The Mistress of Windfell Manor

by Diane Allen

  ‘Have you finished, ma’am? Mr Yates is just undressing Mr Dawson in his bedroom.’ Lily smiled as she watched the expression on Charlotte’s face.

  ‘Mr Dawson’s bedroom? I thought this bedroom was for us both.’ Charlotte’s face must have told the maid everything.

  ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I’m sure he will come to you. Mr Yates told me that Mr Dawson doesn’t sleep well of a night and is concerned that his restlessness might keep you awake.’ Lily brushed Charlotte’s long hair and watched her new mistress panic as she sat in front of her dressing-table mirror. ‘Just because you have separate bedrooms doesn’t mean you can’t . . . you know – you know what . . . Sorry, ma’am, if I’m talking out of turn here, but you look so worried.’

  ‘I’m just concerned that we won’t be together tonight. After all, it is our wedding night and it is expected.’ Charlotte felt as embarrassed as the maid.

  ‘I’m sure he will be counting the minutes, and will be in your room as soon as he knows I’ve left you.’ Lily placed the silver-plated hairbrush back down on the dressing table. ‘Would you like me to help you into bed?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you, Lily. I’ll no doubt see you in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Would you like breakfast in bed or down in the dining room?’ The maid waited at the bedroom door.

  ‘I’ll have breakfast with Mr Dawson in the dining room, thank you, Lily.’ Charlotte walked across to her bed.

  ‘That will be at six then, ma’am. He always eats early and then he goes down to the mill.’ Lily waited and watched as her mistress debated the early time. ‘Perhaps if you have breakfast in bed tomorrow, ma’am, and then I’ll come and dress you?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps that would be better. Thank you, Lily.’ Charlotte sighed.

  ‘Anything you want, ma’am, just pull on the bell-pull, and either me or Mazy, the scullery maid, will come. And don’t worry, ma’am. Mr Dawson will be with you shortly. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Lily, and thank you.’ Charlotte could have cried as her maid closed the door behind her. She was alone, awaiting her lover, but would he come? She climbed in between the cool cotton sheets – sheets that had been woven at Ferndale Mill, along with the towel that she had dried herself with. This was now her way of life: servants and cotton goods. What a change from the warm, friendly home she was used to. She pulled the sheets up to her chin and gazed at the ceiling, turning her head as she heard the bedroom door open.

  ‘Charlotte, my Charlotte, are you waiting for me?’ Joseph closed the door quietly behind him and walked stealthily across the carpeted floor to her bedside. He sat on the bed’s edge and took her hand, before kissing her passionately on the lips and running his hands under her nightdress, feeling the firmness of her pert nipples.

  Charlotte had never let anyone touch her there, and her body rippled with pleasure while her mind raced, wondering what pleasures were to follow and hoping that Joseph would be a gentle lover. Mrs Cranston had touched on what to do on your wedding night, as she had laid out Charlotte’s nightdress, ready for her first night as a married woman. She knew that she should pleasure her man, but was frightened at the thought of what to do.

  Joseph slid into bed beside her, taking his time to pleasure her, his hand moving down between her legs, playing with her most sensitive areas, where no man had been before. He gently guided Charlotte’s hand to his private parts and urged her hands to pleasure him in the same way he was pleasuring her.

  Charlotte felt herself quiver with delight, and wanted to shout and scream as she dug her nails into the broad back of her lover as he brought her to a climax. She knew he would expect the same, and opened her legs wide so that he could enter her without resistance. But he declined the invitation, lay back and placed her hand once again on his throbbing penis. Charlotte kissed him delicately on his lips and chest. She wanted him to enter her, she needed it so badly; but still he insisted on her satisfying him, without giving herself totally to him. She lay by his side, doing as he bade, until with a loud groan his last thrust was spent. The pair of them lay on the bedcovers side-by-side, not saying anything for a brief second that felt like hours to Charlotte.

  ‘Thank you, my dear, you did not disappoint.’ Joseph reached over to Charlotte and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I’ll go back to my room now and let you have a good night’s sleep.’

  She pulled on his arm gently as he tugged his nightshirt down and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Stay with me, Joseph, it is our wedding night.’ Her eyes pleaded with him. She needed to feel him by her side, and perhaps perform the same act of love again in the morning.

  ‘I must go. It will soon be morning, and the mill and my employees will not wait. We have all our lives, Charlotte, to lie in one another’s arms.’ He stood up and looked down at his bride. She was beautiful, but he had no intention of sleeping with her through the night. He wouldn’t have been able to control his urges for that long.

  ‘I understand.’ Charlotte turned her head, her eyes brimming with tears as he walked across the bedroom floor, quietly closing the door behind him. The mill and his business were his first love, and she must learn her position in the life of her new husband.

  Mazy, the scullery maid, bobbed and curtsied before leaving the room as the newly lit fire sparked into life. Charlotte watched her from the comfort of her bed as she waited for Lily to bring her breakfast. The skies outside looked heavy and grey with threatening rain, and Charlotte couldn’t help but think that her heart felt the same. Did Joseph expect them to live in separate beds while married?

  She recoiled from her thoughts, as a further knock on the door told her that Lily had arrived with the breakfast.

  ‘Come in.’ Charlotte puffed up her pillows and made herself sit upright in her bed. She might as well enjoy the privilege of breakfast in bed, a luxury that had never been heard of, back home at Crummock. She could just imagine Lucy Cranston giving her a good tongue-lashing if she had suggested such an extravagance.

  ‘Morning, ma’am. Did you sleep well?’ Lily smiled as she placed the walnut bed-tray over Charlotte’s covered legs. ‘Cook didn’t know what you liked for breakfast, so she’s sent you toast, porridge, veal cake and some Finnan haddock. She says anything you don’t like, you’ve just got to let her know.’ Lily smiled as she watched Charlotte lift up each serving platter lid and examine the contents.

  ‘I don’t like veal, Lily, if you can let Cook know, please. It reminds me of the poor little calves I used to hand-feed if they had lost their mothers. How anyone can eat them, I don’t know!’ She looked at the slice of veal terrine, delicately layered with sliced egg and bacon, and thought of the doe-like eyes of the orphaned calves that she had fed with warm milk, remembering how they sucked on her hand as she coaxed their mouths into taking their first drink from a bucket. ‘Everything else is fine.’

  ‘I’ll tell Cook. She’ll make a note. She wondered why you left your calves’ sweetbreads yesterday at your wedding breakfast. She was quite upset, but she will understand now, I’m sure. There’s always veal on the menu – it’s Mr Dawson’s favourite.’ Lily walked over to the wardrobe in the corner of the room and flung the doors open. ‘Now, ma’am, what are you doing today, and what would you like to wear?’

  To Charlotte’s amazement, the wardrobe was filled with fine clothes, which were obviously to be worn by her.

  Realizing that her mistress knew nothing about her new outfits, Lily smiled. ‘Mr Dawson had them all specially made for you. Mrs Dodgson helped him with your sizing, and he had them brought here from Accrington the other day. He thought it would be an extra surprise for you. I think this blue day-dress would be perfect. If you are to stay home today, it will complement your eyes beautifully.’ Lily ran her hand over the dress and held it up for Charlotte to inspect as she ate her toast.

  Charlotte pushed her breakfast tray away. ‘Where are all my clothes from home?’ She rushed to the wardrobe and pulled back the hangers of quality outfits, look
ing for her familiar daily apparel.

  Lily hung her head. ‘I think Mrs Dodgson gave them away. She said that you would not be needing them, now you are living at Windfell.’

  ‘She what? Without even asking me?’ Charlotte turned and glared at the fretting lady’s maid, who looked as if she knew Mrs Dodgson had overstepped the mark.

  ‘Mr Dawson told her to, I think, ma’am. There are some beautiful garments here, ma’am, just look at them.’ Lily tried to defuse the situation; she didn’t like Mrs Dodgson, either. The housekeeper had an air about her, one of lording it over the rest of the staff. Plus, she was always favoured by Joseph Dawson, far too much.

  ‘Give me that dress there. I suppose I’ll have to wear the damned thing. I’ve not a lot, other than what that stupid woman has left me with.’ Charlotte snatched the dress that Lily was nearly crying into, and held it up against her. ‘At least they’ve got good taste, but that’s not the point. The dresses were mine from home, and I loved them.’ Charlotte could have cried.

  ‘Ma’am, I shouldn’t say this, but everyone has to do as they are told at Windfell. Mr Dawson likes everything to be just so, and it is the worse for everyone if he doesn’t get his own way.’

  ‘Well, give me time, Lily, and that may change. It is I that he married, not Mrs Dodgson, and perhaps the two of them get their way too often.’ Charlotte stepped into her bloomers and threw her nightdress onto the unmade bed. ‘Now, today I’ll meet all the staff and get to know them one by one. I’ll inform Mrs Dodgson that I will speak to everybody individually in the morning room after ten this morning, starting with the cook.’ She looked at herself as Lily buttoned up her new blue dress. It did fit and suited her perfectly, but it was the principle of the matter; she should have been asked, before her clothes were disposed of.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. The staff would appreciate that, I’m sure.’ Lily sighed. These were going to be volatile times. If Joseph Dawson thought he’d married someone who would do his bidding, she could sense that this time he had got it wrong.

  7

  ‘Get that bloody lad out from under that machine,’ Joseph yelled at the two workers who were stricken with panic as a young lad, with four of his fingers lost in the carding machinery, screamed and writhed on the floor. ‘What the bloody hell was he doing? Look at the blood on that length of cotton. What a bloody waste!’

  Joseph hadn’t any time for the eleven-year-old boy who was slowly bleeding to death, for the sake of doing his job of cleaning the fluff and dust from under the carding machines. Instead he was more concerned about the loss of cotton, and time, while the machinery was stopped, in order to haul the crippled lad out from under the fast-working machine. Time was money, and he hadn’t enough of either at the moment.

  ‘I kept telling him he’s too bloody slow. I gave him a whack with the strap yesterday morning because he was nearly asleep on the job.’ Bert Bannister stood next to his boss, shouting above the constant rattle and noise of the machines racing back and forth.

  ‘Hah! It was better when you could employ the young ’uns. They were more nippy, especially for cleaning the fluff and debris from under the carding machines. Bloody government and well-doers. An eleven-year-old is too big, especially these farm lads who come just to make more income at home.’ Joseph swore under his breath. He watched as the lad was carried out, slumped between two workers, drips of blood staining the dark wooden flooring of the mill floor. ‘I’m up in the office if you want me, Bert; we’ll have to find a new lad to take this one’s place. I’ll put an advert together and get it posted down in Settle. It’ll not take long to find a replacement.’ He looked around the busy mill floor. None of the workers had stopped for the accident; they were too scared to lose payment because of a second of sympathy, especially with the owner there.

  There were five floors to Ferndale Mill and all were working full out, carding, spinning and weaving the raw cotton from America into cotton sheeting, to be supplied to businesses all over the country. In the six months since Joseph had taken on the derelict mill he had employed more than two hundred people from all walks of life. The folk who worked there had a lot to be thankful for: they had money in their pockets, a roof over their head and worthwhile employment. The least they could do was work hard and show him respect.

  He walked out of the carding room past his workers. None of them dared raise their heads to look at him, for he was the boss. You didn’t catch the eye of the owner, in case he took a dislike to you or singled you out for extra work. Joseph himself knew that and took full advantage of his privileged position, putting the fear of God into his staff as he walked by. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading to his office as a young girl came running up the lower flight of stairs.

  ‘Where have you been, girl?’ Joseph stood sternly and awaited her answer.

  ‘Sir, I’ve been down to the warehouse, Mr Bannister sent me with a message, and he said it was urgent and that my legs were faster than his up and down these stairs.’ Betsy Foster stood afeared of her employer, even though she had been doing no wrong.

  ‘I see. As long as you’ve not dallied. The Devil makes work for idle hands, we all know that.’ Joseph looked at the lass, whom he now recognized as the one he had taken on from Belmont Mill and made a tenant in one of his cottages. ‘Are you and your brother comfortable in your new home?’

  ‘Yes, sir; very much, sir. We are very much obliged for your kindness.’ Betsy avoided eye contact with Joseph. She didn’t want him to see how much she despised him being in control of every aspect of her daily life.

  ‘Is your brother of working age, girl?’ Joseph stared at the pretty, dark-haired woman in front of him. She really was a beauty.

  ‘No, sir. He’s going to school at Langcliffe until summer, and then I hope for him to get a job as a joiner’s apprentice. I’ve already spoken to Colin Ward, the joiner at Long Preston, and Johnny’s been promised a position with him after his next birthday. He’s good with his hands, like our father was.’ Betsy was determined not to have her young brother working in a mill, doing the hours she worked, only to be treated like the young lad she had just seen being carried out onto a donkey cart with missing fingers.

  ‘Good with his hands – that’s just what I need. Perhaps you should rethink your brother’s position in life.’ Joseph stood close to Betsy and looked at her face, slowly running a finger through a lock of her dark hair, making it fall out of the tight bun it was held in. ‘After all, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have a roof over your heads or food on the table. Perhaps we could come to some other arrangement!’ He sniggered. ‘After all, you are my employee, to do with as I see fit.’ He ran his finger down the side of her face, lingering for a while at her lips.

  ‘Betsy, get back at your machine. Stop dallying on the stairs. Get out of Mr Dawson’s way, girl.’ Bannister bellowed at his messenger, who had been missing for all of five minutes. ‘I beg your pardon, sir; I need her back at her machine.’ Joseph watched as Betsy nearly ran back to her carding machine, her cheeks flushed and her eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘I’d watch that one, if I were you, Bannister. She’s got spirit and lacks respect.’ Joseph watched Betsy as she put her head down and got on with her work. If he couldn’t have the brother, he would have her – and in more ways than one. She was his to do with as he liked, and she knew it.

  Bert looked at Betsy. He’d seen Joseph Dawson talking to the girl and knew what it was about. The lass was vulnerable, and Joseph was a bastard with no heart. He might have brass and respect, but he was certainly no gentleman. He’d watched his master eyeing the young lasses as they went about their work. And him with a new bonny wife – you’d think he’d be satisfied at home. Bert spat out a mouth of chewed tobacco and walked down the length of the carding room. All bosses were bastards – the world was full of them and there was nowt he could do about it; he was just a boss’s monkey, doing as he was bidden.

  Charlotte sat in the morning room. Yates placed th
e made tea upon a silver tray and positioned it on the highly polished walnut table next to the long window, which looked out onto the drive and the graceful grey-barked beech trees that bordered it. She watched as the copper leaves twirled and raced in the breeze before falling to the ground. Autumn was passing quickly and winter would soon be here.

  ‘Should I pour, ma’am?’ Yates stood over her and awaited her instructions.

  ‘Please do, and then take a seat, Yates. I’d like to take the time to know everyone this morning, and I may as well start with you.’ Charlotte looked at the stuffy butler. His face never changed expression, but his voice was soft and kind for the size of the man.

  Yates poured Charlotte her tea and then dutifully sat where she suggested.

  ‘Tell me a little about yourself, Yates. Are you married, have you any children?’ Charlotte sipped a mouthful of tea and watched the surprise on the butler’s face.

  ‘Me, ma’am, married? God forbid, I like to be my own man.’

  ‘And do you live with us, here in the servants’ quarters? I’m sorry this seems an obvious question, but Mr Dawson hasn’t informed me as of yet who lives in with us and who doesn’t.’ Charlotte felt embarrassed that she had no knowledge about who was housed under the roof of Windfell, and she hadn’t seen the servants’ quarters.

  ‘I do, ma’am. The rooms up near the attic are quite roomy and comfortable and I have my own fire, so I can make myself a drink of tea in my own privacy. I’m thankful for the employment because, as you can see, I’m not getting any younger.’ Yates smiled. His new mistress at least cared. In some of the houses he had worked in, they hadn’t given a damn.