The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  Chairs were being pushed back. Lloyd continued to intone,

  ‘Signed and dated this fourteenth day of December, in the year eighteen hundred and seventy-eight.’

  Oliver said farewell to Lucy Grandison. ‘Please visit me, soon, Oliver,’ she said as he took his leave. ‘Bill spoke often of your many qualities. I should like to enjoy your company, as he did.’

  Oliver walked from Balgone to The Pheasant, glad of the clean, cold air, glad to be away from the oppressive presence of Sir Philip Oldfield, whom he knew now to be his implacable enemy. He thought clearly and deeply about the skirmishes he was sure lay ahead. Sir Philip would do all he could to discredit or ruin him and there was a lot that a man of such wealth and power could do.

  Oliver knew also that he looked forward to his first brush with the old baronet. It would be more enjoyable to tangle with Sir Philip than it was to do business with the other mill-owners. Sir Philip, of course, would be at a disadvantage since he would have to work through an agent. It would not do for him, a gentleman and a Justice of the Peace, to be seen to do his own dirty work.

  ‘I wonder who will strike the first blow for him.’ Oliver laughed aloud at the thought and broke into a joyful run. ‘I’ll not let him have your money, Bill,’ he shouted to the dark, empty sky.

  Chapter Ten

  Florence lay in bed at nine o’clock, having excused herself to Mama, declaring that she felt quite drained from the solemn day.

  She had ordered a fire to be lit and she tossed and turned, a prey to wild fancies she believed were peculiarly her own. Sometimes at night she would discard her fine lawn nightdress and lie naked between the linen sheets, imagining herself carried away by a faceless, nameless man. Then, unable to resist, she would submit to and endure the state of voluptuous torture these longings brought.

  She knew she should feel shame for her wicked thoughts but she did not, and tonight, full of unfulfilled passion, she at last had a face to put to her sweet tormentor and she burned with the desire to see and touch Oliver Wainwright.

  She went back through the day, minute by minute. She had been sitting alone, in the window seat at Balgone, not wanting to engage in insincere conversations with the family, who all professed to be stricken at the death of poor Uncle Bill, yet were dry-eyed and on their worst behaviour. As the carriages arrived she had noticed the tall young man in a greatcoat several sizes too large, who arrived last and alone.

  Aunt Lucy had brought him to meet her. Oliver Wainwright, Aunt Lucy had said. What a strong name it was … Oliver … Oliver. She had seen that he was ill at ease, seen that he was uncomfortable in the company of her family.

  He’d talked about Uncle Bill in a voice that was deep, with a pronounced local accent, and the sound of it sent a thrill through her senses. His face had been strangely familiar. She had seen those dark good looks before, and recently.

  She had been taught to put good manners above all and she had determined that the family should not disdain his company because they begrudged him his inheritance. Grandfather had pointedly ignored him, Grandmother had acted as if he were invisible and Mama at the very moment they were speaking had been flashing warning looks towards her. The poor young man must have been feeling dreadful.

  She had said something about Aunt Lucy’s loss, in a well-bred sort of way, she remembered. Then she’d known that she was being stiff and formal, and impulsively she’d placed her hand over his and asked permission to use his Christian name.

  He had relaxed at once and his features, which had seemed grim and brooding in his discomfort, softened, breaking into the most engaging smile Florence had ever seen.

  Perhaps he was married? No, he wasn’t married. Aunt Lucy told her that he lived at The Pheasant. A married man wouldn’t live at a tavern. Perhaps he had a lady-friend? What if he loved someone? No. He didn’t love anyone. She was sure he’d not have looked at her the way he had if he loved another. He had deep blue eyes and they had never left her face. She just knew he didn’t love another. He couldn’t have let his eyes burn into her as they had, if he loved another.

  Mama had called him a ‘common creature of the market place’ and taken her away from him, before they’d had a chance to speak again. How could she say that? One only had to look at his wellcut features. Such faces surely weren’t given to common creatures. And wasn’t there something exciting about a man who had no pretty manners? Oliver had a rough, masculine voice, which was much to be preferred to the teasing, silly tones of all the other young men she’d met.

  Suppose she never saw him again? He hadn’t replied when she asked him to call. Florence sat bolt upright in the bed, her hair dishevelled, grey eyes wide with alarm, her naked body translucent in the flickering firelight. She had to see him again.

  She experienced a feeling of panic at the prospect of never seeing him, her heart pounded, heat flooded into her face; she, who had so far rebuffed the overtures of every young man she had met, rose from her bed and by candlelight composed a letter.

  Finally she slept, delighting in the thought that she had at last found a man of character, unashamed that she’d made the first advance. She had invited him to call on her a week next Wednesday at three o’clock.

  Mama did not come down to breakfast that morning so Florence had no opportunity, until after the letter had been posted, to speak to her mother about the invitation. When she did so in the afternoon she was astonished at Mama’s reaction. She had never seen Mama so angry.

  ‘To think that you, my own daughter, should ask this … low creature to call upon us. What possessed you?’ Mama said.

  ‘Since Mr Wainwright is going to provide a fair part of our means of support, Mama, it’s only right and just that we should welcome him,’ Florence replied.

  ‘There is nothing just or right about defying me, Florence.’ Mama’s voice was shrill. She seemed to have forgotten her own strictures about not letting the servants hear. ‘You will never see him again. Do you hear me? You will write and tell him that he is not welcome in my house.’

  Since Uncle Bill’s death, tears had been very near to the surface and now Florence could not hold them back. ‘You are being hateful, Mama,’ she cried. ‘Uncle Bill meant Oliver to have the inheritance. You are all behaving as if he had no right to it.’ Tears were streaming down her face. She had never spoken so rudely to Mama before and the fury in her mother’s face at the outburst added to her anguish. But it was not right that the family should treat Oliver so.

  ‘He had no right to it.’ Mama’s voice became cold again. ‘He must have preyed upon a sick old man. That money, those mills belong to the family. They were Oldfield family property.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t Aunt Lucy ask him to return them? They were Uncle Bill’s. To do with as he liked. And he didn’t want you to have them,’ Florence shouted. ‘I hope you are punished for your vile greed!’ She ran from the room, blinded by tears, almost flooring a startled maid in the hallway. She lifted her rustling grey skirt and fled upstairs to her bedroom where she turned the key in the lock. Then Florence threw herself, face down, on the silk quilt, sobs of anger and frustration shaking her slight body until the afternoon light began to fade and she had no breath left for crying.

  She turned over and lay on her back. The tears had subsided and left her numb-faced and clear-headed. The events of the previous day had not faded from her mind. She remembered them as sharply as if she were reliving them. She would see Oliver again. If it meant forcing herself into deceit then so be it.

  She would go downstairs and apologise to Mama. She would allay Mama’s fears about her intention to see Oliver, even as she was working out the details of the plan that was taking shape in her mind.

  Florence rinsed a facecloth in the cold water jug and pressed it to her eyes and her cheeks. Her looking glass reflected back her white face as she brushed her pale silk hair into place. She seldom had so much as a cross word with Mama so it should be easy to persuade Mama of her contrition.

&n
bsp; The lamps had been lit when she re-entered the drawing room. Mama was seated at her desk, a glass of brandy to hand. Poor Mama must have been under severe strain. It was the second time in as many days that she had needed the sustenance of strong spirit.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Florence said as she closed the door behind her. ‘It was wicked of me to speak as I did.’

  A look of relief crossed Mama’s face. ‘We’ve both been hasty, Florence,’ she said. ‘Let us put it behind us now.’

  ‘Do you remember the girl I met at Miss Fern’s dancing lessons, Mama? Edith Clayton.’ Florence sat beside her mother at the desk.

  ‘The pretty girl with auburn hair?’

  ‘Yes. I want to ask her to tea. Instead of Oliver. Do you mind?’

  ‘She’s not really our sort, Florence. Isn’t she an innkeeper’s daughter?’

  ‘Oh, Mama. Don’t be tiresome. There is nobody else I want to see. You said yourself that she dances well and has been well brought up.’ Florence affected her most persuasive tone. ‘You surely cannot object to my making a friend of her. The Swan is the largest coaching inn in Cheshire. The Claytons live in the big house next door to it – a bigger house than this. Mr and Mrs Clayton are staunch church members.’

  Florence saw that her mother was softening. ‘Why, Mama, the Dean himself has asked Edith, as well as me, to take a class at St Michael’s Sunday school. You were pleased that I’d been singled out, weren’t you?’ She took Mama’s hands in her own and closed her warm fingers around Mama’s cold ones.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to take a class. You told me that you preferred to spend the weekends at Suttonford.’ Mama was smiling as she spoke and Florence knew that agreement was not far away.

  ‘I shall do as the Dean asks, Mama, if Edith will take a class too. I’ll feel too exposed to scrutiny to do it by myself,’ she said.

  ‘When will you start?’ Mama asked.

  ‘This Sunday. I’ll take a class on Sunday afternoon. I’ll ask

  Edith to tea on Thursday.’ Florence pulled gently at her mother’s hands. ‘Come. Sit by the fire with me. You are cold, Mama.’

  ‘I’d prefer to go to Suttonford on Sunday, but if I must, I’ll remain here.’

  Florence had not thought of this possibility. Her plans would be ruined if Mama remained here. ‘You go, Mama. I’ll come back here after church and be quite content to wait for your return,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Very well. Ask your friend to tea and I’ll speak to the Dean for you.’

  Florence said a silent prayer of thanks. All that remained was for her to persuade Edith to accompany her on a visit to The Pheasant on Sunday afternoon.

  The entrance hall at Suttonford House had been designed and built a century before by Italian craftsmen, from white marble and rosewood. Two curved staircases of marble, to the right and left of a central atrium, flanked a square Roman bath and fountain. Water played constantly from a gilded torch in the raised hand of a cherub and was fed to the fountain by an underground system of lead pipes – copied from ancient Rome.

  Around the panelled walls, behind the white marble columns, which supported the upper floor, doors opened onto reception rooms and corridors. On the floor above, beyond the white balustrade, were the drawing rooms, private sitting rooms and ballroom. Here, on rosewood panelling between the doors, hung the family portraits and from this upper landing two polished staircases led to the topmost floor.

  The panelling was again repeated on this floor and the hall was lit, above it, from a dome of etched and stained glass, which spanned the central area of the house and was itself surrounded by painted frescoes and ceiling panels.

  To the right of the entrance hall, behind one of the columns, was an open corridor. This long passageway, oak-lined and hung with antlers and sporting trophies, could not be seen from the classical entrance and led to the offices and kitchens of the big house.

  Sir Philip Oldfield’s study, overlooking the front of the house, was a warm, book-lined room with a high fireplace in which a log fire burned. Here, two days after the funeral of his brother-in-law, were gathered Sir Philip, Lady Oldfield, Laura Mawdesley and Mr Lloyd.

  Sir Philip stood with his back to the fire, impatience in every line of his face, his grey eyes cold and calculating. ‘We stand to lose if Wainwright can’t be stopped,’ he announced. ‘Have you any suggestions as to how we set about it?’

  Lady Oldfield glanced at the others. ‘I don’t think we can stop him,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘He’ll not give up his inheritance. Can’t we buy him out?’

  ‘Well, Lloyd? Can we?’ Sir Philip demanded.

  ‘There’s no money for that kind of purchase.’ Lloyd pulled at his side whiskers thoughtfully. He was seated at the desk where four open ledgers lay before him. ‘There’d be money if you sold the railway stock, but any income from the sale would have to be used for the purpose of improving the cottages. It’s all here, in the will.’

  Laura leaned forward in the leather armchair. ‘Do you think I might have a small glass of brandy, Father? I think I’ll die from anxiety.’ She pulled a lace handkerchief from beneath the neat cuffs of her black dress and touched her forehead with it. ‘I must receive my allowance. Florence and I cannot continue without it. She must make a good marriage.’

  Sir Philip handed to Laura a small glass of cognac from the decanter he kept on a side-table. ‘The money must be found, Lloyd. Sell some land. Offer Wainwright as little as you need. But get that mill.’

  He returned to stand in front of the fire. ‘I own the property. I cannot allow one of my own servants control over family income. The mill belongs to us. Grandison must have been out of his mind.’

  Lloyd drummed on the table with thin fingers. ‘Oliver Wainwright is no longer a servant. As for the bequest, there is nothing to be done, even if Grandison was of unsound mind. His widow is the one to institute proceedings, not the minor beneficiaries.’

  ‘Then get her to contest it, Lloyd.’

  ‘She means it to stand,’ Lloyd said.

  Sir Philip’s face, normally a cool mask of neutrality, blanched at the lawyer’s words. His teeth were tightly clenched. ‘He was a servant. He insulted me. Keep my name out of it, but get that property.’ He left the study. His family were annoying him with their acceptance of Oliver Wainwright’s good fortune. Lloyd was half-hearted in his support. Grandison had always been an awkward fellow. He ought to have expected something like this from Grandison, he told himself. It might seem foolish, irrational even, to Lloyd but the family name was at stake. It was preposterous. Laura, the dear girl, understood.

  ‘Blast the man,’ he cursed. ‘My ancestors would have gone to war for less.’ Opposite the door was another, leading to the kitchen stairs and the little estate office. He opened the office door and hit the desk with his closed fist. ‘I’ll not give up. I’ll ruin that arrogant devil.’

  He remembered the look on Wainwright’s face when he’d delivered the insult. ‘How dared he call me Oldfield and stand his ground?’ he asked himself, whipping up his anger still more. ‘He’ll be glad to sell the mill by the time I’ve done.’

  He rang the servants’ bell. A footman answered the summons. ‘Find Leach and bring him here,’ Sir Philip ordered. He considered, while he waited, dismissing Wainwright’s stepmother and her son from the estate but remembered, finally, that she was now the mistress, if not the wife, of Leach and had recently borne him a child.

  No. Her cooking skills would be missed. Servants were ten a penny but a good cook was beyond price. Her loyalties now lay with Leach. He recalled the last meeting he’d had with the woman; remembered her saying that the boy was beyond her capabilities. Oliver Wainwright had been her stepson and she’d been glad to see him go. She’d not owe Oliver Wainwright any allegiance.

  From the window Sir Philip saw Wilf Leach swaggering up to the house. The man was dirty and often the worse for drink but he could make the labourers work. He also knew Wilf Leach to be di
shonest, but not clever enough to rise above petty pilfering. The man would co-operate. ‘Enter,’ he called when he heard the obsequious tapping on the office door.

  ‘You wanted me?’ Wilf Leach asked.

  ‘Yes. Come in, Leach.’ Sir Philip pointed to a stool at the far end of the bench. ‘Sit. You have friends in the town? In Middlefield?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you know any of the weavers at Hollin Mill?’

  ‘I know some.’

  ‘Are you in their confidence?’

  Wilf Leach looked puzzled. Sir Philip decided against discretion. It was wasted on Leach. ‘Oliver Wainwright is now the owner of Hollin Mill,’ he said. ‘I want it.’ Leach’s loose jaw dropped. So the news had not flown round the estate as speedily as Sir Philip had imagined.

  ‘Set up a meeting with the men who work for Wainwright. Offer them three and six a day each, to be paid daily, for their refusing to work for him. Suggest that Wainwright is going to reduce their wages. Tell them that he has plans to increase the hours they work.’ At last a look of recognition was crossing Leach’s sly face.

  ‘I want them to strike, Leach. I want them to think that Wainwright is out to break them. My name must be kept out of this. I want the workers to believe that their new boss is lying when he protests his innocence,’ Sir Philip told him. ‘I want that mill out of Wainwright’s hands. It belongs to the Oldfield family, not to one of our servants. I’m going to run it myself.’

  Leach was leering at him as if waiting for something. Sir Philip unlocked a safe that was set into the wall behind him. He withdrew a small leather bag and counted out twenty sovereigns, which he put into a cloth purse. ‘Pay them with this,’ he ordered. ‘Keep two for yourself and there will be much more when you’ve broken Wainwright. Report back.’

  Wilf Leach extended a filthy hand into which Sir Philip dropped the bag. ‘Remember, if you are caught you will take the consequences. Not I.’

  ‘Wainwright won’t catch me.’ Wilf licked his lips as if in glee at the prospect of avenging himself on the antagonist he’d long wanted to score over. ‘I’ll enjoy his downfall.’