Mali felt a knot of apprehension grip her, but she forced herself to be calm and to take the chair opposite him, smoothing her gown now but not seeing the delicate pink velvet.
‘I know the way your thoughts are running, Sterling, for Mary’s told me she’s been going through this with her husband. Brandon would love to go to war but like you, he’s needed at home. There are our children to consider, mind, and who would run the copper works if you went away?’ She spoke pleadingly and he looked into her eyes, his own almost violet.
‘My brother Rickie could manage the works, you know he won’t enlist and someone has to preserve the honour of the family name.’ He smiled wryly. ‘You know I must go, don’t you, Mali?’ He didn’t touch her, but his words reached out like a caress. She forced herself to be calm, wanting to scream that he couldn’t go for a soldier – the unknown forces of war were too terrifying. ‘Why?’ The word was tight and hard as she strove not to cry.
‘Officers are needed to lead the men, you must see that.’ He rose and moved towards the window, but she knew he was not seeing the gardens nor the sea far below, but was caught up in his own conscience where she could not reach him.
‘There’s a Sweyn’s Eye battalion being formed as a division of the Welch Regiment. If my men are willing to go to the Front, then how can I stand aside and do nothing?’
She wanted to go to him and bury her head against his shoulder – tell him she couldn’t think of a life without him. Yet she knew that if she prevented him from doing what was right, he might never forgive her.
To Mali, war was a silly game – men fighting over a parcel of ground – but to her husband there was a principle involved and though she could not understand it, she must accept that to him it was vitally important. She sighed softly. ‘Well then, you must follow your own instincts, my love.’
He took her in his arms then and it was all she could do not to cry out in pain and fear. She clung to him, her arms around his broad shoulders, thinking of her children asleep upstairs.
‘How did we become involved in this war in the first place?’ she asked bitterly.
Sterling led her to a chair and sat facing her; his eyes were alight, his face eager and it was obvious that he had given the matter of the war his full attention.
‘Mr Asquith’s government felt threatened when Germany, in spite of the treaties that were signed, violated Belgian neutrality. An appeal was made to King George to intervene, but the Germans took no notice of the King’s ultimatum and so Britain declared war.’ He smiled. ‘There’s a lot more besides, but it’s too long a story to go into now.’
‘So all this is for a foreign country then?’ Mali could not help the note of anger which crept into her voice and Sterling smoothed back her hair tenderly.
‘My dear girl, the consequences of Germany’s actions are far-reaching. If we allowed them to terrorise and subdue Belgium they might send troops into our own country.’
Mali opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. What did she know about the ways of war? It was man’s territory and she loved and respected Sterling enough to know that he believed in the fight for freedom.
‘Come on, Mali, there are shadows under your eyes. Let me take you to bed and show you how much I love you.’
She rested her cheek against his, feeling the prickling of his beard, and resisted the longing to beg him to stay at home with her. Instead she smiled up at him, touching his face with her hand, tracing the outline of his lips with her fingers.
‘There’s a way for an old married man to talk to his wife – take me to bed indeed – for shame on you, Sterling Richardson!’ She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. ‘What are you waiting for, boyo? Not all tongue and no strength, are you?’ She moved away from him, giggling as he reached out to cuff her playfully.
‘I’ll show you my strength now, young lady; just let me get my hands on you!’
Mali hurried out of the drawing room and oblivious of the servants, lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs, closing the door of her room and pressing herself against it in a half-hearted attempt to keep Sterling out. With one push he had the door open; then he swept her off her feet and carried her towards the bed where he set her down gently. He drew her close, his hand light and caressing on the nape of her neck.
As soon as his mouth touched hers, laughter fled and Mali felt the same old sweet thrill run through her. She was as roused as any young girl on her first encounter and her arms encircled her husband’s broad shoulders, holding him lovingly, her eyes closed as her very pores seemed to open to his embrace. Sterling meant more to her than life itself and mingling with Mali’s passion was the underlying fear of the separation that must surely come. How could she bear not to see him and touch him and hold him? Her days would be lonely, her nights empty, her whole being would be suspended in a state of waiting.
His kisses were sweet, his hands tender as they undid the bows on her gown. They were together as one flesh, but even at the height of her pleasure Mali’s heart was heavy. Sterling was used to her tears of joy so how could he know as he lay so contentedly at her side that now her crying had the bitterness of gall?
Chapter Eight
The sprawling drystone buildings of the Mansel Mill stood gaunt and grey in the early morning light. The clatter of the machines sent a lone robin twittering angrily upwards, abandoning its retreat beneath the eaves. And the ruggedness of the Yorkshire hills was enhanced by a coating of frost.
In his small dusty office, Mansel Jack fingered the letter that had reached out to touch him with prying fingers all the way from Sweyn’s Eye. He had put Rhian Gray out of his thoughts with great difficulty and it irked him somewhat to be reminded of her now. Her small, vivid face and the dark red of her hair came so easily to mind that he wondered at his own absorption with her. She was the antithesis of Charlotte Bradley, who was tall and delicate in a bone-china kind of way. And Charlotte was every inch a lady, fragile to the touch and yet with great strength of character, which was the way Mansel Jack liked his women to be.
He would in all probability marry Charlotte quite soon and there were practical reasons for his decision intermingled with his sense of what was right and proper. He was no social climber, but his mill needed an influx of money if it was to survive and Charlotte had money in plenty.
He sighed and his hand clenched into a fist, crushing the pages of the letter as he moved towards the small window. But he did not see the hazy blues of the hills and the glittering icing of frost; he was seeing the lovely face of Rhian Gray, her lashes long and tinged with gold, her eyes when they met his filled with mysteries that he longed to unravel.
It was a long time since any woman had attracted him in the way Rhian Gray did. Young and full of life, she had a quick wit and ready tongue and between them there had grown an unmistakeable bond. But at thirty-seven years of age Mansel Jack had sown all his wild oats and in any event, Rhian Gray was not the sort of woman who would agree to a roll in the hay. Despite her youth she had dignity and pride and though she treated him with deference, he wouldn’t put it past her to administer a sharp rebuke if he stepped out of line.
But the letter had not come from Rhian and it mentioned her only in passing. A businesswoman, Mary Sutton, had asked for patterns of Yorkshire wool to be sent to her, specifically those designed by Rhian Gray.
He moved impatiently. What he needed now was a good woman to bear his children and warm his hearth – a role which Charlotte Bradley would fill admirably.
He smoothed out the letter and re-read it, his brow creasing into a frown. It seemed that some jackanapes was passing off the Yorkshire wool as Welsh – even going so far as to replace the labels – and Mansel Jack itched to get his hands on the man.
He banged his clenched fist on the smooth surface of his desk. If there was one thing he detested it was being taken for a ride. This fool would soon learn that he couldn’t put anything over a hard-headed Yorkshireman, Mansel Jack would see to that person
ally.
There was a knock on the door, moderate, deferential and Mansel Jack returned to his desk and seated himself behind it, consulting his watch and then tucking it back into the pocket in his waistcoat before responding.
‘Come in,’ he said at last, the leather of his chair creaking as he settled himself against the curved back.
‘Good morning, sir. I need to have a word with you.’
Mansel Jack’s eyes were shrewd as they rested on Collins, an intelligent young lad born and bred in the Yorkshire woollen industry. Would it not be just as well to send him to Sweyn’s Eye? He stared for a long moment at Collins and the lad fidgeted uncomfortably. Mansel Jack inclined his head, indicating that he was ready to listen.
‘I’m enlisting in the Army, sir.’ The words fell from Collins’ lips as though he was half afraid to speak them. He stood tall, his shoulders straight as though he was on parade already; Mansel Jack could almost hear the ring of the bugle and the roll of the drums.
He coughed, hiding his surprise, for Collins was a lad who had appeared too malleable for his own good. What chance would he stand against the hardened soldiers of the Kaiser’s army?
‘Well, lad, that’s very admirable of you, but are you sure you want to go to war? Why not wait a bit longer and see which way the wind blows?’
Collins lifted his chin, his eyes clear and blue and full of the fervour of patriotism. ‘I’d like to go now, sir.’
Mansel Jack sighed. ‘Very well, if you must leave then go with my blessing.’ He had seen the propaganda in the newspaper too. Pictures of ‘Tommies’ smiling as they stood alongside a locomotive – eager, apparently, to give their life for Britain.
‘Thank you, Mansel Jack.’ Collins stared at his boss, aware that he had stood up to the big man for the first time in his life.
‘Don’t look so frightened.’ Mansel Jack allowed himself a smile. ‘Keep your fear for the Germans, you’ll need all your wits about you when you’re at the Front.’ In an uncharacteristic gesture, he held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Collins, in some ways I wish I was in your shoes.’
Long after Collins had gone, Mansel Jack stared at the rough wooden panels of the door, deep in thought. He was too old for the Army, yet if the war continued to drag on he would have to do something other than work at the mill.
Wool was in his blood, he knew by touch if the warp and weft of a pattern were coming together in harmony. The Mansel Mill had been in production for nearly twenty years, ever since as a boy of seventeen Mansel Jack had bought the run-down building with his father’s burial money – saved in an old tea-tin and made worthless by the fact that Mansel Jack senior had died at sea.
From the first, Mansel Jack had loved the smell and the feel of the wool, the satisfaction of seeing the finished goods as perfect as they could be. And yet he recognised that to strive to help the country which had given him life was a deep primaeval instinct in a man.
A vague feeling of unrest hung over him for the rest of the day. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the letter from Sweyn’s Eye or Collins’ decision to enlist, but dissatisfaction with his life continued to plague him.
Later, as he walked the short distance from the mill to his home, he felt the cold of the winter air on his cheeks and his breath hung in puffs on the frosty air. Winter, creeping over the countryside, had stripped the leaves from the trees so the branches pointed like skeleton fingers towards the overcast skies.
He climbed the soft slopes, his feet slipping on the frosted grass, and paused at the front door. His large old house was a source of pride, sold cheaply because of draughty rooms and dry rot. But the building was gracious to look upon. The windows were lit from within and sent out a welcome glow which warmed Mansel Jack and lifted his spirits.
Dusk was settling over the rooftops, blurring the edges of the chimneys and softening the outline of the ornate façade, and he felt pleasure in his possession of the house. He let himself in to the hallway and stood for a moment breathing in the familiar scents. Beeswax worked lovingly into the wood panelling vied with the smell of the meat roasting and Mansel Jack smiled. Here was where he belonged, in the rough-hewn Yorkshire hills with the harshness of the mills a strange but lovely contrast. What reason would he have to leave all this – and even if he were young enough, he’d be a fool to join in the war fever that was sweeping the land. Furthermore, he would be all sorts of a fool to travel to Sweyn’s Eye himself.
‘Mansel Jack, you’re late this evening. I was quite worried about my little brother.’ Doreen was full-bosomed and plump, a warm motherly sort of a woman but widowed before she could bear her old man of a husband any children.
Older than her brother by five years, her chances of marrying again were remote and it was a situation that seemed to suit her. Her husband had left her comfortably provided for and she was sensible enough to know that together she and Mansel Jack might accomplish great things. Since she had come to live beneath his roof, she had taken the place of their mother who had died shortly after Mansel Jack’s birth, expending her considerable mothering instinct on her brother.
He smiled at her, resting his hand for a moment on her shoulder. ‘Something smells good and I’m famished!’
‘Roast saddle of beef, darling, I know how you like to get your teeth into some good red meat.’ She tucked her arm in his. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but we have visitors coming to supper – now before you scold me, let me tell you that Charlotte Bradley and her dear mother are giving us the pleasure of their company.’
‘And if you think I don’t know what you’re up to in that quarter, then you think me dafter than I am, lass.’ But Mansel Jack smiled warmly, not minding at all that there was to be company. Perhaps with a beautiful woman to admire his restlessness would ease.
‘Now go to your room and change, dear boy. There are fresh clothes laid out for you and hot water for your bath, so don’t dally round in the hallway.’
He smiled indulgently. Doreen said exactly the same words every night when he returned home from the mill; he could recite them by heart if he so wished.
In his room, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into the enamel bath which had been placed before the roaring fire. He enjoyed washing the smell of the wool from his body and as he stared down at his lithe frame he wondered why men past thirty were not required to go for soldiers. At thirty-seven he was a man in his prime; his belly was flat, his chest broad and he was well-muscled with no superfluous fat.
The door opened and the maid stood staring at him with bold eyes though she feigned shyness.
‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t know owt about you being in the bath. I’ve brought clean warm towels for thee.’
He smiled. ‘Shut the door, Lizzie, and come here.’
She obeyed him willingly, for they were old friends in the game of sensual enjoyment.
‘Shall I dry thee first?’ she asked softly. Mansel Jack smiled and pushed the towels aside, stepping out of the water unaware of the beads like jewels that gleamed on his skin in the firelight. He needed soft arms around him to reassure him of his masculinity, he thought with wry self-knowledge. The war and Rhian Gray had a lot to answer for!
The supper party was pleasant and Mansel Jack ate his beef with a hearty appetite. Seated opposite him, Charlotte watched him continually and as her eyes met his the expression in them was enough to convince him that he had only to name the date and she would be quite happy to agree.
She was quite a catch, was Charlotte, he mused. The fortune her father was rumoured to have left from his overseas enterprises was enough to attract any man. He smiled at her and her eyes were suddenly lit up from within; she seemed quite unable to conceal her love for him.
Sons born from a woman like Charlotte Bradley would have breeding and strength of will – he was one hell of a lucky man, he told himself.
When they had eaten, the women left him to drink his brandy. Mansel Jack smiled wryly, knowing there would be a great deal Charlotte would wish to
teach him about manners. He could hear bubbles of laughter from the drawing room as the women talked together and it was a good feeling to be master in his own house.
Doreen had been very much taken with Charlotte Bradley and if she found Mrs Bradley was rather overbearing and pompous, at least the older woman had impeccable manners. It seemed that a union between Mansel Jack and Charlotte would satisfy everyone concerned.
Then why was he hesitating to name the day, Mansel Jack asked himself impatiently? He tipped up his glass and looked into the glowing liquor; his hand remained steady and his pulses did not even race whenever he thought of lying with Charlotte. Even little Lizzie had more power to rouse him, he thought almost angrily.
He rose to his feet and put down his glass, feeling weary of his own company. The women would lighten his mood and make him laugh and he felt in need of some distraction. Charlotte’s blue eyes turned towards him as soon as he entered the drawing room; she looked radiant when he smiled at her and soft colour rose to her cheeks as he sat near her. She was so beautiful, he thought admiringly, and there was a serenity about the smoothness of her forehead which made her appear almost nun-like. He brushed the disquieting thought aside and gave her his full attention, well aware that Mrs. Bradley and his sister were exchanging delighted glances and revelling in the fact that their efforts at matchmaking had borne fruit.
‘What do you think about the war?’ He heard his words fall abruptly into the silence of the room and Charlotte looked up at him with a troubled expression.
‘I think it’s dreadful that a man like the Kaiser can create such chaos in the world.’ She leaned forward earnestly and he saw that her blue eyes had darkened. ‘I sometimes wonder if I should become a nurse and play an active part in the war,’ she continued.
Mansel Jack looked at her in surprise; it seemed his bride-to-be had the virtues of a missionary in her. Then Doreen spoke: ‘Mansel Jack, don’t you think the subject of war a little too distressing for a young lady like Charlotte?’
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