Shining Threads (48 page)

‘There is a gentleman to see you, sir.’ He said the word ‘gentleman’ in such a way it was clear that in Briggs’ opinion he was no such thing. ‘Are you at
home?’

‘Who is it, Briggs?’

‘A Mr Will Broadbent, sir, come to pay his respects.’

23

He looked prosperous, his black coat and trousers immaculate, his mourning bands correct in every detail. He did not even glance in her direction.

‘Mr Greenwood, sir.’ Briggs announced him to the master of the house but the visitor moved gently to take Jenny Harrison’s hand.

‘Mrs Harrison. I had no wish to intrude on your grief but I felt the need to come and tell you, and your family, in what high regard I held your brother. He was a fine man and will be
sorely missed. I was at the funeral along with a great many men who admired him but I did not speak to you then, not with such a throng.’

Joss was on his feet, his hand outstretched, his face showing his sadness at the death of his younger brother but pleased that this man, a man he did not know, had taken the trouble to go out of
his way to show his respect for him.

‘We have not met, Mr Broadbent. You are . . . ?’

‘I was overlooker, then manager for a short while in Mr Greenwood’s spinning room at Chapmanstown. He was a fair master and a good man. I can say no more than that.’

‘No, indeed. That is a praise enough and a decent epitaph for there are not many of those, I fear. You are acquainted with my wife?’

Will Broadbent bowed his head in Kit Greenwood’s direction, courteous and respectful but in no way humble.

‘Mrs Greenwood.’

‘Mr Broadbent.’

‘And this is my brother’s wife and my daughter, Mrs Laurel Greenwood.’ Laurel bowed coolly for surely as the widow it should have been to her the first condolences were
paid?

‘Mrs Greenwood.’

‘And my niece, my son’s wife, Mrs Drew Greenwood.’

‘Mrs Greenwood,’ he said for the third time and nobody seemed to find it strange that he did not bow to her. His eyes looked directly into hers and she flinched away from the cool
hostility in them; from the height and breadth of him which filled the dainty room; from the terrible blankness of his face which had once been warm with his love and the almost cruel firmness of
his mouth which had once covered hers with soft kisses.

She did not speak, indeed she could not, merely inclined her head towards him. He was a stranger after all, known only to her mother in whose employ he had once been, and nothing more was
expected of her.

‘We were about to take tea, Mr Broadbent,’ her aunt said, not unduly concerned with the proprieties at a time like this, or indeed at any other. ‘Will you join us?’

‘Oh, no, thank you all the same, ma’am. I will not impose on you . . . on your . . . I was passing the house, that is all, on my way to Hepworth and felt I could not go by without
paying my respects. My carriage is at the door and I will be on my way but before I do . . . I hope you will not be offended, Mrs Harrison . . .’ His manner had become awkward, his face
flushed but his eyes were clear and warm as he turned again to Jenny. ‘If there is anything I can do to help you, perhaps some . . . well, anything at all.’ He straightened his already
straight back, beginning to move out of the room. ‘You have only to ask, ma’am.’

‘That is good of you, Mr Broadbent.’ Jenny’s eyes grew soft and she lost that faint air of vagueness she had worn since her brother’s death.

‘Aye . . . well, you and Mr Greenwood were good to me, ma’am.’

Tessa’s jaws were clenched so tightly together she felt her teeth begin to ache with the pressure. A small shiver of pain shot through her right temple. Her thoughts spun wildly round and
round in her head, one following hot on the heels of another, so closely they over-ran and became confused, but one was clear, dominating over all the others, and she clung to it desperately.

She must say something. She must keep him here, at least until she had arranged her chaotic mind into some sort of order. She must not sit here like a painted image over which the ice has set,
frozen to her chair, her hands clamped to her lap, her lips sealed and grim. Her uncle was shaking Will’s hand again and her aunt was nodding politely as they walked towards the door. Their
voices came at her from a great distance, faint and disintegrated, and she knew that if she did not do something now, though God knows what it should be, her life would turn on to a path which
would be ill-fitting, like some garment made for another. She stood in the middle of a great and barren expanse with nothing to indicate which was the best direction, the right direction for her to
escape from it. She had reached a crossroad but with only one route, a route along which she was being inexorably forced. And Will held the answer to her critical situation. She did not even know
why. It was all shadow and illusion, as life itself was, a cruel farce cheating its players contemptuously, the injustice of it scarring them badly, as she had been scarred, as everyone in this
room had been scarred, even Laurel whose awkward nature was surely the result of what life had done to her as a small child in the mills, Always it came back to them: the mills. They were the cause
of all the turmoil and heartbreak that was in this family. They were the sword which hung over them all, the prison from which none, it seemed, could escape. And she was to be their next
prisoner.

Her uncle had his hand on the door handle, ready to usher their guest away to his carriage, to his life, wherever that was, when the door opened inwards and the handsome, apologetic, endearingly
smiling face of Drew Greenwood appeared. He had the air of a small boy who knows he has been ‘out to play’ for far too long and is bound to get a scolding, but could they not see how
much he had enjoyed himself and, really, would they begrudge it to him on this sad day? He had been extremely fond of Charlie, as they well knew, and if his heart was distressed was he not entitled
to ease it in the comfort of the stable with his beloved hunter? Later, when it could be arranged, it would be in the comfort of his own bed with his beloved wife.

‘I beg your pardon.’ He sprang to attention with all the grace and good manners bred in him by a succession of nannies, tutors, schoolmasters and, more extensively, his close contact
with Nicky Longworth and his friends up at the Hall. ‘I was not aware we had guests.’ He looked Will up and down, his arrogant superiority showing quite plainly for this man was not
their kind, but he smiled and waited courteously to be introduced.

‘This is Mr Broadbent, Drew. He was acquainted with Charlie and . . .’

‘I worked in his mill, lad.’

‘Indeed? My word.’ Drew was not at all sure how to deal with Mr Broadbent’s bluntness and, never having shaken the hand of a working man before, was not quite certain how to go
about it.

‘This is my son, Drew.’

‘I believe we have met before, Mr Greenwood. It was in the spinning room when I worked for Chapmans.’

‘Indeed.’

There was an awkward pause. Will stood quietly, composed, merely waiting politely, as a guest should, to be shown the door but before anyone could move towards it Tessa sprang up, turning all
heads in her direction, and rang the bell.

‘Really, Uncle Joss, we cannot allow Mr Broadbent to make that long journey to Hepworth – that is near Rochdale, is it not, Mr Broadbent? – without some refreshment, can
we?’

Her uncle hesitated and his wife waited, as she always waited, for his answer. Then taking Will by the elbow he began to urge him, reluctantly on Will’s part, towards the chair by the
small fire.

‘No, of course not, Mr Broadbent.’

She had no idea, not the slightest, what she was to say, or do, or on what topic she wished to address him, if there was one. She only knew that this man held the remedy to her desperation; that
he was the one to get her out of the corner into which she was backed. Dear God,
how?
she beseeched silently, but no sign of her agitation showed on her impassive face and her eyes did not
once lift to his as the conversation flowed slowly, politely, somewhat awkwardly among the company.

They drank tea and ate small cakes and Drew spoke enthusiastically on the virtues of his hunter, on the anxieties of the cough which afflicted the animal and on his chances of taking him to
Leicester when the hunting season began.

‘You are not to take over the immediate running of your mills then, Mr Greenwood?’ Will asked courteously, the first spark of interest pricking his eyes.

‘Good God, no. I am no millmaster, Mr Broadbent. I know nothing of spinning or weaving.’

Tessa held her breath. The room was as hushed as a church and she saw from the corner of her eye Will’s interest quicken even further.

‘If I am not being presumptuous, then who is to take Mr Greenwood’s place?’ he asked. ‘Surely, ma’am,’ addressing Jenny Harrison, ‘you are not to manage
alone?’

Jenny shook herself lightly, as though coming back from some distant place where she had gone to escape the bird-twittering of the drawing-room.

‘I? Oh, no, Mr Broadbent.’

‘Then . . . ?’ He was very polite but clearly confused.

‘My sister is to come to Italy with us, Mr Broadbent. She is . . . not herself yet, after the death of our brother, and feels in need of a holiday.’

‘I see,’ he said, though clearly he didn’t.

‘The managers will attend to such things as are necessary, I believe. It shall all be left to them.’ Drew’s voice was careless.

‘Indeed, that sounds well enough, Mr Greenwood, but in my experience that is a quick way to ruin. There is only one man to control a business and that is its owner.’

‘Really? And you are qualified to give such an opinion? Drew enquired insolently and Tessa saw Will’s face register anger as his hosts’ son reached for a cigar, lit it without
permission to do so in his mother’s drawing-room, then blew smoke slowly from between pursed and smiling lips.

Will’s voice was quiet. ‘I am a businessman myself. Some years ago I formed a co-operative spinning and weaving concern which I run for its owners who are, of course, the
shareholders. As I have a considerable number of shares myself it is in my own interest to ensure the business prospers. I would not care to see it in the hands of men who work solely for a pay
packet at the end of each week.’

Of course, he had heard – as who in the Penfold Valley, indeed in south Lancashire had not? – of the reluctance to take up his responsibilities as the Greenwood heir. Had it not been
for his uncle, just buried that day, and his aunt who, it seemed, had lost not only her will but her desire for a commercial life, the business would long ago have gone the way of all such
mismanaged ventures. Despite the expansion in the textile trade and the ensuing profitable business, it was to no purpose if there was no one to snatch an opportunity when it presented itself, some
enterprising player to gamble, to take a chance, to recognise an opening, and that only the man at the top was capable of doing. Seemingly, amazingly, it was not to be Drew Greenwood.

‘Then . . . ?’ Will began.

Drew’s voice was high, haughty, the privileged class answering one of its inferiors who had no right to have spoken up in the first place.

‘I can only repeat that the managers at the mills are highly regarded by the family and will continue the running of them as they have been employed to do. I can see no reason to do the
work when one employs, and pays, others to do it Mr Broadbent. My wife and I are agreed on it, are we not, Tessa?’ He took Tessa’s hand possessively in his where it lay passively. Not
even Tessa saw the sudden clenching of Will Broadbent’s strong jaw.

‘I see,’ he said coldly, ‘then I wish you well, Mr Greenwood, and I must also bid you good day. I have presumed for too long on your hospitality.’

In the polite confusion of leave taking no one noticed that not only did Mr Broadbent avoid Mrs Drew Greenwood’s hand, he managed to avoid addressing her at all.

She waited two weeks before she called on him.

‘Mrs Greenwood?’ Though he was clearly surprised it in no way shattered his icy disdain. His office was small, not at all the splendid affair her own mother had worked in at Chapman
Manufacturing and which now, if she could not arrange it to her own satisfaction, awaited her.

It was a cool, blustery day, a shower or two and the wind disturbing the tops of the trees which crowded the floor of the valley in which the mill stood. A small fire burned in the grate at his
back and before him was an enormous desk taking up a great deal of space, the rest of the room crammed with shelves in which were hundreds of books of a highly technical nature. On the desk were
papers, ledgers, account books, one assumed, pens and pencils, a tray filled with dozens of small wooden cups in which the operative’s wage was presented to him. There was a
‘piece’ or pick glass used to examine cloth construction. The base formed a one-inch square frame, she remembered her mother telling her during one of her attempts to interest her
daughter in life at the mill, to count the threads per inch in the cotton. A clock ticked loudly on the wall and as though to remind her that he was a busy man, to state her business and be off, he
took out his pocket watch and looked at it. He remained standing behind his desk and did not ask her to sit.

‘What may I do for you, Mrs Greenwood?’ he asked her coldly.

It was not going to be easy. He was not going to make it easy for her. His steady eyes told her he didn’t like her much but he was a man who was not rude to a lady, particularly when she
might have come to do business with him, for above all, where she was concerned at least, he was a businessman.

‘May I sit down, Will?’ She tried a smile but she was nervous and the muscles in her cheeks did no more than twitch. She was in mourning, of course, of the deepest black but her gown
was elegant with a wide skirt and flowing sleeves and her large brimmed hat was piled high with black tulle roses. She looked, she knew, slightly frail, pale-skinned, her dark hair smoothed back
into an intricate chignon by Emma, her face veil turned up to allow him to see the velvet grey of her long-lashed eyes. She meant to make use of every advantage she possessed.