Indeed, Ellis seized on any excuse to see Miss Searle. She was often to be found in Ellis's study, discussing projects or estimates. Then she would walk out with him, to examine work done, or in progress.
He could not help but notice she had the most enchanting smile. Her small mouth curved in the most engaging fashion, and her little teeth were so white and well–polished they shone. Her perfect, always spotless neatness delighted him. He was amazed that someone so clean, and who smelled so sweet, could bear to live — could flourish even — in the polluted air of that dirty, smut– laden town. It was as if the filth of Birmingham did not dare settle upon her.
In addition to finding Rebecca personally attractive, Ellis admired her. She was so brisk, so efficient, so competent. A perfect businesswoman, her craftsmen came when she said they would, did what she'd said they would do, and finished their tasks well inside the time allotted.
Although he would never have admitted it to anyone, even to himself, Ellis found he lived for her visits. One bright, sunny morning found him waiting on the front steps, irritably checking his pocket watch, anxious for her to arrive. Which of course she did, right on time, bringing with her the three workmen who would fit the new ornamental leaden gargoyles. These, copied from their Tudor originals, had been meticulously cast in Searle's workshops. Then the men would lay the pipes for the elegant marble fountain which Lalage had had sent from Italy, and which was now going to enhance the knot–garden.
‘A lovely day for a ride,’ said Ellis. He handed his visitor from her hired coach.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Rebecca smiled. ‘The first wild roses are in bloom. In fact, the hedgerows are full of flowers. After the dirt of the town, it's so pleasant to come out here.’
Rebecca's workmen exchanged knowing looks. Then, collecting their tools, they sloped off to begin their tasks. They would pass the kitchens on the way. By now, they had reached an excellent understanding with Ellis's cook.
‘Will you come inside? To have some refreshment?’ By some oversight, Ellis had retained Rebecca's hand in his, and now he led her into the house. ‘The day is so warm. You must be longing for a dish of tea.’
‘Tea?’ Freeing her hand, Rebecca looked her client straight in the eyes. ‘Yes. I should like a dish of tea more than anything in the world.’
‘Then, Miss Searle, you shall have one.’
Taking Rebecca into the drawing room, Ellis sent for tea. Then he spent an hour or more asking about lead casting, in which he had suddenly become very interested. This interest had nothing to do with the fact that the ironmaster's grand–daughter had wide blue eyes, that her hair, under its light dusting of white powder, was of a flaxen gold, that her skin was like cream. That her figure was perfection itself.
Chapter 8
Spring had long turned into summer. The weather was perfect for riding about the estate, for visiting outlying farms and villages, for spying out the land and maybe planning some future enclosure. But Ellis Darrow could settle to nothing. He rose each morning determined to get on with his work, but then found he was dawdling over his chocolate or daydreaming over the previous week's newspaper. Behaving, in fact, more like Alex Lowell than his usual industrious self.
When he set out for Birmingham that hot August morning, he told himself it was quite reasonable to check up on the progress of some work Searle's was currently doing on his behalf. Of course, for a journey into town he was certainly obliged to wear his smart navy–blue coat. It was only natural he should have shaved carefully, tidied his hair and pared his fingernails neatly before finally setting out.
He had other business in town. He needed to see his lawyer and talk to his banker. Since he'd be in the vicinity anyway, it was only polite to call on Miss Searle.
* * * *
‘Searle's manufactory? Yes sir, I know it. Carry on down the High Street, cross the packhorse bridge. Go past the warehouses, through Spencer's Court, and you'll find it.’ The man of whom Ellis had asked directions grinned. ‘You'll hear it long before you see it!’
So, leaving behind the prosperous commercial heart of this great industrial town, Ellis set out to find Searle's factory. It was in a suburb he'd never set foot in before.
He had never imagined squalor like it. He'd never even heard of places where grass simply could not grow, where the most obstinate and persistent of weeds were unable to push their way through the blackened earth. Even central London wasn't as barren as this Gehenna of brick and iron. This wilderness of dirt and grime.
All around him was the din and racket of industry, the noise of a hundred small forges and factories turning out thousands upon thousands of nails, hinges, buttons, pots, snuffboxes, tools, locks, bridles, candlesticks, gridirons, grates, firebacks, brooches, pins, buckles, cut and faceted steel jewellery — almost anything, in fact, which could be made of metal, and for which there was a market either in England or abroad.
The air was foul with smuts and thick with smoke. The clear blue sky, which must have been above, was totally blotted out by poisonous man–made clouds. The sweet summer air was displaced by noxious vapours emitted from the factory furnaces, scattered all around. Ellis felt dirt settling on his face. He saw flakes of greasy soot falling all about him. He grimaced in disgust.
But then he shook his head. He even smiled. For he understood that amidst this most unnatural of scenes, there was something wonderfully dynamic, something quite gloriously alive. Although Vulcan had displaced Ceres, creating a little hell in a place where flowers had once bloomed and birds must have sung, this man–made Pandemonium was marvellously vital. It had something about it which, far from depressing Ellis's spirits, made his pulse race.
He reached Searle's. Walking past two great heaps of coal, he stood in the centre of a cobbled yard.
‘Can I direct you, sir?’ asked a man, who had come out of a workshop by the gate.
‘What?’ Rubbing his sore eyes, Ellis blinked. ‘What did you say?’
‘Did you want summat?’ The man was civil, but brisk. ‘Come to collect, have you? To deliver, maybe?’
‘Ah. No. I wish to see the master here.’ Ellis spoke without thinking. Of course, there was no master at Searle's.
‘You want to see Miss Searle, you mean? She's in charge.’ The workman grinned. ‘Come along with me. I'll find her for you now.’
They walked towards a large, brick–built shed. Passing through a narrow doorway, Ellis was led into a scene from hell, complete with acoustics to match. For, if the noise outside the factory had been loud, inside it was deafening. Literally so, in fact. A few minutes after entering this demons’ hall, Ellis found he could hear nothing but a confused murmuring and growling, as if he were under water.
He looked about him. In a stifling hot, white–washed chamber, a dozen or more manufacturing operations were simultaneously taking place. By the glowing red of the furnace, men in leather aprons sweated and grunted over their work. As they fashioned the hot metal, white sparks showered into the air, making arcs of vivid light against the dingy walls. The scorching smell of red–hot metal hurt Ellis's nostrils. The soot–laden air made his eyes run with tears. How anyone could exist, let alone stay sane in such a place, was beyond his understanding. How Rebecca Searle could be the presiding genius was the most profound mystery of all.
‘Miss Searle?’ Ellis's personal guide to the modern Underworld tapped someone on the shoulder. ‘Miss Searle!’ he bawled, into the general din, ‘there's a gentleman here. Wants to see you!’
For a moment or two, Ellis failed to recognise her. Clad in a coarse black cotton gown, she had a large white handkerchief tied around her neck, while a sacking apron enveloped her from ankle to chest. Her golden hair was invisible, for it was bundled inside a linen cloth. This, like the rest of her clothes, was liberally bespeckled with smuts.
Rebecca Searle was engrossed. With a stern proprietor's eye, she watched as a workman burnished a trinket box, bringing it to shining perfection. He handed it to her. She studied it
closely. ‘That's very good,’ she said – or rather mouthed, for of course she could not be heard. She ran her fingers over mouldings. She checked the hinges and clasp. ‘It's excellent, in fact. Could we turn out sixty a day?’
She clearly expected an affirmative. Now the workman, who was evidently a fluent lip–reader, grinned. He nodded vigorously. Then, finally heeding the tap on her shoulder, Rebecca turned to see who had touched her. She saw Bill Walters, one of her foremen. Standing diffidently at his side was Ellis Darrow.
She was astonished. ‘Mr Darrow?’ she articulated, her blue eyes round with surprise. ‘What ever do you want here?’
But, even as she spoke, she smiled. That smile, together with her own fair beauty, emphasised rather than diminished by the white turban round her blonde hair, made Ellis's heart turn over. She was pleased — was rather more than pleased — to see him.
He did not speak. He couldn't. But Rebecca wouldn't have heard him anyway. She put one small, square hand on his sleeve. ‘Come into the yard,’ she mouthed. She led Ellis out of hell into the comparatively clear air of the factory forecourt.
Once outside the factory, Rebecca took off the white turban. She shook her head, to clear the ringing in her ears.
Ellis looked at her. Today, her hair was neither dressed nor powdered. Neatly parted down the centre, it was braided close to her head and secured with pins. This gave her the air of a prim little Quaker. She looked about fourteen years old. Ellis cleared his throat. ‘I was in the vicinity,’ he began. ‘What I mean is, I had to come to town. So I've called to enquire after the progress of the gates.’
To Ellis's surprise, Rebecca seemed to find this perfectly reasonable. Without further ado, she led him across the yard, through an archway and into a covered court. There, two men were working on the objects in question.
‘There, Mr Darrow.’ Proudly, she smiled. ‘They will soon be completed. Another week or two will see the work all done.’
‘I see.’ Ellis coughed. ‘Miss Searle, I — ’
‘A project such as this, you see, is so complicated and involved that it must necessarily take time.’ Rebecca bent to touch the hard iron, stroking it with an almost maternal tenderness. ‘The scroll work at the sides is extremely delicate. It could not be rushed.
‘These blackbirds, fashioned by Michael here, took six or seven days to make. Each, that is.’ Complacently, Rebecca met Ellis's gaze. ‘Will you look at them, Mr Darrow? Then tell me if you think it was time well spent?’
Ellis looked. He saw six blackbirds, wings outstretched, fluttering amidst metal foliage which twined through the bars at the tops of the gates. ‘They're perfect,’ he said, impressed. ‘They look quite real.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Gratified, Michael Cuthbertson nodded.
Rebecca stood up. ‘Do you see this pattern of oak–leaves, with branches interlaced?’ She smiled again. ‘The branches support some weight here, and here. So in addition to looking delicate, they must be strong.’
‘Yes. I see.’ Forcing himself to be interested, Ellis touched the metal. ‘How was this work done?’
‘Mostly in the forge, while the metal was red– hot. Later, some cold shaping was required.’ Rebecca folded her arms. ‘All that remains now is the finishing. Then you may have your gates. They will be the envy of the county.’ She looked directly at him, her smile now almost arch. ‘I hope you do not think we neglect our commission?’
Ellis blushed red. ‘I — I had no idea of catching you out,’ he muttered. ‘I was in town anyway. I had business with my lawyer. I have long been curious to see the manufactory, so I didn't think you would mind — what I mean is, I had no intention of checking up on you.’
‘Visitors are always welcome.’ Rebecca herself blushed now. ‘Provided they are not spies for our competitors, of course.’
She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then she examined her hands. Seeing how dirty they were, she pulled a face. ‘I must go and wash,’ she said. ‘While I do that, please feel free to walk about. Speak to the workmen, look at anything which takes your fancy. Then, before you leave, will you come to the house for some tea? My aunt Lyddy will be perfectly happy to entertain a third at her table.’
‘Your aunt who?’ Ears still ringing, Ellis shook his head.
‘Aunt Lyddy.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘It's a strange name, I know. I suppose her baptismal name is Lydia. But oddly enough, I've never thought to ask.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ Seeing Ellis look thoughtful, Rebecca frowned. ‘Mr Darrow, you've gone very pale.’
Ellis looked at her. ‘There's nothing wrong,’ he said. ‘But the factory was so hot. The air so close — ’
‘Then, a dish of tea — ’
‘I can't come in.’ Ellis couldn't face Lyddy Searle. Not just yet. ‘I have more business in town, you see. I must be back at Easton Hall by six.’
‘Then, perhaps, another day. When you have more time.’
‘I should be delighted.’ Ellis forced a smile. ‘Miss Searle, I must take my leave.’
As he made his way along dirty streets and through noisy, malodorous courts, Ellis realised she'd been disappointed. He told himself he was imagining things. But he knew he wasn't. As he'd said he must go, her face had clouded, the sun had gone in.
He arrived at the stables. Mounting his horse, he grinned at the boy. He gave the stable lad the biggest tip he'd ever received.
* * * *
As Rebecca turned to go back to the factory, her step was leaden. Her shoulders drooped and her heart was heavy. Her Puritan upbringing had taught her that only the lowest of women lusted after men. So she was dismayed to find that the merest sight, or even the idea of Ellis Darrow was enough to set her pulse racing, her temples throbbing and to set her face on fire. She daydreamed constantly. In her mind's eye, she saw herself mistress of Easton Hall. The mother of a whole brood of little Darrows, each child the image of Ellis himself.
‘Why isn't he married?’ she asked herself, as she stood watching a man stamp patterns on bright steel buttons, as the boy assisting him placed blank after blank in the press, as the press came down, thud, thud, thud, as regularly and quickly as the beating of her own heart.
Perhaps, she conjectured, his wife had died. Perhaps he had been betrothed, but the lady had changed her mind. No. That, surely, was impossible.
Conclusive proof that Rebecca Searle was nothing but a fanciful, feeble–minded woman merely masquerading as an ironmaster was provided towards the end of that day. A second visitor arrived, demanding to see the proprietor of the manufactory without delay.
Rebecca went out to meet him. Cordially, she shook his hand. A mild–mannered, well–dressed, soft–spoken gentleman, the visitor carried with him a close–wrapped object which, seated in the comfort of Rebecca's little office, he handed over for her inspection.
‘You know what it is?’ he demanded affably, languidly tapping his front teeth.
‘No.’ Examining the object, Rebecca frowned. ‘I've never seen anything quite like it before.’
‘You cannot guess its use?’
‘Is it for an animal?’ At a loss, Rebecca shrugged. ‘Maybe for a dancing bear?’
‘Not exactly.’ Retrieving the heavy iron collar, the man grinned. ‘It's for a negro,’ he said.
‘Indeed.’ Rebecca winced. She narrowed her eyes in disgust.
Her visitor appeared not to notice. ‘Miss Searle,’ he began, ‘I have lately seen many fine examples of this factory's work. Your craftsmen can execute the most intricate of designs. Now — I require at least a hundred of these decorative collars. Maybe more. Ladies and gentlemen who have purchase negro servants for use in this country like to adorn their slaves thus. For quality workmanship, they are prepared to pay high prices.’
‘Are they?’
‘Certainly.’ The man grinned again. ‘It's the fashion, you see,’ he drawled. ‘So. Will you name a price?’
Rebecca considered. Never
turn away trade. Never be short with any man who might put business one's way. Never let private sentiments override good commercial sense. Her grandfather's maxims came crowding into her head.
She looked at the thing on her visitor's lap. It was indeed a work of art. As a connoisseur, she could admire the workmanship and respect the skill of the man who'd wrought it. Decorated with a pattern of scrolls, arabesques and acanthus leaves, it was delicately fashioned and beautifully finished. It locked with a pretty gilt key, which at present hung from a pale blue ribbon attached to the man's fob.
It weighed about five pounds. Innocent of padding or anything else which could protect the skin, it must necessarily chafe. Rebecca imagined having this thing around her own small, white neck. She winced again.
A minute or so ticked by. The man's grin had not faltered. ‘Miss Searle,’ he began softly, ‘do you not approve of the trade in slaves?’
Rebecca met his eyes. ‘The fact that my fellow creatures can be bought and sold like cattle disgusts me,’ she replied.
‘I see.’ The gentleman sighed. ‘Mr Hall in Dowley's Court has expressed great interest in this commission.’
‘Has he, indeed?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The man toyed with the gilt key. ‘Miss Searle. I can see you are a lady of fine susceptibilities. You are concerned lest these collars be misused.
‘But these objects are for show. For display. In short, they are badges of office. I doubt if any lady or gentleman in our most Christian kingdom would even dream of shackling a negro. By day or by night.’
Rebecca stood up. ‘At present,’ she said coldly, ‘my order book is full. I suggest you go back to Mr Hall. Since I myself have no men available to work on this commission, I heartily recommend him.’
‘I quite understand.’ The gentleman's smile was positively wolfish now. ‘I apologise for taking up your time. For obtruding upon your sensibilities. I bid you good day.’
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