Shining Threads

by Audrey Howard

  ‘Come over here and we will show you.’ He grinned wickedly and a small shiver of delight ran through her. His teasing eyes were so lovely and blue, so blissfully familiar, and this nonsense made her feel so grown up.

  ‘My turn first, I think, brother, since I am the oldest,’ Drew said softly and there was something in his tone which was not teasing at all. He had followed her as she drifted away from the Christmas tree, leading her resolutely in the direction of the mistletoe which hung by the drawing-room door. When his cool hand fell on her arm she turned, smiling and ready for her very first kiss, glad that it was Drew – or was it Pearce? – then realised that it made no difference. His lips were warm as they rested on hers and she could taste his wine-scented, cigar-scented breath and the sharp smell of his freshly shaved skin.

  ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart,’ he whispered amazingly, his cheek against hers. Then before she could open her eyes which she had closed in pleasure at the loveliness of it, he kissed her again, a delightful repetition of the first time. His hands were firm on her upper arms and she felt herself sway for an instant against him, then he was gone. She opened her eyes and knew they were shining as she waited for Pearce to take his turn, as he surely would, wondering if his kiss would be as pleasant as Drew’s. But he was standing next to his brother, shoulder to shoulder as they always did, grinning audaciously.

  ‘Well, then, little cousin, which one did you like the best?’ they teased, but in both pairs of enquiring eyes and about each smiling mouth was that strange expression she had seen a month ago and she knew they were in deadly earnest, in deadly contention as they so often inexplicably were.

  ‘Which . . . but I thought . . . I did not know that you had . . .’

  ‘What are you trying to say, my pet?’ Pearce’s eyes wandered to her mouth and with a sense of amazement she understood that she had been kissed by both her cousins and, amazingly, their kisses had been identical, so identical she could not have said which was which. Or perhaps it was that way with all men. A kiss was a kiss, no matter who gave it to you. But Pearce was waiting for an answer and she must cover her confusion for she did not want them to think her a silly female flustered by her first encounter with a male.

  ‘That you are both exceedingly impertinent and I cannot for the life of me understand what all the fuss is about.’ Her voice was teasing. ‘Both were quite . . . pleasant,’ she tossed her head to show her supposed indifference for it, ‘but that is all.’

  ‘So you are saying you do not care for it, then?’ Drew’s mouth opened on a shout of laughter, then he stepped forward and, as the cousin he was, kissed her soundly on both cheeks. ‘Well, then, we shall have to wait until you are a bit older,’ he declared from the elevated position his six months’ seniority gave him, ‘shall we not, brother?’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Tessa, and a happy New Year,’ Pearce offered her his arm and they were as they had always been, impertinent and infinitely dear to her, both of them.

  The evening was a huge success, Laurel positively purring as she moved amongst her guests for they were all aware that the Squire had favoured her with a promise to ‘look in’ on her small party. The house was luminous with candlelight and fragrant with blooms from the greenhouses at the back of Greenacres, hundreds of flowers lining the stairs which led up to the gallery and salon, and in the lovely room itself great swathes of ivy, garlands of mistletoe, holly and red satin ribbon.

  There was chilled punch and chilled champagne, claret, Madeira and sherry; salmon and game, lobster and pigeon pie, oyster patties, mayonnaise of trout, paté and prawns; tipsy-cake and fruited jellies and mountains of ice-cream mixed with almonds and cherries, the laden tables decorated with a dozen epergnes burdened with fruit and edged with trailing ivy and pale pink rosebuds from the Greenacres hothouse. Quite, quite exquisite, everyone agreed. Had not Laurel Greenwood done well? the whispers echoing about the salon hissed as she came in on the arm of the Squire, his lady behind them with Charlie.

  ‘Dear God, there’ll be no holding her now,’ Pearce drawled as he lounged indolently on one side of Tessa against the tall windows looking out on to the icy winter garden. Drew, from her other side, sipped his champagne and agreed lazily, his eyes not on his sister as she was led out on to the floor by the man she obviously considered her own personal endorsement of having ‘arrived’, but on his cousin. They had taken it in turns to dance with her though they had been forced, when it could not possibly be avoided without a scene, to allow Nicky Longworth and one or two others to take a turn round the floor with her. They had vied with one another to make her laugh out loud, causing heads to turn to see what Jenny Harrison’s undisciplined daughter was up to now. And that ‘get-up’ she had on was scarcely decent. Her ankles were on display for all to gawk at and it was obvious to anyone with eyes in their heads that she wore no petticoats beneath that shockingly diaphanous gown. It was well known that Jenny Harrison was an unorthodox woman, capricious in her own youth, it was said. Well, weren’t they all? Kit Greenwood had been a law unto herself from the day they killed her father and it seemed her sons and their headstrong cousin were to be the same.

  And yet when the Squire favoured her with a dance, taking her in a graceful dip and sway about the room, evidently as intrigued with her as her madcap cousins appeared to be, she was as demure and modest as any sixteen-year-old should be, smiling innocently, speaking, one supposed, when spoken to, her eyes, on a level with his, cast down quite shyly. He was so delighted with her, remembering her skill and bravery on his own hunting field, that he took her round again, returning her to her mother most reluctantly. He had a word and a smile for Drew and Pearce who sprang to attention respectfully as he approached, his own son with them, and though Laurel was none too pleased at the amount of time, almost twenty minutes, he then spent chatting with them, it really was a triumph for the family.

  The Squire and his lady had been driven away in their carriage when Pearce took Tessa’s arm and drew her to one side.

  ‘Meet us at the bottom of the stairs in ten minutes,’ he whispered.

  ‘What for?’ she whispered back.

  ‘Never you mind. It’s a surprise. Just be there.’

  They were there waiting for her. They led her along the back passage to the side entrance of the house, one carrying her warm, fur-lined cape, the other a stout pair of boots, and when she was snugly bundled up they opened the door with a flourish.

  ‘Just for you, little cousin, and a very happy Christmas from us both,’ Pearce said softly, revealing the magical garden beyond. It had been snowing for more than an hour. At first small, frozen pellets had stuck fast to the lawns and paths, turning within half an hour to huge, soft flakes which had laid themselves, like the swansdown which lined the edge of her hood, three inches deep in a smooth and silent layer across the estate and the moorland beyond, transforming it into a world of such perfect, unspoiled beauty she drew in her breath with delight. It was eerily quiet. The lamplight stretched out in a pale yellow path across the glistening snow, gold and silver shimmering where the light reflected from it. The sky was a deep, mysterious purple and from it tumbled and whirled enormous fat snowflakes. Trees and bushes were captured in their dazzle, stretching out graceful arms to take on the shape of smooth, white, diamond-studded statues. It was all glitter and dazzle and when she stepped out in it, a hand in each of her cousins’, it closed in around her, caressing her with the infinite tenderness of a lover.

  They were quiet at first, almost reverent, stepping softly across the wide lawn beneath the salon window, looking back at the three sets of footprints they had made, those in the middle blurred by the dragging of her cloak.

  But the peace did not last. How could it? They were young and in love with life and enjoyment and their own immortality, and when Pearce picked up a handful of snow and moulded it into a hard, round ball, warning his brother to beware, it did not take long for the other two to respond. Their shrieks of joyous laughter were heard even above th
e sound of the orchestra, drawing an amused crowd to the window. Within five minutes Laurel Greenwood’s salon was emptied of every gentleman under the age of sixty, her own husband included, and even a dozen of the most daring young ladies, those who could escape or ignore their mamas’ eagle eye.

  It was said by many of the young guests to be the best party the valley had ever known, with the snowfight allowing those young ladies who had the inclination for it, more freedom than their mamas – or husbands – would have thought decent. More than a few lovely gowns were ruined and satin dancing slippers in tatters. Cheeks were rosy and warm despite the snow which danced against them and the laughter and shouts of triumph rose as snowballs found their mark. When it was done and a smilingly frozen-faced Laurel, who had declined to go outdoors and make a fool of herself, served hot coffee and mulled wine to those gentlemen who remained, Tessa curled herself up under her quilt, the firelight picking out the snowflakes which still floated against the window, and tried blissfully to decide which of her cousin’s warm, Christmas kisses had pleased her the most.

  9

  Will Broadbent’s tiny house, rented from the Greenwoods when he had begun work at the Chapman Mill as an overlooker, was set in a bit of garden at the end of a row of similar houses. Each had a parlour, a back kitchen which led out into its own yard, two bedrooms above, a good dry cellar beneath and a privy to each family.

  Will’s cosy parlour in which he had placed a couple of comfortable wing chairs, one on either side of the fireplace, and a round table covered with a red chenille cloth, was as warm as he could get it on this cold, snowy Christmas Day. The shelves in the alcoves beside the chimney breast were filled with books and the fireplace had a cast-iron surround with a brass fender and gleaming fire-tools. The polished floorboards were partly covered by a square carpet and before the fire was a hearth rug. There were curtains at the windows, red chenille again with a fringed pelmet, and on the walls were several commemorative plates, one produced to mark the 1832 Reform Bill and another the Chartist Movement of 1838. Will had been no more than a lad at the time of the first event but he had grown up with tales of the daring and recklessness of men of the Radical movement which had aimed to help other men, like himself, women and children too, to work with dignity and fulfilment in the cotton mills of Lancashire and, indeed, in many other parts of the country. Deeply interested in reform, though not perhaps with the fervour of Joss Greenwood or the late William Cobbett, he attended political meetings, union meetings, liking to hear an argument from every side before making up his own mind and went each week to the library in Chapmanstown, erected by Mrs Joss Greenwood for the betterment of the minds of her workers, to read the national newspapers from cover to cover.

  Sir Robert Peel, the greatest of all English statesmen in Will’s opinion, had died three years ago when he was thrown from his horse, and his death had affected Will deeply. Indeed, the whole nation had mourned the great man. It was due to him that the hated Corn Laws had been abolished, thus alleviating to some extent the conditions of the poor, though the deed had lost him his own office in government. An enormous loss to his country, Will had read, and he agreed with the statement wholeheartedly.

  He sat before his own cosy fire, aware at the back of his mind that he was lonely, acknowledging to himself that man was not meant to live alone and that he should be thinking of taking a wife. For twenty or more years he had lived in the Penfold Valley and for the past six months, ever since he had gone to work for Chapmans, he had lived in this little house, his first home and one that could so readily be shared with the right lass, perhaps children. And he had made it what it was. Unlike most men who would have been content with a bed, a chair and a table under which to put their feet, he had found a great deal of satisfaction in turning it into his own place.

  Feeling somewhat foolish at first, he had scoured the second-hand furniture shops of Crossfold and Edgeclough, sorting through the sad treasures of women who, perhaps, had fallen on hard times, finding pieces which pleased his eye. Knowing nothing of craftsmen such as Hepplewhite or Sheraton, nevertheless Will recognised a decent bit of polished wood when he saw it. The lustre of mahogany and rosewood and walnut, the glowing colours in the tapestry of his wing chairs, gave him immense pleasure. The hard-wearing Brussels carpet, made in Halifax, though worn in places was swirled in patterns of faded rose and sage, and the hearthrug, come from somewhere in the Orient he had been told by the owner of the pawn-shop where he had bought it, was soft and warm to his stockinged feet.

  In the small scullery behind the parlour was a pine dresser on which he had set out dishes, plates, cups and saucers bought at the Crossfold country fair during the summer. There was some durable pewter and a copper pan or two and he had smiled as he placed them on the shelves, chiding himself for an old woman, but pleased, just the same, with his first real home, his kitchen, simple in pine and deal. The bedroom upstairs he had furnished in what was, to him, luxurious comfort: a big brass bed with snowy linen and warm blankets covered with a splendid Welsh quilt stitched in hearts. Again he had laughed at himself, glad that the men with whom he worked could not see his pride and pleasure in what, surely, was a woman’s domain. The fact was, he liked beautiful things. He didn’t know why and certainly did not disclose the fact to anyone, even though his handiness with his fists and his great strength, well known and appreciated in the mill, would have discouraged any man from making a disparaging remark about it.

  They were well built, these houses, he mused, as he strode for the third time to the window to peer out at the snowy world beyond, aware that he was becoming increasingly restless. The road outside his gate, though knee-deep in snow at the moment, was paved and well lit on a dark winter’s night. There was an air about the houses not exactly of prosperity, for none of the Chapman employees could be said to have wealth, but of care, pride even, in each well-maintained, well-polished cottage. The windows shone, the gates were intact and oiled, there were curtains, mostly clean, and steps which were donkey-stoned each Saturday. Gardens in the summer produced a flower or two and at the back was a row of allotments where men like himself grew cabbages and potatoes. The privies stood by the back gates of the yards, the cleanliness of each depending upon the family it served. For the most part, they were scrupulous, since every house had its own piped water and the sewage was adequately taken care of by the splendid drains.

  He sat down heavily in the chair and picked up a book. He put his stockinged feet on the fender, lit his pipe and prepared to have an hour or two with Mr Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield. It had come from Mrs Greenwood’s library in Chapmanstown, where the many young men and women who could read and write were allowed to borrow books.

  But it was no good. Somehow David and Steerforth and pretty Dora could not hold his attention and he knew it was because, today of all days, Christmas Day, he was alone. Why should it concern him now, he wondered, when for the past seven or eight years, ever since he had left the apprentice house, he had been on his own, living in lodgings, without family or friend?

  His eyes drifted to the holly he had hung above the fireplace and the mistletoe pinned to the door-frame between the parlour and the scullery. He smiled ruefully, asking himself which young lady he had hoped to catch in a Christmas kiss when not one soul had crossed his threshold since he had taken up residence here. That was not to say he did not enjoy the company of a pretty woman. He was friendly with the landlord’s wife at the Dog and Gun, a bonny woman a year or two older than himself with a husband of almost fifty who had lost his appetite for his wife’s curving flesh. Strange, since she was extremely obliging – to Will and, he suspected, to several others whom he was certain shared her favours.

  He nearly dropped his pipe when someone hammered on his door and was severely handicapped for a moment or two as he attempted to brush away the hot ash from its bowl which had fallen on his cord trousers. His expression was quite foolish as he stood indecisively on his own hearth rug, wondering who it co
uld be when all it took to find out was a stride or two across the parlour and the opening of the front door. Of course, he could peep from behind his chenille curtains to see who was mad enough to wade through the drifts which were certain to have piled up where the wind had blown them. It had snowed heavily many times in the past for the winters up here on the edge of the Pennines were fierce and stormy and those of the spinners and weavers who lived in Chapmanstown and must trudge up to Crossbank, Highbank and Broadbank had tales to tell of finding themselves up to their armpits in snow banks. Mrs Harrison, a woman of ingenuity he had heard, and to be admired, had organised them into groups so that they travelled together, and if one got into difficulties the others could form a rescue party. It had been quite hilarious, it seemed, and certainly a novelty, especially as Mrs Harrison had arranged for them to have a bowl of hot soup to restore them to a working condition before they switched on their mules or looms.

  And last night there had been just such a blizzard.

  She was on his doorstep when he opened the door; not Mrs Harrison of whom he had been thinking but her daughter. She was dazzling, brilliant with delight, like a child who has achieved the impossible. Her eyes glowed into his, her mouth wide and sweet, parting over her white teeth in a huge grin. Tessa Harrison: the young girl who had, in the last few months, become his friend.

  Friend! Dear God, if anyone of her family became aware of it, particularly those reckless cousins of hers, he would be hounded not only from the mill, his job there and this snug cottage, but from Lancashire itself; and yet their relationship was completely innocent. It had begun on the moor, on the top road from Chapmanstown to Edgeclough. It had begun an hour or two after she had snarled her wild Greenwood temper at him in the mill yard. It had begun when he found her waiting for him to enquire whether he had got the job he had asked for. It had begun when she had shared her family history with him, who had none, and had been enthralled by the tale of his sad beginnings. It had begun and flourished on the few occasions they had met when her cousins had ridden off without her, she said mutinously, refusing to include her in some wild and reckless folly. He had walked the moors every Sunday, not looking for her since she was no more than a child, he told himself, and a child of the class to which he, as a millworker, had no access. When they met it was by accident, an encounter neither looked for nor planned, but which both enjoyed; perhaps for only a few moments in which she enquired of his job and his progress in it, he to admire her growing hair, to joke about her cousin’s cutting of it, to ask politely after her uncle’s health. After the incident with the Irish tinkers he had been somewhat short with her, subconsciously recognising that his exasperation was more than one human being’s concern for another, but she seemed not to notice. Sometimes they sat on the rough grass together, saying nothing, at ease in their silences with no need to make the small talk they both found so irksome. He was often amazed that he found such pleasure in the company of a young girl, one in whom, he told himself, he had no physical interest, nor shared interest at all, really, for she was no reader and had neither heard of, nor was concerned with what he read. He did not care about the hunting of the fox, nor the shooting of game birds, which it seemed she did and was good at, she boasted, but somehow they met on a bit of common ground, neither realising what it was, relishing one another’s company. They had come across one another at Annie Beale’s cottage, sharing a cup of tea and a joke, easy with one another, and with her, as a mutual friend.