‘You will have come today to patch up our rioters, doctor.’ Aunt Hannah said, her sarcasm deepening, her eyes sliding to my mother; who rose, predictably, to her bait.
‘Rioters. Hannah? Whatever can you mean?’
‘Only that you have chosen an unfortunate time for calling, Elinor, since our local Chartists are coming today—have already arrived, if I am not mistaken—to present their petition to our workers in the mill yard. Yes, you can see them from the window—they have overturned a barrel to serve as a table and are collecting signatures, or are trying to, since I doubt if there are many who can write their names. Well, they went to Nethercoats a month ago and, when Bradley Hobhouse discharged all those who signed, there was a scuffle and a few broken heads. So my husband has taken the precaution of inviting his doctor, I presume.’
‘I hope I may not be needed, Mrs. Agbrigg.’
‘I daresay. But if you are, it will not be the first time. It may interest you to know—you and my niece, Miss Prudence Aycliffe, who interests herself in these matters—that my brother’s wife—your Aunt Verity, Prudence—saw her father murdered down there, in this same mill yard. When she was no more than sixteen, and the night after was at her brother’s side when he was done to death—horribly done to death—by felons who called themselves Luddites in those days. Chartists today. I do not forget it—even if others do.’
‘Hannah—my dear Hannah,’ my mother murmured, her hand going out in a gesture of comfort and affection to her sister, my invincible, immovable Aunt Hannah, who seemed most amazingly close to tears. But the weight of memory between them was clearly burdensome to Mr. Agbrigg who his face for a moment more drawn than I had ever seen it, blinked hard, needing, I thought to clear his vision, to shut something away.
‘There’ll be no bloodshed today,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll go down and see to it.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ his wife said.
‘There’s no need.’
‘I did not say there was need. I said I will come with you, as far as the bottom gate. And Dr. Ashburn will remain here. The presence of a doctor is an announcement that we expect violence, and so may invite it. He can be sent for.’
She picked up her shawl, wrapped it firmly around her shoulders, and went out of the room, leaving us without a word, her face set and stony, and we gathered instinctively at the window where, positioned as we were so high on the terraced hillside, we could see right over the factory wall to the yard, which appeared, I thought, very much as usual. There were the carts I was accustomed to see in that place, piled high with wool-sacks on entering, with bales of dress-goods on leaving, shire-horses standing massive and patient between the shafts, the usual comings and goings of equally patient women, heads bowed, submissive, slow-moving as herd animals transferring from one place of labour to the other. Nothing in any way disturbing except a knot of men in a far corner, indistinguishable, by their stooping shoulders, their narrow backs, from Mr. Agbrigg himself, indistinguishable from the villainous, riotous Chartists who were every bit as hollow-cheeked and meagrely put-together as they.
I saw Aunt Hannah come to a halt at her garden gate, the final vantage point, shielding her eyes from the uncertain winter sun as her husband walked on; through the herd of weaving-women, who without raising their eyes made way for him, until, reaching the barrel, he lifted his narrow shoulders in a shrug that said ‘All right then, get on with it;’ and remained standing there, only his good suit and the glint of his gold watch-chain setting him apart.
‘Poor Hannah,’ my mother said. ‘She would have had a better view had she remained here at the window, but she’s making a pilgrimage. She was to have married Aunt Verity’s brother, Edwin Barforth, who was murdered down there so long ago. How sad, for I can barely remember him—only that he would have inherited the mill, had he lived, and would have made Hannah so very rich; Mr Agbrigg was here too, that day, when Edwin died—it comes back to me now—and then afterwards the mill was left to Verity, who married my brother Joel, and made him rich instead of Hannah. I see that she has not forgotten it, for she has gone down to the gate so that we cannot see her tears, you may be sure—which cannot be altogether comfortable for her husband. My goodness, how strangely things turn out—how terrifying it all is—for, if that young Luddite had not stabbed Edwin Barforth to death, then I do believe, girls, that none of you—and I include your cousins Blaize and Nicholas and Caroline—would ever have been born. With Edwin alive, old Mr. Barforth would have had no need of Joel to run the mill and would not have obliged Verity to marry him. She would have married—good heavens, yes!—she would have married your half-brother, Crispin Aycliffe, except that he would not have been your brother since your father, in those circumstances, would never have married me. One young bride in Blenheim Lane was more than enough for him. He would not have burdened himself with two. I might have found a clergyman to take me, or a schoolmaster, and lived-out my days in genteel poverty, borrowing Hannah’s carriage and begging her cast-off bonnets instead of giving her mine. And Verity—well—she would have had her grand dowry, just the same, and her moment of romance, but I cannot think your, brother Crispin would have made a comfortable husband. And all this because of one starving lad down there in the mill yard with a carving knife. I wish you would stop me from running on so, Prudence, or I shall give myself nightmares.’
My mother returned to her chair, somewhat tearful herself, leaving me at the window with Prudence and Dr. Ashburn, both their faces intent, concentrating hard on that upturned barrel where the Chartist Petition was laid out, on the men who were standing around it, some of them making the earnest gestures of persuasion, others listening, walking a step or two away and shuffling back again, glancing sidelong at Mayor Agbrigg, who, with that eternally patient ebb and flow of working-women around him—whose signatures were of no interest to anyone—made no attempt to intervene.
‘I don’t understand.’ I said. ‘I feel that I should, but I don’t know—’
‘Hush.’ Prudence muttered. ‘Be still. It’s important.’
But Dr. Ashburn, who had perhaps witnessed these scenes often enough to be fairly certain of the outcome, turned to me swiftly and with great courtesy. ‘They hope to present their Charter—they call it the People’s Charter—to Parliament in the spring, and, since one of its demands is that the right to vote should be extended to every man in the country, they feel that as many working-men as possible—being the class not yet empowered to vote at all—should sign the petition which is to accompany it.’
‘Yes. I see that. But why come to the mill, disrupting working hours? They could sign it later, couldn’t they, somewhere else, with no fear of Mr. Agbrigg taking their names—or whatever it is they are afraid of?’
‘My word!’ Prudence snapped, as sarcastic as Aunt Hannah, ‘That was spoken like a true Barforth, sister.’ If our cousin Nicholas were here today I imagine he would turn everyone of them off for the crime of time-wasting as Mr. Hobhouse did. Fortunately. I suspect Mr. Agbrigg arranged for Nicholas to be busy elsewhere this afternoon, which, while it may lessen our entertainment, will at least prevent violence.’
‘I do beg your pardon.’ I told her, half laughing, but quite ready to defend myself, until once again Dr. Ashburn came quickly and with great good humour to my rescue.
‘Yes, and I think some of them were expecting to meet Mr. Nicholas Barforth, and may even be disappointed.’
‘Giles, how can you say that, especially since I know you believe their cause to be just?’
‘Indeed I do. But there are some among them who do not object to violence, who will provoke it and use it quite coolly for their own purposes—and who will manage themselves not to be hurt by it. They will tell you it is necessary because the majority of their colleagues are unreliable. And so they are, both unreliable and afraid, since they have known hunger before—as you and I have not—and are so terrified of being hungry again that they will be slow to make united stand. And, even when they
can bestirred to protest the moment things improve a little they will all go quietly home again. That is why reform is so long in coming.’
‘I am sure you are right.’ I told him.
‘Oh, Faith, you know nothing about it,’ my sister replied. ‘You are agreeing with Giles, now, but when you have listened to Uncle Joel and Nicholas tonight at Tarn Edge you will be saying the same to them. Giles believes, that every man, regardless of rank or bank balance, should have the right to decide how he wishes to be governed. The Barforths will tell you it is wrong to extend the franchise to the men in the mill yard because there are more mill-hands than Barforths, and if they all had a vote the mill-hands would win.’
‘Thank you. Prudence, for putting it in such simple terms for me.’
‘There is a little more, to it than that, of course.’ Giles Ashburn said, quietly smiling. ‘They are asking for a secret ballot so that they may cast their votes without fear of losing their employment, and without fear of intimidation. They are also demanding the abolition of property qualifications for Members of Parliament, and that such Members should no longer be obliged to support themselves in office but should be paid salaries, like other professionals. All of which is very revolutionary and quite frightening to many people. Understandably so, in fact since it could involve a considerable transfer of power.’
‘He means,’ Prudence said, her eyes still on the mill yard, ‘that if the Charter should be granted anybody—anybody at all—even one of those mill-hands down there, could stand for office. All it would take would be brains and eloquence and determination, not money and having friends in high places.’
‘And being a man, of course.’ I said wickedly, finding, somewhat to my embarrassment, that as Mr. Agbrigg turned and walked back towards the house, having avoided trouble by banishing Nicholas, and by his own shrewd, rough-spoken skill, and as Aunt Hannah came back into the room, still sharp and stony but resolutely dry of eye, Dr. Ashburn seemed quite intent on watching me.
‘You have made a conquest.’ Prudence said calmly as we drove off, leaving, him on the drive, his hat in his hand.
‘No, I have not. He was pleasant to me because I am your sister, that’s all.’
‘Nonsense. I know him well, and he is not usually so pleasant to young ladies. He does not have the time to spare. Well, if it amuses him to stare at you in that moonstruck fashion, I am sure I do not mind a bit. I merely mention it in case it should worry you.’
‘Prudence. I am sure you are mistaken.’
‘I am sure I am not. And there is no reason to look so guilty. We are friends, Giles and I—yes, fancy that—friendship between an eligible gentleman and a marriageable young lady. Impossible, you might think, since marriageable young ladies rarely have friendship on their minds. But in this case, I do assure you, it is the exact truth. And I would be considerably startled if he began to gaze at me like that. Mother will say the same—won’t you, mother?’
‘Yes, dear,’ she said. ‘So she will. In fact your mother is merely surprised, Faith dear, that you did not notice it yourself. If something should be obscuring your vision—well—ask yourself, my love, does anything in Cullingford seem changed?’
I knew, well enough, that there was no way of telling what meeting Nicholas again could mean to me. I had not pined continuously for him this past twelve month, had, in fact, met several other young men who had charmed me briefly, one image fading under the impact of the next. Yet, as I dressed for dinner that night, more than half convinced—or so I believed—that all I really wanted was to impress him, and Blaize too, with my Continental airs and graces, I became increasingly tremulous on the inside, clumsy and irritable on the outside, so that my hair would not take its usual smooth coil, my lovely blonde satin gown, of which I had such high hopes, seemed at once too much and too little, my nose most certainly too long.
‘Good heavens!’ Prudence said, slipping unaided into her light green silk, her hair going up without effort. ‘It’s only Tarn Edge. You’re not going to a ball. I expect you want Caroline to turn green, and Blaize, of course, always knows about one’s clothes. I wouldn’t expect Nicholas to notice—if that’s what you do expect—because he’ll know by now why Mr. Agbrigg sent him to Leeds this afternoon, and will be thoroughly displeased about it.’
I would be cool, I decided, as I crossed the hall at Tarn Edge, glancing with affection at the bronze stag which still guarded the stairs, the vast, stained-glass window still casting its patterns of ruby and emerald and gold on the landing sofa I had once shared with Nicholas. I would be a traveller returned from exotic places, hinting, most discreetly, most skilfully, at my store of new wisdom and experience, giving only a little of myself—as I’d seen these Parisiennes, those Roman ladies do—leaving no one in doubt that there was so very much more.
But I was, in fact, in a state of totally unsophisticated turmoil, dry-mouthed and breathless, and alarmingly, comically disappointed to find that Nicholas was not there.
‘Faith—how lovely!’ Aunt Verity said.
‘Aye. I’ll not quarrel with that,’ said Uncle Joel.
And while I kissed my aunt, and my uncle bent his head to kiss me—bathing me in his remembered odours of brandy and tobacco, his dark face so very much like Nicholas’—my ears, my nerves, were straining for the sound of his arrival, so that when the door clicked open, and it was Blaize who stood there, my eyes, for an instant, did not see clearly, and I turned to him with all the slow, careful nonchalance I had rehearsed for Nicholas.
‘Faith?’ he said, his voice containing a slight question.
‘Yes, Blaize—how do you do?’
‘Extremely well before—better now.’
But such mysterious allure as I had managed to acquire, which had been in some measure appreciated by Blaize and Dr. Ashburn, and which had not gone unnoticed by my uncle, was not at all apparent to Caroline, who, coming in behind her brother, announced that dinner would be ages yet and that she and I had ample time for a chat—very evidently about herself—upstairs.
‘Well, you have travelled even farther than I, and I must say it suits you,’ she said, ‘although I am not sure I would like to go abroad again. Mrs. Battershaw was sick on the crossing and Amy was such a bore. I was glad to be home again where everybody knows me. And I am glad to see you lack too, Faith, for there is no one—really—to whom one can talk. I have quite broken off with Amy Battershaw, and Prudence can think of nothing but drains and bandages, which will do very well for a doctor’s wife, since I imagine she will take the Ashburn man, don’t you, whatever she may say to the contrary? Well, we have plenty of time to talk now, especially if we are to wait for Nicholas, who has been over to Leeds and then gone straight from the station to the mill. There is a lot of extra work at Lawcroft, you see, since Mr. Agbrigg became mayor and has his civic duties to attend to,
‘Blaize seems to have finished on time.’
‘Yes—Blaize always does, if indeed he has been to the mill at all. He will have found some excuse, I expect, to spend the afternoon drinking somebody’s whisky, which seems a peculiar way of going about selling cloth, although oddly enough he does sell it. But Nicholas will be in the sheds all right, grinding away. Aunt Hannah is as pleased as punch, as you might expect, never thinking of the inconvenience it is causing to us, especially since father relied on Mr. Agbrigg, to keep an eye on Nicholas at Lawcroft. And, now that he is so busy with his water-carts, Nicholas may have extra work to do, but can do it as he pleases.’
‘And what about you, Caroline? We have been expecting to hear your wedding-bells for months.’
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘yes—I suppose I may be married whenever I make up my mind to it.’
‘And you have not made up your mind?’
‘Very likely I have. It is just that everyone expects it of me and sometimes I wonder if it is too soon.’
‘The Flood boy will not wait forever.’
And, drawing herself up like the empress we had always known her to
be, she said, ‘That is entirely his affair.’
‘Yes, indeed—and if that is how you feel about it, Caroline, then, although it would be a great feather in your cap to marry a Flood, it would be an even, greater one to turn him down.’
‘You are very bold,’ she said, annoyed at hearing her own, thought spoken, ‘I think we had best go downstairs for even mother cannot keep dinner waiting forever for Nicholas.’
But then, already half-way to her feet, she said, most unwillingly, ‘You are not by any chance acquainted with Matthew Chard? No, I hardly see how you could be, for he has only recently moved north. He is Sir Matthew Chard, in fact, since he has just succeeded his great-uncle at Listonby Park. Yes, the real heir—the grandson—was killed last year out hunting, and old Sir Richard Chard was obliged to send for Matthew, who had never lived much in Yorkshire before. And now he has inherited the loveliest house I think I have ever seen. I went there with the Floods in September—Julian and Matthew hunt together. He is a Leicestershire man.’
‘And you like him, this Sir Matthew Chard?’
‘Heavens—I have no reason to dislike him. He is perfectly agreeable. Is that the dinner gong at last, Faith? I suppose they have decided not to wait for Nicholas, as we are only a family party and need not go in in pairs. We had best hurry, for father is sure to be hungry.’
But Nicholas was in the hall as I came downstairs, offering me the perfect opportunity to reveal my new self to him at its best advantage, my blonde satin dress rustling on each shallow step as I descended, my fair hair as silver-pale in the lamplight—I hoped—as my mother’s, so that, had all gone according to plan, he should have looked up and seen a captivating stranger walking slowly towards him, smiling a cool, mysterious stranger’s smile, until quite suddenly she became a girl he had once known and—if Fortune should be on my side—would be anxious to rediscover. But Fortune, it seemed, was entirely absent. I saw him fling his hat and gloves irritably on to the hall table, heard his father’s sardonic question. ‘What kept you? I suppose we may eat now, Verity, since your son has arrived?’ and Nicholas’s curt reply, ‘Good Lord, I can’t come to table like this—straight from the sheds. Go in and I’ll join you when I’m ready.’
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