Broken Threads

by Tessa Barclay

  Archie Brunton, the gossips soon learned, was still unwed. And within a few weeks of his return it became clear he was still very interested in Jenny.

  What the gossips wanted to know was: did Jenny still feel anything for Archie?

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was perfectly true that Jenny Armstrong had once intended to be Jenny Brunton. In the somewhat business-like way of a young lady from a family who could give a considerable dowry, she had fixed on Archie Brunton as her future husband.

  He was about six years her senior, and the owner of a very large estate which brought him in a fine income. He was good-looking, with light brown hair and laughing eyes. He was the most agreeable man in the district ‒ light-hearted, amusing, intelligent.

  What made it more likely as a match was that his widowed mother, a lady of good sense and energy, came to approve of it. At first she had not been very keen on these Corvills who had come so recently into the Borders whereas her late husband’s family had been here for generations. But then, Archie needed to settle down. His roving eye was constantly leading him into trouble. And Mrs Brunton, once she got to know the Corvills, found she liked them.

  She particularly liked Jenny, despite the extraordinary fact that Jenny, a young unmarried girl, practically ran the family business. Jenny went to the mill office every day ‒ it was unheard of. She argued with men, she carried out negotiations, she was in every respect a strange being.

  But Mrs Brunton came to believe she was the very one who might keep Archie in order. She gave her tacit support to the proposed match.

  Galashiels was on the whole delighted. Young ladies who had hoped to capture Archie resigned themselves to being mere members of the congregation at his wedding.

  Then, very suddenly and without explanation, his mother had sent Archie off for a long stay with relations in Canada. He was reportedly to study agricultural methods, but anyone who knew Archie Brunton found that hard to believe.

  No one except Jenny and Mrs Brunton knew the real reason. It was a very serious one. Jenny had found out that Archie and her sister-in-law, Ned’s wife Lucy, were lovers.

  Once that was known to her it was impossible to think of marrying Archie. If she had loved him passionately it might have been different ‒ she might have been ready to resort to all kinds of strategems to make the marriage work.

  But, as things stood, she felt nothing but revulsion. And to marry Archie, bring him into close contact with the family so that it might be even easier for him to meet Lucy ‒ that was heading for trouble. Archie, she felt reasonably sure, would give up Lucy without much struggle. But Lucy would not have given up Archie. Lucy needed to be loved, to be loved in a more romantic and demonstrative fashion than poor Ned Corvill could imagine.

  So Lucy wouldn’t have given up Archie. The only way for Jenny to help the situation was to put an end to any match between herself and Lucy’s lover.

  Mrs Brunton wouldn’t be satisfied until she had forced Jenny to explain the situation. Shocked but not surprised by her son’s behaviour, the old lady banished him at once, before he could wreak any more havoc. It had been a long time before Lucy recovered. For Jenny, too, it had been a troubled time ‒ the only man who was thought ‘good enough’ for Miss Corvill to marry had gone.

  Now he was back. Since his mother’s death he had been something of a rover, travelling for pleasure, staying sometimes in Paris, sometimes in Vienna, sometimes coming back to Edinburgh or Glasgow, but never so far returning to his family home. Now, Jenny gathered, the lease he had given to the tenant of The Mains had run out.

  ‘He’s come back to meet the Queen,’ the locals said with a shrug. This was quite possible. Queen Victoria had decided to make a visit to Abbotsford, former home of one of her favourite authors, Sir Walter Scott. She would be en route as usual to Balmoral in the early autumn, and all summer the Borders had been making ready for her coming.

  Galashiels had a new Town Hall in that year, as it so happened, a fine building of local stone that had cost the burgh the unheard-of sum of £2,200. The whole town was in festivity, the mill owners granted a day’s holiday with pay so that the workpeople could go to watch the Queen at Abbotsford, which was just down the road.

  Naturally all the worthies of the nearby towns expected to be presented to Her Majesty. New clothes were bought, preparations were made for parties, picnics, and expeditions by carriage or on foot.

  ‘You’ll be going to Abbotsford, mistress?’ Charlie Gaines inquired in a tone that took it for granted.

  ‘I don’t know that I shall, Mr Gaines. My little girl doesn’t like crowds, you see.’

  ‘Och, but Mistress Armstrong, this is such a special occasion! Can you no explain to her that the Queen will be there?’

  Jenny felt an impulse of annoyance. ‘Explain to her that the Queen will be there’ ‒ as if the child wasn’t as well aware of it as anyone else. Heather was now five years old, and already reading eagerly to herself from the nursery books that Jenny provided. With help from her mother she had read the reports in the local paper about the Queen’s proposed visit.

  ‘She knows about the Queen,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Well then … surely she’ll want to see Her Majesty? It’s not often we get a chance to see her in person.’

  Jenny had inwardly decided not to go. But her decision had to be set aside when she received a letter from the Queen’s private secretary inviting her to be present. That was the equivalent of a royal summons.

  And to tell the truth, she was pleased. To be remembered by the Queen was an honour.

  She debated with herself what to do about Heather. Should she take her? It would certainly scare the little girl to be among crowds. Heather hated crowds ‒ it was some shadow left from her days in the infant asylum, perhaps.

  But on the other hand to go out, leaving her with Baird, probably for several hours …

  ‘I want to talk to you, my dove,’ she said to Heather one day as they were walking to the mill in the soft glow of a September morning. ‘You know the Queen is coming next week?’

  Heather nodded emphatically.

  ‘She’s asked me to go and meet her. There, now, precious, that’s a great thing, isn’t it, to have the Queen send for me.’

  Heather smiled and nodded again.

  ‘I want to go. There will be a great many other people there. A lot of people.’

  ‘Braw Lads?’ suggested Heather in the low, unwilling tones that were so seldom heard, even by her mother.

  ‘Yes, like the Braw Lads gathering at the Mercat Cross, but more than that ‒ people from other towns as well as Galashiels. More people than you’ve seen before. And carriages and horses. And a band, I hear ‒ one of the regimental bands is to play.’

  Heather trotted along at her side, face upturned to take it all in.

  ‘Would you like to go too, Heather?’

  The little girl’s face clouded. She drooped her head.

  ‘You don’t want to go?’

  There was a long pause. Jenny stopped walking, stooped, and tried to look at her daughter’s face. ‘I feel I must go, little lamb. The Queen has invited me. I had a special letter ‒ I’ll show it to you.’

  With her head still averted, Heather nodded.

  ‘If you’re afraid of all the people, you’ll have to stay at home with Baird. It might be all day, so I want you to understand: the mill will be closed, everybody will be on holiday, you’ll be at home with Baird.’

  Heather shrugged and swung her body this way and that, as if to show nonchalant acceptance.

  ‘All right. That’s agreed. You won’t fret if I’m away all day?’

  Heather shook her head.

  When they reached the mill there was correspondence to see to, and a problem with parcelling for the goods train. When that was settled, Jenny went up to the studio with Heather. They settled down with their sketching. Jenny was busy on a design she wanted to finalise for the book of spring patterns, so her attention was
taken up with setting down watercolour lines until she found the mix she wanted.

  Heather was, as usual, silent. She was also busy. When at lunchtime they put down their work and went to wash the watercolour off their hands in the washbasin, Heather offered a piece of cartridge paper to her mother.

  It held one of those out-of-proportion paintings that children make. A lady in a fine green crinoline was curtseying to another in a chair with a high, lopsided back. One could tell this was the Queen because of a smudge of yellow paint on her head, representing her crown.

  But the interesting point was that at the side of the curtseying lady there was another diminutive figure. She was wearing a pink frock. An elongated arm joined her to the curtseying lady.

  Heather watched her mother. Jenny looked up. ‘Is this me meeting the Queen?’

  Heather nodded.

  ‘This is the Queen?’

  A nod for yes.

  ‘And who is this?’ Jenny inquired, pointing to the small pink-clad figure.

  Heather put her index finger against her chest.

  So it was agreed: Heather would go to Abbotsford to see the Queen.

  In honour of the occasion Jenny had Baird quickly make a frock for her daughter ‒ a short length of Swiss voile-brode over silk, with a broad silk sash and a ribbon of the same shade to trim her straw hat. The little girl submitted to the fittings with frowning obedience. It was as if when she put the frock on, she knew she was preparing for the ordeal to come.

  In the event, the crowds were very little problem to the distinguished visitors who were summoned to make up the Queen’s party. The ordinary folk were kept at a distance behind white ropes and posts, happy enough to be there and to listen to the band play while they waited for their glimpses of the notables.

  As the Queen approached, Jenny thought she had changed a great deal since she last saw her. Then, Prince Albert had still been alive. She had been a compact, alert little personage. Now she seemed heavier in build, her face was pale, with lines deepening from nose to mouth. Her dress was completely black, as always.

  ‘Mrs Armstrong,’ she said, as she came opposite Jenny and Jenny curtseyed. ‘I am pleased to see you again. Your husband is here?’

  ‘He’s abroad, Ma’am ‒ in Australia on business.’

  ‘Ah. You feel the separation, no doubt.’ Victoria’s face clouded at the idea. Then her glance fell on Heather. ‘Your little girl?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. Heather.’

  ‘Heather? What an unusual name. A pretty child. You have other children?’

  ‘No, Ma’am, only one.’

  The Queen summoned a smile for the little girl. To Jenny she said, ‘You made a beautiful piece of cloth for the Princess of Wales.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

  The Queen moved on down the line of waiting dignitaries. Those left behind the royal progress fell into step in her train.

  Jenny found herself walking next to Archie Brunton.

  She had been at some pains to avoid him. He had left a card a week or two after his return to his home at Bowden, but this had needed no acknowledgement. A married lady temporarily living alone because of her husband’s absence on business was not obliged to return calls.

  Since in the usual run of engagements she controlled who came to the house, she took care not to invite him. Everyone who knew her on social terms understood that she didn’t care to go out in the evenings because it meant leaving her little girl. Most people met her in her own home. Businessmen on their travels were frequent dinner guests, she gave small parties such as at New Year, on the day of the Braw Lads, and St Andrew’s Day. Some of these were informal enough that he might have walked in with some other acquaintance, but luckily there had been no such parties since his return in August.

  Now she was trapped alongside him. But there were others present, and there was a Royal Personage only a few yards ahead.

  Archie was already bare-headed in the proximity of the Queen. He bowed with a ready smile. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Armstrong.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘The weather isn’t particularly suitable for such a great occasion.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ It was in fact a calm autumn day with heavy cloud. Mr Beaton, the newly appointed Superintendent of the town’s force of thirteen police, spoke from Jenny’s other side. ‘A real delight to see you here, Mrs Armstrong. And your wee lass.’

  ‘Thank you. You seem to have managed everything very well, Mr Beaton.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve joined forces, all the towns have sent their constables. If a thief had a wish to break into a house in Selkirk the day, he’d find nobody to stop him!’ Mr Beaton laughed in appreciation of this sally, flourished his top hat, and set off to keep an eye on his royal charge.

  ‘This is your little girl,’ Archie said. He stooped to bring himself on Heather’s level. ‘Howdedo, Miss Armstrong.’ He put out his hand as if to take hers.

  Heather drew back in alarm. Jenny said, ‘She’s rather shy with strangers.’

  He straightened. ‘I heard you tell Her Majesty that your husband is away.’

  She let the remark pass. She knew very well that he’d been aware of Ronald’s absence ‒ the town talk would have been handed on to him as soon as he dropped in at the Gentlemen’s Club.

  ‘What are you doing after the Queen leaves?’ he inquired.

  ‘Going home.’

  ‘You must let me escort you.’

  ‘No thank you, my carriage is nearby.’

  ‘But I should like to ride ‒’

  Luckily one of the mill owners from Hawick joined them at that moment, absolving her from the need to put him off more forcefully.

  They all walked on, in groups, in the wake of the Queen and her ladies in waiting. They saw Her Majesty sign a special page of the Visitors’ Book, they waited respectfully while she was shown the novelist’s desk and his books and all the other relics. Tea was provided under an awning on the lawn. The band played selections from The Fair Maid of Perth. Deputations from the local industries were allowed to offer presentations ‒ a fine checkered shawl, an ornament of carved ram’s horn, a silver badge with the arms of Sir Walter Scott.

  Heather sat quietly on the druggeted ground by Jenny’s chair, drinking milky tea and nibbling shortbread. The marquee was crowded, but she seemed relatively unconcerned. Jenny felt that this was the greatest event of the day as far as she was concerned. Heather had taken a big step forward.

  Two years and three months had gone by since she came home to Galashiels. Although she was still not the same easy-natured child that had been snatched away, there had been a marked improvement. The nightmares had died away almost completely, although they had resumed for a short time in the spring when Ronald went away ‒ it was almost as if the loss of that presence, grown familiar, had rekindled fears that had been diminishing.

  If only she would join in the activities of other children. Perhaps it was time to try again. There was a small school for young children run by a sister of the minister of Galashiels Parish Church ‒ perhaps she could be tried out in that calm, restrained atmosphere.

  But even as she thought of it, Jenny knew it would be a mistake. Heather never spoke willingly, and never at all to anyone except her mother or Baird. If a stranger, even the kindly Miss McDowell, asked her questions, she would freeze into utter silence. The other children might tease her. Sighing, Jenny put the thought away.

  Signals were being given ‒ the Queen was ready to leave. The visitors lined up to applaud and wave handkerchiefs. To Jenny’s astonishment she heard from somewhere in the region of her elbow a little voice saying, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ as Victoria walked past.

  But that was the last sound out of the child for several days.

  Archie Brunton had been pleased in every way with the day of Queen Victoria’s visit. He had met the Queen herself, which was an honour and let the rest of the world see that he was a gentleman of standing. But, more important, he had at last b
een able to meet and speak a word to Jenny Corvill.

  Or Jenny Armstrong, as he must learn to call her.

  He had seen her from a distance several times since he came home. Once had been at an afternoon lecture in Melrose, once had been at a display of architectural photographs in Torrance House. On one occasion he had actually stood behind a hollybush in the churchyard to take a good look at her as she came out after the service.

  He was astonished to find her still beautiful. Her dark, almost Mediterranean colouring had not changed, and if her face was thinner that only made her dark eyes seem the larger. He calculated she was now just past thirty, when most women were subsiding into mediocrity, having decided there was no need to be too careful of their appearance now a husband was safely landed.

  From what he could gather, Jenny’s marriage had been a disaster. She’d married much beneath her, and the man, Ronald Armstrong, had not proved much of a husband. There was something wrong with the child he gave her, and now he was off ‘to Australia’, which was a façon de parler, he was sure: it meant the man had got tired of the marriage.

  So here she was, alone and presumably lonely, still as attractive as ever and perhaps even more so. There had been a time when her intelligence and ability had scared him. Seen in the setting of a small provincial town, she had been too startling. But travel had broadened Archie’s mind. He had met women in Paris and Vienna who were like Jenny ‒ not businesswomen, of course, but leaders of fashion, hostesses of literary salons, women with whom Jenny could have congregated without feeling out of place.

  He wanted to be friends with Jenny Armstrong ‒ friends at least, and as much more as he could manage. The whole thing could be so extremely simple: she was a woman needing masculine companionship and he was a man more than willing to provide it. Companionship in this instance meant whatever he chose it to mean. The husband was absent, the lady was beautiful ‒ it was a heaven-sent opportunity.

  But though he’d been back for almost two months she had eluded him. He was sure she was doing it on purpose.

  Well, of course, it probably still rankled with her that he had upped stakes and gone to Canada without giving her the slightest warning. In a way, he had jilted her. There had been no official engagement but everyone had taken it for granted that they would be married, so she probably held a grudge against him.