A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  She shook herself. Told herself to concentrate on the business in hand. ‘No!’ she said, sharply. ‘I shan't sign this. It's far too much.’

  ‘Is it, Miss?’ The drayman could not read. Perplexed, he scratched his head. ‘Well, Miss Searle, I dunno anything about that. All they says to me is, Mr Hollis was most particular — ’

  ‘I spoke to Mr Hollis last Wednesday. I agreed a price then. That's the amount I expect to pay.’ Rebecca met the drayman's eyes. ‘You may take your load back again. Tell your master that from now on I shall deal Adlam's, instead.’

  ‘Take the stuff back, you say? But, Miss Searle!’ The drayman stared. ‘Look, Miss, I thought — ’

  ‘I would sign anything?’ Rebecca had heard what Mr Hollis thought about a woman running a factory. He gave old Searle's chit of a girl another six months at the outside. ‘Well, I certainly shan't sign this. Good day to you. Mind your horses don't foul my yard.’

  ‘Listen here, Miss Searle.’ The drayman folded his arms. ‘I only delivers the stuff. I don't know anythin’ about prices. But if you want, I'll go back and enquire, like. There might have been a mistake.’

  ‘Mr Hollis knows full well what he's about.’ Rebecca laid down her pen. ‘Take your load away. If your master can get this sort of price from other manufacturers, then he's welcome to sell his goods to them.’

  ‘I could take a message, perhaps.’ It had taken almost twenty minutes to manoeuvre a heavily–laden cart up the steep incline which led to Searle's factory gate, and the drayman was most unwilling to take it back down again. ‘Miss Searle, I'm sure there's been a mistake.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Clicking her tongue in annoyance, Rebecca seized a sheet of paper. Scrawling rapidly, she told Mr Hollis she didn't want his goods. Since the price of pig iron had not increased for at least three months, she saw no reason to double his profit at her manufactory's expense. ‘Take this to your master,’ she said, handing the man the note. ‘If you're not back within the hour, I shall have your load removed. I can't have your cart blocking the entrance to my factory yard all day.’

  Twenty minutes later, the drayman was back. There had been a most unfortunate error. Mr Hollis sent his most sincere apologies. He hoped the happy association with Searle's manufactory would not be dissolved because of a trifling mistake.

  Giving the drayman a shilling, Rebecca sent him on his way. Was this the beginning of the end? If the foundry owners all banded together to conspire against her, to force an upstart female out of business, there would be little she could do about it.

  There'd been remarks and muttering, she knew that. A factory managed by a woman — by a young, unmarried woman at that — was an abomination. Not to be tolerated. Jeremy Searle had not come to dominate the toy trade without making enemies or arousing jealousy. It seemed Rebecca would have to take these enemies on.

  After her mid–day meal and a short rest, Rebecca was back in the factory again. As the afternoon wore on, fatigue and lack of concentration claimed their usual handful of victims. A child cut himself on some swarf. Another, getting some grit in his eye, rubbed until it bled. He had to be taken to the barber–surgeon three streets away. There was a violent argument between two master coppersmiths, and both appealed to Miss Searle for a decision in his favour.

  ‘Please, Miss Searle, might I have an extra boy to work the bellows?’ A harrassed furnaceman appeared between the coppersmiths, pushing them firmly aside. ‘Miss Searle, the big fire's almost out!’

  * * * *

  By evening, Rebecca was exhausted. She was too tired even to think. The problems of factory management had driven all idea of Ellis from her mind. As she sipped her evening chocolate, she felt her eyelids droop. Tonight, she would sleep.

  Yawning, she snuffed her candle. Rubbing her eyes, she climbed into bed. But sleep eluded her. Until the early hours, she merely dozed. Then dreams, as vivid as reality, rendered her hour or so of actual slumber even more disturbing than wakefulness. At five o'clock, heavy eyed and suffering from the most appalling headache, Rebecca finally got up. She sat on the edge of her bed, and sighed.

  She had dreamed of Ellis. Of nothing but him. She had seen his face, heard his voice, and felt his arms around her waist. He had kissed her again and again, his mouth warm on hers.

  Tormented by desire and hating herself because of it, Rebecca washed and dressed. Fastening her laces and tying her apron strings, she was almost in tears of frustration, anger and distress. She was ashamed of herself, disgusted she should be so womanish, foolish and fond.

  Chapter 12

  Some weeks before Ellis made his momentous announcement, Alex had decided he had to get away. Lalage's restless liveliness, which had once seemed so charming, no longer entertained him. Instead, she was wearing him out.

  Lalage had changed. Once so carefree, such a butterfly, she'd been enchanting. Delightfully trivial. Her name meant babbler, or chatterbox, and she had lived up to it. She'd prattled endlessly of new gowns, of holidays abroad, of what she would buy next and what she would do with this latest toy once she got it. Alex had found all this most amusing. Her pleasure in each new possession had also gratified him.

  But nowadays, she did nothing but grumble. She went on and on about money, or rather the lack of it, and she moaned constantly about the shortcomings of her new, somewhat less than efficient servants.

  ‘He is ignorant, coarse and dirty,’ she complained, glaring after the departing footman whose wages she could not afford to pay. ‘As for Sukey — she has no idea of waiting on a lady at all. I'd give her notice tomorrow if Betty could manage by herself.’

  Recalling Madam's airs and graces, her former acquaintance tended to be cool towards her now. When, one afternoon, a formerly cordial neighbour cut her dead, it plunged her into an evil humour which lasted a whole week. Even her much–petted and over–indulged little negro servant suffered now, for she threw her slippers at his head and gave him such a tongue–lashing that poor Caspar was in tears.

  The slights — real or imagined — to which Lalage was subjected in church, at home, while staying with Ellis, began to obsess her. Then again, she wanted a baby. Insisted they must have a child. For Alex, that was the last straw.

  He told her he was going to take a short holiday. He would go up to Derbyshire, which he and Lalage had visited a year or two since. Its wild landscapes, full of rushing torrents, steep precipices and cavernous gorges, had delighted him. Lalage, on the other hand, had hated it. So he felt confident she would want nothing to do with the scheme.

  ‘I thought I'd go to Matlock,’ he told her. ‘I'll hire a guide there and spend a week or so hill–walking. Maybe fit in a little rock–climbing, too. Darling, I know you hate the rain and damp. I don't expect you to come with me. Stay with Ellis, instead.’

  ‘But I'd love to come!’ At the prospect of travel, Lalage brightened visibly. ‘The change will do me good.’

  ‘But darling, it's so late in the year. It will be very cold, and it's bound to be wet. You hate walking. You know you do.’

  ‘I don't mind a gentle stroll.’ Warming even more to the idea of a jaunt, Lalage grinned. ‘Anyway, I can't see you doing much rock–climbing. You might scramble up a few cliffs, I suppose. But I could manage that, too.’

  ‘I intend to stay in lodging houses, you know.’ Dissuasion having failed miserably, Alex now tried lies. ‘I shall be living as cheaply as can be. Taking supper at the coarser type of inn. Eating dinners of bread and cheese.’

  ‘There's no need to stint yourself like that.’ Gaily, Lalage tossed her black ringlets. ‘I'll ask Ellis for a loan,’ she said. ‘No, I'll do better! He asked what I wanted for my birthday. Well, he can pay for this trip.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, Alex! Coarse inns, cheap lodging houses, indeed. They'd be full of fleas and cockroaches. You'd come back absolutely infested. We'll go in style, and comfort.’

  Alex knew when he was beaten. He capitulated with good grace. ‘I didn't think it would appeal to you
, darling,’ he said. ‘But if you want to come, of course I'd love to have your company.’

  On the Wednesday following Ellis's declaration of intent, Alex and Lalage set off. Travelling in Ellis's new carriage, they bowled along merrily. The coach was comfortable, the coachman efficient, and they were gratified to find other vehicles always gave way.

  The weather was unseasonably fine. Although it was cold and sharp, the sun shone. Lalage loved travelling, and was in an excellent humour.

  Arriving in the pretty little town of Ashbourne, Lalage stepped from her equipage and strolled into the best hotel with the air of one conferring inestimable largesse upon this humble place. Taking her for a lady of great wealth and consequence, the owner offered her the best rooms, and told her she must demand anything she wanted. ‘My daughter will be honoured to wait on your ladyship,’ he said. ‘My own private dining room is entirely at your disposal.’

  Soothed, cossetted and made much of, Lalage relaxed. Looking at her, Alex wondered how he could have even considered leaving her behind.

  The following day, the weather was still fine. They set off for Buxton. But soon the road became so rutted and potholed that Lalage was jolted and bumped into a temper as foul as her previous day's mood had been sunny. Thrown against the side of the coach, she fell awkwardly, wrenching her wrist. She began to cry.

  Higher and higher they climbed. Instead of sunshine, here there was low cloud, which obscured all the views and masked the landscape in a damp, chilling mist. On reaching the highest market town in England, Alex and Lalage found a dreary little place indeed, the ambience of which the now persistent drizzle did nothing to improve.

  ‘What a dismal hole,’ observed Lalage. Nursing her sore wrist, she let Alex help her out of the carriage and take her into an hotel.

  Their rooms were cheerless. Damp spotted the walls and mirrors, while mouse droppings speckled the floors and stank out the closets. Lalage shuddered, both from cold and disgust. ‘Do tell them to light a fire!’ she wailed. ‘Can't they hurry with the supper?’

  ‘Will you not walk out for half an hour?’ Anxious to stretch his legs and ease the cramps which sitting in a coach for hours always caused, Alex wanted to investigate the charms of the town. As the newest of English spas, Buxton would surely have something interesting to offer, so he was eager to look around. ‘Lally, please come out for a while. Some fresh air will do you good.’

  ‘Getting soaked to the skin is more likely to finish me off.’ Lalage scowled. ‘I want supper, served in my room, before a decent fire. Then I'm going to bed.’

  Alex went out by himself.

  * * * *

  ‘What a wretched place.’ Eyeing the almost completed Crescent with the severity of one who has seen both the glories of modern Bath and the wonders of ancient Italy, Lalage pursed her lips. ‘Oh, Alex! Does his lordship really expect the fashionable world to flock here?’

  Alex gazed at the elegant stone terrace before him. He shook his head. ‘It's a fine piece of architecture,’ he hazarded, examining the Duke of Devonshire's expensive folly with his own hyper–critical eye. ‘But it hardly rivals Bath.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Lalage turned away. ‘Well now, shall we sample the famous waters? Drink some of the nasty stuff which doubtless comes straight from the gutter in the High Street, but which these charlatans pass off as some magical potion capable of curing all ills?’

  ‘If you wish.’ As anxious as his wife to get out of the persistent rain, Alex let Lalage lead him into the pump room.

  The attendant filled their glasses. Finding the water was warm, Lalage grimaced. She drank a little, made a face, and put down her glass.

  ‘It's excellent for rheumatism.’ The attendant, a neat, respectable–looking woman with a round, honest face innocent of all guile, smiled encouragingly. ‘It's a specific against the gout, too.’

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ Lalage blotted her mouth. ‘Well, my good woman, I suffer from neither. Alex, if you've finished, might we go back outside?’ She glared at three rather damp tourists who had just that moment come in. Shaking their umbrellas, they gave off pungent scents of wet wool, soggy shoe leather and perspiring human being. Lalage drew her skirts close about her. ‘I find it close in here,’ she said.

  * * * *

  They stayed in Buxton for three days. The town, which was admittedly rather dismal in the late autumn downpours, depressed Lalage's spirits extremely. She became thoroughly disagreeable.

  Left to himself, Alex would have made the best of things. The hotel was good enough. There was company available. Had he been alone, he'd have played cards with the other gentlemen and flirted mildly with their wives. He'd have ordered delicate little suppers and eaten them in bed, while he skimmed a new novel or book of verse.

  But, followed everywhere by Lalage's gimlet glare, there could be no flirting. Not understanding even whist, Lalage complained bitterly if he played cards. So, after breakfast on the third day, the Lowells set off again. They travelled first to Bakewell, then went on to Matlock. The truly dreadful road put Lalage into her vilest temper yet. She ignored the wonderful scenery, refusing even to look at the stupendous views over which, the mist having obligingly lifted, Alex exclaimed alone.

  Matlock itself turned out to be a horrible place. Here there were factories, quarries and mills, and a vast industrial wasteland sprawled like a stain across countryside which had once been of great natural beauty. In the streets, Alex and Lalage met cripples and beggars by the score. For, here in Matlock, there was simply no avoiding the sight of people whose twisted or truncated limbs bore witness to the cruelties of the new machine age.

  Each morning, from her hotel window, Lalage watched bedraggled women and children make their weary way along the road, en route to Mr Arkwright's Cromford mill. Taken to visit it, the Lowells found a great, forbidding place reminiscent of an ogre's castle, in which men and women laboured like slaves, in thrall to pitiless machines which never tired, and therefore never stopped. Children as young as seven were employed here — though, it was alleged, on light, easy, pleasant tasks.

  ‘Poor little things.’ Not even remotely interested in the welfare of the lower orders, Lalage was nevertheless very tender towards children. She treated her own little negro servant with a kindness Alex found quite touching, and had been almost tearful when she'd bidden Caspar goodbye, commending him to Sukey's special care.

  Now, she watched Mr Arkwright's infant labourers with concern. She turned to the overseer. ‘Mr Gregory,’ she began, ‘are these children are properly fed? Do they have the chance to get a little education? Do these little workers have time to play, and enjoy the games of which all boys and girls are fond?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Whenever he showed ladies or gentlemen over the new factory, the overseer took care to leave his whip and his frown behind. Now, he smiled broadly. ‘Regular meal–breaks are always allowed. On Saturdays, each child receives at least four hours’ schooling, all at Mr Arkwright's own expense. On Sundays, the children are at liberty the whole day. Then they are as sportive and playful as any in the kingdom.’

  Looking at these children toiling in the cotton mill, Lalage doubted if Sunday was anything but a welcome day of rest for them. These wan, pale, scrawny creatures, one with unmistakeable signs of consumption, another coughing like an old man, looked incapable of the frolicking which the overseer assured her was the rule.

  Suddenly tired, for the atmosphere inside the mill was extremely oppressive and had made her cough, she took Alex's arm and made her way out into the fresh air.

  ‘So that was a manufactory.’ Still coughing, for the tickle in her throat refused to go away — indeed, her lungs felt as if they were stuffed with cotton waste — Lalage inhaled the purer air of the river valley. ‘In other words, a place where little children choke and drudge their wretched lives away. All for the enrichment of a greedy, unscrupulous upstart, who capitalises on their parents’ need.’

  Alex merely shrugged. Lalage glared at him.
‘But I don't doubt the wonderful Miss Searle manages things far more efficiently than Mr Arkwright?’

  ‘I don't believe she employs any children as young as his.’ Alex flicked some cotton fibres from the sleeve of his coat. ‘Ellis says Miss Searle's workmen look very hale. He saw apprentices, but they were great strong lads of twelve or more. They looked far more robust than the average country boy.’

  ‘Did they?’ Again, Lalage coughed. ‘They are no doubt fed upon chicken wings and cream.’

  ‘I don't know about that. But one thing is quite certain. Miss Searle's employees aren't slaves. She doesn't have a real manufactory, either. She merely manages a cluster of workshops, all gathered together for convenience and ease. Miss Searle's men follow the same trades as their fathers and grandfathers, and work in much the same way.’

  He glanced back at Arkwright's new mill. ‘But as for that abomination — now that is something new. In there, men serve machines, not the other way about. Iron and steel are the masters in that place.’

  ‘Whereas Miss Searle's operatives may labour or be idle, just as they choose. Oh Alex, you do talk some stuff!’

  ‘While you deliberately misunderstand me.’ Alex put on his hat. ‘I ordered dinner for two o'clock. So come along. I'm hungry.’

  After they'd dined and rested, their guide took Alex and Lalage high into the hills and showed them yet more peaks, picturesque rocky outcrops and deep, dripping caverns. Alex loved everything. He even admired the vermin, exclaiming delightedly over the squirrels and pine–martens scampering all around. ‘Darling, look!’ he cried, squinting into the distance. ‘Is that a red deer?’

  ‘Where?’ Lalage looked. She saw a huge stag, even bigger and more aggressive–looking than Ellis's prize– winning Hereford bull, staring morosely back at her. She shuddered in distaste. ‘Alex,’ she grumbled, ‘my feet are wet through.’

  ‘Why didn't you wear your boots?’ Properly shod and gaitered for scrambling over rocks and rough ground, Alex shook his head. ‘Those shoes aren't suitable for outdoors, surely?’