by Diane Allen
‘I don’t know. Walter was always causing bother, like I said. But I don’t think he hated me that much that he’d burn my mill down.’ Charlotte looked across at her husband, who was still in a mood.
‘Well, this afternoon when the Christies come, you smile, thank them very much for the cheque and you get rid of the damned place. It has brought you nothing but hard work and bad luck. You don’t need it. And don’t get it into your head that you are responsible for Walter Gibson’s family, because you aren’t. The workhouse at Castlebergh will take them, or someone else will come to their rescue. Just for once let someone else take responsibility.’ Archie stood up and looked out of the window at the wild day blowing outside. ‘I’ll not bother going to Butterfield Gap today. It’s too bloody wet; we’d all be sodden by the time we’d stepped outside the house.’
‘I thought you were being a bit rash. After all there’s no need for you to go today, as the wedding and Arthur moving out of Crummock are months off yet.’ Charlotte got up from the table and touched Archie on the shoulder. ‘I know you are right; my time with Ferndale has probably run its course, and I’d be a fool not to accept the amount that the Christies have offered me. We will be quite wealthy, with the insurance money and their payment for the mill. You might even be lucky enough to have a wife who is content with running the family home and tending to your every need.’ Charlotte kissed him on his cheek and smiled as she pushed her hand into his.
‘You content, staying at home, behaving yourself – it will never happen. You’ll always do as you like, but this time, Charlotte, do as I say: sell the mill and be free of its worry. For once think of us.’ Archie turned and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved. She pushed him to the edge of despair, if she did but know it.
‘Alright, the mill belongs to the Christies as from this afternoon, and once Charles Walker signs and gives the paperwork his blessing. But, Archie, I’d like to keep the lock cottages. That lets Mrs Batty and poor Mrs Gibson and her family keep a roof over their heads. The mill workers who wish to stay in them will have to pay me direct. Jethro can collect rent from them once a month, instead of it coming out of their pay, like it does now.’ Charlotte had been thinking about keeping the cottages, but selling the mill. It would give her an income, without any worries; and seeing that one of the tenanted cottages only paid a peppercorn rent, because of her soft heart, she couldn’t have seen the inhabitants struggle to pay the Christies when they raised it, as they certainly would.
‘I know what you are doing: you are meeting me halfway, and you are still too soft for your own good. I can talk till I’m blue in the face about not looking after other folk than your own, but you’d not listen. Keep your cottages, sell the mill, and poor Jethro will have to become a rent collector. He might be wanting one of those cottages himself yet anyway, from what I’ve seen.’
‘I knew you’d understand.’ Charlotte kissed him on the cheek and then quickly realized what Archie had said. ‘Why will Jethro want one of the cottages? He’s happy in his two rooms above the stables, isn’t he? Else he’d have said.’
‘Just for once you’ve missed something going on right under your nose.’ Archie laughed. ‘Have you not noticed the flush in Mazy’s cheeks, and the way she is always willing to run errands to the stables? You’d think she was sixteen, not nearly forty.’
Charlotte paused for a moment. ‘Jethro and Mazy – never! She can’t be courting Jethro.’
‘Believe me, they are as thick as thieves. I caught them walking hand-in-hand up in the copse last Sunday. They both coloured up like your best red dress. I don’t think they wanted anyone to know their little secret.’ Archie grinned.
‘Well, I’m glad for both of them. Jethro is a good-looking man, although Mazy could have done better for herself, if she’d set out her stall correctly. He’s only a stable lad really.’ Charlotte said the words without thinking.
‘A bit like your husband was only a “poor little farm boy” – that’s what you once chastised me with, that morning you lost your grandfather. I’ll never forget you saying those words. I was only a poor little farm boy, but you were forgetting that you were only a poor little farm lass.’
‘I’m sorry I was so shallow back then. Money turned my head. Oh, Archie, where have the years gone? Our children are both grown-up, and we have the worries of the world on our shoulders.’ Charlotte put her head on Archie’s chest and held him close; she loved him to the last inch of her life. He was the man who kept her steady and was always there for her, no matter what her mood.
‘We’ll have one less worry, when you sell that mill. And we haven’t the worries that Mrs Gibson has, poor soul. Walter will have left her in a right state. You keep the cottages, Charlotte, keep your widows warm and dry. They are the deserving poor. Someone should help them with their lives, and we are in a position to help those less fortunate than ourselves.’ He kissed Charlotte on her brow and held her tight.
‘I will, and then I’ll have a think about what I can do next.’ She leaned up and kissed Archie on the lips. ‘I can’t sit at home and do knitting and tapestry. I’ll find something.’
‘Charlotte, you are impossible, and I give up,’ he sighed; she’d not be content until she was running something somewhere.
‘I know, but you love me.’ She squeezed him – he would always be her Archie.
Lorenzo and Hector Christie sat across from Charlotte and noted how calm she was. She’d obviously been thinking about the situation and had come to a decision.
‘It’s bad news about one of your workers – terrible for the wife and family he’s left behind. I suppose he never thought about them. I heard he was a bit of a drinker, not a deserving soul. His family will be bound for the workhouse, from what I hear. They can’t expect to stay where they are.’ Lorenzo Christie sipped his tea and watched as Charlotte poured herself a top-up in her crisp bone-china cup.
‘Walter Gibson, I’ll be honest, was not the most dependable of workers, but he was reliant upon his job, with having such a big family. And it is such a sin that he took his own life. I aim to go and see his widow and family later this afternoon.’ Charlotte sipped her tea and looked across at Hector, who was fidgeting, wanting to get on with the main business of the day. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush: you both need to know what I’ve decided, and I don’t mean to keep you hanging on.’ Charlotte put down her cup and saucer and from the side of her chair pulled out the written cheque. ‘As you can see, I haven’t cashed this. I’m not that reliant upon it, or foolish enough, to go into a sale without a lot of thought.’
‘We never thought for one moment that you were, my dear. The sale will have to go through the proper channels. My solicitor will need to be informed, and no doubt yours, too.’ Lorenzo leaned back in his chair and gave Hector a quick glance.
‘Have you decided what to do, Charlotte? We all want the best for everyone involved.’ Hector looked across at her with an earnest look upon his face.
‘I have and, as you say, we all want the best for everyone.’ Charlotte paused. ‘I will sell you the mill and weaving shed for the price of this cheque, which you so kindly wrote the other day. However, I want to keep the street of lock cottages. Some of the tenants are in need of the housing there, and you will only fill them with workers for the mill. I promised at least two of the tenants a home for life, and I’d like to do the same for Mrs Gibson. After all, she and her family are more in need of it than ever.’ Charlotte watched the two men as they glanced at one another, unable to talk in private. ‘The weaving shed and the mill – what’s left of it – are worth every penny of that cheque to you both. And with Ferndale no longer operating, you are the main cotton suppliers for Craven, which is a long-awaited gift for you. I’m sure, gentlemen, that is what you wanted all those years back, when my first husband left me in such a state. Well, now it can all be yours, providing I can keep the cottages.’ Charlotte sat back in her chair and waited for their reaction.
‘I don’t
know, Charlotte. Those cottages belong with the mill. Where would our workers live, if you fill them with every unworthy cause and hard-luck case?’ Hector looked across at his father.
‘You are too soft for your own good, Mrs Atkinson. Why do you want to keep penniless people under good roofs? They will never be able to pay you, and they will never have gratitude enough to thank you. And why do you think I should pay you the same amount as written on my cheque originally?’ Lorenzo Christie leaned on his walking stick and waited for her reply.
‘I remember when I hadn’t a penny to my name. I was pregnant, with nobody to turn to, but you both helped me. Initially, I know, you helped me because you thought I’d fail and that you’d be able to buy Ferndale at a rock-bottom price.’ Charlotte bowed her head, remembering the early years as mistress of Ferndale Mill. ‘Since then, we have worked quite well together, but I’ve always known that secretly you still coveted Ferndale. This is a small price to pay for a monopoly on Craven’s cotton supply.’ She lifted her head and watched as the Christies exchanged glances with one another. ‘Plus, you can be seen to be doing good for the local poor, if I keep the cottages, and we can all be seen as pillars of society. Especially at this moment in time, with poor Mrs Gibson and her children about to turn to the workhouse for succour.’ Charlotte watched Lorenzo’s face, and smiled at Hector. Poor Hector, he was a good man; one day he would have his own way, but at present it would be his father’s decision.
‘Mrs Atkinson, you are a force to be reckoned with. Hector told me you were a hard woman with a soft heart, and he was right. Just you be careful that soft heart doesn’t get you hurt.’ Lorenzo shrugged. ‘You have a deal: you keep the cottages, do your good deeds and end up with a row of houses and no rents being paid, when your tenants have spent their wages over the bar at the King Billy or the Talbot Arms. Go and see your solicitor and have him draw up the papers and deeds; that’s the least you can do, with your hard bargaining – cover his fees – and then we will call the deal done.’ Lorenzo looked across at his son and pulled himself up by his walking stick. ‘Come, shake my hand and then the deal is firm.’ Lorenzo held out his hand to Charlotte and smiled.
Charlotte held his hand, and held it firmly.
‘It’s a pity my son was married when he first met you. What a union that would have been! No one would have stood in our way.’ Lorenzo shook her hand and looked into her eyes.
Charlotte blushed. ‘I wish you well with Ferndale. I’ll give you a list of my workers, if you need one, and I’ll get Charles Walker to draw up the papers.’
‘I’ll rewrite the cheque, my dear – tear up the one you hold. I no longer hold an account with that bank; it was just for effect, a trick I learned from my father.’ Lorenzo laughed. ‘But it did not sway you as much as I’d have liked.’
‘My father is a cunning old devil.’ Hector took Lorenzo’s arm and helped him across the room.
‘I know he is, but he’s a good man at heart and that’s what matters.’ Charlotte held the drawing-room door open for her guests. Her legs felt like jelly, and tears were close to spilling down her cheeks. She’d just sold her mill, the place she had loved and had found her niche in running.
‘We’ll look after your beloved Ferndale, don’t you worry,’ Hector shouted to her as he accompanied his father out of Windfell.
‘I hope you do, because I love every charred and burnt stone of it,’ Charlotte whispered under her breath as she brushed back the tears.
19
Charlotte stood on the stone step of Number 4 Lock Cottages and listened as someone pulled back the bolt on the front door. She was taken aback as a sweating, red-faced woman with blood on her apron answered the door.
‘What do you want? Now is not the time for visitors,’ the stout woman said and rubbed her bloodied hands on her apron.
‘I’ve come to give my condolences to Mrs Gibson, and to assure her that her home is safe. Is she alright?’ Charlotte looked at the hard-faced woman and peered behind her into the dark interior of the cottage, where she spied four of Martha’s children huddled around the fire.
‘She’s not good; she’s just lost the baby I’ve been delivering – stillborn, it was. Which comes as no surprise, with the shock that she’s had this last weekend, poor woman. There was nowt I could do about it.’ She shook her head and looked at Charlotte.
‘Oh, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m Mrs Atkinson. I own these cottages, and Walter worked for me. I just wanted to assure Martha not to worry that she will be losing her home, and to bring her this basket of groceries, to help her out. I hadn’t realized she had gone into labour, the poor woman – as if she hasn’t lost enough.’ Charlotte bowed her head and looked down at her basket of things, which she hoped would be of comfort to Martha and her family. But how could a few items of food console someone who had just lost their husband and child?
‘Would you like to come in? I’ve just made her comfortable and wrapped the baby up, ready for it to be buried. She wants it to be buried with Walter, so I’ll pop it in beside him, once she’s said her final farewells to the li’l thing. He’s laid out in the back room, ready for his funeral on Friday. If you ask me, losing the baby was a blessing. It would only have been another mouth to feed, and she has enough to look after, as it is.’ The hard-hearted midwife held the door open and waited for Charlotte to enter the cramped front room of the cottage.
Charlotte smiled at the children, who looked frightened and worried as they watched her walk past them. ‘There’s some toffee that my cook made for you in the bottom of the basket. You help yourselves, while I go and see your mama.’ She placed her basket on the scrubbed-clean kitchen table, glancing quickly at the youngest, asleep in her crib, before following the midwife up the stairs to where Martha lay in her birthing bed.
‘Oh, ma’am, you shouldn’t have come. I’m in a terrible state.’ Martha was holding a wrapped, sheeted bundle close to her, and ushered Lizzie, her oldest, to clear the basin of bloodied water in which the midwife had washed the baby.
‘Nonsense, you are in need of help. I’m so sorry for your loss, Martha, you don’t deserve all this heartache. Walter must not have been thinking straight. The mill fire was not his fault, and now you’ve lost this poor little soul.’ Charlotte sat down in a chair and pulled it next to the heartbroken mother of five.
‘I don’t know what had got into his head. I knew he was down, but I didn’t ever think he’d take his own life. And now we’ve lost this one. God has a funny way of showing His love,’ Martha sobbed as the tears began to fall.
‘Pass me the li’l soul, and I’ll place him in with his father before I go.’ The midwife leaned over and tried to take hold of the bundle Martha was holding so tightly.
‘His name’s David. Tell the undertaker his name is David, after Walter’s father – that’s what we agreed before he killed himself.’ Martha bent down and kissed the small, wizened face within the wraps. ‘God bless you, my little son. None of this was your fault, and you just came at the wrong time.’ She held her breath and wiped away a tear as the midwife took her precious son away from her, then she looked across at Charlotte.
‘I’ll get away now, Martha. You should be alright. Just don’t overdo it.’ The midwife said her farewells, and both Martha and Charlotte listened as she banged the front door behind her, leaving a home full of sorrow.
‘You’ll be wanting your cottage back, ma’am. If you can give me to the end of the month, I’d appreciate it. I don’t just know what I’m to do, but there is always the workhouse, although I don’t want my family splitting up, if I can help it.’ Martha wept, as she tried to make herself comfortable in bed.
‘Don’t worry about the workhouse. The cottage is yours to stay in as long as you want. That is what I’ve come to tell you, as well as paying my respects. We will come to an arrangement about a payment for rent – perhaps just until Lizzie gets to an age when she can go into service, and then she can help. We will think of some wa
y around it, I’m sure. The main thing is that you get your strength back and get well enough to look after the worried little faces downstairs.’
‘You can’t afford to do that, ma’am, you’ve just lost the mill. You’ve no money coming in, either, and I don’t like accepting charity at the best of times.’ Martha shook her head and scowled at Charlotte.
‘I’m selling the mill to the Christies, so I’m not about to be penniless, but I’m keeping the cottages, to rent to whomever I like. Some, of course, I will rent to mill workers; it makes sense, once the mill is rebuilt. But if I can’t help the likes of you and Mrs Batty, then I don’t deserve to live such a privileged life. Let’s say it eases my conscience. Why should I have everything, while others go without the basics of human life.’ Charlotte reached for Martha’s hand and patted it.
‘I don’t know, ma’am, I don’t like charity. I can understand you giving Mrs Batty her cottage, because she was your cook at Windfell, but let’s face it: Walter was not your most dependable worker, both you and I know that.’ Martha lay back on her pillow and winced as a pain gripped her.
‘Do you take in washing sometimes? I’m sure I have heard Walter talking about it.’ Charlotte looked at the proud woman as she moved slowly to the edge of the bed.
‘I do, just to help out a bit. Five mouths take some feeding.’ Martha lowered her feet to the floor and groaned.
‘Then perhaps I could send some washing down for you to do sometimes, as way of payment. Don’t you get out of bed; stay where you are, just for today?’ Charlotte looked worried as Martha reached for her shawl from the chair next to her.
