The Iron Master (12 page)

He looked up, and laughed at his own eloquence, thus giving them permission to laugh at and with him. But young Caleb leaned forward and shook both his hands, solemnly and proudly as became a close friend. And the ironmaster cried, ‘Well said, William!’ and added with wry humour, ‘Spoken like a good Quaker!’ And then they spread the map upon the table again, and all three bent over it to see how it might be transformed into a living, growing, financial proposition.

‘First, the sale of the land,’ said Caleb Scholes. ‘Then, an approach to Kersall, with a letter from me, to suggest that he leases more land as it is required, and takes a share of the profits. Is the coalfield his? This area in Childwell and Swarth Moors? Good! Thou wilt have need of it. And the canal in Millbridge, is that his also? He is ambitious, that is his weakness! Offer him more power. Take care of him, William, and let him know that thy success is his. Find out his partners — those known and those unknown. Make sure that his interests are thine. Count me thy friend in this. I have many connections. Oh, I have asked my manager to call by and by, and fetch his chief foreman. They will give thee excellent counsel, and work out costs and materials for thee. One Tudor blast-furnace is not enough, lad! Thou shalt need three or four more! Aye, and they will counsel thee how to bargain, how to drive, and how to hold back, when to say nay or yea. Thee must start small, William and Caleb, and listen humbly now, my ironmasters — however mighty thou shalt become in the end!’

‘So I may have my thousand pounds, father?’ young Caleb asked quietly.

‘Aye, lad, and others among us may put their money down!’

So this had not been a matter of confidence between father and son, William reflected, and even Caleb had not known how the ironmaster would decide.

‘It shall be deducted from thy share of my fortune when I am dead,’ said Caleb the elder drily, ‘and if that suit thee not, then say so, lad! And if all fail, which is in the Hands of Almighty God — as William rightly said — then thou canst come home, Caleb. And William bath his forge at Flawnes Green!’

Nothing, thought William, could have been more calculated to make him succeed than the threat of remaining a country blacksmith.

‘And now hear me,’ as both young men started to speak at once, ‘on the subject of thy partnership. I speak to each, and to both, and love thee both. Make sure that thy fortunes are not so entwined that thou hast no means to end a quarrel fairly. Thou art not the same men, though honourable men. Thou shalt marry different women, and set up different households. Aye, and sire different children. My cousin, John Scholes, and I began together, but we did not end together. Today, when thou art young and free and hearty, life seemeth light. Troubles come always tomorrow, together with age and sickness, and those many responsibilities which cannot be laid aside. Remember this. Differ only in small matters, and if thou differ in great ones — then part company in peace. There endeth my homily. God bless thee both. I embrace thee both.’

The two young men clasped his hands warmly and shook them. Tears had come to their eyes, and they laughed at themselves, and endeavoured to brush them away unnoticed. They clapped each other’s shoulders in friendly mockery. Advice had been sought, without half the questions being known. They had received answers unbidden, and a gift of great price, and of greater value. While Caleb the ironmaster, as composed as ever, despite the affection he had shown, smiled to himself and stood a little apart, looking on at the emotion he had wrought and the hopes he had planted.

Unheard, in this happy commotion, came four polite knocks at the library door. A new face peeped in. A voice endeavoured to attract their attention.

‘Father! Father! I am back for supper. My mother says that Mr Codlin and Mr Sharpe have come. And I have brought George Horsefield with me. Hast thou done talking?’

Then the ironmaster displayed another countenance, that of loving indulgence, and called the girl to him and kissed her fondly.

‘Dost thou know who this is, William?’ he asked.

And as he hesitated, utterly lost, they all laughed at his confusion.

‘She was but a gawky gosling when last thou saw her, seven years or more ago,’ said the ironmaster.

‘And now has become a goose!’ cried Caleb, grinning.

She was perhaps seventeen: a tall serene girl with dark-gold hair, dressed in a muslin gown, but its simplicity had been set at naught by the cashmere shawl which hung from her arms, scarlet and gold with a deep black fringe. And now the beauty of her face changed to impishness. She wrinkled her nose at William, and but for the years of her maturity would have put out her tongue.

‘I beat thee at cribbage, William Howarth!’ she cried.

He knew, and could not believe.

‘Why, is it Zelah?’ he asked foolishly, so that they all laughed again. ‘Yes, it is Zelah. Of course, it is Zelah.’

She stood gracefully in the circle of her father’s arm, and smiled at him, half-teasing and now half-shy, for she saw the changes of the years in him also. She perceived that his costume embarrassed him, that he had worked too hard for too long and was lost in this refined atmosphere, that he was brave and would not give up what mattered to him. She became grave, in contemplation of these insights.

‘So thou art to be an ironmaster, William?’ she said, building his esteem.

‘If all go well,’ he answered awkwardly.

The map upon the table caught her attention.

‘Wilt thou show me?’ she asked, smiling.

Aware of her presence, and of the watchful eyes of both Calebs, William endeavoured to convey his passion for the project without sounding a windbag. She listened carefully, glancing at his animated face, his workman’s hands, cherishing his vulnerability.

‘But it is not yet settled,’ William finished, and his heart was heavy at the chasm between Flawnes Green and Somer Court.

She guessed that he spoke from the world of men, and answered from the world of women.

‘I wish I could sit next to thee at supper, William,’ she said prettily, regretfully, ‘but George Horsefield has come home with me, so I must sit by him.’

She spoke the name without coquetry or embarrassment, but William was very sorry in the next hour or so to observe that Mr Horsefield appeared to be a member of the family. Catherine smiled on him, and the ironmaster spoke to him as to an intimate. He was a quiet, dark young man of the Quaker persuasion, elegantly plain in his dress, with the self-assurance of one who has no earthly lack to trouble him, and is good enough even to hope for heavenly treasures also.

‘Are they engaged to be married?’ William whispered to Caleb, though he should have been attending to Mr Codlin.

‘Whom? George and Zelah? Not precisely, but it is an understood matter. They have known each other a long while,’ Caleb replied, and turned to Mr Sharpe.

‘I dare say it would be regarded as an excellent match,’ William whispered, with some bitterness.

‘Oh, in both senses,’ Caleb replied, puzzled by this second interruption. ‘The worldly as well as the spiritual,’ he added, with a hint of mockery.

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He is a banker, my good fellow. Now, pray, continue with Mr Codlin, for we must have this business at our fingertips ere thou return to Lancashire. More than my thousand pounds depends upon it!’ Reminding William how much more he had to lose. ‘For if we fail we shall never dare show our faces in Warwickshire again. I may even be compelled to go to sea!’

So the company despatched a battery of cold meats, a side dish of goose pie, a pyramid of glowing fruit, and best of all a fanciful mould in the shape of a hedgehog whose bristling quills were almonds. A delicious sweet golden wine, such as William had never before tasted, loosened their tongues and made them eager for conversation. The talk was patted or tossed from one person to another like the children’s shuttlecock: a pleasing pastime rather than the earnest debates known to William in the Birmingham household of Bartholomew and Ruth.

The children being abed, Catherine brought out her sketches, and took William under her protection. Like her daughter, she sensed his unease and strove to allay it: speaking of his mother, encouraging him to talk of his smithy and of Belbrook. Then Caleb took out his flute, brother John produced a cello, sister Mary a viola, and Zelah sat at the little scarlet harpsichord painted with gold flowers.

William was so charmed by this that he dared say to Catherine, ‘Your daughter, madam, has matched her costume with her instrument!’

Zelah was removing her cashmere shawl, which George Horsefield received gallantly. Bright harpsichord, bright scarf; became symbols of gaiety in a muted Quaker world, and William took unwonted hope and cheer from this.

Observing his sudden lightness of spirit, Catherine said, ‘I fear we are but half-Quakers in many ways, William. Yet though we do not walk by the same rule we mind the same thing.’

Zelah looked towards them, relieved to see William in a happier mood, and cried, ‘What are you saying, Mamma? What are you saying?’

Playfully, seriously, Catherine repeated her remark, George Horsefield smiled civilly and inclined his head. But William, feeling more himself, smiled directly at Zelah.

‘I call that fair compromise,’ he said in his most engaging manner, ‘for this household then enjoys both an Inner Light and an Outer Brilliance!’

Zelah clapped her hands and laughed, Catherine smiled, the company looked with greater interest at this mighty young man who had seemed so dull, and the ironmaster gave a dignified bow.

But Catherine then placed her smooth hands on William’s rough ones and besought him earnestly.

‘But we do mind the same thing, William. So let not our frivolity hide our truth from thee!’

Had he been perceptive enough to scent a prophecy, he would have marked her words and the occasion. But, the musicians having tuned up, the entertainment began, and William was too absorbed in watching Zelah to concern himself with religious differences. She was at that loveliest stage of a girl’s life, where she might play the child, or become the woman, from one moment to the next. Her inward growth had never been stunted by harshness or poverty. Her troubles had been slight and soon over. Being one member of a large family she was not spoiled. In another year or so she would be immersed in marriage, learning how to sustain others, how to discipline her own needs and desires: a second Catherine, handsome, capable, loving, selfless. The knowledge hurt him, for what he most wanted in the world was that slim white girl sitting at the scarlet harpsichord, crowned by a wealth of dark-gold hair, and turning — even this moment — to smile on him. Untouched, unhurt, unchanged.

*

The household rose at six o’clock, and while the youngest children learned their lessons, William was taken on a thorough tour of Caleb’s kingdom. Three horses from the stables at the back had been saddled for them: a chestnut, a roan, and a black stallion for the ironmaster.

‘Stand not too dose, lads,’ Caleb warned, ‘for this fellow will have all the road to himself. And keep thy chestnut apart from the roan, William, else she will kick. But they are excellent good beasts,’ he added, with an affection that touched William. Then he smiled wryly, and said, ‘I find that good horses, like good women, must be considered and cared for if we would live in harmony!’

He clicked his tongue softly at the black stallion, and led them north of Somer Court. The morning was cool and fine, the horses trod neatly on the grassy ground. A sense of wellbeing came to them all. The conversation was friendly, easy, between equals.

‘I dare say thou hast often heard from my sister-in-law Ruth how our family began, William? But I feel, in the light of thy one thousand pounds, that a little humility could be engendered!’ Here he winked, to show that he meant no harm. ‘My father, Zebediah Scholes, had a nail-shop which he worked with his brother until they could build their first blast-furnace. Sixteen years or so later their business was fetching in eleven thousand pounds a year, and they had workshops in four villages roundabouts. But he believed, and so do all his many children, that the only right a man has to expect is a good home and a good education. The rest he must do for himself. So as each son became a journeyman, my father set him up with a hundred sovereigns, and told him to find his fortune. Save for good counsel he then let us be.

‘When I was one-and-twenty, William Howarth, I tramped miles round the countryside of Warwickshire, searching for a place to work and live. I found a village by the name of Longbarrow that was but a single poor street, and there I bought a cottage with a bit of garden, and rented the blacksmith’s shop. For he had died and left the business to his daughter, and she had no use for it. I made anything to order, from a spade to a pair of gates. I ate little, and saved every penny I could. I studied my books by candlelight.

‘My business prospered. Why should it not? I bought land cheap, and built my first foundry upon it. Cousin John Scholes came into business with me. I built my first house.’

At first William was inclined to be annoyed at this homily, for he could match it all the way along, and Caleb must know that. Then he saw that this was the ironmaster’s way of cementing their friendship, of paying him tribute. So he sat his horse like a gentleman, reflecting that Caleb Scholes had once owned a pair of workman’s hands and felt awkward in refined company.