The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  Oliver sat on an iron seat there, looking out over the ancient steps and cattle market. They had taken on two lads to help with the stalls but he liked to be here, in his favourite market place on Saturdays. He ate his bread and cheese and leaned against the back of the seat, thinking of his extraordinary good fortune. For now he had almost everything he wanted. He had a roof over his head, a good friend in Albert and he had Bill, a man he admired above all others, to help and advise him. He had a business of his own, he called no man master – and yet …

  He sent lads or sometimes Albert to the Saturday market in Stockport because he liked to be in Middlefield when Rosie Hadfield came to the stalls. She stopped to speak to him and he found himself looking for her, warmth flooding through him at the sight of her slow smile, his nerves leaping at the touch of her hand on his arm and his head hazy from the lavender smell of her hair, which she wore pinned up, away from the mill.

  He vowed to find himself a girl and stop acting like a lovesick boy, drawn to a woman so much older than himself and her with three children and a sick husband.

  He’d go back to the stall in a minute. She might be there.

  Chapter Eight

  Mama was beginning to talk of their returning to London since she was so hard to please. Florence knew that Mama hoped she would marry young. Was it to save the expense of launching her? Why could Mama and Grandfather not allow her to remain here, unmarried? In Mama’s opinion a girl who had not made her choice by the age of seventeen, or at the latest eighteen, was wasting her charms.

  It was Sunday, late in January, the sky was clear blue and the ground iron-hard under her winter boots as she walked to the village.

  ‘My dear child,’ Mama said yesterday. ‘You have been in Middlefield for three and a half years. You have met the best the county can offer. Surely there is one amongst them …? Florence! Pay attention.’

  Florence recalled her reply. ‘I am not going to fade, Mama, or grow old before your eyes. I shall not wither away, pining for a husband.’ She had seen the shocked look in Mama’s face but she had concluded that flippancy was her only defence against the relentless drive to ‘marry her off’ that Mama and Grandfather pursued.

  ‘Then Grandfather must provide a season for you,’ Mama had said. ‘We will return to London. You shall come out.’

  The road to Suttonford village, which Florence took every Sunday afternoon, was a well-beaten track between an avenue of firs, dusty in summer and a quagmire in spring and autumn. The village, less than a mile from the house, comprised twenty cottages, a farm manager’s house and the quarry-master’s place. There were stables for the farm horses, a shop and, a little way apart, Suttonford church and village school.

  Every Sunday, after lunch, she left the family to their silly talk in the grand drawing room and went down to the schoolroom, behind the village church. She took the infants’ class. Her hands were warm next to the soft fur of her muff but the cold air bit at her cheeks. She hoped there would be a fire or the children would freeze today. Their mamas were careless. Sometimes the poor mites had holes in their leggings and chapped and chilblained hands.

  She ran through the hymn tune as she went, breath streaming out whitely between the words that were bouncing in her head in time with her quick feet. Playing the piano to their eager singing was the best part of Sundays.

  Mama or Grandfather invariably waited for her when Sunday school was over. They liked to meet her, Florence suspected, so that the village children would not forget how to bob their curtseys.

  ‘The children like to see us, Florence,’ Mama said, only ten minutes ago, when Florence asked if she could return alone. She loved to be left to herself but hardly ever achieved the solitary state.

  She crossed the frozen grass towards the little schoolroom with its tiny stained-glass windows. And there they were, waiting for her, six little angels, shivering under the shawls their mamas had pinned around their shoulders. ‘Quickly, quickly, my pets,’ Florence said as she opened the door. ‘Let us sit by the fire.’

  In her tapestry bag were six apples and a wooden box of chalks. She had been practising all week and could now outline very quickly a drawing of the African village.

  ‘Me mammy’s got a bilious ’tack, Miss Florence.’ Connie Smith was tugging at Florence’s coat.

  ‘I’ll send blue pills to her, Connie,’ Florence consoled, ‘after Sunday school. Now get the slates out of the cupboard and I’ll sketch a picture of the mission. You can colour in.’

  They were quickly settled. She would reward the best child with the chocolate she had slipped into her bag from Mama’s box.

  Florence watched them; their little heads bent down, eyes close to the slates, chalk squealing furiously as they worked.

  Oh, how she loved Sunday. It was the only day of the week when Mama left her side for an afternoon; when pleasing Grandfather and Mama was no longer the sole reason for her existence.

  This afternoon she would not have to be charming to the insipid young men whom Grandfather paraded before her at every turn. There were four at the house party this weekend: four spoiled, rich boys who had not a ha’porth of character between them. Why, oh why did they do it? She was not yet eighteen. It was not unnatural, though Mama said it was, that she should not want to wed young.

  ‘I’ve finished, Miss Florence …’

  ‘So’ve I.’

  ‘I finished before you.’

  ‘Which is the best, Miss Florence?’

  Florence took the slates onto her lap and pronounced Connie Smith’s the best. Connie was a sweet girl and a clever child too. Perhaps she would grow up to be one of the higher servants. ‘Stand beside the piano, children,’ she said. ‘We’re going to sing our favourite hymn.’

  It was dreadfully out of tune but if she struck the keys hard and jigged the tune a little the piano would make a good accompaniment to their joyful voices.

  ‘Ready?’

  Over the seas there are little brown children …

  They haven’t heard of our Saviour dear.

  Swift let the message fly over the water …

  Telling the children that God is near …

  Over the seas … There are little brown children …

  Nobody told them that God is near.

  Tomorrow there was to be skating on the frozen lake. Sylvia and the Bell-Cooper girls would be there. She hoped that the girls would be charming to the four young men and leave her free to skate by herself or with Uncle Bill.

  Servants with besoms were sweeping the ice and following behind them housemaids and kitchen girls went with wide-headed brooms. Florence could hear their laughter as she crossed the frosted grass. Iron tables and chairs were ranged in front of the frozen lake, which was almost ready for the skaters, stark white against the snow-laden sky.

  There were at least a hundred guests, Florence noted as she went, her skates gripping the snow, towards the bench where Sylvia sat. The scarlet coat with the deep band of fur at the hem made a vivid splash of colour against the whites and greens of snow and trees. She stood watching Sylvia Machin’s maid struggling to lace her mistress’s boots. ‘Can you skate backwards, Sylvia?’ Florence dropped down onto the seat beside her friend. ‘Shall we go first? Will you lead?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll lead,’ Sylvia said. ‘What about the Hepworth brothers? Don’t you want them to take us round?’

  ‘Don’t you find them tiresome?’ Florence answered. ‘I do.’

  ‘John Hepworth has been ogling you all weekend.’ Sylvia’s dark hair fell across her face and as she tossed her head and pushed the loose strand back under the crown of her hat Florence saw the light of mischief in her eyes. ‘I shall sport with him if you find him tiresome.’ She laughed and held out her hands. ‘Pull me to my feet and set me on the ice. It’s a decade since I skated. I’m sure to fall at the poor boy’s feet.’

  Not far from the edge of the gravel path, towards the house, a chestnut burner had been lit. A barrel of chestnuts stood read
y, the long-handled roasting pans propped against it. Guests were being served mulled wine from a china tureen above a charcoal burner on a trestle table where silver dishes piled with sweetmeats were set. Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucy stood nearby. Florence waved a gloved hand in their direction. They had seen her.

  The cold air rushed against her face, bringing a stinging colour to her cheeks as she and Sylvia made the first cuts on the smooth, icy surface. They were being followed now, by the Hepworth brothers and the Bell-Cooper girls. Well, she’d leave Sylvia to their attentions as soon as they had circled the lake.

  ‘Bother. My boots are loose.’ Florence released Sylvia’s hands. ‘I’ll go and fasten them.’ She slid towards the lake’s edge, steel on ice crunching into the rougher surface at the rim where she halted in front of Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucy. Sylvia, she saw, was already hand in hand with John Hepworth, her bright laughter and easy chatter floating back across the ice.

  ‘Well, Florence. D’ye have a dancing card?’ Uncle Bill said as soon as she straightened from tightening her bootlaces.

  ‘I don’t need one. When I want a partner, it shall be you,’ she answered. ‘You are by far the best skater here.’

  Aunt Lucy, booted and clad top to toe in fur, held out her hands. ‘Angel! Come, take your uncle onto the ice and I shall talk to your mama and Sir Philip. Bill cannot stop talking about the young man he has befriended. Indeed, he has spoken of nothing else for months.’

  Aunt Lucy was smiling as she spoke, fondness and love for Uncle Bill in her every word and look. Florence kissed her cheek. ‘I shall talk to him about myself then,’ she teased. ‘He shall listen to the outpourings of his once-favourite.’

  Uncle Bill led her back onto the ice and took her hands. ‘I cannae go as fast as I did, lassie,’ he warned. ‘We haven’t had a winter like this for years. I’m a wee bit out of practice.’

  ‘Oh, dearest. I simply wanted to be with you. I wanted to hear your words of wisdom,’ Florence said. ‘Let us go slowly around to the quiet side of the lake where we’ll not be interrupted.’ She held fast onto his hands and looked up into his dear old face. She must confide in Uncle Bill. He was the wisest person in the world and would advise her from his heart.

  ‘What is it, lass?’ he said.

  ‘It’s Mama. And Grandfather. They want me to marry.’ They were out of the hearing of the other skaters now and Florence let the smile go from her face and looked into her uncle’s eyes intently. ‘It’s dreadful. Every time I am taken anywhere a young man is presented.’

  Uncle Bill wasn’t smiling. He would never patronise her. Florence was encouraged. ‘The young men are all perfectly acceptable. They will make wonderful husbands, I’m sure. But not for me.’

  ‘Do you think you are too young, Florence? Is that what it is?’

  ‘No. I want to marry. It’s all I want – to marry and bring up my children – and to have time to help the needy. But I haven’t met the right man yet. And someday I know I will.’

  Uncle Bill had slowed to a halt at the far side of the lake. The sounds of merriment came faintly to them across the white expanse. ‘Then you must wait until you find a man you can love, Florence,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think I am unnatural?’ She saw with relief that he did not. He was smiling at her. ‘Mama says I am wayward. Is it asking too much, to want more than this?’ She waved her arm in the direction of the house. ‘Am I ungrateful when I say I cannot accept a suitor on his acceptability to Mama and Grandfather?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Florence.’ Uncle Bill was frowning in concentration. ‘Your mama has your best interests at heart. But she and your grandfather are not the best judges of the man you must marry. You must stand firm. Tell them that you alone will choose.’

  Having opened her heart, Florence could not stop herself. Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. She felt a lump in her throat as she added in a rush of words, ‘I need to be loved, Uncle Bill. I need a man who will love me above all others. I will be a good wife to such a man. I couldn’t take a man into my bed, Uncle Bill … couldn’t … Oh, please don’t despise me for saying these things. I do have deep feelings. Mama says I am capricious but I merely pretend to be so that they shall not see how afraid I am.’

  Uncle Bill’s eyes were sparkling with bright tears. He held her hand very tightly. ‘Am I asking too much?’ she pleaded.

  Uncle Bill’s voice sounded gruffer. ‘No. Ye’re not asking too much,’ he said slowly. ‘The young man I’m helping said very much the same thing. He’s waiting until he meets the girl he wants. He’ll not take a woman for her fortune, though there’s one that wants him. And I admire him for it.’

  ‘Perhaps your protégé will be more fortunate than I,’ Florence said.

  ‘Don’t talk such nonsense, child. You’re talking about the foundation of your life. Don’t settle for less than you want. When you meet the right boy you’ll have no doubts. And you must marry him, lass, whatever the cost to your mama and grandfather’s hopes.’

  ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you, darling.’ Florence kissed his bristly old cheek, cold under her warm lips. ‘Let us go back to the others now. Tell me about your young man as we go. I would so like to meet him.’

  Uncle Bill moved stiffly to take her hands again and move forwards, towards the skaters in front of the house. ‘I don’t think that could be arranged. Florence. But I’ll tell you that he’s a remarkable youngster. While we’re sleeping that boy will be pushing his handcart up cobbled, icy streets. He’s always first into the market. He has to fight for all he earns.’ Here Uncle Bill laughed. ‘It’s the truth. He often has a black eye, from footpads who try to set upon him and his partner to relieve them of their takings.’

  They were approaching the others now. Voices could be clearly heard; delighted squeals from the girls, the raised tones of their elders as they exchanged pleasantries over the warm, spiced wines.

  ‘He puts on his best clothes once a fortnight and journeys to London with samples of cloth. He never lets his customers down. He can bargain with the best of them, mill-owners as well. He could make a lot more money if he were a cheat but he’s as straight as a die.’

  Uncle Bill was so full of enthusiasm for this young man’s progress that his cheeks were glowing with pride at the mention of his friend’s successes. His hands were warmer now and his feet faster. ‘He has a quality … a character that I haven’t met in years. He’s good, Florence. He’s honest and true. And if I’d had a son I’d have wanted him to be just like Oliver. And I wish you could see him, sweetheart. I wish you could.’

  There had been a thaw at the end of January but the fastness of winter was upon them again, colder now than anyone could remember. It was a bitter cold February morning. Bill Grandison had journeyed to The Pheasant as he always did and together Oliver and he were driven to the weaving shed at Hollin Mill, Oliver’s thoughts far from the freezing cold of the streets he saw from the small carriage windows.

  There was money in the bank now. He was making a good living from the market stalls, taking ten stalls a week and though Albert spent a lot of his own money on his many lady-friends Oliver had still not found a girl. He could attract a girl, could kiss even the plain and willing ones but his heart was not in it. Albert’s ways were not for him. He went with Albert regularly to The Crown, to please his friend, but mostly he drank a few pints of beer, looked at the young women who clustered around Albert and dreamed of finding a girl like Rosie Hadfield.

  He saw Rosie twice a week, once on Wednesdays at the mill where he plied her with questions about weaving and the management of a mill, and then on Saturday afternoons in the market where she lingered beside him for a few minutes.

  And it was Wednesday and he’d see her again. The carriage bumped to a halt in front of the mill. Bill was quiet today. They’d hardly spoken a word, but sat facing one another in companionable silence through the brittle-cold morning.

  Rosie pushed back the loose strands of her heavy, almost black hair. She
bent her knee and stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror she’d hung on the old door of the mill’s dry closet. Big brown eyes in a pale oval face looked back at her, a wide mouth with full lips, which she pursed and bit to redden them, and white and even teeth, which she rubbed with the inside corner of her clean apron to make them shine.

  Then she sat down quickly on the long wooden seat and asked herself, as she did every day, why seeing Oliver Wainwright here, and in the market, made her act in this silly girl way.

  Rosie loved her husband. Jim Hadfield was a good man who had met and married her eight years ago – and her a poor girl from the workhouse she’d been born into. He had been a mature man, a weaver of some forty years, an occasional preacher at revivalist meetings in the chapel that Rosie and her sister Agnes attended. Jim Hadfield went by train across Lancashire and Yorkshire at weekends, preaching to unbelievers, bringing to the poor and ignorant the message of the Lord.

  Before his lungs gave up Jim could move a congregation to tears or to public declarations of faith with one of his stirring sermons and Rosie and Agnes used to listen, enthralled. When Jim had asked to see her again after one of those meetings Rosie could hardly believe that a man of insight and eloquence, a lay preacher and scholar, had chosen her.

  Jim had taught her much and she’d been a willing pupil at his scripture lessons but his touch had never roused in her more than a quick, involuntary response. They’d been taught at the workhouse and again at the chapel about sinful feelings that had to be quelled; about lusts that must be cast out before a pure life could be earned.

  Rosie was glad she’d never been tempted to sample the sins of the flesh. Jim’s caresses were respectful, given under the cover of darkness and the decency of a sheet. And that was as it should be. Why, then, did those very caresses disappoint her? Why did she long for something that Jim did not have to give? Was the touch she longed for one of the very sins of the flesh against which she had been warned?