Shining Threads (7 page)

‘Where’s that boy?’ she shouted, her clear voice carrying above the crash of hooves on the cobblestones, the cries of the men and the creak of the pulley which was being used
to winch some machinery to the first floor of the mill.

From across the yard a young lad darted amongst the activity, avoiding men and carts and horses until he reached the girl, catching the reins as she threw them at him, pulling the peak of his
cap as he did so.

‘Give her a good rub down, Sam. I shall be here for about half an hour and she’s hot. We’ve been out since dawn up to Longworth Moor.”

‘Yes, Miss Tessa.’

Miss Tessa!
Miss Tessa Harrison! He should have known, of course, for who else could it be? This was the girl about whom the manufacturing class of the whole of the Penfold Valley
whispered and, by God, he could see why. He stared quite openly, unable to do anything else since she was undeniably the most magnificent young woman he had ever seen. Any female so dressed would
be bound to attract attention but it was not just her clothing which drew every male eye in the yard to her, though that was indecent enough. It was the way she tossed her imperious head, the
defiant stare which did not really
see
the low-born beings about her, the square and challenging set to her shoulders and the graceful way she strode across the yard towards him, masculine
in its arrogance and yet eternally female in its fluid movement. There was insolence written in every line of her taut young body but its symmetry was spellbinding to these men whose own wives
revealed little of their bodies to them, and then more than likely only when the candle had been blown out. Her young breasts, unbound beneath the silk of her shirt, bounced joyously as she walked
and Will felt his breath catch in his throat.

Bloody hell! How did she get away with it? She must be no more than sixteen – that was what the clerk in the counting house had told him – the daughter of a well-known and
well-regarded woman, the niece of one of the wealthiest men in south Lancashire. A female of her class could lose not only her reputation but with it the chance of a good marriage which was her
destiny in life, so he had heard, if she were to be seen talking, unchaperoned, to a man who was not a close relative. Not a whisper of gossip, even of the most innocent, must touch her. She would
be guarded like a precious jewel, always accompanied by another lady and never, never allowed to be alone with a gentleman, not even the one she would marry. Dressed like schoolgirls in modest
gowns were the ones
he
had seen in their carriages, usually in white, bonneted, gloved, every inch of flesh which might be considered indecent hidden from sight and not even the turn of an
ankle revealed to any man until they were married.

But Miss Tessa Harrison’s legs, the soft curve of her booted calf, the long, firm muscles of her thigh, the twin globes of her buttocks, all rippled beneath the fine stuff of her breeches
and her eyes looked challengingly into his, not caring, or so it appeared, for her own reputation, nor indeed considering whether she had one.

When she reached where he still stood rooted to the bottom step of the stairway which led up to the counting house, she stopped. There was a deep silence for several tense moments as she waited
for him to move aside. Her gleaming grey eyes, or were they silver he wondered in awe and confusion, cat’s eyes, the pupils outlined with a thin black line, stared directly into his. In that
first fleeting moment he felt a strong urge to step hurriedly out of her path, to fumble with his forelock as the inferior orders were expected to do to those above them, to go bright red and mouth
some humble greetings – but something in him would not allow it and his eyes refused to drop away from hers.

‘What are you staring at?’ she asked rudely, her eyes pale and dangerous. The small riding crop she carried slashed against her leg and he had the distinct impression she would like
nothing better, indeed would have not the slightest hesitation in using it on him or on anyone who stood in her way, but he did not move. His mouth curved in an amused smile.

‘At you, my lass,’ he answered softly, watching the hot colour flood beneath her white skin. ‘As is every man in this yard and can you blame them?’ Deliberately he let
his gaze travel down the length of her body.

‘You insolent . . .’ Her mouth gaped in amazement and the scathing words with which she obviously longed to flay him lodged in her throat. Tessa Harrison was not often lost for words
of any kind, and she knew many more than a lady should, but it seemed they had become misplaced somewhere between her brain which leaped wildly to consume this presumptuous millhand, and her mouth
which hung foolishly open. Her eyes blazed into his whilst her furious mind considered some way in which she might reduce him to his proper and inferior place in life. But even whilst it did so,
some tiny core of her woman’s sensibility, independent and extraordinarily wilful, pondered on the pleasing shape of his hard mouth, the smoky brown depths of his eyes which had the most
curious amber flecks in them, the brown smoothness of his freshly shaved face and his smile, an odd slanting smile which gave him a decidedly whimsical expression. He was a head taller than she
was, with wide muscular shoulders and yet his waist and hips were slim. He leaned indolently against the door frame, his manner saying quite plainly that it was of no particular interest to him
whether he had offended her or not and it was perhaps this which intrigued her the most.

‘You are unforgivably rude,’ she managed to say, foolishly, she realised.

‘Mebbe I am.’ His smile deepened into an amiable grin. ‘But you can’t expect men, if they are men that is, to be unaffected by the sight of such . . .’ Again he let
his gaze wander speculatively up and down her lovely, quite audaciously displayed body, ‘such splendor,’ he finished softly.

‘I could have you flogged for this, you know that, don’t you?’ she said, just as softly, and somehow, though the words they were saying were quite clear in their meaning, their
expressions seemed to imply something else, something which neither could quite grasp.

‘Nay, hardly. If you don’t want to be looked at, my lass, then you shouldn’t make a spectacle of what no sane man could resist taking a peep at, or even two.’
Will’s grin became even wider, showing the strong white teeth which were a legacy of the pitchers of milk and lumps of cheese he had consumed as a boy and she found herself watching his mouth
with a surprising intensity. ‘You mun be used to taking offence, I dare say,’ he went on engagingly, meaning no impertinence now since what he said must be the truth. ‘Dressed
like that every man between here and Oldham would be hard pressed to keep his eyes off you.’

‘Who the devil are you to air your views on my appearance?’ she managed to gasp. ‘What I wear is nobody’s business and certainly none of yours, whoever you are.’
She had recovered herself now, the hot flash of her temper exploding quite visibly. ‘And I should be obliged if you would stand aside and let me pass.’ Her face had gone strangely
white, a pale translucent white as her fury increased, and her eyes had become almost transparent. She lashed her riding crop about her leg, in danger of hurting herself so menacing was her rage.
Her nostrils flared and her soft pink mouth had thinned into a hard line, straining to find the words to punish him, to spit them out and turn them on him, whoever he might be. No one, except
perhaps her Uncle Joss and he was hardly ever at home, had ever defied her dangerous spirit, had even had the courage to try to curb it. From the first nanny in whose arms she had been put at birth
when her mother had hurried back to the mill which was her greatest concern, to the last young governess who had been employed to educate her, not one had had the resolution which was needed to
discipline Tessa Harrisson and so she had come to young womanhood believing herself to be infallible. She pleased herself, barging her way through whatever obstacle was put in her path. Her cousin
Drew was the same, knocking aside or breaking any opposition which threatened him. Pearce, though just as bent on his own way, was a shade more subtle, perhaps a shade cleverer than they. He had a
knack of climbing
over
a hurdle, of getting exactly what he wanted but with less wear and tear on the nerves, the temper, the peace of mind and sanity of everyone involved in their
upbringing. She and Drew often admired the way he did it, watching as he teased and cajoled until he had what he wanted, marvelling at his patience but not caring to try it themselves. She had
moved, as they did, through sixteen years of her life expecting and getting everything she had ever wanted from it. It might be a nuisance in the evening when her mother insisted she wore a dress
instead of her customary boots and breeches to the dinner table, but it was worth the bother for the freedom she was allowed at other times. She did not know, and did not care to ask lest it be
curtailed, why her mother was so liberal, so different from the mothers of other girls of her acquaintance. It was enough for Tessa that she was: she took advantage of it and of every moment of
liberty she could, blessing the mills which kept her mother so preoccupied.

‘Get out of my way, you ill-mannered lout,’ she hissed now, ‘before I take my crop to you and wipe that foolish grin from your face. I don’t know what you are doing here
loitering in the doorway when you should be about some labour, but I intend to let my uncle know and you will be fired immediately.’

‘Now then, lass,’ Will said mildly, ‘there’s no need for that. I were only telling you the truth and well you know it, else why should you get in such a tantrum? Any lass
who dresses . . .’

‘By God, I won’t stand here to be insulted by some . . . some yard labourer in my mother’s mill. Are you to leave now or am I to have you thrown out?’

Will’s face hardened and the amused and perfectly amicable expression in his eyes disappeared. He moved down from the bottom step and out into the yard. The sunlight fell on the short,
rough cap of his hair, shading its pale brown to a pleasing, glinting fairness. He wore plain kersey breeches of good grey with stout black knee-boots and his jacket was of dark green corduroy. His
shirt was a paler grey than his breeches and in the open neck was knotted a jaunty, freshly ironed red neckerchief. He looked just what he was: a labouring man who had come up in the world and
certainly not the yard-hand she had thought him to be. He was a man who had, by hard work and self-education, risen from the thousands of faceless, nameless operatives who minded the mules and
looms in the cotton factories of Lancashire; a man who could claim a position of responsibility, perhaps not yet of the manager class but not too far below it. He was about twenty-seven or eight
with a look of good-natured tolerance, an easy-going man and yet there was a keen intelligence, a tough-fibred shrewdness about him which said he would be a hard man to take advantage of.

‘Well?’ Miss Harrison of Greenacres demanded loftily. ‘Shall I call these men to throw you into the street or will you go unaided?’ But her eyes studied his height and
width somewhat uncertainly for now he was out of the shadows she could see he was taller, heavier, stronger, than any man in the yard.

‘I think I’ll stay just where I am,’ he said softly.

‘Very well.’ She turned away from lifting her chin with the disdain of the young thoroughbred she was. She raised her hand and beckoned to four brawny men who had stopped work to
watch, giving their undivided attention, as did every man in the yard, to the scene at the foot of the counting-house stairs.

‘I would be obliged if you would throw this man into the street at once,’ she told them imperiously. ‘See, you four over here, if you please.’

‘I’d save your breath if I were you, lass,’ Will said pleasantly enough. ‘You don’t want to make more of this than you already have. I am here to see Mr Greenwood
and I doubt he’d take kindly to a brawl on his counting-house steps.’

‘
You!
To see my uncle? Rubbish.’ She did not even bother to turn her contemptuous glance on him but continued to gesture towards the four men who were reluctantly moving
towards her, their eyes on the uncompromising man who stood at her back.

‘They will not take me on, lass, believe me.’

‘They will if I tell them to and when my family hears of the insulting way you have addressed me my cousins will give you the biggest hiding . . .’

‘Lass, lass, give over. You’re only making a show o’ thissen. I meant no harm when I said every man in the yard was looking at you, nor offence. I was merely stating the
obvious and surely to God you must know it, if that’s the way you always dress. What man could resist it? They’ve never seen such fine . . .’ Despite himself he could not help but
grin and she turned, her expression menacing and her crop darted towards his chest, snapping against the knot in his neckerchief.

‘Yes? Fine what?’

Will pushed his hands through his hair in exasperation and wondered how in hell he had got into this ridiculous situation. Why had he even bothered to speak to this girl when all he had to do in
the first place was step aside and let her pass? She evidently believed she was above every consideration, every rule, every discipline with which life was ordered. It was nowt to him what she
wore, how she spent her days or into what trouble, as a rebel, they led her. He had meant no disrespect, none at all. He had been amused and strangely stirred by her appearance, as any man would
be, but she had turned on him like a wildcat, creating this explosive situation in which not only he and herself were involved, but every damned man in the yard. There was not one moving, from
nine-year-old boys, delighted by this diversion in their humdrum day, to older men who should have known better.

‘Miss Harrison, will you not lower that riding crop?’ He grinned for it was all so foolish, so childishly foolish. ‘I’d not want to have to take it from you.’
Instantly he could have bitten his tongue for it seemed she could resist no challenge; that everything said to her which she did not care for, must be opposed.