The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  Three women were holding out bundles of cloth. Oliver took one and Albert, smiling at both of the others in turn, served them, to their evident appreciation. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been smitten, Oliver,’ he teased when the customers left the stall and there was a temporary lull. ‘I don’t believe it! Is this what all the absent-minded stuff’s about?’

  ‘Aye. I think I’ve taken a tumble, Albert,’ Oliver told him, trying to make it sound like a jest.

  ‘Who for?’ Albert’s face was a study in eagerness to know.

  ‘Oldfield’s blasted granddaughter. That’s who!’ Oliver confessed.

  Albert whistled slowly, drawing out the sound. ‘You make it hard for yourself, don’t you?’ he said finally. ‘Of all the girls in this town, you have to go for the one right out of your reach.’

  ‘I think she likes me,’ Oliver replied. ‘She’s asked me round for tea.’

  ‘I thought it was the other one … the woman from the mill that gave you palpitations,’ Albert said.

  ‘Aye. She does an’ all,’ Oliver replied, smiling at last at the absurdity of his revelations. ‘I’ll have to get myself someone that’s available and willing and forget both of them.’

  ‘Come to The Crown tonight,’ Albert breezed. ‘There’s plenty there.’

  ‘All right.’ Oliver forced himself not to think either of Rosie or Florence for the rest of the afternoon. He’d have a few pints of beer, at the very least, tonight and see if there was a girl who’d do, at The Crown.

  Mama had departed, at last, for Suttonford. Florence couldn’t remember a Sunday morning that had dragged so, a sermon that had lasted so long or a wait for Mama’s carriage that had seemed so eternal.

  Florence blew a kiss towards the rear of Mama’s carriage then she tripped, like a weightless creature, back into the tall town house and up the carpeted stairs to her room, to lie triumphant on her bed. Everything was going so easily, she told herself with glee. All that remained was to give the silly maid, whom Mama had engaged in her personal service, the afternoon to herself and to prepare for her visit to The Pheasant.

  She rang the silver bell on her desk. A plain-faced young servant, Florence’s new maid, answered the call. The girl, hardly older than herself, stood in the doorway, a simple soul who appeared to have no ideas of her own but simply accepted whatever was proposed. Florence made her most agreeable face.

  ‘Lily, dear,’ she said. ‘Would you like to visit your family this afternoon?’

  ‘Madam told me that you’d need me today, Miss Florence,’ Lily said.

  ‘But I don’t, dear Lily. You shall visit your family. My friend Miss Clayton will be here within the hour and I shall have no need of your attentions.’

  The girl looked doubtful and Florence added quickly and in a sharper tone. ‘If we are to be content, Lily, then only by pleasing me will we achieve understanding. I do not need your services for the remainder of the day. See that you are back here before eight o’clock.’ She lifted her hand in a gesture of dismissal and saw that the girl would not disobey.

  ‘And, Lily,’ she said before the maid left the room, ‘say nothing to Mama – to Mrs Mawdesley – about this.’

  Florence’s clothes were already laid out. She would wear her velvet suit of a dark chocolate brown with a matching hat that looked well against her hair. The ensemble had been made by a good London outfitter and depended for its provocative lines on the excellence of the cut. Nobody in Middlefield made clothes as well as this. The jacket nipped in her tiny waist, making her hips appear wider. The understated bustle was perfect for her small build and, Florence decided, with Mama’s pearl neckband, which she’d put on after church, she would look her absolute best.

  Her stomach turned somersaults at the thought of seeing Oliver again. How lucky she was that Edith had agreed to accompany her. She had not told Edith the real reason for her boldness, of course. She had told her new friend that the poor young man had been ostracised by her family and that she felt it incumbent upon her to make amends, but to do so without Mama’s knowledge.

  Florence heard the front doorbell ring and the housekeeper, Mrs Booth, invite Edith to wait in the drawing room. She went to the landing and leaned over the wide, flat banister.

  ‘Edith. Come up. Do,’ she called and smiled encouragingly at Mrs Booth. Mrs Booth was an angel who silently, Florence knew, always took her part. Florence watched Edith climb the stairs. Her new friend was quite the prettiest girl she had met in Middlefield. Edith had auburn hair, luxuriant and glossy, which she wore pinned up in a positive sculpture of waves and curls. She had eyes that were neither hazel nor green but rather a combination of the two, and lips that were naturally full and red. But what Florence admired most about her was her air of complete assurance. Edith was never at a loss, she was sure. Edith would never find herself having to resort to deceit or connivance to get her own way. But Edith was never opposed. And deception was so deliciously thrilling.

  ‘Do you think these things are suitable for Sunday school, Florence?’ Edith asked, whirling around in front of Florence’s pier glass, her skirt of moss green swinging in a wide circle beneath the darker green jacket.

  ‘Very suitable, Edith. You haven’t forgotten that we are going to pay a call at The Pheasant afterwards, have you?’ Florence placed the brown hat on top of her shining hair. ‘Can you put the pins in for me?’ she asked, handing two pearl-tipped hatpins to Edith.

  Edith tucked a strand of the golden hair under the band of Florence’s hat and placed a pin securely across the back, then criss-crossed the other when the tilt of the hat was at its most fashionable angle. ‘You’re on edge, I can tell. Haven’t you rehearsed your lesson?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m prepared for Sunday school. It’s the idea of walking into a tavern that excites me. Mama would die of shame,’ Florence blurted out.

  She had not meant to hurt Edith and as soon as the words were out, she regretted them. ‘I didn’t mean that there was anything shameful about taverns – or inns, Edith,’ she finished, her face pink and apologetic.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Edith said with a good-humoured smile. ‘I’ve never even been inside the tavern of The Swan, though I’ve seen the back rooms, of course.’ She patted Florence’s hair. ‘There! You look far too pretty to be a teacher. Even a Sunday-school teacher. Are we ready?’

  They walked the few yards across the quiet market square to St Michael and All Angels. The classes, for the children of the poor, were well attended and the girls were despatched each to a separate schoolroom at the back of the church, where they told Bible stories and led the children in singing for an hour.

  As the time of her visit drew near, Florence dared not contemplate the enormity of her deception. It was not only Mama who would be outraged if this were ever to come to their ears. Grandfather would be incensed and Florence was aware of the lengths to which Grandfather would go to see that it never happened again.

  She held onto Edith’s arm as they left the church and made their way down Rivergate, her heart banging in her ribs so loud she was sure Edith would hear. Edith went ahead and pushed open the door to the tavern. ‘May we speak to Mr Oliver Wainwright, please?’ she said to a large, apron-clad man.

  Florence dared not glance at the men who sat at the tables or leaned against the wet counter, afraid that she might even recognise one. Suppose one were a tradesman known to the family? Would he tell? Her hands were weak and her knees trembled as she followed Edith and the large man through the door at the back and into a tiny parlour.

  ‘I’ll send him down to you, miss,’ the man was saying. He left the room and they heard his heavy footsteps on the wooden stair beyond the door. ‘Oliver!’ they heard him call. ‘There’s two young ladies to see yer.’

  There were heavy footfalls on the stairs, the sounds of at least two men. Florence’s eyes were enormous and round as she saw the china door handle turn. She took a deep breath to prevent herself from fainting as she looked, at last, up at the
great height, deep into the watchful eyes of Oliver Wainwright.

  ‘How do you do, Oliver.’ To Florence’s surprise her voice was normal. ‘We haven’t inconvenienced you, I hope.’ She held out her hand and felt the warm clasp of his, enclosing her own. ‘May I present Edith? My friend, Edith Clayton.’

  ‘How do you do, Edith,’ Oliver replied and his voice was just as she remembered it, plain and manly. ‘My friend, Albert Billington. Albert – Edith Clayton and Florence Mawdesley.’

  He didn’t even seem surprised, just pleased that she was here. ‘I’ve come to say that I’m not to have your company on Wednesday, Oliver,’ Florence said. ‘Mama won’t hear of it, I’m afraid. I had to see you … I had to tell you …’

  He didn’t appear to be put out by her explanation. He was smiling. ‘I never expected she would, Florence.’ He grinned. ‘But I’m just as pleased to see you here.’

  Albert had led Edith to a seat by the parlour window and was deep in conversation with her. Florence so admired Edith’s poise. ‘Are you?’ she asked weakly. He led her to a chair near the fire and Florence found that her nervousness was disappearing. Oliver had a wonderful effect on her.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve done since I last saw you,’ he said. ‘I’ve thought about you often.’

  It was impossible not to respond to his smile and her nervousness fell away as she answered. ‘Very little,’ she told him truthfully. ‘I’m taking a Sunday-school class at St Michael’s but since Mama has three more weeks of mourning for Uncle Bill our social life has been curtailed.’

  ‘I’m taking Edith up to Ma’s sitting room, Oliver,’ Albert was saying. ‘She says her mother knows Ma.’

  Oliver began smiling happily, as if he was glad that they were being left alone together. Edith still kept her composed expression, Florence saw. Edith gave her an encouraging, wide smile as she followed the nice-looking friend of Oliver’s out of the parlour and closed the door on them.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ she asked him. ‘You are going to keep the mill, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ His face took on a serious look for a moment and he added after a moment’s pause, ‘Some of the men haven’t come in to work since I became the owner. I have to get them to return, and soon.’

  ‘Oh,’ Florence told him airily, ‘that will be Grandfather’s doing. He’s raging about the mill going to you.’ She put her hand on his arm and laughed softly at the quick look of displeasure that crossed his face at her words. ‘Don’t let us talk about Grandfather, Oliver. Let us talk about you. Do you live here with your parents?’

  ‘My parents are dead. I have a room here; the one your uncle used to have. I was brought up on your grandfather’s estate. Did you know that?’

  ‘No. But I saw a young man recently at Suttonford, who bears an uncommon resemblance to you.’

  ‘Tommy. My half-brother. He used to live in one of the cottages at Hollinbank.’

  ‘By himself?’

  ‘No, with my stepmother, Dolly Leach. Tommy’s mother. My mother died when I was born. My father was the quarry-master. He was killed at Suttonford,’ Oliver said. ‘My stepmother’s in service there. Does that make any difference to you?’

  ‘Not in the least, though I imagine it has made a difference to you,’ Florence said, glad, so glad that they were chatting normally, as if it were an ordinary social occasion. ‘Was she kind? Your stepmother?’

  Oliver considered his reply for a moment as if he had often asked himself the same question. ‘She wasn’t cruel but I knew she liked Tommy best. She’s well able to look after herself and care for children but she came to see me as a nuisance.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how dreadful it must be to have no mother. Do you know, Oliver, that I have not been parted from my mama for a single day?’

  ‘Have you finished your education? What will you do now?’

  ‘Mama wants me to go to a young ladies’ establishment, here or in London. Then I am to have a “coming out” ball in London, be presented to the Queen and then, I suppose, I’ll marry.’ She looked into his face as she spoke, hoping to see some sign that he wished her to stay.

  ‘Is that what you want, Florence?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to be paraded before a line of young men, hoping to catch the eye of one?’

  She felt the disdain in his voice. Of course she didn’t want that. ‘No. I want a man I can love and respect and I think I’ll find him here, in Middlefield.’ She felt bolder. It was as if his own forthrightness had conveyed itself to her. ‘I’ll refuse to go to London. Shall you marry?’

  ‘When I find a girl like you, yes.’ His eyes never left hers.

  The shivering feeling she’d had at their first meeting returned in force. She blushed, chiding herself for bringing the conversation to this point. But she had never been taught the niceties of flirtation.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ she asked softly.

  He reached for her hand. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But if I cannot see you at Churchgate, then where?’

  ‘If Edith will come with me I could come again, next Sunday afternoon,’ she told him. She had thought no further ahead than today and her mind began to race through all the possibilities.

  ‘And if Edith won’t?’ Oliver still had hold of her hand and she felt the tightening of his fingers on hers.

  ‘I shall come alone,’ she said without so much as a blush. She knew now that he was sincere. He would not think ill of her for her immodesty. She freed her hand from his. ‘We have been here for an hour, Oliver. Will you find Edith and tell her it’s time to leave?’ She did not want to leave, to wait a whole week to see him again, but unless Mama was reassured by her quiet demeanour then Mama would not leave her again. Not a hint of an adventure must come to Mama’s ears.

  ‘Would you like me to call a carriage?’ Oliver asked, when Edith and Albert returned to the parlour.

  ‘I think it would be better if we walked, alone,’ Florence told him. She put out her gloved hand, which he took eagerly.

  Albert was holding Edith’s hand rather longer than necessary, Florence noticed, but soon they were saying polite farewells and she and Edith slipped, unnoticed, into the Sunday quietness of Rivergate.

  ‘Oliver has asked me to see him next Sunday afternoon,’ Florence told Edith when they reached the market place. ‘Shall you come too?’

  ‘Do we have to conceal it from your mama?’ Edith said. ‘I shall see Albert before then. He has asked me to supper on Tuesday, with a companion. I thought you might wish to come.’

  ‘If only I could, Edith,’ Florence said in a yearning voice. Then the rash impulse, the impulse that might lead to uncovering her defiance of Mama, reasserted itself. ‘I will. I will go with you. I must see Oliver again,’ she promised. For now she knew herself to be passionately in love and unable to stop herself in her headstrong desire to be loved in return.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Monday, twenty men were out; a quarter of the weavers. Oliver stared at the silent looms, at the faces of the men and women who were working. He went into his office and found Rosie waiting for him.

  Her beautiful eyes were troubled, as if she expected an angry outburst and Oliver put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. ‘I’m sorry I spoke as I did on Friday,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’ve spent the weekend asking around. All I’ve learned is that it’s a man and he’s paying them three and sixpence a day to stop out. An ugly man with horrible teeth, by all accounts.’ She smiled hesitantly. ‘Not that it matters what he looks like, does it?’

  Realisation came to Oliver in a flash. In jest Florence had given him the true picture. ‘Of course!’ he bellowed, ‘Sir Philip Oldfield’s behind it, and I know who he’ll be using. He’ll have sent an old enemy of mine; Wilf Leach. It’s the only person he could use.’

  ‘He’s calling another meeting tonight, Oliver. Eight o’clock in the mill yard.’

  ‘Good.’ Oliver let out a long sigh. ‘I’ll be ther
e.’ He could not keep the look of glee from his face. ‘We’ll have them back at work tomorrow.’

  ‘How are you going to do it?’ she asked. ‘Will you call the police in?’

  ‘No. There’s a new law – the Conspiracy and Protection of Property Act, which I think makes Oldfield’s plot a criminal one but I haven’t time to find a new lawyer and verify it. I’m not sure of my ground and I don’t trust Lloyd. Anyway’ – he smiled at her to calm her fears – ‘Wilf Leach is a fool. He thinks he’s a clever trickster but all he has is a big mouth and a strong body – and I’ll stop both of them for him tonight.’

  ‘Do you want me to come along?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You might need me to talk to them. If you see Wilf Leach off they might still need persuading. They trust me.’

  ‘Right. I’ll go down to the yard and wait for Oldfield’s lackey. You come down later when I send for you.’

  Rosie smiled her slow, warm smile. ‘You can last out more than a week, you know. The money comes in faster than it goes out. If you want to sit it out you can, easily. They’ll come back of their own accord when their money runs out.’

  ‘I don’t want to run the mill that way, Rosie. I want them to be rewarded for hard work, for good production, not just because they can’t afford to stay at home,’ he said. ‘They’ll be better off working my way.’

  His eagerness always transferred itself to her. She seemed to be lit from within when he took her hands, as now he did, to emphasise his words. ‘If we can keep ahead, as we are doing, if we can outrun the competition when trade is falling off around us, think how well we’ll do in better times,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to do well, Oliver,’ she said, and there was admiration in her eyes. ‘Once this trouble’s over and they’re back you’ll forge ahead of the other mills.’

  Oliver smelled again the faint lavender of her hair, sensed the magnetic force that drew him. Her nearness was arousing him again. He released her hands and went to look through the dusty window at the busy looms.