The Windfell Family Secrets

by Diane Allen

  She held it tight as she climbed up next to Danny, pulling her long skirts around her and wrapping herself in her shawl.

  ‘Aye, how the mighty have fallen! Look at your mother, lad, sitting on the seat of an old flat wagon full of junk, in a dress that’s seen better days with a shawl around her shoulders.’ Archie laughed.

  ‘Should we go around by Lawkland Hall, just to show her off? You know what the Moore family who live there are like. They’d never want to speak to her again,’ Danny joked.

  ‘Don’t you dare, Danny Atkinson. I don’t want to see anybody, dressed like this. I feel a right scruff. But it was no good emptying Butterfield dressed in my Sunday best.’ Charlotte walloped her son hard and grinned.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you look like, Charlotte Atkinson. Fine clothes do not maketh the person, and you should know that. And we love you, no matter what you are dressed in.’ Archie grinned. ‘Now let’s go home, lad, before anybody thinks we are homeless beggars.’

  ‘That looks just grand there.’ Archie stood back and admired the grandfather clock, standing in its new position in the great hallway of Windfell.

  ‘It’s a country clock really, a bit plain. It’s a pity it doesn’t have fluted columns and a bit more brass decorating it.’ Charlotte looked at the squat, dark-oak clock and thought it to be completely out of place in such a fine hall, but she knew Archie loved it dearly, so that was where it was to stay.

  ‘I’ll ask Colin Ward to come and mend those back legs, and then it won’t look as bad. I think they must have gone rotten, with folk mopping the floor around them. My mother used to scrub and mop our flagged floor to within an inch of its life, as did my grandmother.’

  ‘You’ve not forgotten we have a visitor tonight for dinner? In fact I should say two, as Harriet is coming back with Isabelle as well. But the main visitor is the young gentleman who seems to have caught our Isabelle’s eye, James Fox. He has the photography studio up New Street. I’ve provisionally booked him for the wedding, I thought it would set a trend if we had a photographer recording the event.’ Charlotte walked into the morning room, with Archie not far behind her. ‘Have you see the wedding invitations? I finished writing them yesterday, I think I’ve covered all on our side of the family. I hope Harriet’s parents have finished writing theirs.’ Charlotte handed the huge bundle of invitations to Archie and waited for his comments.

  ‘Do we need to ask as many folk as this? This wedding is going to cost a fortune. It’s only my lad that’s getting wed.’ Archie looked at the pile of lovingly written invitations and sighed.

  ‘He’s your only son, and we both love him – surely he’s worth spending a bit of money on. And Harriet has settled so well within the family already. Anyway, the invitations are written now and are about to be sent out. I can’t believe the wedding is nearly upon us. It seems like only a few weeks ago that we were worrying about Danny’s head being turned by that wretched girl at Ragged Hall, and that perhaps there was never going to be a wedding. I understand her baby is due in early May. Thank heavens she married that lad from Slaidburn, else Danny’s head might still be turned.’

  ‘Amy Brown would have made a good farmer’s wife, I’ll give her her due, but our lad would never have been able to trust her. She would always have had an eye for the men.’ Archie sat down in the chair across from Charlotte and looked out of the window. ‘I hate February; it’s cold, miserable, and if it wasn’t for the first sign of snowdrops, you’d think spring was miles away. I’m glad our lad is getting married before lambing time at Crummock At least he’ll be there, and able to keep an eye on the flock. I’ve told Danny to go to the spring hiring fare and take a man on to help him this year, because I’m not getting any younger.’ Archie rubbed his knee; it had ached all winter and the damp, cold month of January had taken its toll on him.

  ‘Get Dr Burrows to have a look at your knee. He’ll give you something to stop it aching.’ Charlotte looked across at him.

  ‘Nay, it’s only rheumatics, and it’s to be expected. I’m taking after my father, I suppose. Time for the new generation to do a bit more.’ Archie closed his eyes and sat back in the chair.

  ‘You have a sleep. I’ll come and I’ll wake you when our visitors arrive.’ Charlotte rose from her chair and kissed him on his brow, before closing the morning-room doors behind her. She loved her Archie with every inch of her. He was hurting at saying goodbye to his old home. He’d have to learn to look forward, and relish the coming years of grandchildren and the growing family. Besides, she’d done her duty as a mother and owner of the mill. Now she was going to find something to occupy her hours – something to leave to the grandchildren, hopefully.

  Isabelle looked at the photograph that James passed her as he entered Windfell.

  ‘I hope you like it. I think you look very beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He waited for Isabelle’s reaction.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s me – it is just like my reflection. Mother, look what James has given me.’ She raced to show her mother her image. ‘Isn’t he clever?’

  Charlotte picked up the photograph of her daughter and smiled, before looking over at James. ‘Very talented indeed. You have captured our Isabelle just perfectly, Mr Fox. I’m impressed.’

  Danny leaned over Charlotte’s shoulder and looked at the image of his sister.

  ‘That’s better than a kitten, our Isabelle.’ And then whispered in her ear, ‘I’d keep this one if you can, he’s alright.’

  Isabelle scowled at her brother. ‘Look, Harriet, your wedding pictures will be wonderful. If you have them taken here, you can have the manor in the background.’

  Harriet took the photograph from Charlotte and admired the likeness.

  ‘It will be a pleasure to take the wedding photograph at the manor. It is so beautiful, it will make the perfect background.’ James looked around him.

  ‘Then please do, Mr Fox, and speaking of which I have your invitation. I have just finished writing them. I’ll go and get it now and wake up Archie. He’ll have to hurry and change for dinner, as he’s been asleep in the morning room since our return from Butterfield. Do please excuse me.’ Charlotte looked around her at her happy family, talking and laughing with one another in the comfort of the warm drawing room, before making her way across the hallway to the morning room. She opened the door quietly and looked across at her snoring husband, who was still fast asleep.

  ‘Archie, Archie, come on, love, wake up. Our visitors are here, and dinner is about to be served.’ Charlotte shook him gently and smiled as a bleary-eyed Archie woke up.

  ‘How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?’ Archie yawned and looked around him. The morning-room curtains were pulled and the fire was burning brightly, after being replenished with fresh coal.

  ‘I told everybody to leave you to sleep, as you looked so tired. Eve was as quiet as a mouse when she tended the fire. But now, my love, it’s dinner. And come and meet Mr Fox. He’s brought a photograph of Isabelle and it is such a true likeness. Do get changed and then come and join us.’ Charlotte urged her husband to be quick.

  ‘I’m coming.’ Archie stood up and yawned widely. ‘So what’s this Fox fellow like? You’ve not said that much about him.’ He followed his wife out of the room and started to make his way up the stairs.

  ‘He’s just perfect for our Isabelle, but I’m not tempting fate. I remember your Aunt Lucy trying to matchmake – and look where that got her!’ She patted Archie on his arm and smiled.

  ‘She was right, though. So let’s hope you are, with these two.’ Archie made his way steadily up the stairs and listened to the excitement and laughter coming from the drawing room, before entering his bedroom. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror as he put on his starched collar, fastening the ruby stud securely, before pulling on his evening jacket, which Thomson had previously set out for him. He sighed, looking at himself; he wished he was as young as Danny again, with the world at his feet. He’d hav
e played it differently. He ran his fingers through his blond hair, which was now beginning to turn grey. ‘Aye, Rosie, I sometimes wish you were still with me. I do love Charlotte with all my heart, but life would have been so much easier, farming steadily away at Butterfield by now. No fancy dinner jackets or having to keep up appearances – just you, me and the bairns.’ He checked himself once more in the mirror, pulling his stomach in to make himself look thinner, then made his way down the stairs, to do what he’d always done: smile and be there for the family, something everyone took for granted, and always would.

  22

  Charlotte sat in her favourite chair in the morning room, reading the latest edition of the Craven Herald & Pioneer. She came to the property page and stopped in her tracks as she read the notice declaring that High Mill at Skipton was up for sale. She read the auction notice, outlying all the details and giving the date of the auction as Monday 26th February at 2.30 p.m.

  She folded the paper after reading the details and looked out of the window. The mill would go cheaply, as the bank was after the money it had invested in the mill. Should she go and have a look around, perhaps even bid for it? She had the money sitting in the bank, and there would be no trouble finding staff. Depending on the state of the actual mill, it would take no time at all to get it up and running again. Hector Christie was probably embroidering the truth when he said the mill was sliding into the river; he would have said anything, to help her protect Isabelle from John Sidgwick’s clutches. She breathed in deeply and read the details again. Viewing of the property was to take place, on request, in the run-up to the auction. She’d go and view the mill, and take Bert Bannister with her for his advice. Archie had said she should take a trip out; well, she’d take his advice and have a ride on the train, but not let anyone know the true reason for her trip. After all, they’d only try to talk her out of it. Charlotte felt a tingle of excitement as she thought about a fresh venture: a new mill in a new place, and hopefully bought at a reasonable price. What an idea! Something to get her teeth into, instead of moping around like a lost soul.

  ‘I don’t know why you are even thinking of buying this place.’ Bert Bannister sat down next to Charlotte as they climbed into a horse-drawn cab that was waiting for passengers just outside the railway station.

  ‘Because it could be a good investment, and because I miss my mill and being in charge of something other than Windfell. But I don’t expect you to understand that. I know I’m being a bit rash, with cotton not being that profitable at the moment, but we could always spin wool – that would be a challenge for both of us.’ Charlotte looked out of the window and listened to the familiar sound of bobbins flying back and forth on the looms of Belmont Mill, as they passed the towering building that was known for producing silk yarn.

  Once over Belmont bridge, the horse and cab pulled into Caroline Square and then along the high street, with the parish church dominating the top of the street majestically. ‘Just look at the folk here, Bert. It’s a lot busier than Settle.’ Charlotte kept looking out of the cab until the horses stopped, just a few yards down from the church. Skipton thronged with people, with shops and market traders on either side of the busy high street. A gaggle of geese were making themselves known to everyone, as their owner tried to guide them into a pen, ready for sale; and a tinker shouted out his trade, while sharpening knives on a wetted sandstone. ‘This isn’t your quiet Settle, Bert. Surely, with the right product, we could make money here.’

  ‘Here you are, ma’am. High Mill, as you requested.’ The cab driver got down from his seat and opened the cab door, then offered his hand for Charlotte to take.

  ‘Thank you. How much do I owe you?’ She opened her small bag and reached in for her coin purse.

  ‘Tuppence, ma’am.’ He held out his hand to be paid and closed it quickly as Charlotte pressed the coins into it. He climbed back into his seat as soon as Bert had got out, then urged the horses on, mixing back in with the busy street traffic.

  ‘Well, he was a man of few words.’ Bert leaned over the canal bridge that stood to the side of the dark and forbidding High Mill. ‘I don’t think your Hector Christie was embroidering his words, when he said that High Mill was in a bad way. I can tell you now that his loading bay to the canal side needs replacing. Just take a look at that bulkhead – a good push and it would be in the canal. That side wall has a crack in it, the size of my back lane at home, and I’d say there’s subsidence going on somewhere under the building. Just look at the water wheel; it looks as if it’s held on by God’s good grace. Your mill fire was pure bad luck, but this building is simply waiting for an accident to happen.’ Bert sighed heavily and waited for Charlotte to say something as she leaned over the bridge.

  ‘It does look bad. I didn’t realize the mill was in such a poor state, and it’s not as big as I imagined. But I can see the agent down by the main door, waiting for us. I don’t want to waste his time – we’ll just go and look around the first floor. That will give us a good idea if it’s worth anything.’ Charlotte looked up at Bert, who shook his head in disbelief at the stubbornness of the woman. Ferndale had been like a palace compared to what lay in front of them. She stepped out, following the well-worn steps to take her down to the mill entrance.

  The smartly dressed agent stepped forward and held out his hand for Bert Bannister to shake. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Atkinson. And this must be your lovely wife. Perhaps she would rather sit and wait in the tea-shop across the road while we discuss business.’

  ‘No, no, no. It is Mrs Atkinson you need to be dealing with. I’m just here to give her some advice. Mrs Atkinson will be discussing the business, while I have a look around.’ Bert looked at Charlotte’s face. She was obviously offended, but was doing her best not to show it.

  ‘Mr Rogers, I presume? Now we have established who’s who and, as Mr Bannister says, I’m the would-be purchaser. Although I must admit, from the view outside, I don’t know why I have wasted my time.’ Charlotte put the bigoted little man in his place and decided not to shake his hand, when he offered it grudgingly.

  ‘Looks can be deceiving. Come – I’ll show you around. I’m sure you will be impressed. The mill, if you don’t already know, was working up to Christmas and then unfortunately had to stop production, because of lack of orders. It is hard, as I’m sure you know, running a business in this economic climate.’ Mr Rogers checked through the bunch of keys and eventually found the right one to open the huge doors of the warehouse.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Sidgwick had a lack of orders. I think it was a lack of money to pay his bills,’ Charlotte replied, as she stood and looked around the empty warehouse space, not impressed by the state it had been left in. She went over and read the mill’s rules for the workers to abide by – rules made for the advantage of John Sidgwick, although he had shown no care for his workers, looking at the state of his building.

  ‘So you know Mr Sidgwick?’ Mr Rogers stood in the middle of the warehouse and watched as Bert Bannister pushed his finger through the rotten window-frame and turned in disgust to shake his head at Charlotte.

  ‘Yes, I know him. To be honest, Mr Rogers, I think we are wasting your time. This mill is too far gone to warrant any of my time and money. We will bid you farewell.’ Charlotte nodded to Bert and stepped back into the daylight.

  ‘We are open to offers. The bank will listen to any decent proposal.’ Mr Rogers fumbled with the keys as he locked up quickly.

  ‘I’ve just sold a mill that was in a better state than that, even though it was simply a burnt-out shell. I don’t think you will get one decent bid for that pile of rubbish.’ Charlotte stopped in her tracks and looked back at the decrepit mill.

  ‘Then I’m afraid it will be the debtors’ prison for Mr Sidgwick – which would be a great shame for a man of his stature – if we don’t recoup some of the money owing.’ Mr Rogers looked at Charlotte and her accomplice.

  ‘No shame at all, Mr Rogers. It’s a shame for the people he will
be sharing a cell with, because he will be the biggest rogue they have ever met. Good day, Mr Rogers, thank you again for giving us your time.’ Charlotte and Bert walked out down the high street, Charlotte’s skirts swishing around her as she stepped out in a temper.

  ‘I take it you didn’t like our Mr Rogers, and didn’t think much of the mill.’ Bert could hardly keep up with her as she walked quickly down the street.

  ‘Ignorant little man! He knew it was me he was meeting. And then to show his allegiance with John Sidgwick! I hope Sidgwick does get locked up in the debtors’ gaol – it’s what he deserves.’ Charlotte stopped and looked at Bert, her face clouding over with temper.

  ‘You should have known the mill wouldn’t be in that good a shape. And that little man has to stand by him; he’s after Sidgwick’s money.’ Bert grinned at the hard-headed businesswoman who stood in front of him. ‘You should be looking at something like that,’ and he pointed across at a newly built shop frontage that had a ‘For Sale’ sign on the front of it. ‘Get your girls set up properly in business, along with Sally Oversby’s bits and pieces that she does for you.’ The three-storey property stood proudly on the high street, with market traders all around it.

  ‘I’m not a shopkeeper, I’m a mill owner.’ Charlotte looked across at the clean new sandstone building and noticed the number of people coming in and out of the adjoining shops’ doorways.

  ‘You were a mill owner, Charlotte. Perhaps it’s time to move on. Your girls are doing well in Settle, according to your accounts, but they could do better in Skipton.’ Bert watched as she looked across at the shop.

  ‘Have we to cross the road?’ Charlotte took Bert’s arm and stepped out onto the dusty high street, negotiating a path between the horses and their cabs.

  Bert smiled. He could almost hear the cogs in Charlotte’s brain working, as she gazed into the shop window. Perhaps their trip to Skipton had not been wasted after all.