A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘Ah yes.’ He sighed. ‘But that looked more and more unlikely so I decided to return to my army career.’

  ‘You know Mrs Prentiss too?’ Captain Hall said. ‘I’ll fetch her, I expect you two would like to renew old acquaintance.’ Before she could stop him, he had hurried off. And then a toast was called: ‘The Queen!’ Everyone stopped to raise a glass to the Queen before Colonel Craig launched into his speech.

  He spoke fulsomely of the Prince’s inspiration in forming a new Highland regiment, asked them to toast His Royal Highness, invited Colonel McDowell to speak on the training of the forthcoming recruits who were to be mountain infantry. Then he called for a toast to the Highlands and its men.

  So it went on. The officers were accustomed to hard drinking. Whisky flowed like Spey water. Jenny glanced round in anxiety for Ned. He was under stress already, and in surroundings like this it must be very hard for him to keep to his vow of abstinence.

  She saw him at the far side of the room in the clutches of a hirsute officer who was roaring with laughter at his own jokes. Lucy was flirting coyly with a young lieutenant off in a corner of the draughty hall. Jenny began to thread her way to Ned, to be a support to him.

  ‘Miss Corvill!’ It was Laura Prentiss. ‘So, here you are!’

  ‘It seems so,’ Jenny said, pausing in her move.

  ‘Had I known you were to be here, nothing would have induced me to come!’

  Jenny sighed. ‘Mrs Prentiss, I am here because I was asked to attend by Her Majesty. I had no idea your husband had volunteered for the regiment but I should not have stayed away even if I knew. I care so little whether I see either of you that it makes no difference to me.’

  Laura drew back in surprise. Captain Hall, who had been her escort across the room, caught up with her. ‘Having a chat about old times, ladies?’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Jenny said in some desperation, ‘I must join my brother.’

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ called Colonel Craig. ‘Another and most important toast. Steward, please see that all glasses are charged. Officers of the Prince’s Scottish Regiment, ladies, and guests, I ask you to raise your glasses in honour of Miss Genevieve Corvill, without whose artistic endeavours I should not be wearing these splendid trousers this afternoon. But, in seriousness, my friends ‒ to the honour of the regimental tartan, and to the lady who designed the Grantown plaid of the Prince’s Scottish Regiment!’

  Jenny had to stand still while everyone called her name and drank with acclaim, except for Laura Prentiss, who ostentatiously turned her back. She could have spared herself the trouble, for Jenny’s attention was on Ned. He too raised his glass, an expression on his face that was something like jealousy. Jenny thought, It would have been better if they hadn’t drunk a toast to me ‒ it should have been to the firm of Corvill and Son. She tried to move from the group that was pressing in upon her, congratulating her. But she was trapped.

  She saw Ned hesitate, pause for a moment, and then, quite deliberately, carry the glass to his lips. He tossed off the whisky. Before she could move, he had held the glass out to be refilled by a passing servant.

  By the time the celebration broke off at five, he was very drunk. Lucy was embarrassed, Jenny was aghast, and Bobby Prentiss came to their aid with ironic amusement. ‘It seems to me that every time I meet your brother, he’s foxed to a stupor,’ he remarked.

  Jenny hadn’t the spirit to reprimand him for his careless tone. ‘Please help me get him into the carriage.’

  Shrugging, Major Prentiss heaved him in. He helped Jenny in next, and then Lucy. To Lucy he said, ‘I hear you’re his wife? What a waste!’

  A day that should have been a pleasure to Jenny had turned into a disaster. And worse was to come because, even after they at last got Ned home to Galashiels he refused to stop drinking.

  ‘What’s the point?’ he shrugged when Jenny begged him to go again to see Dr Murdo. ‘He’s wrong. I think I always knew he was wrong but I needed him so much I made myself believe in him and his Redeemer. But I know better now. It’s all a sham, the whole thing ‒ life, the world, the hereafter. It’s pointless, useless, worthless.’

  As if it weren’t bad enough to have her brother drowning himself in the bottle, things were going badly at Waterside Mill. The cloth ordered by the Prince’s Scottish Regiment was not coming off the finishing presses in good condition.

  Purple, one of the main background colours, had always been difficult to ‘fix’. It was little used in the ancient tartans for that very reason. In using it for the Grantown tartan, Jenny had relied on a new dye from Germany, induribinone.

  She had asked her dyemaster, Walter Luchar, to provide her with deep purple yarn to the shade she had shown him on her design. Using induribinone, he had done so. She had been satisfied with the colour and when she wove it on the handloom she had been satisfied with the effect. She had had the length of cloth hand-finished to save time.

  But now that the main pieces from the weaving shop were being finished by steam press and using a much higher temperature than in hand-finishing, the colour subtly changed. It took on a reddish tint that was quite unsuitable.

  Jenny and her workmen had tried everything they knew to ‘fix’ the purple. She would stay late at the mill watching Luchar try a larger dose of bisulphite, a smaller dose, more milk of lime, less zinc dust … Each time the yarn looked good; a rich, smooth purple. But each time it was pressed in the piece, it took on what Luchar called a ‘flush’.

  They had been struggling now for three weeks. In two months they were expected to deliver the first half of an order of seven thousand yards of Grantown tartan to the regimental tailors of the Prince’s Scottish Regiment.

  It was by now almost impossible to fill the order.

  It seemed to Jenny there was no peace either at home or at work. Lucy wept, her mother prayed under her breath, Ned ranted against the world in general and his family in particular. At the mill Luchar looked more and more anxious, and became less reliable the more his nerve was shaken. The girls at the looms glanced round as Jenny passed, and she could almost hear them saying. She’s bitten off more than she can chew at last!

  On a cold evening in early February she came back from the finishing room to her office. Another ‘piece’ of cloth ruined under the steam rollers. Another twenty yards of disastrous tartan, unsuitable for anything except horse blankets.

  It was late. She was very tired. She ought to go home. But if she went home, what would she find except distress and unrest?

  She laid her arms on her blotter and let her head droop on to them. She closed her eyes. How quiet it was here in the empty mill. How lovely just to stay here for ever, with all the machines silent and all the people gone. No one to worry her, to demand decisions, just herself and the silent building with its smell of wool fibres and oil and dye.

  There seemed to be a sound in the entrance hall. She half lifted her head. Her office door opened, a tall figure came in.

  ‘Well, Miss Jenny Corvill, I hear you’ve gotten yourself in a bonny fix wi’ your grand new tartan?’

  There, like an angel from heaven, stood Ronald Armstrong.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A thousand phrases of delight and welcome rushed to Jenny’s lips. The words she actually uttered were: ‘What do you hear, then, Ronald Armstrong?’

  ‘I hear your purple won’t press.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Walter Luchar has been letting out moans of anxiety for a couple of weeks. Anybody who’s interested in the Corvill works has heard about it.’

  ‘Walter Luchar has worked like a Trojan ‒’

  ‘Och, Trojans only know about wooden horses,’ Ronald said with a grin. ‘You need somebody that knows about dyes.’

  ‘And you know about dyes, of course.’

  ‘Why else am I here?’

  She rose to her feet to come round her desk and stare up at him. ‘Why are you here, Ronald?’

  ‘
I’m here to sort your purple dye for you.’

  ‘You’ve given up your job at Pullar’s?’

  ‘No, I’ve taken a wee holiday.’

  ‘In February?’

  ‘A free man can take a holiday when he wants.’

  ‘But … why should you want?’ She laid a hand on his sleeve. Her throat felt dry. ‘Ronald, I’ve wished so often that I hadn’t behaved so stupidly ‒’

  ‘I’ve had the same thought.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t blame you for thinking me an idiot ‒’

  ‘It’s myself I was blaming. I shouldn’t have walked out, all stiff-necked pride. I should have listened to what was behind your words.’

  ‘Ah … What do you think that was, Ronald Armstrong?’

  ‘Desperation. Nothing else would have driven you to such a course. But I only worked that out a long time afterwards.’

  They gazed at each other, black eyes looking up into hazel. At last, colouring, she said, ‘I saw you in Perth. I longed to run after you and say I was sorry but somehow … somehow I couldn’t.’

  ‘In Perth?’ he said, surprised.

  ‘I stopped there when I went to the Highlands to catch colours and tints for the new tartan.’

  ‘Aye, the new tartan. You’re in a dour corner with it. What’s your delivery date?’

  ‘It’s less than two months away. We’ll never do it.’

  ‘Och aye, we will,’ he said with complete assurance. ‘It’ll cost a bit, and you’ll have to put the mill on double shift to get the cloth run through on time, but we’ll do it.’

  ‘You really know how to produce a purple that will stand up to the press, Ronald? For mark you, it can’t be any of the hard shades ‒ I’m not having magenta or puce!’

  ‘That’s an insult,’ he said, laughing. ‘I can make you any shade of purple you like, soft or hard ‒ show me the colour on your chart and I’ll make it.’

  ‘When?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘Well, not this moment.’ He was almost teasing. ‘It needs good light, as you well know. Besides which, I’m tired, I’ve come all the way from Perth today and I can scarcely see my hand in front of my eyes.’

  ‘Of course! I’m sorry! Have you a place to stay?’

  ‘I dropped my suitcase at the Abbotsford on my way from the station ‒ I came straight on, to see if you were here. I knew you were when I saw the light in the office. I’d have gone on to the house if not.’

  ‘Come to the house now,’ she said impulsively, tugging at his arm. ‘I suddenly realise I’m ravenously hungry. Come home and have a meal with me, Ronald.’

  He resisted her urging. ‘Sit down to a meal in your house?’ he said.

  ‘Of course, come on, it’s getting late.’

  She left him to snatch up her cape and bonnet. She turned out the lamp on her desk, turned out the gaslight on the wall. The only light now was in the entrance hall. As they made for the door in the dimness, she felt Ronald pull her towards him.

  Next moment she was in his arms. They were kissing each other as if they had known they would come to this from the moment he entered her office.

  ‘Ah, Jenny Corvill, Jenny Corvill,’ he murmured as he let her go. ‘What a rogue you’ve been to my peace of mind!’

  ‘You’ve thought of me, Ronald, man?’

  ‘Every day since I walked out. And cursed myself for a fool as I thought of it. Jenny, did you think of me?’

  She hid her face against his shoulder. She had thought of him, but she had tried too hard to forget him.

  ‘Come now,’ she said, when she had recovered her senses a little. ‘The watchman might walk in on us. I’ll just give him a shout to say I’m going.’

  He was waiting for her in the cobbled courtyard when she came out. As naturally as if she had done it every day of her life, she linked her arm in his when they set out towards the town. Their walk to Gatesmuir seemed to pass in a flash. They spoke little, but they said much.

  When they came in at the house door the parlourmaid hurried to take Jenny’s cape. She paused in evident surprise when she saw Ronald, but recovered to take his hat from him.

  ‘We’ll have something hot to eat in the dining-room as soon as possible, Thirley. Is my mother in the drawing-room?’

  ‘Yes, mistress, and Mr Corvill and Mrs Edward.’

  Jenny led the way. She entered saying, ‘Look who I’ve brought with me!’

  Millicent stared, then recognised Ronald. ‘Mr Armstrong!’

  Ned took a moment longer. He was sunk in after-dinner lethargy by the fire, took time to struggle out of it. ‘Who? Oh, Mr Armstrong from the dye department … I thought you’d left Galashiels?’

  ‘Aye, for Perth and beyond. How do you do, Mr Corvill?’

  ‘Lucy, this is Mr Armstrong. He used to work for Corvill’s.’

  Lucy gave a cool nod. She had glanced up with interest from her magazine, but on hearing who he was the interest died. She gave an audible gasp, however, when Thirley came a moment later to say that a meal for two was served in the dining-room.

  Out of politeness Millicent came to sit with them. She learned to her delight that Mr Armstrong knew how to solve the problem that had been worrying her poor daughter for weeks now. Gratitude would have made her well-intentioned towards Ronald, but as they chatted through the meal she found herself liking him for himself. He was the plain-spoken, honest sort she’d been brought up with, and if he seemed to laugh at things she thought serious, well, he was entitled to his own view.

  Ronald was tired. He was also a little at a loss to find himself a guest of the Corvills. As soon as the meal was over he took his leave, promising to be at the mill by seven-thirty next morning.

  As soon as he had gone, Lucy let loose her indignation. ‘How could you, Jenny. To bring home an employee!’

  Jenny took her sister-in-law by the hand. She led her into the now empty dining-room. ‘Lucy,’ she said, ‘never use that tone of voice again when you speak of Ronald Armstrong. He will come here often, I hope.’

  ‘But he’s a workman!’

  ‘He’s a dye-master, your husband was a weaver, your father was an unsuccessful actor.’

  Lucy gasped.

  ‘Did you think I stopped short when I learned there was no Lieutenant Morrison in the China Squadron? Of course not, I found out who your father really was,’ Jenny went on remorselessly. ‘And that’s not all I know, Lucy. Be warned. You’ll be civil to Ronald or I’ll make you the scandal of the town.’

  Pale and shocked, Lucy backed away. ‘That’s blackmail ‒’

  ‘I use the weapons you force me to use. Don’t try your wrecking tactics between Ronald and me.’

  ‘Ronald and you?’ The phrase told Lucy more than a thousand explanations. She frowned, considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘You’re a fool, Jenny. What can come of it? There’s a yawning gulf between you.’

  She was wrong, and Jenny was sure of it when next morning she saw him waiting for her outside the door of her office. Her whole being seemed to come more alive at sight of that easy, angular frame leaning against the doorposts.

  The mill was coming into action. Her clerk, having lit the lamp in her office, was setting the first post on her desk. She told him she would be busy elsewhere for the early part of the day, and went with Ronald to the dye-room.

  Luchar arrived half an hour later, looking pale and heavy-eyed. He had slept little, trying through the night hours to work out what was wrong with the dye-bath. When Ronald was introduced as an expert called in to help, he practically fell on his neck.

  Ronald had brought with him a case in which phials of dyestuffs were carefully ranged in little compartments. He took off his jacket, put on a protective apron, rolled up his sleeves, and looked at Jenny. ‘Where’s the colour graph?’

  ‘Here.’

  He took it from her hand. For the next hour she might as well have been at the North Pole for all the notice he took of her. At length he looked round for a testing vat, and began to mea
sure water and ingredients into it.

  ‘What are you using?’

  ‘It’s a thio-indigo ‒ very fast to light once it’s fixed. This will take some time, Jenny. Come back in the afternoon. Meanwhile, send me up some newly-spun yarn of the right weight and I’ll try a batch.’

  ‘How soon can we weave it?’

  ‘This evening, with luck. You’d best make a test length and then put it through all the processes as quickly as possible ‒ are you cropping before you steam-press?’

  ‘Hardly at all.’

  ‘Right. Today’s Tuesday; by Friday we should know if it holds its tone.’

  ‘Ronald …’

  ‘Don’t worry. It will be all right.’

  After the midday break she went to the dye-room. The hanks of yarn hung on a line in a current of warmth to dry them. Already Jenny’s practised eye could see that when it had shed all its moisture it would exactly match the shade she had given Ronald.

  ‘You can weave with it in about three hours if you want to,’ he said, brushing sweat from his forehead. ‘You’ll use your father’s loom?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll fetch the other colours and begin setting up. Bring me the purple when it’s ready.’

  By five o’clock the old handloom was prepared. Jenny had put a big holland apron over her gown. She sat to the loom, her foot on the familiar treadle, her ear already attuned to the opening and closing of the ‘shed’ as the weft bobbin went through. The graph of the pattern was on a board at the back of the loom, its squares blocked or empty according to the up and down of the warp. After a time her eyes ceased to see it. She knew the pattern, she could feel its rhythm and see its magical development on the moving frame.

  It wasn’t the best piece of weaving Jenny had ever done, but then she had never claimed any pre-eminence in the craft. Her father had been the true master of the loom. But the tartan spreading over the backrest was smooth and good, the colours glowing in their quiet harmony.

  She was lost to time. She only knew it was late when she felt a touch on her shoulder and in the pause engendered by it she heard Ronald say, ‘It’s after eight, Jenny. It’s time to stop.’