Jessie would often reminisce about the good old days. ‘I learnt all I know from me mam. She’d sit rocking to and fro on her stool, swaving she called it, using this very same crooked pin and knitting sheath that I use to this day. See, me da carved them rose petals and leaves in the wood the day he wed her.’ The old woman wiped away a tear. ‘I miss them still, bless their dear hearts.
‘Mam would allus let us childer do a bit, the welt happen, or a thumb in a glove, same as I do wi’ mine. And when I were a bairn she used to tie a bit of string round her ankle so she could rock me cradle while she treadled the loom, and still work her bobbin back and forth. Me da would read his poetry from a book propped up against the frame. Eeh, it’s all changed now. I never thought to see the death of such a busy industry.’
‘It’s not dead yet,’ Livia protested.
‘Near enough. Hodson doesn’t need us now,’ Jessie mourned. ‘Not now that factory of his is doing so well.’
She was right. Henry was the one ultimately responsible for the workers’ situation. He had again increased the cost of the yarn he provided to a prohibitive sum, yet had reduced the price he paid for finished goods.
The yarn for the stockings was normally handed out either by hosiers, agents from the military – of which there were very few at the moment, as Jessie pointed out – or a local woollen firm. Henry owned one of the largest in town and greedily swallowed up most of the profit. He’d started by putting out work to hand-knitters only, hundreds of them in Kendal alone. Now that method of operating had largely disappeared and he was more interested in machines. They were cheaper, faster, and he had greater control over the workers as they were all under one roof, in his factory.
They slaved from six in the morning till six at night, Jack included. They were given no share in the profits, were merely wage-earners with very little say over pay and conditions. And if they complained about the long hours, they were sacked.
But for those who wished to continue knitting in the traditional way, times were even harder.
‘I’m sorry to say that your father has put our rent up yet again, and we’ve been threatened with an eviction notice. It’ll be the workhouse for us soon,’ Jessie mourned, starting to cry. ‘We’re done for.’
‘Not yet we aren’t,’ Livia said through gritted teeth. ‘Not if I’ve anything to do with it.’
She couldn’t put it off any longer. It was long past time she confronted her father and made him see sense, perhaps even issued a few threats of her own.
But before she was able to make her move, Jack got word that Mercy had been found, walking with a friend on the road into Kendal. The pair were apparently hungry, wet and cold, but otherwise well.
‘Thank goodness,’ Livia gasped. ‘That’s the best news we’ve had in months. Perhaps things are starting to look up for us at last.’
Josiah sat sipping an excellent whisky, smoking a fine Havana cigar which Hodson had offered him, listening with careful attention to what he had to say. There was a great deal of what Josiah could only term ‘flannel’. How reluctant Henry was to pull the plug, how he’d put off the moment for months, mindful of Josiah’s grief. How he regretted their friendship reaching this pretty pass.
Josiah allowed the young man to prattle on for a good ten minutes or more. It always did take him an age to get to the point. By then he’d heard enough.
‘So are you telling me that you are no longer interested in marrying my daughter?’
A short, startled silence. Henry, standing on his own hearth rug with his back to the fire, floundered a little, as if he’d been caught out in a secret desire, lusting over an unattainable prize. ‘No, indeed, I – I’m not saying anything of the sort, but I can’t keep waiting indefinitely. It isn’t fair,’ sounding very like a petulant schoolboy.
Josiah snorted his disdain. ‘Never give up, boy. Never give up. But I’m hardly likely to help you win her, am I, if you make me bankrupt and take over my business?’
Henry scowled. ‘I doubt there’s much chance of that happening now. I – I’d rather given up hope, to be honest.’
‘Nonsense, there’s generally more than one way of killing a cat besides drowning it.’
Hodson shuddered at the analogy, but his interest was alerted nonetheless. ‘So what do you suggest?’
Josiah sucked on the cigar for a second or two longer, as if considering. He had to hand it to the boy, he possessed excellent taste. This was a first-rate Havana. ‘Have you considered force?’ The suggestion was calmly offered as if using violence on a girl was a perfectly normal way to set about persuading her to marry you.
Hodson’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, exactly, by force?’
‘There are always ways and means of bringing a woman to heel,’ Josiah commented, drawing deeply on the excellent cigar. How he would enjoy seeing that high-minded daughter of his brought low. Serve her right for being so full of herself and causing him so much bother. ‘It’s important, I believe, to show a woman who is boss right from the start. And most are gagging for it, in any case. Just remember there’s one thing they fear above all else, and that’s the loss of their reputation. It wouldn’t be the first shotgun wedding, would it? Get the girl with child, Hodson, isn’t that the phrase? She’ll marry you fast enough then.’
Hodson stared at the older man, at first aghast and appalled by the suggestion, but then, as he considered how it would feel to carry it out, with the added benefit of a successful outcome, he began to see positive advantages. Yet he could see one or two possible problems. ‘How do I charm my way into her bed when she’ll barely remain in the same room as me for more than twenty minutes? She’s barely spoken to me since that stupid riot.’
Josiah gave the younger man a measuring look, one lip curled upwards into a sneer. ‘What has charm got to do with anything? You tried charm and that didn’t work. I expect you to be a man. I don’t care how you do it. I’ll help if you like by setting the lure. But, not to put too fine a point on it, you get the lass pregnant with or without her permission. Am I making myself clear? She’ll make a dash for the altar fast enough once the job is done.’
Henry looked blank-faced for a moment and then smirked, the idea was becoming more attractive to him by the minute. ‘And the price for your assistance in “setting the lure” for this bit of chicanery?’
Josiah eased himself back in Hodson’s comfortable leather chair, pretending to contemplate this knotty problem while he allowed the younger man to savour the pleasure of his intended prize a little longer. ‘It would be a quite straightforward exchange, as we’ve agreed from the start of this mission. You cancel my debt, consider the loan paid off. I agree that you can take my daughter, with my blessing, any way you choose, but you must agree to keep your grasping hands off my business.’
A small silence while Henry walked over to the side table to refresh his whisky glass and refill Josiah’s. He’d already put the squeeze on Livia’s so-called friends by dropping the price he paid for finished woollen goods. Hodson was aware that he’d always paid less than any other manufacturer or hosier in Kendal, but he’d tightened the screws even more lately in the hope she’d finally buckle and come to him begging for help. So far she’d obstinately resisted and he’d grown irritated and impatient, and finally lost heart altogether.
Now, this new plan was most definitely growing on him. He rather relished the prospect, in fact. How could he not? Willing or not, he was certainly man enough to take her. He carried the refreshed whisky glass over to Josiah.
‘So how do we set this lure when Livia deliberately avoids my company?’
‘I believe I could persuade Lavinia to return home for a short visit, on the pretext that her sister is coming. Do we have a deal?’
Henry paused for only a fraction of a second before leaning forward to clink glasses. ‘We do.’
Jessie was like a mother hen when one of her chicks has been lost and found again, clucking and fussing with feverish excitement. The poor gi
rl had looked close to collapse when Jack first brought her into the loft, together with a young man who said his name was George. But a dish of Jessie’s soup had already begun to banish the bruises beneath her eyes as well as the hunger pains from her belly.
Mercy was soon relating the tale of their escape and how they’d stolen a ride in a farm cart, eventually reaching the Langdales where they’d very nearly starved in those first few weeks of freedom.
‘We gave up at one point and set off back to Kendal, but then George found himself a job as a farm labourer, and the farmer’s wife took me on as a dairymaid. They offered us a room over the stables so we pretended to be man and wife.’
‘Not that we were sharing a bed.’ George, who until now had been sitting quietly sipping his soup, making no attempt to interrupt, finally spoke up.
Mercy gave a philosophical wag of her head. ‘George slept curled in a blanket on the floor, so I had a big comfortable bed all to meself. I argued about this decision at the time, saying I really wouldn’t mind in the least if he joined me in it, that I trusted him implicitly and didn’t he need a decent night’s rest as much as I did after a long day’s work?’
George smiled. ‘I made sure I treated her proper, like. Mercy had suffered enough without me taking advantage.’
This had been a great disappointment to Mercy at the time, as she’d thought George wonderful. Her hero! He was lively and cheerful, cheeky and fun, and she’d absolutely adored him.
‘Then we had a sort of tiff and I stalked off and left him.’
‘And I chased after her.’
Everyone was smiling as she cast George a shy glance from beneath her lashes, and he gallantly finished the story for her.
‘Aye, well it all turned out fine and dandy because the farmer held us jobs open for us. Mebbe I’ll tell you the full yarn one day, but what I will say is that it serves me right for being such a daft cluck with me practical jokes. No wonder she thought the worst of me and I nearly lost her. Anyroad, it all ended happily, thanks be praised.’
They looked into each other’s eyes and everyone sighed at the sight of the undeniable love between them.
‘Aye, so we made up quick, and I decided it were high time I did the honourable thing by her.’
Jessie gasped. ‘You’re married?’
Mercy was blushing now, her cheeks a delightful rosy pink, and George was grinning from ear to ear. ‘I’d’ve asked her sooner, only I wanted to have some money saved afore I declared meself.’
There were cries of ‘aaah’ all round, and Mercy finished the convoluted tale by assuring her friends that since she’d no family left, they’d felt no reason to wait so had married in a little church out on the fells. ‘God knows where.’
‘But we had a real vicar, and there was a proper congregation, hymns and everything, so it were all done right and proper. The farmer helped me get the licence and make all the arrangements,’ George assured them. ‘He were very good about it.’
Then Mercy was blushing again as she remembered that first night when George had at last joined her in the big bed, and offered full proof of his manhood.
Following this wonderful news the bride and groom had to be kissed and hugged and congratulated, then Jack insisted on going to the pub to buy jugs of ale for everyone. Jessie set out the best she could offer in the way of supper, and they all had a merry time together.
Listening to the girl’s happy chatter Livia found herself smiling. She’d fully expected to dislike this unexpected sister but instead was instantly captivated by her. She reminded her so much of Maggie that the very sight of her brought a lump to her throat. Mercy had the same heart-shaped face, and fine long fair hair very like her sister. And if the full, rosebud mouth pouted a little more than Maggie’s had, it was nonetheless as beautiful. The eyes were different, Mercy’s having a quality to them as if you were looking into a deep ocean rather than the clear grey of a stream that had been Maggie’s. She was also feisty and funny, and strong-willed, and, judging by the tales she was telling about her time in the workhouse, not one to suffer fools gladly.
There was no sign of Maggie’s vulnerability or fragility in the sturdy way this girl had dealt with the trials that life had flung at her, nor of Ella’s giddy selfishness and exotic beauty. She seemed to possess rather an impatient, impulsive nature, the kind of girl eager to grasp a problem by the throat and deal with it.
Yet there was a wariness about her, which, Livia suspected, may be partly due to her own presence in the loft. The girl seemed pleased to be back with her friends, but kept casting dark glances in Livia’s direction, as if she were slightly resentful of this new half-sister who had somehow supplanted her place in their home.
Livia wanted to reassure her on that score, point out that Mercy had never been forgotten, but decided it was best to say as little as possible at this stage. Mainly because Livia herself was having some difficulty growing accustomed to the idea of a new sister, and there was no doubt in her mind that this girl was undoubtedly their father’s child.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ella was making substantial changes and feeling remarkably pleased with herself. Today she was at a farm sale, buying a mangle and boiler, a new clothes rack, and other useful bits and pieces that might make her life easier. Amos had given his permission without a word of protest, putting a wad of notes into her hand with a warning only to be cautious not to flick an eyebrow or raise a hand unless she fully intended to buy a particular lot.
‘Otherwise, you might find yourself bidding for a rusty tin kettle, or a dozen chickens you never wanted.’
‘I might very well buy more chickens to boost our egg supply,’ she stoutly responded, chin high. ‘But I’m no fool, Amos, so don’t treat me as one.’
Amos merely smiled, in that enigmatic way of his, saying nothing.
Ella had also insisted that he either sink a new well or mend the one they had so that it didn’t leak, and she wanted him to pipe the water into the house and dairy.
‘This is the twentieth century,’ she’d told him in her firmest voice, ‘and high time this farm was brought up to date.’
She’d expected resistance, sulks, an argument about how tight money was, but he’d simply given her his slow smile and said, ‘Whatever you like, dear. I’ll get Tom Mounsey over to help me tackle the job.’
Ella couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. She was beginning to see strengths and depths in this husband of hers she’d never noticed before. And he was really being most agreeable. But then she too had perhaps been a little more reasonable lately, making special dishes for his tea, walking out with him on his evening walk and not being prone to heavy sighs when he talked endlessly of the cattle or his fishing. Were they at last beginning to tolerate each other a little more, perhaps even reach some sort of understanding?
One evening, about a week after the sale, as Ella sat watching Mrs Rackett ply her spindle in the time-honoured way, she suddenly asked if she would teach her the rudiments of spinning, a task she’d fiercely resisted in the past. The older woman was surprised by the request, but at once began to talk about wool, explaining the difference between short ‘staple’ and long.
‘First it has to be sorted into top quality and not-so-good, then cleaned of hay seeds or any ticks.’
Ella found it strangely satisfying to pull the fleece gently apart with her fingers, transforming the clumps of fleece into a fluffy mass ready for ‘carding’. The lanoline or ‘suint’, as Mrs Rackett called it, softened her work-roughened hands, and soothed the red raw skin made sore from all the scrubbing and cleaning she did.
‘Next we do the carding,’ Mrs Racket explained, demonstrating with a pair of wooden ‘bats’ that were covered with rows of tiny sharp hooks. Ella found this task harder to do than it looked, the older woman’s skill clearly one born of long practice. And if she’d hoped that Amos might compliment her for her efforts, Ella was soon disappointed. He sat quietly working his loom as he often did of
an evening, his Bible propped up against the frame, making no comment whatsoever, not even watching how she got on.
‘The fleece has to be pulled so that the fibres all lie in the same direction. When we’ve got a nice long sausage, then we can begin.’
The spinning was done using a spindle or ‘distaff’, a spinning wheel considered to be far too expensive for a farmer to own. In any case, Mrs Rackett thought it unnecessary as she was more used to the simple spindle.
‘That’s why they call women the “distaff” side of the family,’ the older woman informed her, ‘because they use the spindle.’ It was a highly decorated stick with a disc at the top held on a thread by a hook. The carded wool had to be attached to it in a particular way before the spinning could actually begin. Mrs Rackett expertly worked her stick so that the weight of it turned at just the right speed, pulling out the wool at the same time so that the resulting yarn wound neatly onto the spindle.
Ella struggled to emulate her expertise but soon became frustrated by her own inadequacy. Either the spindle wouldn’t spin properly, or it would constantly change direction, the yarn refusing to evenly wrap itself around the stick, or it would become snarled and tangled. She couldn’t even decide which hand to use, and they both very soon became all sticky and sweaty.
‘Oh, it’s hopeless, I’ll never learn,’ she cried, as the fibre bunched up into another useless lump.
Mrs Rackett chuckled as she leant over to help untangle the mess. ‘’Course you will, given patience and practise. Just let the spindle unwind a little, that’s it, now spin it again. Don’t tug too hard or you’ll break the yarn. You know what they used to say: cross patch, lift the latch, sit by the fire and spin. You can’t be angry when you spin because of the steady rhythm of the job. It’s very relaxing after a hard day’s work.’
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