‘No?’ Martin said. ‘Then perhaps you should.’
‘What?’ Hurne said, with a haughty stare.
‘I mean if you were to set foot in it ‒ you or your father, that is, ‒ you would find the law being broken there.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the Child Labour Bill, which made it illegal to employ children under the age of nine in any mill or factory. But such young children are employed at Brink End. At least, they were when I was there eighteen months ago.’
‘And what business is it of yours?’
‘The breaking of the law is anyone’s business.’
‘Brink End is not the only mill where young children are employed. Most of the mills in the Cullen Valley do the same.’
‘Then you do know something about it, after all?’
‘I know this much at least ‒ that the weavers themselves take no account of the law. They want to put their children to work just as soon as they possibly can because they need the extra money.’
‘They would not need it, though, if they were paid a proper wage that enabled them to raise their children without turning them into slaves.’
‘I suppose you are one of those people who think the children of the poor should go to school till the age of nine?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who is to pay for that schooling, pray?’
‘Those who have money to pay for it.’
‘Would that include you?’
‘No. It would not.’
‘It’s a very remarkable thing that the penniless nobodies of this world are always so quick to tell the others how their money should be spent.’
‘It’s not just the penniless nobodies. An example has been set by the work of men like Lord Ashley and Lord Brougham.’
‘Indeed? And are their lordships friends of yours?’
‘No. But they are both good friends of the poor.’
‘You are poor. You said so yourself.’
‘Not so poor,’ Martin said, ‘that I am obliged to sell myself into slavery at Brink End Mill.’
‘Now look here, Mason, or whatever your name is ‒’
‘Cox, not Mason,’ Martin said.
The two young men, silent now, glared at each other, eye to eye. And here Miss Ginny, although enjoying the argument that had flared up so fiercely, now saw fit to intervene.
‘I would remind you two gentlemen that you are both guests in my father’s house and that as such you have no business arguing in this unmannerly way.’ Smiling at each of them in turn she added: ‘You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves and I think you should apologize for behaving thus in my presence.’
There was a pause. Sidney Hurne was the first to speak.
‘Miss Virginia, you are quite right. I beg pardon most abjectly for allowing myself to be provoked, and I hope you will demonstrate your forgiveness by granting me two dances at least.’
Ginny, with a gracious nod, gave him her card and pencil and watched him write his name in it. When he had finished, she smiled at him, and he, after a bow for her and a cold, flickering glance for Martin, went off to join a group nearby. Ginny sipped her wine-cup and looked at Martin over the glass.
‘Do you feel better,’ she asked, ‘now that you have had your revenge on poor Sidney?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I have not had your apology yet.’
‘No. Well. I apologize.’
‘That is hardly to be compared with Sidney’s, but I suppose it will have to do.’ She turned and set down her empty glass. ‘Now finish your drink and come with me and I’ll introduce you to some of the guests before dancing begins again.’
‘Just at present,’ Martin said, ‘I would prefer to stand and watch.’
‘But you should be asking some pretty girl to dance and you can’t if you haven’t been introduced.’ She studied his face, so stubbornly set, and: ‘I don’t know why you came,’ she said, ‘if you’re not going to enjoy yourself.’
‘I am enjoying myself, in my own way, but ‒’ he cast a glance round the crowded room, ‘I am not brave enough to dance with a girl I’ve only just met. Besides which, most probably, all your young ladies would turn me down, thinking it beneath them to dance with such a hobbledehoy.’
‘Well, at least you can ask Kate,’ Ginny said. ‘You don’t have to be brave for that. And as she is one of your hostesses, it is in fact your duty to ask her.’
‘Yes. So I shall. In a little while.’
‘Very well. I’ll leave you, then.’
Later, with a third glass of wine-cup in his hand, he stood in the square-bayed window recess, close to where one of the open casements let in the soft warm summer air. At half past seven it was still light and the evening sun, shining almost horizontally through the huge expanse of glass, cast a pattern of the small leaded panes over the greater part of the hall, so that the people gathered there stood or strolled about in reticulations of light and shade.
It was a relief to him to stand alone again for a while, and although by doing so he attracted attention, as before, somehow it no longer worried him. Ginny had been quite right: he did indeed feel better for talking to Sidney Hurne as he had, for anger in some strange way had cleared his brain and removed his self-consciousness; and as he brooded on it now, he saw how easy it was to feel contempt for another human being. Just as Hurne despised him for being a mason and ill-clad, so he despised Hurne’s pretensions and hypocrisy. Somehow this discovery ‒ that every man had it in him to look down on another ‒ gave him a fresh view of his life, and the knowledge that he, in a worldly sense, was inferior to the people about him no longer caused him anxiety. He was here by invitation, and if the Tarrants treated him as a friend, what was Hurne’s contempt to him?
Suddenly he felt sure of himself, as though all things were possible, and nothing in the world could assail him; and with this feeling he was aware of a pleasant glow spreading throughout his whole being. In a while it occurred to him that the wine-cup might have something to do with this. He had never drunk wine until this evening. Perhaps he was intoxicated. He drained his glass and smiled to himself. That, he thought, must be his last. Another might undo the good and create mischief in its place.
Up in the minstrels’ gallery, the leading musician, with his fiddle, struck up ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’, and the young people down below greeted the tune with applause. Martin watched as they moved about, taking their positions for the dance, behind the two leading couples: Ginny partnered by George Winter, Hugh with George’s sister Leonie.
After ‘Sir Roger’ there was a waltz. Ginny’s partner was now Sidney Hurne, and Martin observed, with scornful detachment, that the youth danced with verve and panache, keeping up a flow of talk which Ginny obviously found amusing. Deliberately, Martin looked elsewhere, and saw that Miss Katharine had joined the dance, her partner a tall, dark-haired young man, rather older than most of the guests, being in his mid-twenties, and with a look of assurance that made him appear older still. He and Katharine, dancing together, made such a strikingly handsome couple that many eyes were turned their way; but of this they seemed unaware, and the man certainly, Martin thought, was utterly absorbed in his partner.
A touch on his shoulder and Hugh stood beside him.
‘You are not dancing.’
‘Neither are you.’
‘After “Sir Roger” I needed a rest. I have to respect my poor lungs, you know.’
‘Who is that man dancing with Miss Katharine?’
‘Oh,’ said Hugh, turning to look, ‘that’s Charles Yuart of Hainault Mill.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.’
‘Charles has been away quite a lot, travelling abroad on his father’s business. But two months ago his father suffered a stroke and Charles came home to take over the mill. My father met him at a meeting of the Turnpike Trust and invited him back afterwards. Since then he’s been a regular visitor.’
>
Hugh paused, watching as Katharine and her partner whirled past, just a few yards away.
‘Charles is very much taken with Kate, as you will observe for yourself, and she seems strongly attracted to him. Ginny, who thinks she knows the signs, is sure it will come to a match one day. But that is confidential, mind.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Martin said, and then, after a little pause: ‘Is he good enough for her, do you think?’
‘With regard to birth and breeding, do you mean, or regarding his wealth?’
‘No, I mean as a man,’ Martin said.
‘Well,’ Hugh said, weighing the question. ‘I don’t know that any man could ever be good enough for Kate … but he seems a decent enough sort of fellow and my father thinks very highly of him.’
‘He has the look,’ Martin said, ‘of a man who is seldom troubled by doubts.’
‘He’s certainly an ambitious one. He thinks the woollen trade needs pulling up and is all in favour of modern ideas. He wants to extend Hainault Mill and bring in the new power-looms, but his father won’t hear of it. The cloth trade is still in a bad way and old Mr Yuart has had a struggle to keep going these past twenty years. But Charles thinks that is all going to change and so do some of the other clothiers. There’s already been a lot of expansion in the north of England but down here we’re lagging behind. Charles would like to be the one who sets things moving in the Cullen Valley and restores Gloucestershire to its former glory.’
‘Let’s hope he succeeds, then, because that will be good for everyone. But I thought these new power-looms had already been tried a few years ago and were not what they were cracked up to be.’
‘Yes, but they’ve been improved since then.’
While Martin was talking to Hugh, John Tarrant came up to them.
‘Well, Martin. I’m glad you could come. I hope you are enjoying yourself?’
‘Thank you, sir. Very much indeed.’
‘Why aren’t you dancing, you two boys? Aren’t there enough pretty girls for you?’
‘Oh, there are pretty girls in droves,’ said Hugh, ‘but they will keep for a while, Papa, and the summer night is young as yet.’
The lively waltz came to an end; the couples stood, some clapping their hands as they looked up at the gallery; and after a moment the five musicians stood up and bowed their acknowledgement. They then sat down again; the couples drifted about the hall; and John Tarrant moved on, going the round of his children’s guests, making sure, in his affable way, that he spoke to every one of them.
The sun had gone from the windows now and the hall was growing shadowy, but during the present lull in the dancing, Jobe, in his role of butler, appeared, with three of the maids, bringing lamps and candelabra, already lit, which they set down on tables and shelves, here and there about the hall. As they went to and fro, bringing more lamps and candelabra, sometimes carrying two at a time, Martin noticed that John Tarrant was watching them very carefully. It seemed from his frown that he was displeased and in a moment something happened that drew an exclamation from him and brought him striding across the hall, for one of the maids, Prissie by name, as she set down the first of two candelabra, allowed the other to tilt so badly that a number of candles fell to the floor.
Martin instinctively darted forward; so did Hugh; but other young people, closer to the scene, were already gathering round the maid, taking the two candelabra from her, setting them safely down on the table, and retrieving the candles from the floor. Tarrant now came and reproved the maid. His face showed that he was angry, though he spoke, as always, with restraint.
‘Prissie, we have a rule in this house, and I’m sure you are well aware of it, that no one should ever attempt to carry more than one light at a time. Candles and lamps are dangerous things and I hope I never have occasion to remind you of this rule again.’ Turning, he looked at the other maids, standing sheepishly nearby. ‘Yes, you may well hang your heads. Prissie is not the only culprit. Now go on your way, all of you, and be thankful the accident was no worse.’
The three maids curtseyed and fled away. The young guests exchanged smiles and those who had hastened to Prissie’s rescue now spoke on her behalf. Of these Ginny was one, and now, as she replaced the douted candles, she said: ‘Don’t be too hard on her, for there really is no danger, Papa. Not when the stone floor is bare. They wanted to bring all the lights in before we began dancing again.’
‘They did wrong nevertheless. And I insist that my rule should be observed at all times. Are these candles damaged, my child? If so, they must be replaced.’
‘No, they are all in good order, Papa.’
Ginny took one of the lighted candles and with it re-lit the others, carefully and delicately, so that no drop of wax was spilt. Tarrant, with a nod, turned away. He crossed the hall to join Katharine who, standing with Charles Yuart, had been watching the little incident. Hugh now turned to Martin again.
‘My father, as you see, is frightened of fire. Rather excessively so, perhaps. That is because of an accident that occurred in the night-nursery when Ginny and I were two years old. A lighted candle was left on a shelf and somehow it fell into my cot. The bedding caught fire and I was burnt. I don’t remember it, of course, but I know it happened because of this.’ And Hugh, tilting his fair, handsome face, displayed the ugly pink-mottled scar that puckered the skin on his throat and jaw. ‘Hence my father’s stringent rule.’
‘You could have been burnt to death,’ Martin said.
‘There’s no doubt that I should have been, too, but for Ginny waking up. She saw the fire and began to scream. The nursemaid came in and I was saved.’ Hugh gave a gentle, lop-sided smile, and ended with a touch of self-mockery. ‘Thus the son and heir was spared and perhaps ‒ who knows what lies ahead? ‒ a Member of Parliament to boot.’
‘Perhaps even,’ Martin said, ‘a future Prime Minister.’
‘Ah!’ Hugh said, with a bright glance. ‘All things are possible, I suppose.’
The maids were coming in with more lamps ‒ one to each maid this time ‒ and Katharine, leaving Charles Yuart in conversation with her father, went to intercept Annie, reminding her that lamps were needed up in the gallery, for the musicians. She then stood, surveying the company, and Martin, excusing himself to Hugh, took this chance of approaching her. Nervous but resolute, he made his bow.
‘Miss Katharine,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘I hope you will do me the honour of dancing with me, if you have a dance to spare.’
Her grey eyes smiled at him. She understood perfectly that this formal speech, on this formal occasion, had required courage on his part; and he knew that she was pleased with him. But she offered no word of commendation: she paid him the greater compliment of taking his good manners for granted.
‘In truth I have plenty of dances to spare and I shall be delighted,’ she said.
‘I hope one of them is a quadrille, for I can do no other, I’m afraid.’
‘Come, now, I cannot believe that, for I saw you practising the waltz with Ginny only a few days ago, with Hugh playing the violin.’
‘Yes, but practice did not make perfect,’ he said, ‘and I’m bound to make janders of it.’
‘Very well. A quadrille it shall be.’ Katharine consulted her card. ‘That means the very next dance, so you may as well stay and talk to me until it begins.’
‘Yes,’ he said, and was instantly dumb.
‘Poor Martin. I’m afraid the evening is proving rather an ordeal for you. But you’re bearing up very well.’
‘All part of my education.’
‘Well, I hoped you would find that you were able to enjoy at least some part of it. But it will become easier in time, you know, and all experience, whatever its nature, is bound to be useful in some way or other.’
‘You mean,’ he said, thinking of Ginny, ‘it will help me when entertaining at Scurr?’
Katharine looked at him steadily.
‘You will not always be at Scurr. Somehow o
r other, in God’s good time, you will make something different of your life and arrange it more to your own liking. I am utterly sure of that.’
‘Well, if I do,’ Martin said, ‘it will all be thanks to you.’
‘No, not all of it,’ she said. ‘You must take some of the credit yourself. When you first came to us my father said you were worth helping, and he was right. You have a gift for learning things. And, what is more, for enjoying them.’
For a moment Martin was dumb again, and because he valued Katharine’s esteem above anything else in the world, her words brought a warm flush to his face.
‘It seems,’ he said, when he found his voice, ‘that I shall have to make something of myself if only to justify your faith in me.’
‘Yes. I’ll be disappointed, otherwise.’
The musicians struck up the Hampton Quadrille, and couples moved across the great hall, converging and forming into their sets. Martin turned to Katharine and bowed. She curtseyed to him and gave him her hand. Proudly he led her into the dance.
It was well after midnight when he returned home to Scurr, and the cottage was in darkness. Nan was still awake, however, and as he crept past her bed, she sat up and whispered to him.
‘Did you enjoy the party?’
‘Some bits I did. Others not.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she whispered, dismayed.
‘It’s all right. I’m glad I went. The good bits made up for all the rest.’
‘Tell me tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Good night.’
During the next few days, whenever brother and sister were together, the subject of the party was discussed exhaustively between them, until even Nan became satisfied that every detail was known to her. Rufus, on the other hand, demanded only a few solid facts.
‘Were there many people there?’
‘Between forty and fifty, all told.’
‘Gentry, of course?’
‘Mostly, yes. Including some of the clothiers’ sons. If you class them as gentry, that is.’
‘How else would you class them, might I ask?’
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 9