Shining Threads (16 page)

‘Come on, get down and let me look at you properly. I’m certain there must be some quite fascinating explanation on how it came about and, really, I can’t wait to hear
it.’

‘If you’re going to make fun . . .’

‘No, really. I would like to know how you persuaded your mother, who must be a remarkable lady, to let you have it cut, and besides, we cannot be at each other’s throats every time
we meet. I thought we were to be friends when we were at Annie’s . . . No, no . . .’ He stood back, his hands uplifted in a placatory manner, his grin broadening, ‘. . . I’m
not going to lecture you, really. If you are intent on risking yourself . . .’

‘Mr Broadbent . . .’ Her voice had a warning in it, but she swung her leg over her mare’s rump; then, fastening the bridle to a clump of gorse, she moved to stand beside him,
looking out over the darkening valley.

There was a mist coming off the river, tinged a soft rose pink by the last of the sun’s rays, and further along the valley bottom was the dark smudge which was Crossfold. Lights pricked
the smudge but up here they were still in full daylight. They had moved together, sauntering towards the flat rock on which he had previously been squatting, lowering themselves into the same
sitting position with their arms about their drawn-up knees. Neither spoke as they allowed the soft-hued ease of mind which Will Broadbent seemed to generate, to slip comfortably over them again.
It was satisfying, tranquil, with no need of words to fill the silence and yet they were both aware, Will more than Tessa, that there was more to it than that. He acknowledged her as she was,
awkward, stubborn, wilful, and did not judge her nor condemn her, for he understood her striving nature which in many ways was like his own. And sensing his understanding and acceptance she was
untroubled, with no need of the defiance she showed to others. She could be herself, perhaps the self no one had ever seen before, allowing the friction with which she challenged life to be gladly
set to one side.

‘I really
do
take the dogs with me when I ride out alone, Mr Broadbent, and having seen them that day at Annie’s you must realise that I am quite safe with them. But today,
though I set out with my cousins I decided to come home early. We had been with the hunt . . .’

‘So I see by the blood on your face.’

‘You don’t approve?’

‘’Tis a cruel sport, lass, and the custom of rubbing the brush of the poor little beggar on your face . . . well, it’s what I would call barbaric.’

She bristled and he put a hand on her arm. ‘Nay, don’t let’s start again. See, wipe that mark off your cheek . . .’ He pulled a clean white square from his pocket but
instead of handing it to her he turned her face towards him with a big, gentle hand and rubbed at the dried blood which had turned a rusty brown on the smooth skin of her cheek. It was stubborn and
he clicked his tongue, his eyes engrossed with his task. She watched his face with an odd breathlessness and a feeling of expectancy, her eyes bemused, and as he felt her gaze on him his breath
shortened. He cleared his throat.

‘It doesn’t seem to want to come off.’ He tried to sound casual. The hand which held her chin trembled.

‘Try a bit of spit.’ Her voice was soft and there was a quiver in it and he knew he must be very careful with her. She was a woman, but yet a child: innocent and trusting with him,
but not, he was sure, ignorant. She was of an age when most girls were thinking of marriage, but still a child and he must be careful.

He made his voice merry though the effort was great.

‘A bit of spit! Miss Harrison, whatever next?’ She smiled then put out her tongue and when he had rubbed his handkerchief across its pink moistness, he carefully cleaned off the
offending stain, not meeting those incredible eyes which were looking so earnestly into his.

‘What do you do on your day off?’ she asked him presently and though he had resumed his contemplation of the shadowy valley he was aware that she was still studying him.

‘Nowt, really. I walk across the hills if I feel like it or go to political meetings, but there’s not a lot to do in these parts when the mill’s closed. There’s talk of
forming a football team in the mill but they’ll not want me in it since I’ve never played the game in me life and I’m too old to start now.’

‘How old are you, Mr Broadbent?’

He turned to smile at her and watched the corners of her mouth lift in answer to his. ‘I must be twenty-eight or nine, I suppose.’

‘Really!’ and her sixteen-year-old face conveyed pity. ‘What else do you do?’

‘Sometimes I take the train to Manchester and then in the summer there’s the fairs. I read a lot but more often than not after I’ve been in the mill all week I feel the need to
get out and let the wind blow in me face and even the rain . . .’

‘I know.’

‘Oh, aye.’ He turned to her in surprise for though she was a forthright, independent and, some said, entirely too free a young lady for her own good, he had not realised that she
shared his own deep attachment to this bleak environment which was their heritage.

‘Indeed. I can think of nowhere I would rather be.’ As she spoke she felt a sense of surprise for she could clearly hear her own voice, accompanied by those of Drew and Pearce,
bemoaning the fact that they were forced to remain here, tied to the family inheritance. It really was amazing. What was it about this man which brought out something in her which she had not even
known was there? That made her say things which were sometimes insolent, disdainful, mocking as only she could be and the next moment seduce her into a state of well-being in which she brought
forth statements she had certainly not meant to make, nor even knew she had believed? And yet she
did
love this high patch of Lancashire despite her constant reiteration to Drew and Pearce
that she wanted only to get away with them to some magical world which she had convinced herself existed beyond it.

She turned to look at him, a large and personable man, smiling, his expression steady, interested, humorous, concerned with what she had to say and finding it worthwhile. ‘But that
doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to travel, to see some of the world beyond the Penfold Valley, as long as I could come home to it.’ As she spoke she knew that what she said was the
truth though she had not been aware of it. Her voice had become somewhat defiant again, irritated with herself for allowing him to glimpse a part of her which was not really meant to be seen.

‘No indeed.’ His voice was grave.

‘Don’t smile, Mr Broadbent.’

‘I’m not smiling, lass, but do you think you could bring yourself to call me Will?’

The fire had been built up, the logs crackling and fragrant, the flames glowing into the high ceiling and casting shadows on the rich rosewood panelling as she entered the hallway. It was quiet
and deserted, warm, secure and so . . . so
homely
she felt her heart wrench and she stopped, one foot on the bottom tread of the stairs.

She turned and looked about her, studying this home of hers which she had never before really noticed. A hundred hundred times she had raced up and down these stairs; skated along the tiled
floor in pursuit of, or pursued by her cousins. She had laughed and cried, screamed in temper and skipped for joy. She had toasted marshmallows in the flames of the fire, sat on a stool and dreamed
into it, played all manner of games and tricks and all the time the house had been here, as steadfast and reliable as . . . as Will – now why had she thought that, she wondered, confused
– or her mother, always here when she really needed her. As safe as houses, that was what they said, and that was exactly what she felt here. She always protested that she didn’t
want
to be
safe
, but she realised in that moment, perhaps just for that moment, that everyone needed a place, or a person, in whom they felt secure. There had always been this house
and her mother!

And tonight she knew she was going to distress her mother, take from her the pleasure her brother’s visit brought her just as surely as if she were to strike her full in the face. And all
for a childish whim. No more. That was what it had been, an impulsive, infantile caprice which was not worthy of her mother’s daughter. Her mother would be upset, she knew full well she would
when she saw the state of her hair; she had known full well when she had allowed Drew to cut it, but it had not stopped her.

And that was what had taken the lovely glow, the excitement of the day from her when the hunt was finished, that and the unspoken regret in Will Broadbent. Though he might tell her she looked
well with her hair shorn like a ragamuffin – and perhaps she did, perhaps it suited her in its strangeness – but she had sensed that he deplored the loss of the long, shining splendour
of the hair which she had discarded so lightly last night. As her mother would. No doubt Drew and Pearce would be back soon for not even they would dare risk their father’s displeasure should
they not be home for dinner. Drew would defend her, try to take the blame; he would say he had encouraged her, own up to his share in the horror for it had been his hand which had held the
scissors.

She could hear Uncle Joss’s laughter in the drawing-room. It was almost dark. They would be having sherry perhaps, Charlie and Laurel, her mother, Aunt Kit and Uncle Joss, her family,
before going upstairs to bathe and change for dinner. The mills would have closed at six the night before, the boilers not to be fired up until five tomorrow morning, Monday. She and her cousins
had been invited to ride to hounds any day they pleased now that the season had begun and she had heard Drew promise carelessly, thoughtlessly – since when would Uncle Joss allow his sons to
hunt on a working day? – that they would all be at the Hall tomorrow. Between then and now she must try . . . try to explain – was there an explanation? – to her mother; make an
effort to clarify . . . well, demonstrate to her mother
why
– was there a logical reason? – she had acted as she had. To say she was sorry. That she hadn’t given it any
real
thought. That she hadn’t really
cared
, at the time. To plead with her mother to understand.

In that moment Tessa Harrison began the difficult process of growing up. For the first time in her young life she felt compassion for
someone
, an adult, not a sickly kitten or an orphaned
puppy or a rabbit caught in a trap, as children do, but a person who, by
her
action would be wounded. Somehow she must let that person know that she was sorry; not sorry that her hair was
cut short, but that the cutting of it should cause her mother distress. And now was as good a time as any to begin. She knew quite positively that this remorse on another person’s behalf
would not last, that it was not in her to bend her will to another’s, to put the wishes of someone else before her own, to curb the wilful need to get away from the restrictions her sex, her
age and her class put upon her, but right now she was experiencing these emotions and she must do what her often-stormy heart told her before she changed her mind.

She did not fling open the drawing-room door as she normally would, noisily, a child still in her exuberant need for life and excitement, but moved into the room in a manner so sedate it would
have gladdened Miss Copeland’s heart.

They all turned to smile, her family, welcoming her and had she not, for the moment anyway, been this new and strange Tessa she would have laughed out loud as their smiles slipped away like ice
melting in the sunshine. They sat like figures carved in stone for several moments then very slowly her mother put down the glass she was holding, not once taking her eyes from her, and raised a
trembling hand to cover her mouth. She seemed unable to move beyond that, her eyes enormous in her bone-white face, her body still, her brain atrophied and unable to function, or so it
appeared.

‘Tessa . . . child . . . have you had an accident?’ her Aunt Kit faltered and her Uncle Joss rose slowly to his feet, ready, should he be needed, to move rapidly across the carpet to
catch his niece when she fell, as fall she undoubtedly would.

‘Dear God . . . sweetheart . . .’ Charlie sprang to life, pushing aside Laurel’s trembling hand, striding with his great long legs after his brother until they both stood
before her their hands lifted, eager to comfort, to support, to hold, but not sure where to lay them since they did not want to cause further damage.

‘What happened? Jesus, lass, what happened?’

‘Nothing . . .’

‘But look at you. Your riding habit is covered with blood or . . . or is it mud? And your face . . . you’re as white as a sheet. What the devil . . . who . . . ?’

Slowly her Uncle Joss’s eyes rose to her hair and she became aware that her unkempt appearance . . . yes, she remembered now, she had come off her mare in the ditch beside
Jenkinson’s oat field . . . well, it would be the Squire’s oat field since Jenkinson only rented it from him – her appearance, stained, muddy, bloody from the fox had somehow
distracted them from the real injury of the day. The injury to her beautiful hair.

‘Who did it?’ Charlie whispered, his mind racing to all kinds of horror, to vagrants and gypsies, tinkers and ruffians, rapists and those who . . . who . . . and surely this child
had been in some pervert’s hands for who else would take from her her lovely hair, and if they had taken that, what else had she lost?

Her mother’s face floated, she could think of no other words, towards her, stationing itself besides Charlie’s shoulder, grey and amazingly agonised and for a moment Tessa was
confounded by its strangeness, its utter, utter horror.

‘Now, Jenny, it’s all right, lass,’ her Uncle Joss said, moving rapidly to take her mother’s arm and Tessa was made aware that there was something in her mother’s
absolute terror that had nothing to do with her. ‘Tell us who did this to you, Tessa, tell us . . .’

‘I did it,’ she protested harshly and again they were all struck dumb. And all the softness, the love and remorse with which she had been going to approach them evaporated in her own
terrified distress for matters had all gone so horribly wrong. ‘I was tired of having Emma forever nagging me to have it brushed and washed . . . and pinned up . . . put into nets . . . and
things. Well, I asked her to cut it . . .’ Her voice had become high, childish in her defiance.