Cherrybrook Rose (5 page)

She dragged her gaze away from the wagon as it trundled on into the mist, and turned her eyes instead in the opposite direction towards the scattered buildings of the gunpowder factory itself. Sure enough, her father was walking past the cooperage next door, dead on time for his luncheon at half-past twelve. Rose smiled to herself as she wondered if old Silas had anything left to eat for
his
croust, or midday meal. The fellow had been a powder-maker at Cherrybrook since the whole enterprise had been started by Mr George Frean over thirty years before, and knew his job so well he was scarcely likely to cause himself an accident. Nevertheless, walking in at the crack of dawn from his home in Postbridge, Silas always ate the midday pasty he brought with him at the same time as his breakfast – just in case he should be blown up beforehand and never get to consume it!

The corners of Rose's coral lips were still turned upwards as she hurried out into the kitchen to make sure everything was on the table. It was cold enough to light a fire in the dining room, where they would normally have eaten, but they might as well start as they meant to go on, so she had ordered a reluctant Florrie to set the meal in the warm kitchen where the range was continually alight. It seemed no hardship to Rose, since she spent most of her time there anyway, and her father was a sensible man and would entirely agree with her logic.

As if to confirm her thoughts, he came in through the kitchen door and raised a surprised eyebrow at the table, which was neatly set with the remains of last night's beef cut into wafer-thin slices, pink in the centre shading to a light brown on the edges, various jars of homemade pickles, butter from Cherrybrook Farm and bread baked by Florrie's own hand. The kettle was singing on the range, and Florrie glanced up apprehensively as she made a pot of tea, for never had she served the master a meal in her kitchen!

She need not have worried. A slow smile pulled at his mouth and the slight doubt in Rose's mind was dispelled as he beamed cheerfully, ‘What a good idea! 'Tis good and cosy in here, and that dampness outside gets through to the bones. I can hardly believe it after yesterday.'

‘The weather had to change some time, sir,' Florrie observed, for though she was officially a servant, her position as one of the family allowed her to speak freely. ‘Now you just get a cup of this yere hot tea down you, and you'll soon warm up.'

Henry obediently sat down at the table, winking a bright blue eye at his daughter as he did so. Rose felt her shoulders relax as she cut slices of the delicious-smelling mouth-watering loaf and passed the plate to her father. They both tucked in, Florrie ensuring they had sufficient quantities of boiling water to top up the teapot, for though they were eating in
her
kitchen, she would not dream of sitting down to her own meal until they had finished, and the master had gone back to work.

It was as Henry was pouring himself a second cup of the steaming liquid that they all heard it. Rose snatched in a sharp breath and held it as her eyes snapped wide, every muscle frozen rigid. Her gaze met her father's across the table, and for a split second, his motionless face was inscrutable.

It was Florrie who broke the silence. ‘Saints preserve us!' she cried hysterically, throwing her apron over her head in what Rose had always considered a ridiculous habit.

She didn't have time to think it now. She and Henry were already on their feet, and Henry had shot out of the door, knocking the freshly poured tea all over Florrie's snowy white tablecloth in his desperate haste. If he noticed it, he did not pay any heed, and neither did Rose as she sped out of the house after him, grasping her shawl from the hall stand as she hurtled past. Horror shuddered through her body, leaving her heart thumping in her chest. She ran behind her father, for though he was turned fifty, he was fast on his feet, and when he stopped abruptly at the point along the track where the numerous stone buildings opened up before them, she nearly collided into his back.

‘Oh, God, this is all we need,' she heard him hiss between his teeth, and dragging her eyes from his grey face, she gazed across the gently sloping valley where the Cherrybrook played peacefully along its rocky gravel bed. They were both staring instinctively towards the three incorporating mills high on the opposite slope, spaced well apart for safety reasons but linked by the raised water-launder that snaked from one to the other in turn, and drove the huge central waterwheel in each building. Incorporating, or finely blending the three separate ingredients of the gunpowder, was the most dangerous process and the obvious site for an explosion, but as father and daughter narrowed their eyes at the massive stones that formed the solid walls of the mills, over six foot thick in places and now half shrouded in a dank grey cloak, they could neither of them make out any signs of mishap.

‘'Tis the corning 'ouse, sir!' someone called, and then agitated men, emerging from every door, began running towards the corning and dusting house on the near side of the river. It was uncanny, unreal, as so many feet made no sound in the muffling echo of the mist, for every man changed his hobnailed boots for leather-soled shoes on arrival at the powder mills each morning, as the slightest spark of metal on stone could cause an explosion. Neither Henry nor Rose could go a step further until they had done the same, and she plunged after him into his office to kick her feet into their special footwear before racing down the track and along to the next of several buildings strung out in a line above the west bank of the river.

Henry came to a halt then, raising his hands so that every man stood still. Rose fixed her eyes on him, her pulse thudding. At close quarters, she could see his face working painfully, but he was in charge, their leader. They looked to him for instructions, and he must not let his heart, which ached to get inside and rescue anyone injured, rule his head.

‘No one must go in! Not yet! Fred?' he questioned, raising an eyebrow at his foreman, a giant of a man who stood, arms akimbo, the leather apron he, like every other worker, wore making him look even larger than he actually was.

‘I doesn't know what's 'appened, Mr Maddiford, sir,' the fellow answered, ‘but no one goes in till we knows 'tis safe. It don't appear too serious. The roof be still on.'

Henry sucked in his cheeks, his eyes travelling keenly over the exterior of the corning house. Beside him, Rose's pleated brow throbbed. Nobody had yet staggered out, though a pall of grey-brown smoke with its distinctive smell had billowed through the glassless windows and was hanging in the saturated air in a choking smog. Was someone lying unconscious inside? Her heart beat savagely, every second an hour as they waited . . .

Edward James stumbled from behind the sturdy structure, half supporting himself on the stone walls, dazed and visibly shaking. In an instant, his colleagues surrounded him, keeping him upright as he struggled to reach his respected boss.

‘I only went outside fer set the rollers in motion,' he stammered, and as his knees folded beneath him, his fellow-workers dragged him upwards. His head was rolling on his shoulders, his face white and anguished with his need to explain. ‘There were a lump o' cake stuck to the bottom. 'Twere too big fer get out wi' the wooden shovel so I poured a pail o' water over it, an' turned the rollers on fer crush it like we always does, an' the next thing . . .' He shook his head, his eyes wild with shock as he gazed fearfully over his shoulder at the wide doorway. Though the initial acrid cloud still clung to the vaporous mist in long threads, no more smoke had drifted from the interior of the building.

‘Were anyone inside?' Henry demanded, his eyebrows fiercely dipped.

‘N . . . no,' Edward James stuttered, his teeth starting to chatter. ‘We'd just stopped fer eat our croust. Young John'd just . . .'

‘Ais, I's all right,' the youth called from somewhere in the crowd.

The taut lines on Henry's face slackened, and Rose felt the blessed relief invade her tense body. She heard her father muttering something under his breath, and then he turned to his foreman. ‘Reckon as 'tis safe enough now, Fred?'

The big chap nodded, and as they both stepped cautiously towards the doorway, Rose went to follow, but Henry put a restrictive hand on her arm. ‘Not you, Rose. 'Tis too dangerous.'

Rose swallowed hard as she stared at him, her eyes deep, glistening orbs of alarm. ‘And . . . what about you, Father?' she croaked.

‘'Tis my job,' he said levelly, a loving smile touching his lips. ‘Now you look to Eddie James. Poor fellow's in shock.'

Rose obediently backed away, biting hard on her lip in an effort to stop it quivering. If anything ever happened to her father . . . Accidents were not a common occurrence at the gunpowder mills. There were strict government rules which must be rigidly adhered to in order to retain the licence, but it was still a dangerous business. Incorporating was the most perilous stage of production, but corning, when the one-inch-deep compressed cake of damp powder was broken down into granules of the required size, could be almost as hazardous. And any incident, even relatively minor, was a sharp reminder of the need for constant vigilance.

She forced herself to turn her attentions to Edward James, sitting him down and pushing his head down between his knees before he was physically sick, which by his face, he was on the brink of being so. But at every moment, her eye was trained on the doorway to the corning house, the blood coursing tremulously around her body until her father re-appeared, his face set grimly.

‘Right, men, you can start clearing up the mess now,' he instructed. ‘And for God's sake, be careful. You carpenters'll have to work day and night to repair the machinery. Let me know if we need to order any extra timber. And in the meantime,' he added severely, ‘I want you in my office, Eddie James. I'll have to give Mr Frean a full written report.'

He strode away up the road without even glancing at his daughter, a measure reflecting, she knew well, his worry over the situation. A common practice, one which should have been safe, had resulted in an explosion, albeit a small one, and nobody was to blame. But he was responsible, both for the factory and his men, and sometimes he bent beneath the strain. Rose's heart jerked as her eyes followed him, her dearest, kind, thoughtful father of whom she was so proud . . .

R
ose frowned at her reflection in the mirror and smoothed down the front of her bodice. She had chosen the most modest of her special outfits, a soft grey affair in a fine wool, with a simple bustle and a tight-fitting jacket which accentuated her tiny waist. Florrie had helped to twist her hair into a complicated chignon, and she had fixed a small lace cap on to the crown of her glossy curls with a mother-of-pearl pin that had once belonged to her mother. She looked the perfect hostess for the occasion, smart and attractive, yet not frivolous or overly dressed. She wanted to do her level best for her father, who had been worried enough over the shareholders' inspection
before
the explosion. He and his men had been working flat out to repair the machinery damaged in the blast, and have production back on full level by today, and they had succeeded. Nevertheless, he would have been hard pressed to explain the mishap and would no doubt have had to answer some difficult questions during the visitors' tour that morning. So when they appeared at the house for luncheon, Rose was determined to make it such an enjoyable experience that any misgivings about the gunpowder factory would be forgotten.

She took a deep breath as she tripped down the stairs, for her heart was beating a nervous tattoo in her breast. The fire in the dining room was crackling merrily, and the table that Florrie had polished with what she called a good lot of elbow grease gleamed with the best silver and glassware in the house. Now Rose stood back with a satisfied smile. The room looked tasteful and welcoming, yet not overdone, suitable for a competent manager who was paid a reasonable salary yet was not a drain on the company's resources.

‘Oh, bless us, they be coming!' she heard Florrie wail from the hallway. ‘Oh, Miss Rose!'

‘Oh, Florrie, don't you fret none!' She swept out of the dining room and followed Florrie back into the kitchen. ‘'Tis all perfect, and I for one can't wait to sit down to this superb meal you've prepared. My mouth's watering just at the smell of it all!'

She beamed radiantly, her eyes sparkling with confidence, and Florrie paused, her hands on her hips, as if drawing reassurance from her young mistress. ‘Well, if anyone can sweet-talk them, my dear, 'tis you! So you go out there and . . . and just be yersel!'

Rose took an instant to throw a last winsome glance at her and then hurried out to arrange herself in the parlour, the correct place for the lady of the house to be installed to receive her guests. She could hear the group of men coming up the garden path now, and a few moments later, voices in the hallway as they removed their hats and coats. She clasped her hands in her lap and straightened her back, then tipped her head with an engaging benevolence on her face as the door handle turned and Henry stood back to allow his guests to enter the room.

‘Rose, my dear, how pleasant to see you again!'

Rose got to her feet and dipped her knees in a polite curtsy, as George Frean, proprietor of the mills, stepped across to her and took her hands in his. The elderly man was a fair and respected employer, and had watched her grow from an affectionate child to the accomplished young woman who stood before him now.

‘Gentlemen, may I introduce my daughter, Rose,' Henry said from somewhere near the door.

The gentlemen in question were still occupied in the process of crowding into the room behind Mr Frean, whose broad back obscured Henry Maddiford's daughter from their view. He moved aside then, his face lit with a proudly paternal smile as if it were
his
child they were to have the honour of meeting. He was waiting for the effect she would have on the visitors, and he was not disappointed. The amazement followed by the flustered expression on each face was almost comical, from the three mature investors to the young fellow on his first mission for his family's wealth, and Mr Charles Chadwick, at thirty-six years old, somewhere in between. The callow youth flushed scarlet but Mr Chadwick at once contained his emotion at this unexpected ethereal vision of loveliness, and came forward to bow over her gloved hand.