Oliver shook Jim’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m glad to meet you, Jim,’ he said. He placed his coat over the back of a chair and they chatted politely until Rosie returned and poured the tea. He noticed that her hands were trembling. She had to still the cup in the saucer with her left hand as she passed it to him. He looked at her over the cup and saw that his presence was disturbing to her.
She pulled up a low stool and sat between them, looking from one to the other as they talked about cotton and cotton mills and Jim’s long years as a weaver. And the nearness of Rosie set Oliver’s pulses thundering.
He told himself that his heart was given to Florence, that Rosie had never given him reason to harbour this violent passion for her and with a great effort of will he forced himself to remember the reason he’d come.
‘I’m going to take on a bigger place, Rosie.’ He glanced at Jim. ‘You don’t mind my calling your wife by her first name, do you, Jim? Good. Don’t say anything yet,’ he continued, animated now, ‘especially at the mill. Will you be able to control it if I take on as many looms again?’ He leaned towards her, watching her face with the reflected flames dancing in her warm brown eyes, now lighting up with pleasure at the prospect he laid before her.
‘Yes,’ she replied with excitement tingeing her voice. ‘I could easily run it for you.’ She had little creases at the corners of her mouth and they deepened and disappeared as she talked.
‘Would you be prepared to move house? Nearer the new mills? What about you, Jim? Would you move?’ he asked them.
‘It’d be better for all of us if Rosie were nearer to her work and if the new house were a dry one,’ Jim replied.
Oliver loved the way her hair grew to a point at the back of her neck. When she turned her head it made a knot tighten inside him and he wanted to slide his hands into the upswept dark locks, to loosen the pins and see how she looked with her hair falling about her shoulders.
‘What about weavers?’ he asked her, but his mind was no longer on the new factory, or the weavers. His thoughts were of her, of her wide lovely mouth, the long oval of her face and the outline of her breasts under the soft woollen blouse.
‘It’s not so far. You’d get them out there if you paid them a bit more, the good ones. It’s only about a mile and a half from here. You might have a job getting the looms out of the mill. Maybe you should buy new and sell the old ones with the property.’
Her eyes never left his face as she spoke. Her pupils were very large, making Oliver feel as he looked into them that he was being drawn inside her. It was as if she were telling him something, inviting him to draw closer. Oliver moved, to back away from the heat of the fire and slowly and quite deliberately he let his leg lie next to hers, to see if she would flinch and he watched intently for her reaction.
She paused, momentarily, as if shocked or startled but it was for a mere second, before she continued to talk. And she did not move away from the contact.
Jim was growing weary. ‘I’ll go to bed, love,’ he said, touching Rosie’s arm as if to remind her, gently, of his presence. ‘No, don’t fuss, lass. I can manage on me own.’ He pulled himself to his feet on thin, spindly legs, and slowly and painfully made his way, bent almost double, to the stair door. Rosie jumped to her feet to take his elbow and help him.
‘Had I better leave?’ Oliver asked, rising to his feet.
Jim turned painfully. ‘No. Stay on a little while, Oliver,’ he said kindly, ‘Rosie’s enjoying herself. It’s not often she has good company and a chance to forget her troubles. Perhaps you’ll come again?’
Rosie looked at him as Jim spoke and Oliver saw the look of fear and yearning in her eyes that he had seen so often before. He knew its significance at last.
‘I will. I most certainly will,’ Oliver said as Rosie led her husband upstairs, lighting his way with the lamp.
Oliver stood in the firelight, back to the fire, waiting for her to return, his pulses racing for her. He had been studying her face, her mannerisms, the movements of her body all evening. He knew now that she felt it too; the desire for each other that their every look had betrayed. Every nerve in his body was stretched, waiting for her.
Oliver heard her upstairs, surefooted and unhurried. Did she love Jim? Did they still kiss? No, he could not picture her in a passionate embrace with a sick man. She respected her husband and loved him kindly but Rosie had repressed her strongest feelings. He understood that. His emotions were too powerful to be frittered in casual encounters.
He need no longer look for answers to the questions that tormented him in her presence at the mill. The fire in his blood, the look in her eyes were answer enough. He knew with absolute certainty that she would be his tonight. He knew that she wanted him. The time for restraint had passed.
It was almost five minutes before she came back into the room and closed the door quietly behind her. She did not look directly at him but went, tall and nervous, towards the door that led to the scullery. He moved quickly to her side, so that their bodies were touching, silently took the lamp from her hands, dimmed it and set it on the table.
‘He tires easily,’ she said in a halting voice. ‘I’ll make another pot of tea.’
He caught her wrist as she moved away and drew her around, making her face him. Her eyes were dark and shiny in the moving firelight and her warm, sweet breath came fast on his cheek as he pulled her close. There was no need to speak. He held her gaze steadily and saw, reflected in her eyes, the same desperate need that was in his own and in an instant his arms were around her and his mouth crushing down on hers, igniting the passions they had so long held back.
Like the pull of a magnet his tongue was drawn into her sweet, soft mouth as she clung, helplessly, to him. He knew that she had never been kissed in this way before, that her head was swimming, her body was softening under his touch, melting into his. His breath was coming fast and deep and when they pulled apart momentarily she drew breath quickly and sought his mouth again.
Oh, God, it was true. His beautiful Rosie wanted him. He felt a surge of exultation, a wonderful sense of power in his own body as he felt her hands, under his jacket, toying with his silk shirt, teasing it out where it met the waistband; felt her slender fingers touching his belly, and her arms sliding around his bare, muscular back.
His hands were no longer inexpert. He found the buttons of her blouse and, still with his mouth on hers, he gently and quickly released them, exposing her heavy, full breasts.
Rosie caught her breath sharply as his searching mouth found her dark, rigid nipples and she began to writhe in his arms. ‘Oliver,’ she cried, ‘Love me.’ Her hands were on his skin, in his hair, digging into his flesh. She was moaning softly as he kissed her neck and held her full, warm breasts in his cupped hands.
‘I want you,’ he said, his voice sounding harsh and insistent in his ears. With one hand he loosened her hair and felt it tumble, thick and silky, about her bare shoulders.
He heard her murmuring his name while her strong fingers were pushing back the stiff material at his waist, unfastening the rigid buttonholes, at last freeing the hardness of him from the constraints of the cloth.
He found the button that held her skirt. It came away easily and he slid the material down over her wide, flat hips. Then he stood and held her at arms’ length, marvelling at the beauty of her naked flesh, the long slim legs so finely muscled, her dark body hair against the creamy skin.
Oliver pushed away the last of his clothes and stood before her, proud of his strength. Then her arms were around him and her mouth was on his naked body exciting him beyond endurance.
He moved his hands over her legs, inside her slim, silken thighs. She was like hot mercury and she moaned as his fingers slid, moving inside her. There were faint silver streaks from childbearing in the soft centre of her and he buried his face, in an agony of hunger for her, in her warm, soft flesh, feeling her ready for him as she slowly sank to the rug.
‘Ob, God, you’re beautiful,’
he groaned.
It had never been this way before and Oliver wanted to sink into the softness of her, to crush her warm, pliant body into himself.
She wound her legs around him when he went into her; she gave quick little cries, which he stifled with his kisses. Their long, supple bodies moved together. He could feel the pressure of her thighs pulling him in. He felt the heat of the fire on the side of his taut, urgent body; saw the tiny beads of perspiration that had sprung along Rosie’s top lip, watched with delight as her gasping matched the fast, torn breaths that were coming from him.
She was digging her nails into his back, sinking her teeth gently into his broad shoulder, calling out for him softly and he held himself back until, at last, she drew in her breath sharply in abandonment and he let himself go in simultaneous, shattering release with her; his own sounds strange to his ears and hers subsiding.
At last they rested, still entwined, his head heavy on her breast, his eyes closed as she gently stroked his hair.
He lifted himself to his elbow and looked down at her, awed by the perfect harmony they had discovered. She lay, white and lovely, her breath coming easily, her hands playing with his shoulders and his broad, powerful chest.
‘Rosie?’ She lay beneath him, dark hair loose and tousled. ‘This will happen again. I’ll not be able to stop myself from wanting you. Do you want it to go on?’
If she had stopped him then, he knew, it might still not be too late. He could have pulled himself back from the well of an all-consuming love.
‘Yes. Oh, yes!’ she whispered, moving under his weight, seeking his embrace again.
He stayed with her, there on the hearthrug, until four in the morning. Then he slipped from her house like a silent shadow. He met no one as he walked through Churchgate, though he heard the echo of his footsteps from the cellars beneath the stone setts. He thought wonderingly of Rosie, her sensuality, the white beauty of her flesh and the discovery in himself of a hunger only she could appease.
He sat, silent, at the window of his room at The Pheasant watching dawn lighten the sky beyond the tower of St Michael and All Angels. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had set out for Balgone, his heart full of romantic love for Florence but the day had brought another love, a powerful love that had nothing of romance in it and which even at that moment was beginning to stir within him again.
Of Jim he thought only dismissively. Jim would live at the most for another year. He was not taking anything away from Jim.
He turned his thoughts to practical matters and brought a square, brass-bound box to the table as soon as there was light enough to see. The bank books showed a fine balance and already, Oliver knew, the profit from the mill would make him a wealthy man. He’d put Tommy at the Stockport market soon, selling braid and ribbon bundles, as he had done. Let him start at the bottom and learn the business.
He had a hearty appetite for breakfast and did not wait for Albert before starting to eat. Albert joined him at the table and Oliver asked, ‘Are you still struck on Edith Clayton?’
‘Aye.’ Albert grinned happily. ‘Who are you courting, then? You weren’t home last night. Yesterday you were pining for Florence.’
‘I can’t pine for ever, can I?’ Oliver told his friend. ‘Florence’ll never come back to Middlefield, her mother will see to that.’ He helped himself to more bread and said under his breath, ‘And I’ve found myself a real woman at last.’
After breakfast Oliver walked to the riverside site and reserved one of the new factories. He told the architect that it was to be called Wainwright and Billington’s and he ordered that the name be built into the front, in lighter-coloured brick. He had a year’s grace. Time to raise the money, which he meant to do without loans from outside sources. He would not lease or rent the premises; it was essential that he own it.
The new working system at Hollin Mill had doubled production in the few weeks it had been in operation. He would have enough to pay outright for the new place if Hollin Mill continued to flourish. He would buy new looms to fill the large working space, on a short-term loan if necessary.
A new street was being added to the town, running parallel with Churchgate and facing the playing fields of an ancient boys’ public school. It was near to the new factories. Rosie would find it easy to get to work from here.
A terrace of Accrington-brick houses was nearly finished. They had iron railings around the front gardens and high-walled yards at the back with access to these yards from the alleyways behind Churchgate.
Inside were a hall, two rooms and a scullery downstairs and three bedrooms and an attic above. Impulsively, and with his need for Rosie driving him on, Oliver found the site foreman and by midday he had rented one, paying six months’ rent in advance.
When he reached the mill Rosie was busy but she smiled her slow, warm smile and it seemed to Oliver that she was more beautiful than she’d been only hours before. He called her into the office, closed the door behind them and took her into his arms, hungrily.
‘Not here, Oliver.’ She pushed him away gently. ‘Tonight, at the house. But after nine o’clock, when they are all in bed.’
‘Rosie, I want you now.’ Oliver gritted his teeth in mock anger and she smiled the playful smile of a teasing lover and sat with him at the desk where they could be seen, but not heard, by the weavers.
‘The new factory will be ready next year,’ he told her, ‘and I’ve rented a house for you – a bigger house, where I can see you without starting the tongues wagging. Tell Jim I need you to move nearer the new place. Tell him the rent is no more than you are paying for yours.’
He had surprised her. She hesitated and he became more persuasive. ‘It’s got gas jets, Rosie – and a modern kitchen range with a tap for hot water. Tell Jim that.’
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ Rosie reminded him sharply. ‘I’m not a young woman any longer. You’re twenty. You’ll get tired of me. How can I leave my cottage and move to a new house where we can see more of one another, for a brief love affair?’
Oliver was made cross by her lack of faith in him. He pressed her hand hard on to the desk, making her look at him; making her see the fierce light in his eyes. ‘I’ll never be tired of you. I’m not that sort of man. It won’t be a brief affair, Rosie. I know we can’t marry. But trust me.’
She capitulated before the week was out and moved her family to the new house. And Oliver came to her every night, after dark. He left The Pheasant at ten, strolled around the town and slipped, unnoticed, through alleys that led to Rosie’s back yard.
Chapter Fourteen
It had been a satisfying year. Oliver had a firm grip on the reins of his business. The mill’s profits had been even higher than he had anticipated, the new factory was almost complete and the money to pay for it was earning him a decent interest.
Oliver was comfortable at The Pheasant. There was no advantage to be gained from moving. He had the best room and was treated as one of the family. His only concern was for Tommy.
Tommy was working in the markets, going out on his own, or with a lad and always he returned from his day in Stockport market, a job he did on his own, with little money in the bag. Tales of losses were offered glibly. A thief had snatched some bundles of braid, a pickpocket had stolen two sovereigns or Tommy had fallen and so spoiled some goods that they had thrown away.
It was late summer, evening time and Albert and Oliver were preparing Tommy’s stock for the following day when Albert voiced his misgivings.
‘I hope Tommy’s takings aren’t short tomorrow,’ he said sternly. ‘He should have mastered it by now.’
‘He’s had some bad luck lately.’ Oliver sprang to Tommy’s defence.
‘I know you want to help him, Oliver, but do you know he’s spending a lot of money in the tavern? More than he should from his wages?’
Oliver could not admit to Albert that he, too, had suspected Tommy’s honesty. ‘He gambles on the cards,’ he explained, ‘puts wagers on with the runners. He
’s young. I’ll speak to him. I’ll make him see sense. I’m going to Nottingham tomorrow but I’ll check his takings when I get back and if there’s a difference I’ll deal with him. I’m sure he’ll not cheat us.’
Early the next day Oliver helped Tommy carry the bags to the station. Together they wound their way down the steep incline of Wallgate, behind the church, to the railway station.
They could barely speak for the noise of carts and horses’ hooves clattering over the cobblestones.
‘We’ll check the stuff when you get back, Tommy. It’s no good if we’re running a stall for no profit,’ Oliver warned him gruffly, hoping the boy would be deterred if he knew that he must explain himself before the day was out.
Oliver had had the same thoughts as Albert, had harboured the same suspicions, but he’d put such questions out of his mind. Tommy wouldn’t let him down. Tommy was learning; he’d always copied his brother. Surely he wouldn’t cheat them? There was a good living to be had in the markets and Tommy was welcome to share in it.
Tommy’s train was in. There was no time to give him a second warning but Oliver helped put the bags in the luggage compartment and saw him settled into a seat.
He felt a responsibility, a sense of guilt, about Tommy. He had not taken his brother under his wing as he’d meant to do; not guided him. Perhaps, he thought, I ought to have spent more time in his company. But there had been Rosie and the demands of the business; hours of idleness were a thing of the past.
Perhaps he should take Tommy away from the markets into the mill where he could keep a more watchful eye on him.
Oliver caught the train to Nottingham after Tommy had gone. The journey took him past the station of Suttonford and thence across the hills and moorland of Derbyshire. Would Tommy have been happier here, he wondered? Town life had temptations unknown in the villages.
The Runaway Page 17