Shining Threads (53 page)

She had discarded the black of mourning in the month after Charlie’s death. She could not have said why she had worn it in the first place except perhaps in deference to her mother, her
Uncle Joss and Aunt Kit, who she knew somehow, despite their own unconventional ways, would have been distressed by what the community would have seen as a lack of respect and grief. She felt both
for she had loved and respected Charlie as a good and steadfast man who had tried to do his best in the awkward and often trying circumstances created by his wife. But she did wear a dress instead
of her breeches and jacket, her instinct telling her she might gain some advantage in this man’s world into which she had been flung so unceremoniously, if she appeared womanly. They would be
insulted if she careered into the mill yard on her mare, dressed like a lad who seemed more likely to gallop over the moor following the wind, than to do business with them. Today she was in a
respectable blue, a deep French blue, demure and ladylike with a touch of sparkling white in the crisp lace at her wrist and throat and beneath the brim of her unadorned bonnet.

But nothing could quell the brilliance of her eyes nor the gloss and burnish of her hair, the satin smoothness of her white skin and her poppy-red mouth which Drew had kissed to bee-stung
fullness only that morning.

‘Don’t go,’ he had murmured, his mouth tasting her cherry-hard nipples, his tongue teasing and moist as it travelled down the length of her arching body. She could feel him
drawing that glowing thread of excitement from the base of her belly, pulling it taut, making it quiver in anticipation, eager, greedy in its desire to be stretched to its full extent before it
snapped in that complete and rapturous climax which she had never yet quite achieved. Each time as it struggled to reach what he reached in his own shuddering orgasm, it slipped away, aching
sometimes, and angry, and Drew would fold himself about her, warm and for the moment calm, and she would tell herself that next time it would happen.

‘Don’t go, stay with me,’ he had said this morning and his hands had reached for her as they did every morning when she rose early in order to meet the bank manager, the
lawyer, the architect, one or other of the managers at the four working mills. He would turn from her when she tried to kiss his resentment away, pulling the fine lace-edged sheets about his amber
shoulders, burrowing his head in the fine, lace-edged pillow.

‘Go if you must but don’t, for God’s sake, expect me to be concerned. If you insist that the managers cannot
manage
without your expertise to guide them, by all means
give it to them. I’m sure you are right, Tessa, for you always are, but I am off to Northumberland in the morning with Nicky so don’t be surprised if I am not here when you
return.’

And increasingly he wasn’t!

Now she drew herself up to her full height and the look she gave Will Broadbent was one of icy disdain. He had dragged her, there was no other word for it, into this . . . this shack and she had
allowed it since with his considerable strength and indifference to what others might think, he was quite likely to have flung her over his shoulder and carried her here.

‘I would be glad if you would state your business, Mr Broadbent, for I have a lot to do today . . .’

‘Aye, so I heard.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your . . . doings are the talk of the valley, lass.’

‘And exactly what is that supposed to mean?’ She had tossed away the ‘Mr Broadbent’ by now, too incensed to keep up the ice-cool demeanour of a lady confronted by a man
who was certainly no gentleman.

‘It means that your absurd pretence that you know just what you are about is discussed in every quarter where businessmen gather. They are taking bets at the Cloth Hall on how long you
will last and at what price the Chapman concerns will finally be sold. It is very low, Tessa. In one way, they are ready to admire you for doing your best, which is more than can be said for that
husband of yours.’

‘You keep your foul tongue from my husband’s name, you bastard,’ she whispered, relieved that the crushing pain of his insult to Drew prevented her from facing the fury of the
feared ridicule about herself. How dare they criticise Drew, her dear Drew, who could no more help his nature than they could help being the fools they were. Drew was fine, fine and good, and it
was not his fault that he was as he was.

Her face was like a mask, hiding the painful, scalding truth. Oh, yes, she could imagine what they whispered but from no one,
no one
would she allow one word of criticism. He was her
cousin, her husband and she loved him as she loved no other person. Let them dare to attack him and she would defend him until she fell wounded, bleeding, dying.

He watched her, allowing no intimation of what was in his heart to show in his impassive face. Her intensely protective love for the emotionally damaged Drew Greenwood glowed through the
shadowed bareness of the wooden hut and he marvelled at it, at the same time despising its undeserving recipient with the masculine aggression of a strong man for a weak.

‘Nay, lass, what that lad gets up to is nowt to me, nor you for that matter, but I can’t abide to see a decent mill such as Chapman’s has been, go under. I admired Charlie
Greenwood and your mother. They worked damned hard to make something fine of this business. They were well respected, fair and honest as any man in cotton will tell you. They could drive a hard
bargain, mind, especially Jenny Harrison, but always to be trusted. And they treated their operatives fairly. And that’s another thing. I can’t stand by and see a lot of good folk who
could be in decent work, forced to apply for poor relief, and that’s what they’re being driven to by your ham-fisted methods. These walls should be shoulder high by now, with the
prospect of your spinners and weavers being back at their machines by summer. A good mill it was, and could be again. I know because I worked here and it fair sets my blood to boiling to see the
way it’s going . . .’

‘Which has nothing to do with you and if you don’t remove yourself from my property I shall have you thrown out.’ The words could scarcely get beyond her gritted teeth so
tightly was her jaw clenched. There were white patches about her mouth and he knew she was holding herself back – just – from springing at him.

‘Happen you’re right, my lass, but don’t let it go. Don’t let it slip away from you for the sake of your pride. Get yourself some men together, a board of directors with
you as chairman. Men who know what the word ‘business’ means. Men who know one end of a loom from the other. Men who understand money, and the cotton trade and who can show
you
what to do, or even that husband of yours if you can get him off that bloody horse of his for half an hour . . .’

‘I’ve warned you once and I won’t do it again.’ She was trembling, so great was her rage. ‘Get out of my yard or I’ll have you thrown out.’

‘Nay, Tessa, you’ve said that to me a time or two and I’m still here. Remember the first time? You were a slip of a lass, sixteen or so, and you took offence like you always
seem to do when someone doesn’t move out of your way fast enough. You hit me with your little whip . . .’

‘By God, I wish I had it now. Stand away from that door and let me out. When my husband hears about this, as he surely will for I will tell him, he will give you the thrashing of your life
. . .’

‘Tessa, give over, lass.’ He looked highly amused. The very idea of the lightweight Drew Greenwood who did nought from morning until night but gallop about on a bloody horse or shoot
at bloody birds taking on Will Broadbent who had learned from the age of five how to take care of himself, was evidently something of a joke.

‘Get out of here, Will, or I swear I’ll get a gun and kill you myself.’

He became quiet then, his strong face settling into a look of bewilderment. ‘Why should you do that, Tessa? What is it in me, and in you, that arouses this . . . this loathing you have of
me? I have offered you no injury, ever, and if you are thinking of the last time we met when I made you a certain proposition, which you refused, then I can only say I meant you no insult. Rather
the opposite. I admire a man who knows what he wants and goes directly for it, whatever the consequences, so why should I not feel the same for a woman? And you really are a splendid woman. I said
so and admitted then that I would be more than willing to resume the . . . the friendship, for want of a better word, we once knew. We were splendid partners then, well matched, if you take my
meaning, and could be again. We could give a lot to one another, my dear. So, you see, I am at a loss as to why you seem to find me so objectionable. I mean you no harm. Far from it. You are
married now and I hope to be in the same happy state myself one day, so why cannot we be at least polite with one another?’ He was grinning, moving forward into the shaft of pale, dusty
sunlight which fell through the grimed window of the hut. ‘There may be an occasion in the future when we will do business together and you can hardly glare at me as if there was nothing you
would like better than to see me dead at your feet. Forget what has happened in the past and look to the future. It could be good for both of us.’ There was no mistaking the meaning of his
words. ‘Don’t ignore the advice I’m giving you, Tessa. Don’t fight me. Accept it and . . .’

She put up her hands, palms facing him, as though to ward him off, as though he was about to make some physical attack on her. She was white-faced and trembling and for a moment he was alarmed
but in her eyes was the blinding brilliance of her rage, making them almost transparent.

‘I need neither your help nor your advice and as for doing business with you,
in any way
, I would sooner starve and see my family homeless.’

‘Tessa, come now . . .’

‘Get out, Will, get out . . .’

Her face which had been so pale became suffused with the deep red blood of her killing rage. She sprang towards him with an incoherent cry which brought the hum of voices in the yard to a sudden
silence. Swift as a leopard Will moved to meet her, his arms tight about her waist. She struggled fiercely, her wide-open mouth ready to shrill out the madness of her hatred, but he silenced her,
his mouth coming down on hers, capturing those stretched lips, holding them, moving warmly, strongly until he felt them soften beneath his own. She still struggled against him wildly, trying to
kick his legs, twisting every way she could against the steel of his arms, her heart pounding in her breast. He held her roughly, hurting her, only his mouth gentle as it moved about her face, then
returned to recapture her pliant lips.

‘Darling, darling,’ he was murmuring and his long, hard body pressed against hers urgently. One hand moved to the back of her head, flinging her bonnet to the corner of the hut, and
as her hair came loose his hand was in it, holding her where he might more easily have access to her warm, urgent, demanding mouth.

‘Will, dear God . . .’ Her arms were about his neck, clinging to him, terrified that he might slip away, that he might leave her, that the hot sweetness which flowed through her
body, so familiar and for which she had waited so long, might be taken from her.

He backed her up against the wall of the hut, their bodies still welded together, the hot need of them burning even through the layers of their clothing. Their mouths clung desperately,
honey-sweet and swollen. She was moaning deep in her throat and when his mouth moved beneath her chin, smoothing down the soft flesh of her throat, she arched her back, holding his head to her,
offering her breasts to him as she had done in the depths of the bed they had shared five years ago.

They might have gone on, mindless of everything but their bodies’ longing, for though both had known love during the years between, they were starving for this. His hands were at her
breast, cupping the soft weight and she pressed eagerly against them when from beyond the closed door Mr Talbot cleared his throat noisily.

‘Will . . .’ She would have fallen but for his arms about her.

‘Darling . . . ?’

‘No, no, I’m not . . .’

‘Yes . . . ?’

‘Please, let me go.’

‘Never, not now.’ His lips came down on hers again with all the masculine possession of a man who knows a woman is his.

She was weak, soft and lovely in his arms. ‘Mr Talbot . . .’

‘Damn Mr Talbot!’

‘My bonnet . . . please . . .’

‘Here, smooth your hair.’

‘Dear God, I can hardly stand. Don’t let me go or I shall fall.’

‘Not you, Tessa Greenwood. You will never fall for I shall not let you.’

‘And how was your day among the industrialists, my love?’ Drew smiled sardonically, sipping the pale golden wine with which Briggs had just re-filled his glass.
‘Did we make another fortune to add to the one we already have or are we to sell the family silver to buy that hunter I have my eye on?’

‘Oh, Drew, you are not to buy another horse, surely? The stables seem full of them already and why you should need another is beyond me.’

Drew turned lazily to Laurel, his lounging manner, his smile, the lift of his dark eyebrow, the curl of his lip, insolent and begging to know exactly what it had to do with her how he spent his
own money. He had been in the saddle all day for the hunting season was almost over and he intended to make the most of what remained. After the hunt ball at the end of the month the Squire and his
family would be off to some other sporting pursuit in which, naturally, Drew Greenwood would be included. And his charming wife too, if she could be parted from this somewhat astonishing occupation
she had taken up with matters of a commercial nature. Like Drew, the Squire was of the opinion that if one was unfortunate enough to be of the industrial world, the world of trade, was it not only
sensible and more seemly to leave the distasteful running of the business in the hands of one’s employees? There was no need, surely, for the delectable Mrs Drew Greenwood to occupy herself
personally with the rebuilding of the mill in which her unfortunate uncle had perished and Drew was to impress on her that they missed her enormously. They would be most distressed if she did not
show herself on her superb mare the very next day and in that stunning riding outfit she wore, since the last three months without her had been quite tedious, and he was to tell her so.