He lifted his eyes to hers and gently straightened, holding her close. He was shaking too. He wanted to take her to himself, to love and protect her and he had to fight this driving desire for her.
They faced one another and Oliver picked up the damp strands of hair that clung to her forehead and replaced them tenderly. ‘We must control ourselves, Florence, until we’re married. I’ll take you home and speak to your mother. Wait here for me. I’ll get my coat,’ he said, ignoring her tearful protests.
She waited for him in the hot little parlour until he came down, dressed in his new overcoat with the beaver collar. He was ready to face her mother. They walked the half-mile to Churchgate, Florence halting to plead with him every ten yards of the route.
‘Don’t speak to Mama, Oliver. Please,’ she begged.
He held firmly on to her hand and made no reply.
‘Take me away, Oliver.’ She spoke fast, gasping for breath. ‘Just take me . . . Please! Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucy ran away to Scotland. He married Aunt Lucy when she was only sixteen,’ she cried. ‘Please, Oliver, take me to Scotland. I don’t care what people say.’
Oliver took her in his arms in the middle of the market place. ‘We’ll not be ashamed to marry, Florence. I’m good enough for you, we both know that. But I have to make my living here, I have to succeed here and I couldn’t do that with the town against me.’
‘Don’t you see, Oliver? They’ll never let us marry. My grandfather will do anything, anything at all, no matter how wicked, to prevent me from going against him.’
Oliver’s face was grimly intent as he rang the doorbell of the house.
Laura opened it herself. She must have been waiting for him. Oliver was determined to be reasonable and polite yet insistent with her.
‘Come in, Mr Wainwright. Florence, please leave us, will you? I wish to speak to the young man alone.’ Her tone was icy and controlled and Florence obeyed her without a word.
Laura Mawdesley went ahead of him and held open the drawing-room door. As soon as he was in the room she snapped the door shut and turned to face him. Her eyes, he saw, were steel.
‘Mr Wainwright, my daughter is a foolish child. She is not yet eighteen years of age and fancies herself in love with you.’
Oliver drew breath to speak. He wanted to stop her there and tell her that their love was not mere fancy but she continued without pause. ‘I can see what draws her to you. You are a handsome young man. But you are not the right man for Florence. She would soon be heartbroken to find herself married to a man of so little refinement.’
She raised her hand to silence him when he began to answer her and the diatribe continued unabated. Her voice was raised and her glinting eyes were cold and contemptuous. ‘You are a fortunate and clever young man but you must look to your own class for a partner. You cannot hope to marry so far above yourself. Be respectful of my wishes and allow me to know what is best for my daughter.’
She made to move towards the door, to signal his dismissal. ‘And now you must leave. I shall speak to Florence and assure her that, painful though they are, these feelings will pass. Good day, Mr Wainwright.’
At last she’d stopped. The injustice of her attack on him pained him but his temper had been rising. He looked down at the cold-hearted woman who professed only to care for her daughter’s welfare and the control he had exercised in the face of her assault made him feel he had aged since he came into the room only minutes before.
‘I’ve listened to you, madam. Now you’ll hear what I have to say,’ he began. ‘I love Florence and she returns my feelings. Your anger won’t stop that. And when I marry her I’ll give her everything she needs for her happiness.’
Laura Mawdesley caught her breath sharply at his words and Oliver found that his voice was rising. ‘You imagine you know what is in her best interests but you know nothing. Florence would never be happy with the sort of man you’d choose for her,’ he continued. ‘I pity her and you if you try to force your will on her.’
Laura raised her hand as if to slap him and Oliver’s anger came to the surface. He towered above Mrs Mawdesley.
‘Don’t imagine for one minute that I’m not worthy of your daughter, or that our marriage would bring shame on your family. I’ll never be the kind of man you envisaged for Florence but, by God, I am a man and soon I’ll be a man of means. But I’ll never, never be the kind of man you’re used to. You’ll never get me to do your bidding with a wave of your hand.’
He stepped back and reached for his coat.
He left.
He saw himself out of the house and walked the quiet streets. And again doubts assailed him. He asked himself if Laura was right. Would Florence regret marrying him? Then he remembered her sweetness and was comforted. He wandered for an hour about the narrow back alleys that meandered like a crazy tangled web behind Rivergate, heard the cries and shouts of children, watched a drunkard reel from doorway to doorway and tried to put from himself all thoughts of Florence and their love and to consider her interests above his own.
Chapter Thirteen
There was no word from Florence for two days after the confrontation Oliver had had with her mother, then on the third day he found three letters at breakfast, addressed to him at The Pheasant.
He knew Lucy Grandison’s and Florence’s handwriting. The third must be from Laura Mawdesley. He slit it open quickly and read.
Dear Mr Wainwright,
I am leaving Middlefield with Florence immediately. We shall close the house and live in London for a few years. I hope that you prosper and that you find for yourself a good young woman. Our acquaintance will not be renewed but I wish to thank you for continuing my uncle’s financial obligation towards myself and my dear daughter.
Laura Mawdesley
The letter from Florence, in her careful copperplate, said:
Dearest Oliver,
I will always love you and shall never forget our moments together. You may not want to wait for me but until I hear from your own lips that you do not then I live in hope that I will return to you in Middlefield.
I shall write to you at The Pheasant and beg you to reply as I cannot survive without knowing how you feel towards me.
Florence
The letter slipped to the table. He had known that he would lose her. For two days he had thought of little else but their love for one another and recognition had come to him that he must wait. He did not believe that her mother was right, nor did he think he would change but he saw that Florence might. He must give her these years of freedom. She was young and she must have a chance to reflect on what might be a girlish fancy. He could not write to her at Churchgate but would give his reply to Lucy Grandison who, he was sure, would forward it to Florence. He took pen and paper and began to write:
Dearest Florence,
Please do not think ill of me when I tell you that I shall not write to you when you are away. Be assured that in my heart the place that you occupy can never be filled by another. I shall not forget you, my sweet girl, but I ask you to try to forget me. If we meet again, and we may never meet, your wiser self will tell you if our affection was lasting.
Please be happy during your exile in London. You deserve all the joy and happiness that the coming years can afford you.
Oliver
He sealed the envelope quickly, before he could re-read his words and change them. He put the letter into his pocket and immediately opened the one from Lucy Grandison. She wanted him to call on her, the following week. Oliver wrote her a letter of acceptance.
On the appointed day he bought spring flowers and walked to Balgone. The sun shone that afternoon and Oliver wore a soft grey suit, to please the loveliest old lady he had ever met.
She greeted him warmly. ‘I’m not receiving yet, Oliver, so there are no other guests but I’m glad you’ve come.’ They sat in her elegant drawing room and she rang for tea. ‘Are you managing all right at the mill? There’s a friend of Bill’s who can advise you if you hav
e any problems.’
Lucy had the poise and assurance of a woman of breeding without the snobbishness that so affected the other members of the Oldfield family, and Oliver enjoyed her company.
‘Everything is going well at the mill, Mrs Grandison. The weavers are working in relays – a sort of rotation – to keep up with the orders we’re getting,’ he told her.
He smiled happily. ‘Mr Lloyd’s attending to the lease and so on.’ He thought it might be indelicate to talk of the allowances so he walked over to the window and looked out over the newly dug gardens.
The rocky mountain tops shone brilliantly in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. The dense forest on the lower slopes of Shuttleston Hill appeared to be etched in fine lines against the whiteness beyond and the river Hollin flashed quickly here and there as it moved towards the edge of Middlefield and the people whose life it had supported for so long. The town, often suffocated with a pall of yellow smoke, was sharp and detailed. Horses and carts moved slowly in apparent silence up the steep streets towards Middlefield or trotted easily down from the town.
‘What a magnificent view you have. You can see the whole of Middlefield and the hills beyond,’ Oliver said.
‘It is a great comfort to me but let’s not talk about the view. Come, sit beside me.’ She patted the seat and Oliver stretched his long legs out in the warmth of the fire and relaxed against the comfortable sofa, but only for a minute. Lucy came straight to the point.
‘You are forbidden to see Florence again, I hear?’
Oliver reacted instantly to the mention of Florence. His blue eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a tense line.
‘No, Oliver. Don’t be angry with me for speaking. If Florence were my daughter I’d be happy for her to marry the young man she loved. But she’s not mine and I must warn you to tread carefully. Don’t set her grandfather against you. He’s a powerful man and accustomed to getting his own way.’ She spoke slowly and there was no mistaking her warning.
‘I have a letter for Florence,’ Oliver said quietly. ‘Will you send it to her? I have told her that she must forget me.’ He tried not to let his feelings show in his face as he added, ‘I’ve not come to this decision because of Sir Philip. I’m not afraid of him. He can’t do anything to harm me now.’
‘Did you know that your mill building is owned by Sir Philip?’ Lucy asked gently.
Oliver was shocked. He felt the old grip of anger in his insides at the thought. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know. I was told it belonged to a Manchester trading company. I pay my rent, my lease money to them.’
‘As long as you never default, never pay even a day late, he can’t do anything to you,’ she told him.
‘The Manchester Trading Company belongs to Sir Philip, then?’ Oliver echoed his earlier words.
‘Yes, my dear. He never sold it to Bill. But once we were married my husband had no more to fear from Sir Philip.’
‘So he’ll not sell to me, either?’ Oliver said softly. Sir Philip had tried to hide his ownership of the mill. He was a cunning devil. He’d not changed one whit from the young opponent Bill had had to contend with so long ago. ‘Say nothing, Mrs Grandison. Thank you for warning me. I’ll find other premises soon and move my machinery. I’ll not be beholden to Suttonford estate.’
Oliver had much to think about on the walk back. Lloyd was still working in Sir Philip’s interests, not his own. His mind was rapidly taking in all the implications.
He enjoyed a battle. Outwitting his opponents gave him a sharpening, a heightening of his intellect that simple moneymaking did not. But until now he had always known who his opponent was, another market trader or a salesman who wanted to get the better of him. Now he had to face the fact that he was still under the patronage of the Oldfield family. Lloyd could deliberately delay his next payment of rent and the mill would be seized by the Oldfields.
‘I must keep my head,’ he told himself. ‘I vowed I’d not work under the system that killed my mother and father but there’s a year or more to run on the lease – time to find different premises.’
There was time, if he made haste, to get to the lawyer’s office before he called in at the mill.
The lawyer ushered him into his gloomy room where around the walls deed boxes were stacked, topped by string-tied bundles of documents in brown envelopes. Ledgers and law books filled the alcoves beside the fireplace in front of which was placed a large mahogany table cluttered with inkstand, blotters and sealing wax in dusty profusion.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Wainwright?’ Lloyd asked.
‘I want to look at the lease of the mill,’ Oliver said. ‘Get the papers out for me.’ He watched Lloyd’s face for any sign of suspicion but the man had never yet shown a simple emotion on his mask of a face and it remained expressionless as he handed to Oliver the long envelope containing the lease. No mention was made on it of Sir Philip Oldfield’s position behind the Manchester Trading Company and Oliver saw that the last instalment of rent had been paid promptly, and another was due in two weeks’ time.
‘I want to buy the mill,’ he announced finally. ‘Give me the address of the Manchester Trading Company and I’ll go and see the board.’ Oliver looked the lawyer straight in the eye. He could not buy the mill, even if it were offered, but only subterfuge would make Lloyd reveal his hand.
Mr Lloyd drew back his lips thoughtfully. He appeared to be considering his reply. ‘They may not wish to sell the property. I’ll write to them and make enquiries if you wish.’
‘No. I’ll go tomorrow. Give me the address.’ Oliver only intended to push so far.
‘The company has always made it plain that its only interest is in leasing the property, Mr Wainwright. All I can do is to put your request into writing.’
‘Do that then, Mr Lloyd,’ Oliver replied drily. ‘In the meantime please hand over all the papers you have relating to me and my business.’
There was not even an eyebrow lifted at the demand. Lloyd was probably glad to be shot of him, Oliver decided. He took his papers and left Mr Lloyd’s office. Within the hour he had found a new lawyer and had time enough to go to the mill before dark.
He ran down Rivergate and was rewarded by seeing Rosie’s face break into a smile at his arrival. They sat in the dusty little office together, discussing the day’s problems, checking the records of cloth sent to the dye works, heads almost touching as they studied the figures.
Oliver was conscious, as he always was, of the scent of her clothes, her long, slender fingers and the way she rested her chin on them when she concentrated. The sweet, loving feelings he had for Florence and which had sustained him through the trials of the last weeks, were vanquished, swamped now by the desire that rose in him in Rosie’s company.
‘Rosie. I want to talk to you about the mill. Away from here where we can talk undisturbed. Can you come to The Pheasant this evening?’ he asked her.
‘No. Of course I can’t.’ Rosie’s dark eyebrows, silky as feathers, lifted in amusement. ‘Only a … a fast woman … would go to a tavern on her own.’ She smiled as she said it, as if she didn’t want to embarrass him.
‘Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking.’ Oliver saw, with a little shock, that Rosie was defending her reputation. ‘We’ll talk here then. I want to move the business. I’m going to see about the new factories. I think they’ll be ready by this time next year.’
‘Come to my house tonight if you like, Oliver, and I’ll help you all I can. Jim’s got a wise head on him too. He was a weaver, you know. Come at eight o’clock when the girls are in bed.’ She found a piece of paper and wrote down for him the name of her street.
But he had known for months where her house was. He remembered the nights, before Florence had come into his life, when he used to take an evening stroll, as he told Albert, and his feet had always led him past the house where Rosie lived.
It was the first in a short row of neat terraced cottages, all with whitened steps and windows hung with heavy net. Oli
ver arrived promptly at eight and tapped lightly with the well-polished brass clapper.
Rosie opened the door. She was wearing a soft skirt and a pretty blouse and her hair, no longer plaited, was pinned on top of her head. She was holding aloft a tallow candle in an enamelled holder. Three small children in cotton nightdresses clung shyly to their mother’s skirt.
‘Come in, Oliver.’ She held wide the door. ‘Come and meet Jim.’
The door from the street opened directly into the living room where an oil lamp cast a pool of light in the centre of the table. The smell of damp reminded Oliver of the cottages at Hollinbank. No amount of washing, warming or airing ever got rid of the smell that seeped through and eventually rotted the worn linoleum covering the flagstone cottage floors.
Rosie had made colourful rag rugs and placed them over the ridges, the largest being set in front of the fireplace where, lost in the embrace of a huge wooden armchair, sat the shrunken, blanket-clad figure of Jim Hadfield.
Jim Hadfield was much older than Oliver had pictured him. He was a tiny, shrivelled figure with sunken eyes in a face with an unnaturally high colour. He held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet yer. Sit down, Mr Wainwright. Rosie’s going to make a pot of tea for us when she’s taken the children upstairs.’ It was a long speech for him and he began to cough the tight, wheezing cough of a man with chronic chest disease.
Oliver sat opposite him in the neat little room, sparsely furnished but homely and comfortable. For all the smell of damp it was a well-kept house and Rosie obviously took pride in it. Above their heads a washing line, filled with freshly laundered clothes, was stretched. On the table a white cloth was laid with cups and saucers for their tea and in the hearth a black iron kettle with a string-wrapped handle jiggled merrily on its trivet. Pride of place above the mantelshelf was given to a picture of Queen Victoria, resplendent in jewels and silk, gazing down remotely on the humble abode of one of her subjects.
The Runaway Page 16