Come to Castlemoor

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  He quite obviously had no intention of speaking to me, and I stubbornly refused to speak first. I watched the oak boughs arching above us, some of the branches hanging so low that their leaves almost brushed our heads, and observed the river winding at our side, green-brown, golden threads of sunlight swimming in the water and reflecting radiantly. The river wound in front of us. We crossed a stone bridge and followed the road up a winding, grassy slope with shabby gray and brown houses set far back. I could maintain my silence no longer.

  “Where are you taking me?” I said peevishly.

  “I’m going to the factory,” he said. “As you’re sitting beside me, it would be safe to assume you’re going there too.”

  “I don’t want to go to the factory,” I snapped. “I want to go home.”

  He ignored this completely, clicking the reins and urging the horse to move at a brisker pace. The victoria passed over a bump in the road, and I was thrown against his hard body. I pulled away quickly, moving back to my side of the seat. Rodd seemed not to have noticed the contact. My skirts were flapping up,’ yellow petticoats billowing, and I had to clamp my hands on my knees in order to maintain modesty.

  “I suppose you think I should thank you,” I said hatefully. “I suppose you think if you hadn’t come along when you did—”

  “If I hadn’t come along when I did,” he interrupted me, “you would have been in a pretty mess.”

  “I can handle myself, thank you.”

  “You brought it all on yourself,” he continued, “Parading around like that! Why can’t you wear black and gray? Why can’t you braid your hair and keep it modestly fastened? You strut around like a peacock in your outlandish clothes and expect to go unmolested. This isn’t London, my girl! Around here women know how to conduct themselves. That dress you wore night before last—I’m surprised you haven’t already been raped!”

  “I—I’ve never been so insulted in my life!”

  I was seething with fury, my cheeks bright pink, but, nevertheless, I was perversely flattered by his outrageous remarks. He had noticed, and he had been moved. The cold Burton Rodd was not as immune as he fancied himself to be.

  “If you think for one minute I’m going to dress like the drab mournful women I’ve seen around here—” I began.

  “I think you should be locked up in a convent and kept there until you are old and wrinkled and incapable of causing any more fuss!” he raged.

  “Really, Mr. Rodd, you’re—”

  The carriage jolted over a large rut in the road, throwing me forward. I braced myself against the board to keep from tumbling out. Rodd smiled to himself, and I knew he had deliberately raced the horse over the rut. I sat back, fuming, my arms folded about my waist, skirts billowing up disgracefully. I no longer cared. If he caught glimpses of well-turned ankle and silk-clad calf, so much the better! I stared straight ahead, lips held tightly together, cheeks still burning. Rodd seemed pleased with himself, his shoulders held at a jaunty angle, the smile not yet gone from his lips. I silently wished him all sorts of misfortune, and I knew that if he were able to read my thoughts he would have been delighted with my malice.

  The road wound across a short stretch of open countryside—neat white farmhouse sitting far back against a line of trees, red barn and silo beside it, two fat brown cows grazing in the pasture nearby. A herd of sheep moved up a grassy green slope like a living cloud, the herder trailing behind in leather jacket and wide-brimmed hat. We turned, veering back toward Darkmead, and I could see the factory ahead—great gashes in the red earth, huddles of gray huts along the edge of the pits, large white buildings with black smokestacks rising against a darkening gray sky. Men pushed wheelbarrows up and down the sides of the pits, while others, barechested, moved energetically about the great, smoky kilns.

  Burton Rodd stopped the carriage in front of the huts. He turned to me for the first time since I had climbed up beside him. The ravaged face was lined with irritation, the dark eyes savage.

  “I’m making a tour of inspection,” he said crisply. “I should leave you here in the carriage, but I don’t think that would be wise with all my men around.” He made it sound as though I secretly planned to seduce each and every one of them. “Stay close beside me, do as you’re told, and for God’s sake don’t ask any stupid questions. In fact, it might be a good idea for you to keep your mouth shut altogether!”

  “You hold on!” I cried. “I’ve taken just about enough—”

  He swung lightly out of the carriage, came around to my side, and gave me his hand. I hesitated just an instant, and he almost pulled me down by sheer force. I felt like kicking him sharply across the shin, but men were milling around, openly curious, and I forced myself to maintain a cool, poised reserve. I walked at Rodd’s side as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though I belonged there. The man brought out all my worst instincts, making me feel like a spiteful, scratching schoolgirl, but I was secretly pleased to be here and found the tour quite fascinating, even though it had been forced upon me against my will.

  We stood at the edge of the pits, watching the brawny men pushing the wheelbarrows laden with reddish-brown clay. Rodd inspected the soil, rubbing his fingers over a clod, watching it flake off. He asked several questions, his manner cool and authoritative. The men were plainly intimidated by him, great, muscular chaps with sweat on their brows looking as tongue-tied and awkward as schoolboys under his piercing gaze. One man accidentally dumped a load of clay, and he actually trembled when Rodd glanced at him. Rodd said nothing, but one of the foremen spluttered apologies. We went to the kilns—great blasts of heat, blazing red bellies of flame, brick black with soot. There was an odor of sulfur and acid and scorched flesh. The roar of the huge ovens was so deafening that I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation Rodd had with the foreman there.

  We walked into a long, narrow building with cracked concrete floor and tin roof. Machines clanged loudly, metal pounding on metal, wheels spinning, belts whirring. I had no idea what any of the machines did and was too stubborn to ask. Men stood in front of the machines, grim-faced, intent. They looked strangely dwarfed and inhuman, overshadowed as they were by the steel monsters of industry, and I was reminded of slaves in some curious hell. The place reeked of oil and sweat and unwashed bodies. We moved along the row of machines, Rodd tight-lipped and solemn, his eyes scrutinizing each and every machine. The men ignored him, or tried to, as their job was to concentrate on their machines. Rodd stopped abruptly. He looked up at a belt that was loose and frayed, spinning furiously on its metal wheel. I could see that it was about to break, causing no telling what kind of accident. The poor man who was in charge of that particular machine looked terrified as Rodd pointed to the belt.

  Rodd led me over to a stack of boxes and told me to stand there. Then he called the foreman and went back to the machine. The man who was in charge of it looked on the verge of tears, his seamed, leathery face screwed up in agony. Rodd spoke to the foreman, ignoring the other. He did not shout, nor did he use any violent gestures, but he was a cold, hard instrument of fury. His eyes blazed. The corners of his mouth were white. He looked capable of murder at that moment. The workman turned pale. The foreman turned red. Rodd spoke for five minutes, and then the foreman called another man to run the machine, and the poor fellow whose neglect had caused this tirade took his lunch pail and cap and left the building, his shoulders trembling visibly.

  The man was hanging around the door as we stepped out of the building. With cap in hand, he shambled over to Rodd, his eyes full of entreaty. He must have been forty-five years old, his hair peppered with gray, his tan face lined with a lifetime of defeat.

  “Please, saar,” he stammered. “I’ve a wuvf and three kiddies.…” He laid his hand on Rodd’s arm.

  Rodd stiffened, looking at the man as though he were some kind of vermin. He flung the man’s hand away and moved on sharply, not speaking. I was embarrassed. When we were several yards away, the man shouted a coars
e insult. Rodd gave no indication that he even heard the remark. We walked across a stretch of pavement and around a group of huts.

  “I found that—terribly cruel,” I said, unable to restrain myself.

  “Did you?”

  “You were brutal to that poor man.”

  “Brutal?”

  “Did you have to discharge him just because a belt—”

  “If that belt had broken, the man could have been killed. Several men could have been killed. Each man is supposed to inspect his machine in the morning, see that the parts are in working order, see that no dust or lint or rust has gotten on it. There was no excuse for such carelessness.”

  “Still—”

  “I suggested earlier, Miss Hunt, that you keep your mouth shut. The suggestion is still quite valid.”

  “You can’t push me around like you do those men, Mr. Rodd.”

  “Indeed? Can’t I?”

  “You certainly can’t. I think—”

  “Your opinions are not of the least interest to me, Miss Hunt. Come, I have much more to inspect.”

  We entered a warehouse that smelled of glue and cardboard and excelsior. Rodd talked with a man about shipments to various parts of England, a difficult process because of Darkmead’s relative isolation. I looked at an enormous stack of boxes, watched men moving them on wheeled trolleys. After we left the warehouse we went to the packing room. It sounded like an aviary, as dozens of women chattered at their tables. They wore bright skirts and low-cut blouses, their arms bare, tendrils of damp hair surrounding their flushed faces. The merry babbling stopped as soon as they were aware of Rodd’s presence. One plump middle-aged woman dropped a cup, almost went into hysterics, cut her hand on one of the jagged pieces she tried to scoop up. Rodd spoke to her in a gentle voice, told her to go to the first-aid station for bandages. He seemed far more tolerant with these women than he had been with the men.

  The women ranged in age from late teens to early middle age. I noticed a few of the younger more attractive ones casting sly glances at Rodd at he passed among them. One coy creature pushed her tangled brunette curls away from her face and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Rodd gave no indication that he had noticed, but I saw his eyes narrow just a little as he passed the girl’s table. She nimbly filled a box with excelsior, took up a stack of plates, and began to lay them carefully among the shavings. He paused just an instant, turned his head as though making a mental note. The girl leaned over a bit too artfully, revealed a bit too much cleavage. I wondered just how many of these simpleminded young things found their way to the castle. The man strutted like a pasha moving through a harem! I was disgusted, or at least I tried to tell myself I was. All the women, young and old alike, acted as though it were perfectly natural for me to be there at his side, but I could see they were eager to discuss my presence. What glorious gossip would fill the air when we left!

  The packing room was well lighted, with long windows thrown open to admit sunshine and fresh air. I knew that before Rodd had taken over the factory, the conditions had been wretched, the women working in dim, crowded sheds that reeked of sweat and urine and had no ventilation whatsoever. He had introduced many improvements, such as the first-aid station, had done much to make working conditions more pleasant. He was hard and domineering in his demands and frequently brutal in his dealings, as I had witnessed, but I imagined his factory was as modern and well run as any in England. I had to admire him for that, however grudgingly the admiration might be given.

  As we were leaving the packing room and walking toward the offices, I saw a man approaching us. Without question, he was a colleague of the two men I had seen in town. He had a hard, coarse face and black hair cut very close to the skull. He wore a tight brown suit and garish red tie and carried a small brown bag. Rodd seemed to be a little upset at seeing the man here. He told me to wait where I was and moved forward to intercept the man before he could reach us. They talked in low voices, out of my hearing range. The man seemed impatient. He doubled up his fist and frowned. Rodd, looking extremely irritated, spoke through tight lips that barely moved as he spoke. The man finally walked off, and Rodd came back to escort me up to the offices.

  “Who are those men?” I asked as we went up the steps.

  “Surveyors, I believe.”

  “There’s an awful lot of talk about them in town. People say they’re up to no good. They—they don’t look like surveyors. They look like hired thugs! And why should so many of them come all at once?”

  “You needn’t worry about them,” he replied crisply, holding the door open for me.

  “You have dealings with them?”

  “Perhaps. It’s no concern of yours.”

  “I find it peculiar that—”

  “I find it infuriating that you ask so many questions, Miss Hunt! Can you keep that mouth shut while I go over the books, or must I put a gag in it? Believe me, I’m tempted to do just that!”

  We passed through a large, airy room where several clerks worked meekly at cluttered desks and went into a smaller room with faded green carpet, huge mahogany desk, and shelves crammed with dusty, yellowing ledgers. I stood at the window, holding back the green-and-white-striped curtains and looking out over the yard while Rodd discussed finances with one of the men who had followed us into the room. He examined ledgers, scribbled figures on a yellow pad, asked to see invoices, gave instructions. After thirty minutes, the man left, closing the door behind him. Burton Rodd and I were alone in the small, crowded room that smelled of ink and old leather. I was suddenly nervous as he looked at me with hooded eyes, his fingers drumming on the desk top. He left his chair and moved to the ugly black safe standing against one wall. He opened it, took out a dusty green box, and set the box on the desk.

  “All right, Miss Hunt,” he said. “Shall we get down to business? I had an ulterior motive in bringing you here, I’ll admit. I wanted to talk to you, settle things.”

  “Settle things?”

  He nodded, opening the green box. He took out neat stacks of money, each stack fastened with a brown-paper band.

  “Right,” he said tersely. “How much do you want for Dower House? I want immediate possession, and I’m willing to pay dearly. Name your price, and let’s get this over with.”

  He began to pile the stacks of money on the desk. There was something absurdly melodramatic about the way he slapped one stack on top of another. He was brisk and determined. I stood by the curtains, silent. He finished piling the money up and turned around slowly in the swivel chair, looking up at me. He slumped a little in the chair, the material of his brown-and-black-checked jacket bunching at the shoulders. I had an insane impulse to straighten that crooked tie and brush that unruly lock of grizzled hair off his forehead. He was fidgeting, his hands on his knees. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. A long minute passed.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Why are you so eager to get rid of me, Mr. Rodd? Why do you want me to leave Castlemoor? I don’t understand it.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” he snapped impatiently. “I merely expect you to take the money and go!”

  “First you get your mother to try to bribe me—”

  “That was a mistake. I admit it.”

  “—and now you offer me an enormous sum of money, all for a house no one would buy until my brother came along.”

  “It’s getting late, Miss Hunt. Ordinarily, I’m a patient man, but—”

  “Why? That’s what I want to know. It—it has something to do with those men, doesn’t it? The seven men who arrived in Darkmead two days ago? I don’t know why I should think that, but I’m sure there’s some … kind of connection …”

  Burton Rodd stood up. His cheekbones were ashen, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He looked surprised, then alarmed, and finally he mastered whatever emotions he was feeling and looked at me with a cold, impassive expression. He was standing perhaps five feet away. As he came closer, I stepped back and
found myself against the wall. Rodd moved slowly toward me, until his face was but inches from my own.

  “What do you know about that?” he asked quietly.

  “It was a guess. I—I was right, wasn’t I? There is a connection.”

  “There could be.”

  “What is it all about?”

  “You must leave the house, leave Castlemoor.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “I told you before—I always get my way.”

  I shook my head slowly from side to side, unable to speak, hypnotized by those dark, burning eyes. I noticed the little pouches under them, the skin light brown, stained with mauve, as though bruised. I noticed the way his nose twisted to one side beneath the slight hump. I saw the tiny lines at the corners of his wide mouth. I was unable to look away. I could feel his breath on my cheek and smell the odor of tobacco and harsh soap. He put his palms flat against the wall on either side of me, making me a prisoner. I wanted to cry, and it seemed all my will had gone. I felt weak, at his mercy.

  “You’re causing me an awful lot of trouble,” he said gently. The muscles in his throat moved when he spoke. The heavy lids drooped sleepily over his eyes. “Take the money,” he said, the silky, rasping voice almost crooning. One hand moved to my chin, the long fingers cupping around it.

  “Why—why do you want me to go?” I whispered.