by Diane Allen
‘Aye, I’d feel better if we came to that arrangement. But right now my family will need feeding, and the little ones will wonder what’s wrong with me.’ Martha looked stressed as she tried to rise from her bed.
‘I’ve brought a stew with me. Lizzie just needs to heat it up, and at the moment they are all quite content, I think, chewing the toffee that Ruby, my cook, made for them. Your youngest was asleep in the crib next to the fire, so stay where you are – all’s in hand. It will not harm Lizzie to take the reins, just for one day.’
‘I don’t think I can stand anyway. The birth has knocked the stuffing out of me.’ Martha slumped back into bed. ‘How can I ever thank you. I will always be grateful for the kindness you have shown me this day.’ She lay in her bed and wiped her brow, as she looked at the mistress of the manor that her late husband had always cursed.
‘You can thank me by staying in your bed, at least today, and taking care of yourself just for once. Now try and have a sleep, and I’ll make sure your family is alright as I leave. I’ll ask Gertie Potts to keep her ears and eyes open for your children, this next day or two. But I’m sure I will not even have to mention it, as she will have seen the midwife come and go and will already know about Walter’s death.’ Charlotte stood up and pulled the bedroom door to, as she left Martha to sleep for a while.
Closing the door, she walked across the landing to the small room where she could see Walter’s coffin lay. She peered into the room and stood against the unclosed coffin and looked down on Walter, dressed in his Sunday best and with two pennies on his closed eyes, to pay for his safe passage to the next world. Next to his arm lay the swathed body of baby David. ‘Your secret goes with you, Walter. Whatever you did, or knew, is buried along with you,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘God have mercy on your soul.’
The mood in the kitchen of Windfell was subdued. Since New Year’s Eve, the night of the fire at Ferndale, there had been an air of uncertainty among the staff.
‘Well, that was a strange funeral. I’ve never been to one like that before.’ Jethro sat down at the kitchen table and took a long, deep sup of his tea.
‘Aye, I’m glad that none of us women from here went. It wouldn’t be pleasant.’ Mazy sat down next to Jethro and felt sympathy for the fact that he had had to wait outside the church for the master and mistress, in the misting rain that had fallen all day.
‘He’s buried just under the northern wall, along with the baby. Seemingly it’s the done thing for suicides and unchristened babies to be buried in the north of the graveyard, in the shadow of the church. Old Fraser, the gravedigger, told me that, while I was waiting for the Atkinsons.’
‘A few years ago he wouldn’t even have been allowed to be buried in consecrated ground, and would have been buried at night until last year – and before that you used to be buried face-down at a crossroads if you’d committed suicide. I remember my mother telling me, when I was small.’ Ruby chirped in.
‘You had a lovey childhood, by the sound of it, Ruby. Why on earth would your mother tell you that?’ Jethro asked and looked at her in surprise.
‘I don’t know. She was always dark, my mother, and fascinated with death and suchlike. It was because she’d lost my father early on. Where do we go when we die, anyway? That’s what I’d like to know.’ Ruby gazed out of the window. ‘There must be something after this life, else it doesn’t make sense.’
‘We could always have a seance, get in touch with the other side. I’m sure there must be one or two ghosts around this place,’ Jethro joked.
‘We will do no such thing, Jethro Haygarth! We don’t want to bring the monster that was Joseph Dawson back and, knowing our luck, that would be just who we’d get. We’ve had enough bad luck this year already, we don’t want any more.’ Mazy quickly stopped him in his tracks.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Some of us have fallen lucky.’ Jethro looked at his Mazy and smiled as she blushed.
‘Anyway, what do you think’s going to happen next, to them upstairs, and do you think all our jobs are safe? Now the mill’s gone, what do you think Mrs Atkinson’s going to do? Will she rebuild it, or what?’ Ruby sat back and waited, for she’d been quietly worried that, with the mill gone, the family might decide to leave Windfell.
‘Well, I can tell you some news now, because she’ll be telling you herself shortly.’ Stephen Thomson leaned on the sink and looked at the gossiping bunch.
All heads turned and waited for the news that the butler had been keeping to himself. He was known by the staff as an eavesdropper and, as such, they never quite trusted him.
‘She’s sold Ferndale. She sold it on Monday to the Christies. I heard everything, as I waited to see them both out after their visit.’ Thomson sat down amongst the staff and looked like the cat that had got the cream, as he dropped his bombshell.
‘She’s sold Ferndale – she can’t have,’ Jethro gasped. ‘She loves the place.’
‘Well, she’s sold it, but she’s keeping the lock cottages, so she can’t be going that far. I’ll tell you something else I heard as well: Walter Gibson blamed himself for the fire, that’s why he committed suicide. You keep that to yourselves, though. I only heard that when I was picking the master’s shoes up from next to their bedroom door, and I just happened to overhear their conversation.’
Ruby poured Thomson a cup of tea, something she rarely did. She was not a fan of the quiet, skulking man who had replaced Yates, the original butler at Windfell. She watched as he supped it.
‘Well, Walter didn’t like Mrs Atkinson. He made no bones about that and, as they say, there’s no smoke without fire, if you forgive the pun.’ Mazy looked around at the astonished faces. ‘But we keep that to ourselves. It would only cause problems for Mrs Atkinson and poor Mrs Gibson, and both have got enough on their hands. Best let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘Aye, she wouldn’t get paid out by the insurance company, if they thought foul play had been involved. Then we might not be kept on in our places. We all say nowt, because we know nowt.’ Jethro looked around the table and breathed a sigh of relief at all the heads nodding in agreement. ‘We know where our first loyalties belong, and it’s to them upstairs. If we look after them, they look after us. Right, Thomson?’
‘I thoroughly agree. What I heard was indeed interesting, but I need my job as much as you all do.’ Thomson smiled.
Jethro looked across at the butler. He’d never taken to the man. He always felt belittled by him and only hoped he would keep his mouth shut.
‘So, what are you going to do with your time, now that you are a lady of leisure?’ Archie looked across at Charlotte, who was clearing out her desk in the morning room.
‘I’ll find plenty to do, I’m sure. Besides, once the insurance company has paid out and Charles Walker makes sure completion for Ferndale goes through on Friday, I can start to look for something that I can turn into a profitable business. Not a mill, though. I think the days of cotton mills being profitable are nearly over. Cheap imports are spoiling the cotton trade.’ Charlotte scrunched up an old bill for Ferndale and threw it onto the blazing fire.
‘Be careful what you are throwing out. Just because the mill’s no longer yours doesn’t mean to say you might not need some of the paperwork that belongs to it.’ Archie was always cautious when it came to paperwork; even if the mill was no more, it might be something that was needed.
‘It was a bill from five years ago that had been paid. So stop twittering like an old woman,’ Charlotte snapped as another handful of bills and receipts were thrown onto the fire, making the flames jump up and lick up the chimney in an alarming manner.
‘You are going to have the chimney on fire, if you are not careful. What’s up with you today? The wind will change and your face will stay like that, if you don’t start to smile.’ Archie looked up at a scowling Charlotte.
She sat down heavily in her chair and rubbed her hands over her face, trying hard to hold back the tears as she looked across at Archie. ‘I’ve no
mill, my family have all grown up and you are always at Crummock. I’m going to be left here twiddling my thumbs. At this moment all I can see is a miserable future, pounding the floors of this house.’
‘Aye, Charlotte, by the end of the week you’ll be one of the richest women in the district and no worries attached, with a family that loves you and the world at your feet. Forget the mill; stop feeling sorry for yourself, and get on with life. We’ve a wedding this spring, and Isabelle and Harriet are going from strength to strength. Enjoy the time you’ve never had before: go for a ride on the train up to Carlisle or Leeds for a change, and get yourself out of the house. I can understand you feeling a bit down, because January’s been a bad month, but believe me, both you and I know there are people a lot worse off than us.’
Archie walked over to his spoilt wife and put his arm around her, then lifted her chin up, kissing her tenderly on the lips. He wiped a tear away from her cheek and looked into the blue eyes he loved so much.
‘Things will take a turn, lass. Something will come out of the blue, and you’ll forget bloody Ferndale. I’m glad it burned down; it always reminded me of Joseph Dawson, and it’s gone to the right folk, the Christies. They’ll rebuild it, and all them who depended on you will be in his employ – and his worries. Happen I’ll get a bit more time with you, because I still love you, lass.’ Archie bent down and kissed her again.
‘What are you doing, you idiot – let me down!’ Charlotte squealed as Archie picked her up off her feet, carrying her struggling body across the morning room and hallway to the bottom of the stairs.
Archie could hardly catch his breath and halfway up the stairs he stopped, as Charlotte giggled and fought against her determined husband, who was heading for a heart attack if he didn’t put her down. ‘Well, you were bored, and I know how to pass an hour on a wet January day. Now get up those stairs.’ He put her down on the stairs and slapped her bottom.
‘Archie Atkinson, I’m a lady of power and position – you just stop that,’ Charlotte yelled.
‘I’ll stop when you stop feeling sorry for yourself. Besides, a slapped arse is what you were always short of.’ Archie grinned when she laughed in delight as he chased her up the stairs.
The bedroom door closed loudly behind the flirting couple, making Thomson stop in his tracks as he cleared the breakfast table.
‘Sounds like fun and games!’ Mazy grinned at the po-faced butler. ‘Good for them, they deserve a laugh. Especially the mistress, for she’s had the troubles of the world on her shoulders. You just remember to keep the secret to yourself, else your life will not be worth living,’ she whispered into Thomson’s ear as she helped clear the table. She, like Jethro, did not trust him. He was sneaky, always somewhere he shouldn’t be, and he rarely joined in with the others’ conversation. Perhaps he was just quiet; time would tell, no doubt.
20
The shop had been busy all morning as Sally Oversby walked in with her latest creations.
‘Sally, these are lovely. How did you make them?’ Isabelle picked up a pair of fine crocheted gloves and examined them.
‘My gran was always good with her hands and I must take after her. I spent time with her while my ma was out working at the mill, and she learned me all that she knew. I find sewing and suchlike so pacifying – it’s not hard work at all.’ Sally’s face lit up as Harriet and Isabelle examined her handiwork.
‘You can knit as well. I’m sure these gloves, socks and scarves will sell well. I’d be only too happy to place them in our shop. Your pretty little bags are a steady seller; we sell at least one a week.’ Isabelle smiled at Sally, who was so embarrassed by the fuss her goods were getting.
‘I’d have gone to your mother with them, but I know she will be busy sorting things out after the fire. I’m hoping she will soon have Ferndale up and running, and then I can hopefully get my job back. In the meantime, if you can sell these for me, it would bring in a little income.’ Sally unwrapped more of her work and laid the items on the shop counter.
‘The word must not be out yet, but I might as well tell you.’ Isabelle looked at a worried Sally. ‘My mother has sold Ferndale to the Christies. They hope to rebuild the mill, and of course the weaving shed was untouched by the fire, so it should not be long before it is back in operation.’
‘I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry for your mother; she was one of the best bosses I have ever had. She was always fair. She must be heartbroken at losing Ferndale.’ Sally’s face belied her thoughts, as she pondered losing the main way she knew to make money.
‘I think the Christies will be taking on workers as soon as they get things up and going, and I know my mother has passed on a list of her staff to them. She was up all night making sure she didn’t forget anyone who she knew was worthy of employment, which of course was all of Ferndale’s staff. She’s like a bear with a sore head, without something to do, and we are all keeping out of her way.’ Isabelle picked up two pairs of crocheted gloves and draped them over an evening bag of Sally’s that had already been displayed in the window.
‘I don’t think I want to work for the Christies, good folk that they are. I prefer your mother. You look as if you are both doing well. Do you not need another assistant? You know I can sew.’ Sally looked around the busy shop at the boards of cloth and the drawers full of ribbons, cottons and trimmings, which she would love to sit and work with.
‘Sorry, Sally, we are quite busy, but there’s only room for Harriet and me at the moment. But we will sell anything you can bring in to us, if we think it suitable.’ Isabelle knew Sally was desperate for money, but could do no more to help.
‘Aye, well, you know where I’m at, if you want anything. And don’t think I’m not grateful for all that you do for me. Selling a few of my things just keeps the wolf from the door. Tell your mother she’ll be missed, and give her my best wishes.’ Sally made for the door and walked out into the busy street.
‘Poor Sally. Did you see her face drop when you said your mother had sold the mill? She was visibly upset.’ Harriet leaned over the shop’s counter and gazed out of the window down the street. ‘Isabelle, quickly, look out of the window: the man walking towards us past the doctor’s is the man who’s bought the shop down New Street. He’s a photographer!’
Isabelle turned quickly from putting Sally’s things away and went to look out of the window at the man who was causing such a stir in Settle. She recognized him instantly as the man who had literally bumped into her on her way to deliver a hat to a customer. Now she pretended to be adjusting the dress on one of the dummies in the window, as she glanced at him.
‘He’s coming this way – he’s heading straight for us, and he’s coming to look in our window! If he comes in, you serve him. I feel such a fool, because he will remember me from when he bumped into me and sent the hat and its box sprawling.’ Isabelle looked up through the window and caught the eye of the young blond-haired man with the immaculately kept moustache. He smiled at her and she smiled back, before hurrying to the safety of the counter. ‘He’s coming in!’ she whispered as she tried to hide her flushed cheeks from Harriet.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. It’s a little on the parky side, but not too cold for a late January day,’ the young dashing man said as he entered the shop.
‘Good afternoon. It is indeed not a bad day, for the time of year,’ Harriet smiled and replied to him.
Isabelle looked at the man who stood in front of the counter and noted again his every feature: his high cheeks, blue eyes and just how dandy he appeared, in his sharp grey suit with a gold watchchain hanging from his waistcoat pocket.
‘I wondered, might I take a closer look at the black gloves and bag that you have displayed in the window? They just took my eye.’ He pointed with his swagger stick at the window bottom.
‘Certainly, I’ll get them for you.’ Isabelle quickly usurped Harriet in gaining his attention and left the safety of the counter to help their customer, retracting her original instructions to Har
riet as she realized how handsome he was. She handed them over to him and watched as he looked at how fine the stitching was and tried the drawstring on the posy bag that Sally had just left with them.
‘They look perfect. How much are they?’ He passed them over to Isabelle, his hand touching hers as she took them from him.
‘The gloves are a florin, and the bag three shillings, so five shillings altogether, sir.’
‘Then I’ll take them both.’ The young man smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I am sure we have met before, but I can’t think where.’
‘You accidentally bumped into me and knocked the hatbox out of my hand!’ Isabelle smiled, before walking away from him to wrap up the goods, and glancing quickly back at the dashing gent.
‘That’s it – I knew I’d seen you before. I never forget a pretty face. My sincere apologies again. Please, let me introduce myself. I’m James Fox. I’ve bought a shop down New Street, and I’m in the process of turning it into a photographic studio.’ He pulled out his wallet to pay for the goods and watched as Isabelle wrapped the gloves and bag.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Fox. I’m sure your wife will love her gloves and bag, won’t she?’ Harriet smiled and plied him with the question that both of them wanted an answer to.
‘Oh! Dear no, I’m not married. Nobody could put up with me. These are for use in my studio. I’ll use them as extras – they are ideal. They just caught my eye.’ James smiled as Isabelle handed his parcel across to him. ‘I can’t help but notice the wedding dress hanging up by your back-room door. May I say it is exquisite. Did one of you design it?’
‘Thank you. Yes, Isabelle, designed it, and I’m to be married in it, in another few months.’ Harriet smiled.
‘Congratulations, Miss . . . er – I don’t think I caught your names?’
‘I’m Harriet Armstrong, soon to be Atkinson; and this is soon to be my sister-in-law, Isabelle Atkinson.’ Harriet glanced at Isabelle. She’d been sly about not mentioning her meeting, no matter how brief, with the dashing Mr Fox.