A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  Ned leapt out. Jenny flew towards him to hug him in greeting. But he turned to hand someone down from the carriage.

  It was a pretty girl of about Jenny’s own age in a stylish travelling costume of gold moiré and velvet. She put out a little gloved hand, which Ned took tenderly.

  Jenny had stopped, transfixed at this unexpected newcomer. Her mother, slower to move, appeared from the drawing-room as the housemaid opened the outside door.

  ‘Ned! Dearest lad!’ She bustled down the shallow steps.

  ‘Mother,’ he said in a tone of deep affection. ‘Mother dear, I want you to welcome my wife.’

  Chapter Eight

  Archie’s mother wouldn’t believe him at first when Archie got home and told her of it.

  ‘Mother, I assure you, it’s the truth! You know I was supposed to stay for dinner but they were so … so stunnert I had to bow out and let them recover.’

  ‘Married? And they knew nothing about it?’

  ‘They looked as if the heavens had fallen in on them.’

  Mrs Brunton shook her head. ‘That means she is utterly unsuitable, or why else should he make such a secret of it?’ She played with a ribbon of her widow’s cap. ‘What like is she? Some little fortune-hunter?’

  ‘A sweet little thing, from the glimpse or two I saw of her.’

  ‘A sweet little thing,’ she repeated scornfully. ‘She’s pretty, I take it, then. But is she a lady?’

  ‘Very genteel, I would have said. Prettily dressed, looked nervous ‒’

  ‘Well she might! Did you discover who she is?’

  ‘The daughter of his landlady.’

  ‘Ach!’ It was a snort of triumph. The worst kind of fool was a young man who married his landlady’s daughter. ‘I take it then that they had to get married.’

  ‘No, in this case I believe it may not be the usual foolishness. Ned explained that the mother ‒ Mrs Morrison ‒ was a widow lady of good birth. She had been reduced to letting rooms through sheer necessity.’

  ‘A likely tale,’ said Mrs Brunton.

  She was extremely vexed. If Ned Corvill had made a scandalous alliance it was useless to expect a marriage between Archie and Jenny. The Bruntons couldn’t allow themselves to be related to anyone without breeding.

  ‘Well, it is a bit strange,’ Archie murmured. Ned’s escapade only strengthened his opinion ‒ falling in love meant a softening of the brain. ‘But I must say that to my eyes at any rate the young Mrs Corvill seems every inch a lady.’

  ‘Seems is easy enough, laddie,’ said his mother. ‘What’s the truth, that’s what I want to know. Why marry in secret?’

  This was what Ned was now trying to explain away to his stricken parents. ‘I thought you might try to prevent it,’ he said. ‘At least, Lucy felt sure you would, because, of course, she has no dowry.’

  ‘My son, money isn’t the first thing we would have thought of. What is her education? Do they have religious conviction? Is her mother well-thought-of?’

  Ned said stiffly, ‘As to her education, I should think you could judge that by her speech and manner since we arrived. And Mrs Morrison would have come with us today, except that she has to run the boarding-house.’

  ‘The boarding-house!’ groaned Mrs Corvill.

  ‘Well, after all, we started off with a weaving shed! Are we so much better?’ cried her son in anger.

  ‘Ned,’ said Jenny softly. ‘Ned, nothing is going to be gained by shouting at Mother. She’s upset, and no wonder.’

  ‘I don’t see anything to cry over, when I bring home the girl I love.’

  Jenny could have said, What she’s crying over is the deceit, the surprise. But what was the point? The marriage was valid, both parties were of age and had resided in the parish in which the banns were called for far longer than the requisite three weeks. Nothing that anyone could do would change it now.

  She said to her mother, ‘We had better rearrange the rooms. There is only a single bed in Ned’s room ‒’

  Mrs Corvill threw her gauze apron over her face to stifle her sobs.

  ‘Mother, they are married. They need a bedroom fit for a married couple.’

  William Corvill got stiffly to his feet to ring the bell at the fireplace. When the housemaid came in he said, ‘Get Daniel to move Mr Ned’s belongings to … which room, Millicent?’

  ‘The gardenside bedroom.’

  The housemaid curtseyed. ‘Yes, mistress. And the young mistress?’ Then recollecting herself, for ‘the young mistress’ meant Miss Corvill, she amended; ‘I mean, the young Mrs Corvill?’

  ‘Her luggage is to be taken up to the gardenside room. Put stone jars in the bed to air it. Make sure there are enough hangers and that there is fresh lavender in the drawers.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  Ned knew he had won as the door closed on the maid. He said, ‘I’m sure Lucy will want to change into a fresh dress for the evening. Shall we meet for supper in half an hour?’

  His mother looked at the clock. ‘Aye, supper in half an hour.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘My God, what happened to Archie?’

  ‘He rode off home.’

  ‘I never even saw him go. What must he think of us?’

  ‘Never mind that for the moment, Mother.’ That’s the least of our worries, thought Jenny. Let’s see what this girl is really like.

  The young woman who came in on Ned’s arm at eight o’clock was in every respect a model of respectability and demureness. She was wearing a soft print dress with many flounces and a large soft gauze collar, against which her pale prettiness was almost fey. She was fair, with a creamy skin and pink lips. Her voice was soft and sweet.

  The Corvills were trying very hard to like her, and to tell the truth there seemed no reason why they should not, except for the unorthodox introduction. She seemed just the kind of girl that Ned should have married: rather shy, anxious to please, genteel.

  Jenny found herself unbending. And she would have gone to bed that night much easier in her mind except for one thing. As the meal ended, the maid had stood by Lucy’s chair with a tray bearing the silver table equipment ‒ trellis breadbasket, sauceboats, water bowls. Jenny could have sworn that Lucy was trying very hard to ascertain whether the items were silver or electroplate.

  That shrewd sideways glance haunted her dreams. Next morning, after she had dealt with the urgent items at the office, she wrote a letter to the lawyer in Edinburgh who dealt with the Corvills’ affairs. She despised herself for doing so, but she asked for information about Mrs Morrison of Lochend Close, Cannongate.

  The reply came about eighteen days later. In the meantime Jenny tried very hard to become friends with Lucy, and found it impossible. The girl seemed to have no opinions of her own. She agreed with anyone over anything, apparently more eager to please than to be truthful. It was true she had good manners, spoke well, and knew how to dress. But something was lacking. The lawyer’s letter explained what it was.

  ‘Mrs Morrison is a widow of good appearance and standing. She seems to have no large debts though she is known to let bills go as long as she can before paying. Her husband was Lamont Morrison, a character actor in the travelling company McAyre’s Players, known for their performances in the holiday resorts of the west coast. He was killed in an accident with some stage equipment on tour. I am told he specialised in playing roles such as vicars, lawyers, country squires. With the compensation for his death Mrs Morrison was able to rent and set up the house in Lochend Close. It may be that she herself trod the boards but she seems to have left the theatre on the birth of her child, Lucy.’

  Under this report the lawyer had added in his own hand, ‘The word is that she runs a respectable lodging house but is not greatly liked by her neighbours because of a rather grasping nature.’

  The story according to Lucy was rather different. Prompted by Ned, she had shyly explained her family background. Her father, she said, was a younger son of the Morrisons of Linlithgow, a well-known family. Her mot
her had been Miss Alice Howe, daughter of a lawyer. They had run away to be married against family opposition. Lamont Morrison had died with the China Squadron in the action of October 1839 in the Opium War.

  ‘Mama was prostrated with grief, so I was told ‒ though of course I was only a young child at the time. She’s been so brave, you know … only the tiniest naval pension and yet she managed to bring me up with all the refinements she herself had been used to …’

  Lucy offered proofs of this as opportunity occurred. She could sketch a little, play easy pieces on the piano, read French from a book. Jenny’s parents were pleased with her, and even a little respectful of these displays of superior upbringing.

  Jenny saw it differently. Lucy was the daughter of an actor and an actress, a quick study ‒ she had learned to play the part of a lady.

  There was nothing so very bad in that. Jenny herself had done it, had adopted the manner and lifestyle of the class in which she now lived. What was different in Lucy was that she denied her origins.

  But there was no point in telling her parents what she’d found out. At the moment the first shock had died away, letters of friendship had been exchanged between the Corvills and Mrs Morrison, Lucy had been quietly introduced into Galashiels society and, after a day or two of gossip, as quietly accepted.

  In October the Corvill family went to Edinburgh to see Ned receive his degree. Mrs Morrison of course joined the party. She proved to be very like her daughter in looks except that the pale fair hair of Lucy was a little brighter in her mother ‒ helped no doubt by dyestuffs Ronald Armstrong could have named. She was dressed in a new gown of the very highest fashion, bought with money Lucy had sent as soon as she received her dress allowance from the Corvill coffers.

  ‘They were very naughty to marry without letting us know,’ she said with a mannered tilt of her head, so that she could look under her lashes at William. ‘But Mr Corvill, one must be kind to young love, must one not?’

  William said that the young married couple must be helped in every way to settle down to a proper happy life. He remained immune to Mrs Morrison’s attempts to fascinate him into close friendship. The truth was, he didn’t entirely understand what she was at. He thought of her as another middle-aged parent like himself. She thought of herself, Jenny could see, as a mature woman of great charm.

  The celebration dinner after the ceremony was held in the Douglas Hotel. To it came two or three of Ned’s lecturers and several university friends who had also received their degrees.

  One of these proved a very sensible young man, with whom Jenny took the trouble to have a private word.

  ‘Did you know of the proposed wedding, Mr Summers?’

  ‘Not a word! When he moved from the lodgings we shared to go and live at the Morrisons, I thought nothing of it.’ He glanced across the room, where mother and daughter were sitting on a sofa with a man on either side ‒ Ned holding Lucy’s hand, Ned’s tutor offering bonbons to Mrs Morrison. He added in a very careful voice, ‘Marriage was not what I expected.’ He looked at Jenny to see if she understood.

  ‘I gather he met her at the Assembly Halls,’ she rejoined, to let him know she was following the sense of his words.

  ‘Quite likely. You know the variety of events that go on there. Ned … er … liked to go about …’

  She nodded. ‘I know my brother’s foibles, Mr Summers.’

  He relaxed. ‘In that case I can say, Lucy was acquainted with quite a few university men. But none of us wanted to be … er … taken seriously.’

  ‘You mean she was a flirt?’

  ‘She was looking for a husband. Quite within her rights, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you know, they are fond of each other.’

  ‘It seems so. Thank you, Mr Summers.’

  So Lucy had been on the hunt. But then, how could she be reproached for that? Jenny herself was on the hunt, after Archie Brunton.

  The Corvills parted next day from Mrs Morrison. Jenny had seen that there was no great love lost between mother and daughter, which was a relief to her because it meant that Mrs Morrison would not visit them often. Her affectation of elegance and fine breeding was very hard to bear.

  Back in Galashiels the daily round resumed, the small gaieties of country society. Hallowe’en came with its boisterous parties and dressing-up. The men went out shooting. The last apples and pears were picked, preserve-making was supervised. Jenny began sketching the new cloths for the spring pattern books.

  She was at work in her comfortable office at the mill when she was surprised by a visit from Lucy. Her sister-in-law had come once before, been shown round the mill, announced that the noise gave her the headache, and then avoided the place.

  ‘Lucy, what a pleasure,’ Jenny said, rising to greet her. She laid aside the board with its graph paper on which she had been lining up the colours for a new country check.

  ‘I thought I’d drop in as I was passing,’ said Lucy.

  Most unlikely. There was nothing by the Mill Lead of the Gala except mills. So the girl was here for a purpose.

  ‘Sit down, Lucy ‒ wait, I’ll clear the chair for you.’ She took up some sample pieces her father had woven the previous week, which were now under consideration for the spring. ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘Er, yes … why not?’ She clearly expected it to be brought in a tin mug, and was surprised when in response to Jenny’s orders a pretty tray with sprigged china appeared.

  ‘Now, Lucy, what can I show you? The mill is a different world to you, I know, but if you’d like to see the new winter cloths ‒’

  ‘No, thank you, I really prefer to wear velvet and velours, Jenny. No, I didn’t have any particular reason for calling …’

  ‘Ned isn’t with you?’

  ‘No, he’s gone shooting with Charlie Linton. He … er … doesn’t have to come to work in any regular way?’

  ‘Father and I would be delighted if he did, Lucy, but he doesn’t show much taste for business as yet. Of course, he’s entitled to some leisure after so many years of study.’

  ‘But he will be the owner of the mill in time, won’t he?’

  ‘Of course. He’s a junior partner already ‒ William Corvill and Son.’

  ‘He … The mill … It makes a lot of money?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ Jenny said, smiling to herself. Now the reason for the visit was about to appear.

  ‘It’s just that I was thinking … you know … he was a little bit put out when I asked him what his income was. He didn’t seem to know.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jenny, sipping her tea, ‘his income varies. He gets a percentage of the profits, and the profits change from year to year.’

  ‘A percentage?’ Lucy’s ladylike education hadn’t equipped her to understand percentages.

  ‘Well, let’s put it in fractions. Ned gets a fraction of the profits.’

  Fractions were even less accessible than percentages. Lucy’s pink lips pursed over the word. She stirred her tea thoughtfully. ‘What I really wanted to know was … whether I could have an allowance made over to me from his money.’

  ‘But you have an allowance, Lucy.’

  ‘A dress allowance. It’s not much, really.’

  ‘But you can order anything you need, of course. We have accounts with all the shops in Galashiels ‒’

  ‘Galashiels! It’s not the height of fashion, is it?’

  ‘Oh, I see …’ It was true. Compared with Edinburgh, Galashiels was a dowdy little town. Most of the shops were scarcely more than displays in the downstairs parlour of a house. Bank Street was regarded as the fashionable shopping thoroughfare but even there, only a few plate glass windows had appeared, only a few sun blinds to protect fragile goods.

  ‘Well, if you don’t see what you like in the town, you can always send for it. You could probably get anything by train within a day or two ‒’

  ‘But that’s not the way I like to shop. I like to see things, compare, choose …�
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  ‘I see. In that case, perhaps you could have goods sent on approval. The big firms probably would send a selection.’

  Lucy shrugged with something like impatience. ‘If Ned doesn’t take much part in the running of the firm, is there any reason why he has to live here?’

  Jenny was startled. ‘Where else would he live?’ she asked.

  ‘We could go to Glasgow. Glasgow’s full of life, I hear.’

  ‘But Lucy, Ned’s been away from home for three years, taking his degree. Mother and Father would never agree to parting with him again so soon.’

  Lucy looked as if she were going to say that Mother and Father were a bore, but thought better of it and smiled with daughterly understanding. ‘Of course. How selfish you must think me! I don’t mean to complain in any way, Jenny darling. It’s just that … life is so different here.’

  ‘Different from Edinburgh, I quite understand. I was brought up there too, you know. I remember the hustle and bustle, the feeling of something going on all the time. All the same, I enjoy it here.’

  ‘But you have the mill to occupy you,’ Lucy pointed out, setting down her cup and saucer with a little bang. ‘I just sit and twiddle my thumbs. Ned goes off to shoot grouse or see friends ‒’

  ‘You’ve made friends here too, Lucy.’

  ‘They all seem engrossed in cloth-making! It’s all they ever talk about!’

  ‘Well, it is our livelihood, you know. And the women do talk about other things: fashion, family matters ‒’

  ‘Housekeeping, how to make apple jelly, whether winter-green is good for the chest.’

  Jenny didn’t know what to say. What had her sister-in-law expected? They were living in a provincial town, with provincial interests.

  At the beginning, Jenny had thought that there would soon be a baby. She had almost taken it for granted that it was the reason for the hasty, secretive wedding. But no baby was on the way. There wasn’t even the prospect of a young family to keep Lucy occupied.

  ‘If Mother would just let me take over the house,’ Lucy went on in an injured tone. ‘She’s not young any more, after all, and some of her ways are so old-fashioned! I have some ideas that would make the place look so much à la mode …’