‘That’s not a very admirable motto, Gerald, or a very farsighted policy either,’ Adam snapped. ‘But we shall discuss the mill later. In the meantime, I would like to point out that you’ve a lot to learn about human nature and the workers, my boy. They’ve been treated abominably in the past. More reform has to come, and I hope it does so without too much bloodshed.’
‘You’d better not let your friends in the wool trade hear you talking like that, or they’ll castigate you as a traitor to your class, sir,’ Gerald responded.
‘Don’t be impertinent!’ his father exclaimed, his eyes flashing with chilly silvery lights. Adam, who rarely lost his temper, was in danger of doing so now. But he took control of himself and poured another cup of tea. Because of his fatigue and mental weariness his patience was worn threadbare, and his nerves were far too close to the surface for his own comfort.
Gerald grinned and winked at Edwin, who was gazing at him in astonishment after this exceptional display of insolence. He was horrified at Gerald’s effrontery, and he looked from his father to Gerald, and then dropped his eyes.
Infuriated, but in command of himself, Adam opened the newspaper and was about to disappear behind it, when Edwin, conscious of his father’s disquiet and in an effort to distract him, said, ‘Did you know Kitchener when you were in the army, Father?’
‘No, I didn’t, Edwin. Why do you ask?’ Adam queried with impatience. He put the paper down, staring at Edwin curiously.
‘I read a story yesterday about him clashing with Lord Curzon in India. Did you see the story in The Times, Father? I wondered exactly why they are always at loggerheads? Do you know, sir?’
‘Yes, I did see the story, Edwin, and the chief reason those two are always arguing is because when Kitchener went to India as Commander in Chief of the British army he took it upon himself to redistribute the troops. He rapidly gained greater administrative control of the army and the Viceroy was opposed to that, and still opposes it, I might add. Curzon’s met his match there, I’m afraid. Kitchener’s not a man to be thwarted. He’ll have his way, come hell or high water.’
‘You don’t like Kitchener, do you, Father?’ Edwin suggested.
‘I wouldn’t say that, my boy. But why do you assume such a thing?’
‘You once told me, when I was little, that it was Kitchener’s fault that Gordon was killed at Khartoum.’
Adam gave Edwin a penetrating look. ‘You have a prodigious memory. But I didn’t quite say that. If I recall correctly, I said that Kitchener’s relief expedition arrived too late to save General Gordon. Khartoum had already been stormed by the Mahdists, who had brutally murdered Gordon. It wasn’t Kitchener’s fault exactly. In reality, it was Gladstone’s, because he delayed in sending relief to Gordon for too long. It caused quite a furore at the time. In fact, public indignation at Gordon’s abandonment actually contributed to the downfall of Gladstone’s government. But no, I don’t blame Kitchener for Gordon’s death, to answer your question. And Kitchener’s a good soldier, my boy, and devoted to duty.’
‘I see,’ Edwin said thoughtfully, vastly relieved that his father was calmer.
‘Are you interested in the army, or is it going to be politics for you, Edwin? I can see you are interested in both,’ Adam said. Not one to remain irritated for long, his anger with Gerald was beginning to lessen.
‘Oh no, Father. I think I would like to be a barrister.’ Edwin announced this with enthusiasm. But then his face fell as he noticed the fixed frown on Adam’s face. ‘Do you not approve, Father?’
Adam smiled quickly, sensing his son’s sudden disappointment. ‘Of course I approve. Anything you want, old chap. I was rather taken aback, that’s all. It didn’t occur to me that you would be interested in the law. However, I have always known you were not really cut out for the business. And anyway, Gerald seems to be at home at the mill.’ He threw a swift look at his elder son and his voice hardened as he went on, ‘Correct, Gerald?’
Gerald nodded and said, ‘Absolutely! I know Wilson will give you a good report on me.’ He paused and glanced at his brother slyly. ‘Anyway, Edwin would not like working in the mill and he’s far too delicate in health for the harsh conditions. I thought at one time he might be interested in the newspaper, but since he’s not, I heartily endorse his ambition to study law. And why not? It’s quite a good idea to have a legal brain in the family.’
This was uttered in the most dulcet of tones, the words artfully couched to hide Gerald’s cunning. He was inordinately jealous of his younger brother and the last thing he wanted was Edwin interfering in the business. By rights it was his, as the eldest son and heir, and he aimed to keep it for himself and himself alone.
Adam was not deceived. Gerald’s guile was all too apparent to him, and under the circumstances it was probably fortuitous that Edwin did not nurture any ambitions to enter the family business. Adam suspected Gerald could be a ruthless adversary when necessary. ‘Well, that seems to be settled then, Edwin,’ he said slowly, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. ‘It appears you have Gerald’s good wishes, too.’
Edwin beamed, first at Gerald, and then at his father. ‘I’m so glad you approve and that I have your consent, Father,’ he cried jubilantly. ‘I thought you might object, sir.’
‘Of course I don’t.’ Adam picked up the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and turned to the Bradford Wool Market. He perused the section quickly and said to Gerald, ‘Good. Wool prices are relatively steady and exports well up. We’re still cornering the world market. England’s cloth exports are averaging something like twenty-seven million running yards a year, the same as last year and the year before. Not bad at all.’
Gerald’s avaricious eyes glittered darkly in his flaccid face. ‘Wilson told me yesterday that we would have an excellent year ourselves. Business is booming. By the way, are you going to see that wool man from Australia this morning? Bruce McGill. You do know he’s coming to the mill.’
‘Damnation! I’d forgotten,’ Adam exclaimed with exasperation. ‘I can’t see him, I’m afraid. Wilson will have to deal with him.’
‘Yes, Father. Well, I’d better be going to the mill.’ Gerald rose and clattered out noisily.
Adam frowned at his retreating figure and then turned to Edwin. ‘I’ll have a word with my solicitor about you, my boy, when I see him next week. Perhaps he will have some ideas about your further education after public school. We’ll have to decide which university you will go to, Edwin.’
‘Yes, Father, and thank you so much. I do appreciate your interest in me, I really do, sir.’ He loved and respected his father.
At this moment Emma knocked and came into the room, carrying a large tray. She stared at Adam coldly and then glanced away quickly, fixing her eyes on the silver teapot. ‘Murgatroyd sent me up ter start clearing away, if yer’ve finished, Squire,’ she said in a hard voice, clutching the tray tightly and holding herself very still.
‘Yes, we have finished, thank you, Emma. You can take everything away, but leave the teapot. I may want another cup before I leave.’ Adam’s eyes were gentle and he smiled at her kindly.
Emma, who had partially turned to listen to him, had averted her head again and she did not see the kindness and compassion that illuminated his sensitive face. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said stonily, and went to the sideboard. She propped the tray against it and returned to the table to collect the dirty dishes.
Adam sighed and continued his conversation with Edwin.
Emma moved around the circular table quietly, gathering the used silver and the plates with as little fuss and noise as possible. This was protection in itself, for she believed the less people noticed your existence, the easier it was to get along without trouble. Unfortunately, and to her constant dismay, Master Gerald always noticed her and took great pleasure in picking on her, just as he had in the hall a few moments ago. He had jostled against her and pinched her viciously on the thigh, so that she had almost dropped the tray. Her heart filled with anger an
d humiliation at the remembrance.
She carried the dishes to the sideboard and began to stack them on the tray, wondering how long she could tolerate living in this house, and the terrible people who occupied it. She wished she could run away with Winston, but she knew that was not possible. They did not take girls in the Royal Navy and there was certainly no other place she could go. And anyway, her mam needed her, and her dad, and little Frankie. Panic gripped her and a fine sweat broke out on her forehead and ran down between her breasts. She must get away from this house. From Fairley. Before something dreadful happened. She was powerless in this house, and she knew, with sinking dread, that all sorts of wicked acts could be committed against the poor by the rich. Money. She must get money. Not just a few extra shillings for sewing and mending clothes in the village, but lots of money. Yes, that was the answer. She had always known it was. She must find a way to make a fortune. But how? Where? It was then that she remembered Blackie O’Neill and his tales of Leeds, the city whose streets were paved with gold. That was the key, and there she would find the secret of making money, so much money she would never be afraid or powerless ever again. And then the tables would be turned on the Fairleys. Slowly the fear began to slip away.
The tray was filled to overflowing and Emma picked it up, almost staggering under its weight. She gritted her teeth and glided out of the room in silence, her head held high, a proud look on her face, rigid determination in the set of her shoulders. And for all of her youth and inexperience there was a certain regality in her carriage.
Edwin had begun to fidget in his chair. Eventually he said, ‘May I be excused, Father? I have to keep up with my schoolwork, otherwise I will be behind when I return to Worksop.’
Adam’s glance was approving. ‘Why, that’s very diligent of you. Go ahead, old chap. But do get some fresh air this afternoon.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Edwin stood up and went to the door with his usual grace.
‘Oh, Edwin.’
‘Yes, Father?’ The boy stopped, his hand on the doorknob.
‘I think it would be nice if you dined with your Aunt Olivia and myself this evening.’
‘Gosh! Thank you, sir. I’d enjoy that!’ Excited by this unexpected invitation, Edwin forgot himself and exuberantly slammed the door behind him so hard that the gas fixtures on the wall rattled and trembled precariously.
His father smiled. Edwin was growing up to be a nice boy and Adam was delighted he was beginning to show a little independence of spirit. Perhaps his mother’s sickly influence had not been so damaging after all. Adele. He should go up and see her. He had many matters to discuss with her, which, as usual, he had been avoiding for weeks. If he was honest with himself he had to admit that he was avoiding it now. He thought of his wife. Fragile, pretty, vain, brittle Adele. Smiling her sweet smile. That perpetual smile that had begun to horrify him. Adele with her iridescent blonde beauty that had so captivated him years ago. How quickly he had discovered it was a chilly beauty that camouflaged selfishness and a heart that was as cold as marble. It also apparently disguised mental instability as well. They had not had any real contact or communication for years. Ten years to be exact, when Adele had retreated gratefully into a shell of vapourish semi-invalidism. Smiling sweetly, as ingenuous as always, she had closed her bedroom door firmly, locking it pointedly against him. At the time Adam had been startled to find that he accepted her termination of her connubial duties with a resignation that bespoke his own profound relief.
Long ago, Adam Fairley had come to accept that his lifeless and loveless marriage was by no means unique. Many of his friends were bound in similar bleak and fruitless unions, although he doubted that they had to contend with disorders of the mind as well. With abandon, and without a second thought, his friends took solace in other comforting feminine arms. Adam’s fastidiousness, and his innate sense of taste, precluded casual affairs with women of easy virtue. For in spite of his sensuous nature, Adam Fairley was not essentially carnal or given to fleshly pursuits, and he required other attributes in a woman as well as a beautiful face and body. And so, over the years, he had learned to accept celibacy as a permanent condition, and it bordered now on asceticism. He did not understand that this was a state of being that held its own attractions for the women he came into contact with socially, who found him irresistible. In his misery with his life he was blind to the flurry he created, and if he had noticed he would not have cared.
Adam went to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out. The dark rain clouds had scurried away, leaving a sky that was a vivid light blue, and so sharp and polished it was like the inside of an upturned enamelled bowl, and the pale yet bright sun intensified the cold lucency of the northern light. The black hills were as stark and barren as always, but for Adam they held an overpowering and enigmatic beauty. They had been there for aeons before he was born and they would be there long after he was dead. Always the land remained, changeless and everlasting, the source of the Fairleys’ power and their strength. In the scheme of things, he was just a droplet in the vast universe and suddenly his problems seemed of little significance, and even petty, for he was just a transitory being on this rich and splendid earth and, being mortal like all men, he would die one day. And what would it matter then? What would it have all been about? And who would care?
His reflective mood was shattered by the sound of horses’ hooves, as Gerald drove rapidly across the stable yard in the trap on his way to the mill. Adam thought then of Gerald and Edwin. He had become aware of so many things this morning, not only about himself but also about his sons. By reason of primogeniture, Gerald would inherit the Fairley lands, the Hall, the mill, and all the other Fairley holdings, with the understanding that he would take care of his brother for his lifetime. But Edwin would receive nothing of real worth and would have to rely solely on the bounty of Gerald. Not a very pleasant prospect, Adam thought. He now recognized that it was imperative that he make proper provision for his younger son in his will. He determined to see his solicitor at the first opportunity. He did not trust Gerald. No, he did not trust Gerald at all.
TWELVE
The Fairley family fortune, now controlled by Adam Fairley, was founded on two sound principles—the acquisition of land and the making of cloth.
The land came first.
Adam Fairley could trace his lineage back to the twelfth century and one Hubert Fairley. A document drawn in 1155, and still in existence in the vault at Fairley Hall, states that Hubert was given the lands of Arkwith and Ramsden in the West Riding of Yorkshire by the Crown. The document was drawn in the presence of Henry II and signed by fourteen witnesses at Pontefract Castle, where the King used to stay on his visits to Yorkshire. With Hubert’s continuing prosperity and growing renown as a ‘King’s man’, Arkwith eventually came to be known as Fairley. It was Hubert who built the original Fairley Manor on the site where the present Hall now stands.
Succeeding Fairleys received more land and favours from their grateful sovereigns. Staunchly Royalist, many of them took up arms in defence of their Crown and country and were admirably rewarded. It was Henry VIII who granted to John Fairley the adjoining land of Ramsden Moors at the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries, for services to Henry during the King’s ecclesiastical reforms. Later Henry’s daughter Elizabeth Tudor sold ‘the valley of Kirkton on the banks of the river Aire to William Fairley, Squire of Fairley Manor and Hamlet’. Elizabeth I, always desperately striving to replenish the royal coffers, had long resorted to selling off Crown lands. She looked with a degree of favour on William Fairley, for his son Robert was a sea captain who had sailed with Drake to the Indies. Later his ship was part of the great English fleet, led by the intrepid Drake, which sailed into Cadiz harbour and defeated the Armada in 1588. Consequently, the Queen sold the Kirkton land at a fair price. It was the procurement of this particular parcel of land on the river Aire that was a decisive factor in the development of the Fairley fortunes, for the river was to be the source of
power for the original mill.
Robert’s son Francis, named after Drake, had no seafaring or military ambitions and, in fact, from this time on there were no more military men in the family until Adam became, for a brief period, a cavalry officer in the Fourth Hussars. Francis, plodding, diligent, but not too imaginative by nature, at least had enough of the merchant’s instinct to foresee the growing importance of so basic and essential a product as cloth. He started a small domestic industry for the weaving of wool at the end of the sixteenth century. The local villagers continued to spin and weave in their cottages, but what had formerly been woven for personal use was now made for sale. It was from this modest beginning that the great Fairley enterprises flowered, and which were to make Francis’ descendants not only rich but the most powerful woollen kings in the West Riding. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, Fairley was already a flourishing wool-manufacturing hamlet with a cropping shop, a fulling mill on the river, and a breached reservoir.
Francis Fairley had joined the cloth to the land.
But without the land there could have been no cloth. Fairley’s location in the West Riding, its geology, and its climate all contributed greatly to the success of the family’s wool-manufacturing business.
Fairley village is situated in the foothills of the Pennine Chain, that great range of interlocking spurs of hills that roll down the centre of England from the Cheviots on the Scottish border to the Peak in Derbyshire, and which is called ‘the backbone of England’ by those who live in its regions. The geology of the Pennine Chain varies. In the north of Yorkshire the hills are of white limestone rock on which grows sweet grass. But there are few springs in limestone country, and these abound with limestone, and limestone water is particularly harsh to fibres. Further down the Chain there is a sudden break called the Aire Gap, through which the river Aire flows towards Leeds. It is just south of Skipton and the Aire Gap that the West Riding begins. Here the Pennine Hills are now composed of dark and hard millstone grit, with a fringe of coal measure and coatings of peat or clay. Very little grows on millstone grit. Oats and coarse grass are its only crops. However, these are the crops that short-haired sheep feed and thrive on best. Also, coal and grit country has numerous streams which rarely fail, for the moisture-heavy winds that sweep in across the hills from the Atlantic provide abundant rain the year round. The water in these rocky little becks contains no lime. It is soft and kind to fibres. Sheep’s wool and soft water are the two necessities for the making of cloth, and both are plentiful in the West Riding.
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