Broken Threads
The Corvill Family Saga Book 2
Tessa Barclay
Copyright © The Estate of Tessa Barclay 2018
This edition published 2018 by Wyndham Books
(Wyndham Media Ltd)
27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX
First published 1989
www.wyndhambooks.com/tessa-barclay
The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
With the exception of where actual historical events and people are described, this book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover artwork images: © Period Images / Nella (Shutterstock)
Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
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Chapter One
For the most part, the citizens of Galashiels were pleased with Miss Jenny Corvill’s marriage.
Some there were who, a few years ago at her twenty-first birthday, had written her off as an old maid. After all, when a woman reaches that watershed without showing much desire for the state of matrimony, it is reasonable to suppose she won’t change her mind. The more especially as Miss Corvill had plenty to occupy her at the mill.
Her eventual choice of husband was odd. Who else but Jenny Corvill would have taken a man she used to employ in her tweed mill? But then Ronald Armstrong had always been an unusual employee. In these days of expansion and invention in the weaving trade, Ronald Armstrong could have set up on his own at any time. Backers for a master dyer of Ronald’s ability would never have been lacking.
He, however, had left the employ of William Corvill and Son without explanation some years ago. ‘Just like him,’ the local gossips had said with sagely nodding heads. ‘Didna care to have a woman ordering him about.’
Whatever the truth of it, he had scarcely shown himself again in Galashiels before Miss Corvill had thrown herself into his arms. It seemed, by all the evidence, that the two had always had a fondness for each other.
When friends and acquaintances tried to fish for details of this hidden romance, no one in the Corvill family appeared to have anything to tell. Jenny’s widowed mother simply beamed with pleasure at her daughter’s happiness, her brother Edward had little to say except that he was ‘well pleased to have a man like Armstrong as a relative’. Only Edward’s wife, the fairy-like little Mrs Lucy Corvill, evinced any dissatisfaction.
And even that was muted. Those who belonged to Lucy’s social circle always regarded her as one who loved to please. Approval was as necessary to her as sunshine to a flower. For that reason, she said very little to show displeasure at the forthcoming marriage.
‘I’m sure it will all work out very well,’ she would remark, when pressed for her opinion.
‘But Jenny could have had Simpson. Or Archie Brunton.’ This was Mrs Kennet, wife of the town’s leading lawyer, naming the most prosperous farmer and the biggest landowner of the district.
Lucy Corvill said nothing, although a faint colour ‒ perhaps of anger ‒ came into her cheeks.
‘Aweel, if a lassie doesna fancy a man, she can say no until the right one comes along. The only wonder is,’ said Mrs Cairns, stabbing her needle into the sock she was darning, ‘that Ronald Armstrong should be the right one. He’s always been a pawky lad, fond of his own way. Jenny’ll mebbe find him hard to handle.’
‘I should think,’ blurted Lucy, ‘that he would have more sense than to argue with his betters.’ She broke off, bit her lip, and tried to smother the words by delving in the pile of garments the Ladies Sewing Circle was mending on behalf of the deserving poor.
‘Aha,’ thought Mrs Cairns, ‘she’s no pleased with the marriage though she willna let on.’
If the truth were known, Lucy Corvill was furious about it. To be sister-in-law to a common workman! She, the wife of the best-known mill owner in the Scottish Borders, she who had met Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort in person!
But Jenny was determined, and when Jenny Corvill set her mind on something, it was no use opposing her. Strange and unwomanly though she was, somehow she generally got her way without having to wheedle and coax as Lucy did.
Lucy knew she would never like Ronald, that Ronald would always have that look of hidden amusement when he conversed with her. Uppish, ignorant yokel, who did he think he was?
And God knew, he would have an even higher opinion of himself once he took over as manager of Waterside Mill. Edward Corvill, the ‘and Son’ of the original firm, had given his prospective brother-in-law the post unhesitatingly, as soon as the engagement was announced.
‘But Ned,’ Lucy had protested in their bedroom that night, ‘you can’t do that! He’s a nobody! You can’t hand over the running of the firm to a mere workman!’
Ned paused in unbuttoning the front of his evening shirt. ‘My love, he’s not a “mere” workman. He’s the greatest expert in dyes in the entire Scottish woollen industry. His reputation ‒’
‘All right, he’s a master dyer. But how do you know he can manage a mill?’
‘Lucy, he’s going to be Jenny’s husband,’ Ned said simply. ‘It wouldn’t be fitting to give him an inferior post, and since Jenny as a married woman could scarcely go on as manager, Ronald is the best substitute.’
Lucy felt a little stab of triumph at that. Jenny would no longer be the real head of Waterside Mill. Jenny would have to take her proper place in Galashiels society ‒ wife and mother, sister to the owner of the pre-eminent mill, a country lady like all the rest of them, no more and no less. At least there was that much of a silver lining to this dark cloud: the redoubtable Mistress Jenny Corvill of the weaving industry would cease to exist and her sister-in-law Lucy would no longer have to look up to her.
Cocooned though she w
as in blissful happiness, Jenny Corvill still retained enough of her normal shrewdness to know that her brother’s wife resented the forthcoming marriage. But then, Lucy resented almost everything that didn’t serve as an adornment to herself.
Jenny had long accepted the fact. Yet she felt guilty about dragging Ronald into this uneasy situation.
‘I ought to warn you what you’re taking on,’ she said to him one evening as they walked arm in arm in the gloaming of the hill’s shadow behind Gatesmuir. ‘We’re not a very happy family, my dear. What with Ned’s drinking and Lucy’s snobbery …’
‘But Ned’s going to take himself in hand.’
‘You think so?’
He nodded. ‘And as for Lucy; you don’t expect me to take Lucy seriously?’
Jenny shivered a little. Behind Lucy’s pale, fey exterior there was a sharp and unkind nature. She had had experience of it in the past. But then, in the main Lucy was so anxious to preserve appearances that she held herself well in check. Only extreme emotion drove her to reveal her true self. And if they were lucky, no extremes of emotion would be aroused in the foreseeable future.
Ronald was remarking that his future sister-in-law would probably forget her ill will towards him in the enjoyment of arranging the wedding reception.
‘She wants to choose my wedding gown for me,’ Jenny murmured.
‘Well, let her. What does it matter?’
‘But she wants me in virginal white with sheaves of pure lilies. And we both know how inappropriate that would be.’
‘I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,’ he replied, looking down at her with a sparkle of amusement under his tawny brows.
‘All the same, I feel badly about acting out a lie in church.’
‘So do you want to get wed in a scarlet shift?’
She laughed. ‘There’s no need to go quite that far, Ronald my dear.’
Lucy was full of enthusiasm for paper taffetas and slipper satin and silk voile. Jenny went along with her as far as the fabrics and the style were concerned, but insisted on pale primrose. Lucy frowned inwardly at the choice. Could it be ‒ could it really be ‒ that her calm and upright sister-in-law had some reason to shy away from the symbolism of purity?
‘Everyone will expect you to wear white,’ she objected.
‘Nonsense. I’m nearly twenty-five years old. White is for little girls.’
And with that Lucy had to be content.
The Corvills had a long-standing commitment to the little United Secession Church but for this great occasion Lucy campaigned strongly for the Parish Church of Galashiels. ‘Everyone expects it,’ she insisted. She had a new gown of cornflower blue repp silk which would be seen to best advantage in the big church.
The reception was held at Gatesmuir, with all the refinements that Lucy had intended ‒ hired waiters in livery, much champagne, bride cake from Ferguson’s in Edinburgh, and a string trio to play sentimental tunes.
Her plans were spoilt a little when, after changing into their going-away clothes, the bride and groom insisted on going off to the mill where another celebration was in progress, for the mill workers. Here there were more substantial eatings and drinkings, a fiddle-and-melodeon partnership to provide music for reels and jigs, and a great deal of noise. Lucy wondered that any truly refined person would even dream of going near it on her wedding day.
From here the happy couple departed in the carriage for their honeymoon. The chant of ‘poor oot, poor oot’, which meant the crowd expected the traditional pouring-out of largesse, was rewarded with a shower of silver coins from the window on Ronald’s side. Cheers and blessings were called after them.
‘Well, that’s that,’ Jenny said, as they sank back against the leather cushions.
‘Well, that’s that so far,’ Ronald amended. He put his arm around his bride. ‘Mrs Armstrong, are you happy?’
‘Don’t ask daft questions.’
‘That’s no way to speak to your husband, my good woman.’
She leaned her head against his shoulder. She was happy, no doubt about it. But she had no illusions about the problems that lay ahead.
When they returned from Dunbar to the workaday world, the first and unexpected problem had arisen.
Gowan, the station master, rushed to greet them. His perturbation was so great that he addressed Jenny in the name she had always been known by. ‘Mistress Corvill! Michty me, I expected you back lang since!’
‘Mr Gowan! What’s the matter?’
‘Did they no send word to you, mistress? There was an explosion at the mill the morning after you left ‒’
‘An explosion!’ Jenny grabbed at Ronald’s sleeve for support.
‘Aye, they think one o’ they mad European anarchists set a bomb ‒’
Abandoning their luggage on the platform, the newly-weds hurried on foot to Waterside Mill. Later they confided to each other that they had expected to see it in ruins. What they saw was the same old mill building, but silent, with a member of the Galashiels constabulary on guard outside, a few mill girls standing about, a bulge in the ground floor wall some yards from the entrance hall, and timber balks shoring it up.
Ronald’s longer stride had taken him there first. He rushed in. Saltley, the acting-manager, was supervising the removal of some twisted metal.
‘What the hell’s been happening?’ Ronald cried.
‘What? Oh, Mr Armstrong ‒ so there you are at last ‒’
‘What do you mean, at last! Why wasn’t I called back?’
‘Well, Mr Armstrong, that wasna up to me, and I thought you’d see it in the newspaper.’
Jenny had by now caught up with her husband. At the words, she stopped short. The truth was that during their blissful two weeks at Dunbar they had never so much as opened a newspaper, nor thought of anyone or anything except each other.
‘Gowan said something about a bomb,’ she put in, gasping for breath.
‘Ach, havers! The town’s been full of daft rumours ever since it happened.’ Saltley, his red face smeared with dust, looked vexed. ‘There wasna the least sign of a bomb or siccan a thing. The fact o’ the matter is, some drunken fool left a gas tap on with no light in the mantle, and over the night the gas accumulated so that when the town was at church on Sunday morning …’
Ronald had stalked past to look at the damage. It was a miserable enough sight in the clear light of the May afternoon. A whole set of carding machines ‒ scribbler, carder and condenser ‒ had been removed. Those on either side were damaged, bent steel and wires hanging loose. ‘Good God …’
‘It’s a mercy it happened on a Sunday,’ Jenny breathed. ‘Think if anyone had been here!’
‘McWhin the watchman was here ‒’
‘Was he badly hurt?’
‘Not him! Safe at the back of the mill where he fell asleep when the rest o’ the revellers went to their beds. He was as fou as a turnip-skin, still had no great hold on his wits when we all ran to see what had happened.’
‘What a mess,’ groaned Ronald.
‘What a homecoming, sir,’ said Saltley, shaking his head mournfully. ‘I’m sair sorry.’
‘Why is the place so silent?’ Jenny said, lifting a hand to call attention to the fact.
‘Well, mistress ‒ we had to get out the wreckage and shore up the wall ‒’
‘But that was ten days ago,’ Ronald interrupted.
‘Aye, well, the first day we thought ‒ aiblins there might really be a bomb ‒ so Mr Corvill said ‒’
‘Mr Corvill?’
‘Of course, Mr Armstrong. I didna like to take responsibility on sic a thing.’
‘And the girls?’ inquired Jenny.
‘They’ve been laid off ‒ them and all other body.’
‘But why?’ said Jenny and Ronald, almost in unison.
Ronald walked across the carding room. ‘Two sets of machines here are damaged and out of action, but the others seem to be all right.’
‘Aye. Mr Armstrong, as far as we
can see ‒’
‘Then why aren’t they back at work?’
‘Well, y’see, we turned off the power ‒’
‘And let the steam boilers out,’ Jenny put in. ‘Not even the finishing department is working.’
‘No, mistress, Mr Corvill said ‒’
‘Get the boiler-room men back, get the steam going,’ Ronald said. ‘We need a team of cleaners to get the dust off the machines. What was on them when it happened?’
‘The dark green yarn for Pattern 401,’ Jenny said.
‘Oh yes, so it was. That’s no problem, there’s plenty more of that yarn in the yarn store ‒’ Ronald broke off, and began unbuttoning his frock coat so as to begin work at once. ‘Go you home, Jenny, speak to Ned, find out what’s been in his mind. I’ll get things started here.’
‘Yes, dear.’
The shock on the acting-manager’s face when she meekly accepted this command wasn’t lost on Jenny. She hurried off, put out that Ronald hadn’t couched it as a suggestion, but with more important things to worry about.
At Gatesmuir, she found outward peace and quiet. Her mother and sister-in-law were playing hostess to a meeting of the Welfare and Benevolent Association. Jenny hurried in almost before the parlour maid had got the door open.
‘Mother, where’s Ned?’
‘Oh! Jenny! Oh …’ Millicent Corvill stumbled to her feet. ‘Excuse me, ladies, my daughter …’
Jenny heard a murmur of sympathy as her mother hastened out to her in the hall. ‘Och, poor thing … what a homecoming … it’ll fair o’erset her …’
‘Jenny, I’m so glad you’re back! I’ve been at my wits’ end, people wanting decisions that I’m not fit to be making ‒’
‘You?’ Jenny said, not troubling to hide her astonishment. ‘You’ve been making decisions? About what?’
‘The mill, my dear, and many another thing. You see ‒’
‘But Ned should have shouldered all that ‒’
‘Aye, but that’s what I’m trying to tell you ‒’
‘Mother, where is Ned?’
Her mother, flushed with shame, looked down at her soft leather house-shoes. ‘We don’t know, dear.’
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