The Windfell Family Secrets

by Diane Allen

  ‘If it’s the money you are thinking about, Mrs Atkinson, I’ll pay you a fair price; and I can give you the cheque today, if you want. That, along with the payout from the insurance, which I presume you had in place, will make you a wealthy woman.’ Lorenzo smiled at Charlotte and patted his inside pocket, where he had placed the already written cheque.

  Charlotte looked at both the Christies. She knew they were taking advantage of her being down on her luck, but their offer was tempting. If it hadn’t have been for the Smedhurst order that had been placed directly after Christmas, she might have been thinking of putting Ferndale up for sale anyway. It would also secure some of her workers’ lives and that meant a great deal to her. ‘Gentlemen, can you give me some time to sleep on it? I can’t deny I’m tempted by your offer, but Ferndale has been my life for over twenty years, as you well know. Selling it isn’t something I’m going to do lightly.’

  ‘Of course, Charlotte, I understand.’ Hector smiled at her and then looked at his father.

  ‘Perhaps if I leave this for you to look at, it might make your decision easier.’ Lorenzo took the cheque out of his inside pocket and placed it on the tea tray. ‘Now we will give you time to think. Should we say we’ll meet again on Monday?’

  Charlotte glanced across at the cheque on the tray and decided to look at it after both men had left the room, as she didn’t want to show either disgust or satisfaction with the amount. ‘Yes, Monday, and I promise I will have an answer for you by then.’ She smiled and shook Lorenzo Christie’s hand, while his dark-brown eyes tried to read her mind, and Hector gave her a reserved hug and whispered, ‘Take care, I’m thinking of you’ as he left the room.

  Charlotte picked up the cheque and looked at the amount written on it. She supposed it was a fair price for a burnt-out shell and a weaving shed with no mill attached. But who was Lorenzo Christie really thinking of: himself, or did he genuinely care about her welfare? She walked through to the drawing room and looked out of the small-paned windows, down through the bare winter trees, to where once she could just have made out the shape of the mill. She thought back to her first meeting with Lorenzo, when he had tried to take advantage of her bad luck once before. This time it was different; there was nothing left to fight for, and her life and that of her family were comfortable. Why did she need the burnt-out shell of a mill and all the worries that went with it? She knew why: because, unlike a lot of women, she liked her independence, the feeling of power that she got when entering her mill. And, no doubt about it, Ferndale had been her mill for the last twenty years, and no one could take that away from her, no matter how they tried.

  The small church at Langcliffe was full of Sunday worshippers as Charlotte sat by herself towards the end of the long-drawn-out service. She’d heard a wave of whispers as she walked down the aisle and took her usual pew. Bowing her head, she had fought back the tears as she thought of the families praying together, and hoping for a resolution to their problems, as they recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  ‘God bless you, ma’am. Walter and I are ever so grateful that you are letting us stay in our cottage at the locks until he finds something.’ Martha Gibson stopped to thank Charlotte as she came down the steps that led from the small church.

  ‘It’s no problem, Mrs Gibson. I wouldn’t want to see you and your family out on the streets, especially with you in your condition. Are you keeping well? When is the baby due?’ Charlotte pulled on her gloves and glanced at the tired-looking woman, with children who had been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives and made to put on their Sunday best, in order to attend church and Sunday school.

  ‘The baby’s due anytime now and, aye, we are all well – worried, but well. My Walter is taking it really hard, because he knows that at the moment we are all reliant on him. I just wish our Lizzie was a bit older; she could go into service then and bring a bit of something in.’ Martha put her arm around her daughter, who stood next to her and looked no more than ten years old, with the biggest ribbon in her hair that Charlotte had ever seen. ‘It’s alright the vicar saying as God will provide, but I think he’s going to have all on to provide for all those that worked at Ferndale. And then there’s yourselves: you must be devastated – a good business gone up in smoke.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a blow to all of us. I wish I could do more for everyone, but at this moment I can’t. Is Walter not with you today? Unlike my husband, he always attends church with you. I’m afraid Mr Atkinson has never attended since he lost his first wife, and he lost his faith.’ Charlotte had noticed Walter’s absence as he had one of the finest tenor voices when it came to the singing of hymns, and the lack of it had been noted by one and all.

  ‘No, he said he wanted some time to think, and a bit of time to himself. I left him looking after the youngest; she usually bawls through the service anyway.’ Martha ushered her children through the church gates, chastising her youngest son as he pulled his sister’s pigtails.

  ‘Take care, Mrs Gibson, and try not to worry.’ Charlotte watched as the family made their way past the village green and couldn’t help but wonder just how they were going to survive. She’d wondered the same as she sat in her pew and looked around at all the familiar faces. Faces of people who were nearly all now out of work. The weight of responsibility towards them was consuming her and she’d prayed hard to be shown an answer – an answer that she knew would not come from on high.

  ‘Charlotte, are you alright?’ The vicar put his hand on her shoulder.

  She turned around and looked up at the grey-haired clergyman. ‘Yes, I’m coping. Which is more than can be said for all my workers. I feel so guilty. They all look so worried and I don’t know which way to turn to help them.’

  ‘God will help you in your decisions, so put your trust in Him,’ the vicar assured her.

  ‘Thank you, I will.’ She climbed into the waiting trap and pulled her rug over her knees. It was alright the vicar having faith in God above, but she herself was a bit of a hypocrite, paying for a family pew and showing her face at church on a Sunday just because she thought it the proper thing for one of her standing to do. She doubted that God would have any time for her.

  ‘Jethro, let’s go home.’ Charlotte sat back in the trap and tried not to look at her ex-employees as she passed the steady stream of worshippers. She was going home to a roast-beef dinner and all the trimmings, while the best they could probably hope for would be bread and dripping.

  Walter looked down on his sleeping daughter and kissed her gently on the brow. She should sleep until her mother and the rest of the children came home from church, with the amount of laudanum that he had laced her dummy with. He looked around the room that had been home to him and his family since he got married more than eleven years ago, and placed the small handwritten note by the fireplace. He hoped Martha would forgive him when she read it.

  He walked down the back-garden path to the privy and opened the door, then looked up at the noose that he had attached earlier to the solid beam that ran the full length of the attached buildings. Best way out, he thought, as he balanced on the wooden seat of the privy and pulled the rough rope around his head. He’d burned down Ferndale Mill and ruined the lives of everyone around him, as well as that of his own family, so he deserved no less. The rope and beam creaked as he stood out into nothingness. His legs fought for the security of support, until the life that had once been so precious to him gradually ebbed away.

  There was one less worker to worry about in Charlotte’s life.

  18

  Charlotte lay in bed and pondered her worries once again, the early hours of the morning magnifying her situation.

  ‘You don’t need the mill any more, Charlotte. If the Christies are offering some of your workers positions, let it go.’ Archie pounded his pillow as she asked him for the hundredth time what to do with Ferndale.

  ‘But it’s my mill – I love it.’ She sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘There is no bloody mill any more
. It’s gone and if you were to build it back up again, you’d have no money left, and half of your workers would have starved or buggered off elsewhere. Take the money and enjoy it; find something else to put your time into, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ Archie looked at his wife and wished he could get her to see sense.

  ‘But I’d lose my status in the district. I am the owner of Ferndale Mill, a force to be reckoned with. Everyone in textiles knows my name.’ Charlotte stared at Archie. ‘And then there’s the workers – what are they going to do without me?’

  ‘Christie will take some of them on, and the others will find work. You are not responsible for everyone’s life. Folk aren’t as loyal as you think, lass. If Christie is offering some of them work now, they’ll go. They’ll not wait for you and your bloody mill. If it’s lack of status you are worried about, then you are talking out of your arse. You own Crummock, Windfell and, if what you keep telling me is right, a profitable business in that shop that our lass and Harriet are running for you. I think you’ve enough status without Ferndale. You’ve proved your point over the years, and perhaps it’s time to take a back seat.’ He turned over and waited for the next outburst from his wife.

  ‘But I won’t have Ferndale. You just don’t understand.’ Charlotte pulled the covers up to her chin and tugged her share of the blankets off Archie.

  ‘No, I bloody don’t. And I tell you, what I have never understood is you wanting more all the time. Be content with what you’ve been offered. If you are so worried about the welfare of your workers, snap the Christies’ hands off, because they can do more for your workers than you can. Workers can’t wait months until you rebuild your empire; they need work now, not in twelve months’ time. You’ll no doubt take no notice of whatever I say – you never have done yet. But, just for now, let me go to sleep. It’s been a long night and I’m over at Butterfield Gap first thing, just to make sure all’s in place and to clear out the last of the furniture, before Arthur and Mary move in before Easter. You aren’t the only one with ties to the past disappearing. I’ll miss my old home, but you have to move on.’ Archie turned over and left Charlotte thinking; she could be a selfish madam, when she wanted to be.

  Charlotte snuggled down into the bed. ‘Sorry, Archie, I forgot that you were clearing out Butterfield. It’s just I don’t know what to do.’ She waited for a reply, but none came. ‘I do love you.’

  Archie growled, ‘And I you, but go to sleep; things will sort themselves out. They always look bad in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Are you helping your father today at Butterfield Gap?’ Charlotte buttered her toast and looked across at Danny. The breakfast table was quiet, as Isabelle and Danny sensed tension between their parents.

  ‘Yes, along with Jethro, we are clearing out the bigger furniture and putting it into the carthouse, until Father thinks what to do with it.’ Danny bit into his toast and looked across at his father.

  ‘I thought we could put the grandfather clock in the hallway, if you are in agreement, Charlotte. The rest Danny and Harriet can have, to help furnish Crummock; it isn’t as if we need it.’ Archie looked across at his wife. She looked pale and tired. The sooner the Christies came and backed up their offer, the better.

  ‘Yes, the clock will suit the hallway. I’ve always admired it, and it belongs in your home. And of course Danny is to have what you don’t wish to keep – your father would have wanted that.’ Charlotte sipped her tea and looked nervously at her husband, who was tucking into his bacon and eggs. ‘What are you doing today, Isabelle? There still look to be plenty of orders on the shop’s books. I thought, after Christmas and New Year, the women of Settle would not give us as much trade, but it seems I was wrong.’

  ‘Er . . . yes, we are quite busy, Mother. January seems to be a time for funerals, and the amount of black crêpe that I have used is nobody’s business. And I’m about to start on my bridesmaid’s dress, because Danny and Harriet’s wedding will soon be upon us.’ Isabelle smiled across at her brother. Her mother had, in truth, caught her deep in thought about the young man who had bumped into her the previous day. She kept thinking about his enticing smile as he apologized for his haste; and of the blush in his cheeks, as he hurriedly picked up the hatbox that he had knocked out of her hands. She had recognized him instantly as the new man to Settle that Harriet had been so keen for her to meet, but she had decided to keep their brief encounter to herself. He seemed such a flutterbrain, and not at all what she had expected, after talking briefly to him.

  ‘I know. Something to look forward to, so let’s hope the weather is kind to us. Not like today – just look at it, the rain is pouring down.’ Charlotte glanced out of the dining room’s window at the grey skies that surrounded Windfell and was glad she had nowhere to go for once. ‘You’ll have to cover the cart well, my dear, else everything will spoil on the trip over from Butterfield.’

  ‘Aye, we’ll sheet it over, things will not take any harm.’ Archie was in no mood for the move, but it had to be done and today was as good as any other. It got him and Danny out of the house while Charlotte entertained her guests, who were causing her so much anguish. ‘Who the blazes is that?’ He looked up from his breakfast as he heard the door knocker reverberate around the hallway. ‘I hope it’s not them Christies – they are bloody early, if it is.’

  The eating of breakfast stopped until Thomson entered the room, followed closely by Sergeant Capstick, looking decidedly uneasy.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you all, but could I have a word in private with you, Mrs Atkinson and Mr Atkinson? I think it would be best if you joined us.’ Sergeant Capstick removed his helmet and waited; he’d known the Atkinson family for more than twenty years and had never forgotten the time when he and the now-retired Inspector Proctor had dealt with the murder of Betsy Foster.

  ‘Certainly, Sergeant. Is something wrong? Whatever it is, you can tell it to us all, for our family are not children any more. It must be something serious, if you have come out this early and in weather like this,’ Archie answered. Charlotte pushed her chair a little away from the table and wished he had not given the sergeant permission to tell his news to one and all.

  ‘It isn’t good news, so perhaps it is best I just tell you and your wife.’ Sergeant Capstick paused and looked at Charlotte.

  ‘Tell us, man, what is it?’ Archie was sharp and threw his napkin on to the table. He was fed up of not being respected as head of his own household, and the sergeant would tell everyone the news that he had seen fit to bring to their door.

  ‘Walter Gibson was found hanging by the neck in his outside privy by his wife yesterday afternoon. It sounds as if he blamed himself for the burning down of Ferndale and was worrying how he and his family were going to survive.’ Sergeant Capstick paused and looked at the faces of the two women sitting around the table. ‘He left a note for his wife to find on the mantelpiece on her return from the church, so there’s no suspicious circumstances to his death.’

  ‘Oh no, poor Martha. He’s left her with all those children, and another on the way.’ Charlotte hung her head and thought about the man she had chastised so many times for lacking any work ethics. She looked across at Isabelle, who was in tears, and urged Danny to take her out of the dining room and give her some comfort.

  ‘Why did Walter think he burned down Ferndale? The inspectors thought it was a pure accident?’ Archie queried the sergeant, once Isabelle and Danny were out of the room.

  ‘We don’t know, and he didn’t make that clear in his letter. His wife said he had taken it badly, but she thought he’d just been worrying about no money coming in, like everyone else. He’d never said anything to her to make her think that he was at fault, or that the fire might have been caused by arson. It’s strange what stress can do to your mind, and I believe Walter liked a drink – he’s had a few near run-ins with my constables.’ Sergeant Capstick looked across at Charlotte. ‘Do you think he caused the fire, Mrs Atkinson? You’d know him better than most.’r />
  ‘I can’t say he was my most popular employee, although I don’t like speaking ill of the dead. I had to pull him into line more times than I care to admit. But Walter would not set fire to Ferndale, for he depended on his wage, as most did who worked there. He was just keen on the sound of his own voice and liked to cause a bit of trouble when he got the opportunity, but he would not maliciously set light to the mill. The poor man, to take his own life, he must have been weighed down with burden.’ She recalled Martha Gibson telling her how hard Walter had taken the mill fire, and then remembered Bert Bannister moaning that Walter had to be forced to help put out the flames. Perhaps he had started it, for he had hated his job. Charlotte decided to keep her thoughts to herself. If the insurers sensed any hint of arson, they would withhold their payment and she needed that money, whatever she was going to do

  ‘Aye, well, there’s nowt anybody can do for him now,’ said Sergeant Capstick. ‘He didn’t think about his family, selfish bugger. I feel sorry for his wife with all her bairns around her – how’s she going to cope? I expect it’ll be the workhouse for them all. Unless you are kind enough to let her stay where she’s at, like you have Mrs Batty and Mrs Potts. But that’s nowt to do with me. I’ve just come to inform you of the death and to tell you that, as far as I am concerned, there’s nothing to link him to the fire, now I’ve spoken to you.’

  ‘My wife would tell you, Officer, if she thought there was anything untoward about the man. It must have been the burden of having no income, and so many mouths to feed, that sent him to his death.’ Archie walked over to Sergeant Capstick and looked across at a white-faced Charlotte. ‘Thank you for informing us of his death. We will of course think of his family, in such terrible circumstances, and may the Lord have mercy upon his soul.’ Archie shook the officer’s hand and walked him out into the hallway and to the front door.

  When he returned, Archie said to his wife, ‘You think Walter did have something to do with the fire at the mill, don’t you, Charlotte? I could tell by your face. Just be thankful Sergeant Capstick believes everything you say, else you could be in bother. He never has been the brightest button in the box, thankfully.’ Archie sat down in his chair and looked at his half-eaten breakfast, before looking across at Charlotte.