Deep Waters

by Ann Cliff

  Roger looked at her carefully. ‘Has Guy Potts given you more trouble, Rachel?’

  She paused before answering. Roger had promised to thrash Guy if he molested her again, but she didn’t want that. ‘Next year he will come into his inheritance. Until then Lady Agnes is trying to keep things as they are, but the poor woman has no control over him.’

  Roger shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do, although Leeds want the matter to be decided quickly, the Chief Engineer told me. The site should be decided before Guy turns twenty-one … which means nothing of course, if the other landowners are pushed by Bromley into agreeing with him.’

  ‘Why is Mr Bromley so much against the Woodley site?’ Nathan wondered. ‘He could at least have looked at your work.’

  Roger laughed. ‘He’s a city gent, I really think he hates the idea of working up there, among all those fells and that wide expanse of sky. He would be one of the site superintendants and would have to go there in all weathers and listen to the labourers’ complaints! Firby’s more civilized, he can imagine building a workmen’s village here with no trouble at all.’

  Rachel remembered meeting Mr Bromley on his tour of the Hall and his rude remark about her ancestry. ‘I don’t think he cares about people. The fact that hundreds of people will have to leave won’t worry him at all. He probably thinks he’s doing them a favour, sending them to live in a town.’

  ‘I suppose he might be thinking of the climate in winter,’ Nathan suggested. ‘There’s more rain and snow up there and it’s a coat colder than Firby.’ The older folk often compared climates in this way.

  ‘More rain means more water for Leeds, as I have pointed out …’ Roger leaned back in his chair and Rachel thought he looked suddenly tired. ‘I’m afraid I have to leave now, to go back to the office. Mrs Garnett invited me to join your family for Christmas, and I will take a few days’ extra leave. I’ll chop some more wood for you then, Mr Brown.’ Roger would not stay for a meal. ‘I have to catch a train.’

  After he had gone, there was silence in the kitchen except for the ticking of the old clock. Nathan walked about the kitchen for a while.

  ‘I’m improving every day,’ he told his granddaughter. ‘It’s time you went back to help out at home, much as I like having you here. Kit can come and fetch me for Christmas, if he will.’

  Rachel sat at the table and pulled a sheet of paper towards her. ‘If I post a note to the Herald today on my way home, it should be in time for this week’s edition,’ she said. ‘I will go home, Grandfather, but I will be back tomorrow.’

  Walking down the village street to post her report, Rachel wondered whether she should tell the Herald what Roger had said. But Guy Potts was apparently telling everyone the same story, so why not? These thoughts were occupying her mind when she saw a cart coming towards her: Jim Angram with bags of grain.

  Jim pulled up the cart beside her and jumped down, then stood awkwardly at the horse’s head. ‘Good day, Rachel. I … er … was coming to see you.’

  ‘We haven’t seen much of you lately, Jim,’ Rachel said quietly. ‘How is Violet?’

  Jim jumped as though he’d been stung.

  ‘It’s all right, lad,’ she said gently. ‘I know about Violet.’

  ‘Violet’s going home to Skipton for the holidays after Christmas, she’s staying for the school nativity play,’ Jim said miserably. ‘But … how did you know? I’ve been feeling that bad, you and me are practically engaged and all that …’ He stood fiddling with the horse’s bridle, not looking at her.

  Rachel said lightly, ‘Good job we’re not married, isn’t it? We can forget about you and me, Jim. I’ve seen you with Violet … whether it lasts or not, there’s something between you. And there’s not much between you and me. We’re friends, I suppose, but that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, lass …’ Jim was looking more cheerful.

  ‘You’re not. I am ending our so-called engagement, so you, my lad, are being jilted. How do you like that?’ Rachel laughed; she was happy that it was out in the open.

  ‘I’m that glad you’re not angry,’ Jim said fervently. ‘I – told my Ma about Violet and she was upset, she’s worried about you and says she wants you for a daughter in law.’

  ‘Because I make good sausages?’ Rachel laughed again. ‘You don’t marry a girl just because she suits your mother, not in Yorkshire these days! Happy Christmas, Jim, and don’t worry!’

  SEVENTEEN

  Just before Christmas, Alex Finlay decided to try out a daring idea. He wanted to start a book publishing business in Ripon, but the owners of the Herald were not keen to invest in books. They preferred newspapers.

  ‘Everybody reads newspapers,’ the Chairman told Alex, ‘but how many read books? Not so many, I think.’

  However, the Board had no objection if he wanted to invest in the venture at his own expense, provided it did not take up too much of his time.

  His plan was to use the printers who had a business in Ripon just across the square from his office, rather than set up his own press. The owner of the business, Edward Darley, was an experienced man who would guide him through details such as the choice of paper and binding, things that would affect the cost and also the appearance of a book.

  ‘You’re a professional when it comes to editing and layout … I suppose you’re thinking of local history books, like Edmund Bogg’s?’ Darley chuckled. ‘They are very popular. Unless you’ve written a novel, of course!’

  ‘Local history would be a good idea,’ Alex agreed. ‘No novels, Mr Darley.’

  A legacy from an uncle was sufficient to see the venture off the ground; Alex was prepared to forget about buying a house in Ripon for the present.

  Susan Sutton was also on Alex’s mind. He was fascinated by her bright, confident personality. The publishing venture would, he hoped, interest her and she might even want to be involved in it. Although few women would venture into a man’s world, Susan helped her father with the running of the Cranby estate.

  ‘I like to have plenty to do,’ she had told him.

  Alex had begun to visit Cranby Chase quite often; his mother’s family were similar people to the Suttons and he felt at home there. Mr Sutton owned a brewery at Tadcaster, the profits from which were invested in improvements to his estate. He was often away on business, but Susan was always pleased to see Alex. An aunt of hers lived with them and acted as chaperone, so that the conventions were observed. But sometimes Alex and Susan went riding and the aunt stayed at home.

  One fine afternoon they had arranged to ride through the park surrounding the Sutton’s house.

  ‘Did you know that Father has gone to London, about this reservoir affair?’ Susan greeted him when he reached the stables. ‘That little toad Guy Potts has organized the Leeds people to build the dam at Firby, after all! He’s a traitor to his class and to his tenants as well!’ Her eyes flashed; Susan looked magnificent when she was angry. ‘If tenants lose their farms, there is no recompense. I wonder how many of them, or their workers would find a living somewhere else. I’ve talked to our tenants, the ones that could be affected and they are very worried.’

  Alex smiled. ‘The next edition of the Herald will carry similar information, without the – um – epithets. My correspondent says that the decision is likely to be Firby.’ He paused. ‘Do you really think Potts could influence the decision, on his own? One of the engineers is very much in favour of Firby, although the correspondent doesn’t name him.’

  ‘Excuse me, Alex, but have you met Potts? I don’t know how poor Lady Agnes puts up with him! I was there for the pheasant shoot and that day, he was obnoxious! Father and the other two were discussing the dam and Guy was obviously in disagreement. He wants the estate to be sold immediately. I am sure that it will be his fault if Firby is flooded.’

  Alex had met Potts; he had a vivid memory of his encounter with Guy’s fist, in the farmyard at Firby Hall. He privately thought the ‘little toad’
was mad, but decided to forget about that experience.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. Obnoxious is the word.’

  A groom had saddled her horse and he held the bridle while Susan mounted, spreading her riding skirt gracefully around her. Miss Sutton looked well on a horse. She had the fresh complexion of a countrywoman and had obviously spent a great deal of time outdoors. Alex had often wondered how women managed to ride side saddle, but Susan did it with ease and grace. She could jump fences as well as he could.

  When they were out of earshot of the stables, Alex asked, ‘What does Mr Sutton hope to do in London, Susan?’

  ‘He knows a few politicians and he’s quite friendly with people who pull the strings in government. He had no strong feelings about the dam at first, of course the Chase here won’t be flooded. But our tenants bordering Firby will lose their land and there’s not much we can do about it. Papa’s concerned, he says he will talk to everybody in the area, to find out where there might be other farms to let. He does try to help our people where he can … unlike Guy Potts.’ Susan was obviously proud of her father.

  ‘He’s a considerate landlord,’ Alex agreed.

  Susan nodded. ‘As time has gone on, he’s become a champion of the Firby cause and he really wants to beat Guy Potts. He has grave suspicions about the youth.’ She laughed. ‘Father is very … determined when he wants to beat somebody.’

  ‘I must ask whether Mr Sutton will give us an interview for the Herald,’ Alex suggested, but Susan thought not.

  ‘With respect, he probably won’t, he’s talking to the Yorkshire Post. That’s a really influential paper,’ she said robustly. Alex winced, but he knew she was right. ‘It’s published in Leeds, so the men who make decisions there will read it. They need to know the truth about the human cost of flooding Firby.’

  Susan was a bold young woman with decided opinions. She would tell him what she thought about the publishing idea; it would be useful to consult a woman, since the booksellers reported that many books were bought by women.

  ‘A splendid idea!’ was Susan’s verdict, when he mentioned publishing as they were on the homeward ride. ‘Some sort of Yorkshire content would be very popular – look at Edmund Bogg’s walking tours! Is that the sort of thing you have in mind, Alex? May I be involved?’

  Alex was surprised at her enthusiasm. ‘What would you like to do – have you written a book yourself?’

  They were cantering up a rise and Susan urged her horse forward, to beat Alex to the top. When he caught up, she was laughing and breathless. ‘That gave Ripley a stretch! But we were talking about book publishing. I’m interested because I would love to be involved in a business, calculating costs and returns, that sort of planning. I think I might be good at business, I’ve learned a little from helping Father here.’

  Alex’s cautious Scottish brain, inherited from his father, thought that Susan might want to enjoy speculating with his money, but he put that aside. ‘You’re welcome to help me with the planning, if you like,’ he said. ‘I believe you would be good at letting people know about the books – discreetly advertising them and making sure that booksellers want to stock them.’

  ‘Very good – what’s our first book going to be?’ Susan looked as though she was ready to start immediately.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Of course, Susan, this will be a very small publishing house compared with large, well-established publishers in London and Edinburgh. It won’t have prestige at first and it probably won’t attract established writers. We wouldn’t get people like Scott or Dickens or the Brontës! That’s one reason why I don’t want to publish novels.’ They reined in at the stables and Alex jumped down, then helped Susan to dismount.

  Susan was persistent. ‘The big publishers must have started somewhere!’ She was quiet for a few minutes. ‘A local book, published here in Yorkshire, could appeal to the people who read the Herald. People who don’t read novels.’

  As they walked up to the house, Susan clapped her hands. ‘I know what you should do! A recipe book, Alex, of Yorkshire or even North Country recipes. You’ve told me your new Women’s page is popular.’

  Susan, unlike most women Alex knew, never chattered. She glanced at him with her bright eyes and left a silence for him to think about her idea as they went indoors.

  Beside a log fire in the sitting room, Susan’s aunt was busy with needlework. She looked up with a smile for Alex, who was a favourite with her.

  ‘Enjoy your ride? Of course you did! There is fresh tea over there.’

  Susan led Alex over to the tea table by the window.

  ‘That is a good idea, if we can find a second Mrs Beeton,’ he said cautiously. It was a brilliant idea, but he needed time to think about it.

  ‘What enthusiasm!’ laughed Susan. ‘You obviously don’t rush into things.’ She poured tea for them both and carried a cup over to her aunt. ‘I can visualize it … one recipe to each page, with a drawing and a note on the history or folklore that relates to it.’

  ‘I think Rachel Garnett would be able to come up with some useful material,’ Alex said thoughtfully. ‘In fact … it could be Rachel’s book. She could try out recipes from other sources as well.’

  ‘Rachel would be a good choice.’ Susan passed him a plate of biscuits. ‘Cook made these, she would be pleased to give us some of her recipes, I think.’ She turned to her aunt and explained what they were talking about. ‘Yorkshire recipes, Aunt, for a book.’

  ‘The recipes in the Herald are sensible,’ Aunt Jane said brightly. ‘Cook and I have talked about them. Are you planning something?’

  ‘I’m hoping that Miss Garnett who sends in the recipes will help with the book,’ Susan told her. ‘I will try to research the history of some of these foods … someone told me that Yule bread came originally from Norway.’

  They talked about illustrations. ‘A good drawing of the finished cake or whatever it is … to make people want to try it,’ Alex decided. He looked round the room and saw an easel in the far corner. ‘Are you an artist, Susan? Perhaps you could be the illustrator?’

  An hour was spent looking through Susan’s portfolio of drawings, which were impressive.

  ‘I had a good art teacher,’ she said. ‘I love drawing, but not painting – too messy!’ As in everything, Susan was not coy about her art. She said in her straightforward way, ‘I will try a few drawings to see whether they would be suitable for book illustrations. But if they’re not, I won’t be offended. I only have a mediocre talent.’

  The afternoon had gone very well. Alex was pleased that Susan was so interested in his project and that she wanted to work with him. Fleetingly, he wondered whether Mr Sutton would approve. He might have made plans for a brilliant marriage for his only daughter and not want her to spend more time with a lowly newspaper editor.

  In fact, he reflected as he looked through the drawings, his friendship with Susan was on fragile ground. Well born and well educated, Alex Finlay was not wealthy. He could never offer Susan a home like Cranby Chase. They were drawn to each other from their first meeting, but what of the future?

  A maid came in with lamps and Alex realized that outside the big windows, night was falling.

  ‘I’d better be off,’ he said.

  They agreed to meet soon after Christmas, to start work on plans for the book. Where they could do this was not yet clear; he could hardly use the newspaper office for a private venture.

  Riding back to Ripon under a rising moon, Alex decided not to worry about the future but to concentrate on the present. He had two days off at Christmas, not long enough for him to visit his parents in the south. The weather was cold and snow was talked about, so he was glad enough not to be travelling. He would spend the holiday planning his new venture. On Christmas Eve, it would be good to go to the service in the cathedral and for Christmas Day, he was invited to the home of a friend of his father, a Ripon solicitor, Robert Denham.

  The only drawback with dinner at the Denhams was Mr Denham’s t
wittering daughters. Mrs Denham was a well-built lady who was looking for suitable husbands for her two girls, a fact which made them self-conscious. The girls competed with each other for Alex’s attention and he found them tiring.

  The next day at his office, Alex had a visit from the Herald Chairman, who was in a good humour. He seemed to be interested in the publishing project and Alex told him what they had planned.

  ‘Miss Sutton wants to be involved,’ he said, knowing that the Chairman was Miss Sutton’s uncle.

  ‘Young women want to be involved in everything, these days. Heaven knows what they’ll get up to in the future!’ He looked over his half-moon glasses at his editor.

  Alex had talked to Susan long enough to know some of the arguments.

  ‘Well,’ he said mildly, ‘women are half the human race and they do possess brains, they tell us. Some of them would like to do more than look after a home.’ He thought of Rachel, who loved to write.

  The Chairman chuckled. ‘I can see that my niece has been influencing you. She’s a charming girl, but a mite too forceful! She knows a lot of people and won’t be afraid to promote your book … I can imagine that she’ll be a great help.’

  The Chairman went off to a meeting of the Board and came back with a suggestion. ‘The room we meet in – it’s used very little. Would you like to borrow it for your publishing project? If Susan’s involved you need to meet somewhere respectable, you can’t just sit about in public houses as you journalists often do. Just keep a record of the hours you take off from the Herald, I’m sure they will be made up in overtime. You’ve worked long hours recently.’

  Alex beamed. ‘Thank you, sir, that will be excellent!’ He had wondered how to overcome that particular obstacle. It was a perfect solution; he needed somewhere to sort out the material as it came in, as well as somewhere to talk over the book with Susan and Rachel.