his place to question the son
of the house on his obviously confused state of mind.

The young master began to walk unsteadily across the hall. ‘I’ll go in then, Briggs.’

‘Very well, Master . . . er . . . I’l fetch Dorcas out, sir, for you and . . . you’ll want to greet your . . .’

They all stood up, pushing back their chairs quite violently. Dorcas sketched a frantic curtsey as she passed him in the open doorway, her own face wet with sudden tears. Then Briggs closed the
door quietly behind him as he always did.

There was complete silence for the space of ten seconds, though it seemed longer, then Tessa’s voice murmured something in a hushed whisper. It was not clear what she said, even to
herself, for it had been no more than a devastated recognition, a wailing cry of torment deep inside her at the realisation that whereas two of her beloved cousins had gone to war, only one had
come back.

‘Charlie . . . Aunt Jenny . . .’ He stood, like a small whipped boy, not awfully sure what he should do to get himself across the vast expanse of carpet to the comfort he so
desperately needed, the haven from the pain, the hoped-for refuge in which to hide whilst he attempted the healing of the part of him which had been torn away at the hospital in Scutari.

‘Oh, dear, sweet Lord . . .’ Charlie began to walk towards him and Laurel sat down again abruptly, her eyes enormous and glittering in her ashen face. His Aunt Jenny put her hand to
her mouth and for the first time in his life – another first, he thought dully – he saw her weep. She seemed to be incapable of movement, standing beside the table in her elegant silk
gown, crucified, it seemed to him, by some dreadful emotion which surely could not have been aroused merely by his homecoming.

‘Oh, my sweet boy . . .’ he heard her say, amazingly, then he saw nothing else, felt nothing else but the strong, steady, infinitely loving, endlessly compassionate arms of Tessa
Harrison as she put them around him, enfolding him in the first scrap of peace he had known since his brother had died in his arms. His own arms were about her, clutching desperately, for surely
the strength which had held him upright from Scutari to this moment was about to slip away, finally, and only she could keep him on his feet.

Tessa . . . Tessa . . . Tessa . . .’ he said over and over again, his face buried in her shoulder, the soft, sweet-smelling curve of her neck, her gown already wet with his agonised
tears.

‘Sit down. For Christ’s sake, sit him down,’ Charlie was saying harshly, his own arms ready to support him should Tessa’s prove inadequate.

‘Darling, come . . . let me hold you . . .’ He felt her turn for a moment, frantically, to Charlie who hovered beside them, bidding him open the door . . . the morning room more
comfortable . . . more coal on the fire . . . hot coffee . . . Then he was in the depth of the soft sofa, the fire warm on his bare feet – he had no socks, of course, but where had his boots
gone? – and her arms were still about him, her shoulder there for him to lean on. His aunt’s hand, steadier now, was holding a cup of something hot and delicious to his lips, while
Laurel . . . and Charlie . . . were weeping and all the time he shook like the trembling aspens which lined the lake. He must pull himself together, regain his composure for at least as long as it
would take to tell them of what had happened, and suffer again that frozen state of senseless, unfeeling shock he had known for the past eight weeks and in which he could endure the telling. Then,
and only then, would he let it all wash over him, re-live it, fall into the nightmare which, when it was told, would surely once and for all be done with.

‘Darling, can you speak of it now?’ Tessa said, her lovely grey eyes as soft and shadowed as the drifting veil of the mist which so often covered Friar’s Mere. There was a
lingering desolation in the expression on her face, as if she knew what he was to tell her and was not certain she would ever recover from it, but it must be said. ‘We are not sure . .
.’ Her voice was but a whisper. She looked up swiftly at her mother, not smiling for that would be impossible now, but with a memory of the past when Drew and Pearce Greenwood had played
boyish pranks, changing places as easily as two coins from the same mint. They had relished the confusion, or sometimes the lack of it for quite often no one was aware that a trick had been
played.

So, who was this in her arms? Which loved man? No matter which one, she would mourn the other until her dying day.