Shining Threads

by Audrey Howard

She was on the top road which led from Longworth Hall to Crossfold and Greenacres when he rose from the flat stone on which he had been sitting. It seemed right, somehow, as though everything had been moving towards this moment: the frustration of yesterday, the cutting of her hair as an act of bravado which had been a statement of some pressure within her; the dream-like quality of today, leading up to her meeting with this man who had trembled on the edge of her conscious thought ever since she had opposed him in the mill yard.

  She reined in her mare, ready to smile, the afternoon, though drawing in towards nightfall, brighter suddenly. She had her back to the lowering sun which shone directly into his eyes and she could see the expression in them, warm, glad, she knew, to see her, as she was to see him.

  ‘Miss Harrison.’ His uncompromising jaw which told the rest of the world of Will Broadbent’s intention to succeed, to get on with his life in whichever way it took his fancy, softened for her. She felt herself become disentangled from the complexities which seemed to beset her, and life slowed down and simplified to this moment, to this quiet stretch of moorland and she knew he made it so. She sat for several long, tension-free seconds, looking at him, at the understanding he had of her which showed in his quiet smile, glancing away smilingly, then back at him, recognising that there was no need for haste nor impatience.

  ‘Will you not get down?’

  ‘I think I might.’

  ‘I hesitate to help you.’ He grinned, absurdly pleased with himself for some reason which seemed not to matter in the lingering end of this lovely day, though she guessed it had something to do with her.

  ‘Perhaps I might not mind today.’

  ‘Miss Harrison! I can hardly believe my ears. Have you lost your senses?’ He was still smiling and warm. ‘Where is the independent young lady who needs assistance from no man, or so she told me?’

  ‘I . . . I found that to be untrue, Mr Broadbent, if you remember . . . ?’ Both their faces darkened suddenly as they were reminded of her encounter with the tinkers from which he had saved her. She still woke in the night, her body drenched in sweat, crawling with the memory of those filthy hands, the rank stench of unwashed bodies and decaying teeth in her dreaming nostrils. Only the deliberate bringing back of this man’s controlled strength which he had shown her twice now, could dissolve the nightmare.

  The quiet, almost tender moment shattered and his face closed up.

  ‘Aye, I remember it and it occurs to me you made me a promise on that day. Have you no concern for your own safety, girl? At least when you came over to Annie’s you had the sense to bring your dogs but now I find you riding hell for leather along a lonely track which no sane woman would attempt. Have you no sense at all?’

  ‘Apparently not, Mr Broadbent,’ she began, ready to smile, to soothe his sudden irritation with an unusual apology, a warm glance, a reference to Drew and Pearce who could not be far behind her. But the image of her as he had seen her then, fragile, defenceless, made him harsh in his fear for her, careless of the lovely moment they had just created.

  ‘You did not mean to keep your promise then?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but . . .’

  ‘Then why are you here completely alone, with no one, not even those dogs to protect you?’

  ‘If you will allow me to speak . . .’

  ‘To make further promises which you have no intention of keeping?’

  ‘No, I would just like to . . .’

  ‘You are like a child who must be forever watched . . .’

  ‘Dear God!’ She was as maddened as he now without really knowing why. The strange sense of unhurried tranquillity, the smiling calm he had instilled in her had gone and she felt her resentment rise sharply to swamp her previous pleasure. What right had he to tell her where she might or might not go, and with whom. She was at liberty to please herself how she went about, her haughty expression said. To tell the truth, in the excitement of the last twenty-four hours she had given no thought to the danger which could stalk these moors and which recently she had been careful of. She had expected to ride home with Drew and Pearce, later on, much later on, and it was only her own curious unease which had brought her home early.

  But that had nothing to do with Will Broadbent. Just because he had rescued her from those Irish tinkers – whom she had now convinced herself she could have dealt with on her own anyway – he imagined he owned her. Well, he didn’t and she would tell him so. Sensing her anger, her mare began to move restlessly, stepping sideways in a circle round the standing man until the sun which had been at Tessa’s back now fell on her face.

  ‘I would be obliged if you would get out of my way,’ she said, high-toned as any of those with whom she had hunted that day. ‘You are making my mare nervous,’ which was not true. ‘I cannot imagine what you can be doing hanging about on this path like some wandering vagrant . . .’ Her voice, which had been loud and defiant died away slowly as the expression of ill-humour on his face drained away and the corners of his mouth twitched. His whole manner altered miraculously. His eyes became warm again and alive with amusement and his mouth stretched in a wide smile over his white teeth.

  ‘What the devil have you been doing to yourself, lass?’ he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘My God, if there was another girl like you in the whole wide world I’d eat me damned cap. Peak an’ all.’

  For a moment she felt her anger dissipate and pleasure moved in her again for she took his words as a compliment. But he had not done yet. ‘If you were mine I’d take a strap to you for you’re surely the most contrary female in Christendom. There must be a thousand women in Lancashire primping and preening with the curling irons, or whatever it is you women do in an effort to catch the eye of us men, and they would all, like as not, give their souls for hair such as you had. But you! You have to throw it away like some unwanted . . .’

  ‘It was unwanted and is none of your business besides,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Dear God,’ his eyes had lost their glow, ‘d’you think I’m not aware of that?’

  ‘Then why is it that every time we meet you find it necessary to threaten me with a thrashing and spend all your time lecturing me on how foolish I am?’

  His voice snapped in exasperation and he made a sudden movement towards her mare, catching the bridle and bringing the animal to a halt. He was breathing hard and his face had darkened.

  ‘Because that is the feeling you arouse in me with that capricious and flighty manner you have. And the careless way you put yourself in danger. And for God’s sake get down off that damned animal: I’ve a crick in me neck from looking up at you.’

  ‘Again I say what I do does not concern you and no, I will not get down. I am on my way home so let go of that bridle before I am forced to lay my crop about you.’

  He sighed and stepped away. His face was without expression now, the warmth and laughter she always seemed to have the power of inspiring in him, emptying from him.

  ‘You’re right, it’s nowt to do wi’ me so I’ll move on and you can do the same, Miss Harrison.’

  He watched her turn, ready to guide her mare away, her head, so strangely defenceless in its short, close-fitting cap of tumbled waves, held in high disdain. He was struck by the way the loss of her hair, which was said to be a woman’s crowning glory, had made her somehow more and not less feminine and the words were out before he stopped to think about them, or the effect they were to have on his life.

  ‘It suits you like that. I don’t know why it should, but it does.’

  ‘Your approval is of no concern to me, Will Broadbent. I’m sure you know that?’ Her lip curled disdainfully but she did not move on.

  ‘Indeed I do, Miss Harrison. You don’t give a damn what anyone thinks, or so you keep telling me and who am I to argue?’ His mouth began to twitch again and she looked at him suspiciously, not at all sure whether to be offended again. He smiled as his eyes went to her hair, but they admired it now, and her, and she was somewhat mollified.


  ‘Well, then,’ she said, not quite sure what she meant by it.

  ‘Come on, get down and let me look at you properly. I’m certain there must be some quite fascinating explanation on how it came about and, really, I can’t wait to hear it.’

  ‘If you’re going to make fun . . .’

  ‘No, really. I would like to know how you persuaded your mother, who must be a remarkable lady, to let you have it cut, and besides, we cannot be at each other’s throats every time we meet. I thought we were to be friends when we were at Annie’s . . . No, no . . .’ He stood back, his hands uplifted in a placatory manner, his grin broadening, ‘. . . I’m not going to lecture you, really. If you are intent on risking yourself . . .’

  ‘Mr Broadbent . . .’ Her voice had a warning in it, but she swung her leg over her mare’s rump; then, fastening the bridle to a clump of gorse, she moved to stand beside him, looking out over the darkening valley.

  There was a mist coming off the river, tinged a soft rose pink by the last of the sun’s rays, and further along the valley bottom was the dark smudge which was Crossfold. Lights pricked the smudge but up here they were still in full daylight. They had moved together, sauntering towards the flat rock on which he had previously been squatting, lowering themselves into the same sitting position with their arms about their drawn-up knees. Neither spoke as they allowed the soft-hued ease of mind which Will Broadbent seemed to generate, to slip comfortably over them again. It was satisfying, tranquil, with no need of words to fill the silence and yet they were both aware, Will more than Tessa, that there was more to it than that. He acknowledged her as she was, awkward, stubborn, wilful, and did not judge her nor condemn her, for he understood her striving nature which in many ways was like his own. And sensing his understanding and acceptance she was untroubled, with no need of the defiance she showed to others. She could be herself, perhaps the self no one had ever seen before, allowing the friction with which she challenged life to be gladly set to one side.

  ‘I really do take the dogs with me when I ride out alone, Mr Broadbent, and having seen them that day at Annie’s you must realise that I am quite safe with them. But today, though I set out with my cousins I decided to come home early. We had been with the hunt . . .’

  ‘So I see by the blood on your face.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘’Tis a cruel sport, lass, and the custom of rubbing the brush of the poor little beggar on your face . . . well, it’s what I would call barbaric.’

  She bristled and he put a hand on her arm. ‘Nay, don’t let’s start again. See, wipe that mark off your cheek . . .’ He pulled a clean white square from his pocket but instead of handing it to her he turned her face towards him with a big, gentle hand and rubbed at the dried blood which had turned a rusty brown on the smooth skin of her cheek. It was stubborn and he clicked his tongue, his eyes engrossed with his task. She watched his face with an odd breathlessness and a feeling of expectancy, her eyes bemused, and as he felt her gaze on him his breath shortened. He cleared his throat.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to want to come off.’ He tried to sound casual. The hand which held her chin trembled.

  ‘Try a bit of spit.’ Her voice was soft and there was a quiver in it and he knew he must be very careful with her. She was a woman, but yet a child: innocent and trusting with him, but not, he was sure, ignorant. She was of an age when most girls were thinking of marriage, but still a child and he must be careful.

  He made his voice merry though the effort was great.

  ‘A bit of spit! Miss Harrison, whatever next?’ She smiled then put out her tongue and when he had rubbed his handkerchief across its pink moistness, he carefully cleaned off the offending stain, not meeting those incredible eyes which were looking so earnestly into his.

  ‘What do you do on your day off?’ she asked him presently and though he had resumed his contemplation of the shadowy valley he was aware that she was still studying him.

  ‘Nowt, really. I walk across the hills if I feel like it or go to political meetings, but there’s not a lot to do in these parts when the mill’s closed. There’s talk of forming a football team in the mill but they’ll not want me in it since I’ve never played the game in me life and I’m too old to start now.’

  ‘How old are you, Mr Broadbent?’

  He turned to smile at her and watched the corners of her mouth lift in answer to his. ‘I must be twenty-eight or nine, I suppose.’

  ‘Really!’ and her sixteen-year-old face conveyed pity. ‘What else do you do?’

  ‘Sometimes I take the train to Manchester and then in the summer there’s the fairs. I read a lot but more often than not after I’ve been in the mill all week I feel the need to get out and let the wind blow in me face and even the rain . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ He turned to her in surprise for though she was a forthright, independent and, some said, entirely too free a young lady for her own good, he had not realised that she shared his own deep attachment to this bleak environment which was their heritage.

  ‘Indeed. I can think of nowhere I would rather be.’ As she spoke she felt a sense of surprise for she could clearly hear her own voice, accompanied by those of Drew and Pearce, bemoaning the fact that they were forced to remain here, tied to the family inheritance. It really was amazing. What was it about this man which brought out something in her which she had not even known was there? That made her say things which were sometimes insolent, disdainful, mocking as only she could be and the next moment seduce her into a state of well-being in which she brought forth statements she had certainly not meant to make, nor even knew she had believed? And yet she did love this high patch of Lancashire despite her constant reiteration to Drew and Pearce that she wanted only to get away with them to some magical world which she had convinced herself existed beyond it.

  She turned to look at him, a large and personable man, smiling, his expression steady, interested, humorous, concerned with what she had to say and finding it worthwhile. ‘But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to travel, to see some of the world beyond the Penfold Valley, as long as I could come home to it.’ As she spoke she knew that what she said was the truth though she had not been aware of it. Her voice had become somewhat defiant again, irritated with herself for allowing him to glimpse a part of her which was not really meant to be seen.

  ‘No indeed.’ His voice was grave.

  ‘Don’t smile, Mr Broadbent.’

  ‘I’m not smiling, lass, but do you think you could bring yourself to call me Will?’

  The fire had been built up, the logs crackling and fragrant, the flames glowing into the high ceiling and casting shadows on the rich rosewood panelling as she entered the hallway. It was quiet and deserted, warm, secure and so . . . so homely she felt her heart wrench and she stopped, one foot on the bottom tread of the stairs.

  She turned and looked about her, studying this home of hers which she had never before really noticed. A hundred hundred times she had raced up and down these stairs; skated along the tiled floor in pursuit of, or pursued by her cousins. She had laughed and cried, screamed in temper and skipped for joy. She had toasted marshmallows in the flames of the fire, sat on a stool and dreamed into it, played all manner of games and tricks and all the time the house had been here, as steadfast and reliable as . . . as Will – now why had she thought that, she wondered, confused – or her mother, always here when she really needed her. As safe as houses, that was what they said, and that was exactly what she felt here. She always protested that she didn’t want to be safe, but she realised in that moment, perhaps just for that moment, that everyone needed a place, or a person, in whom they felt secure. There had always been this house and her mother!

  And tonight she knew she was going to distress her mother, take from her the pleasure her brother’s visit brought her just as surely as if she were to strike her full in the face. And all for a childish whim. No more. That was what it had been, an impul
sive, infantile caprice which was not worthy of her mother’s daughter. Her mother would be upset, she knew full well she would when she saw the state of her hair; she had known full well when she had allowed Drew to cut it, but it had not stopped her.

  And that was what had taken the lovely glow, the excitement of the day from her when the hunt was finished, that and the unspoken regret in Will Broadbent. Though he might tell her she looked well with her hair shorn like a ragamuffin – and perhaps she did, perhaps it suited her in its strangeness – but she had sensed that he deplored the loss of the long, shining splendour of the hair which she had discarded so lightly last night. As her mother would. No doubt Drew and Pearce would be back soon for not even they would dare risk their father’s displeasure should they not be home for dinner. Drew would defend her, try to take the blame; he would say he had encouraged her, own up to his share in the horror for it had been his hand which had held the scissors.

  She could hear Uncle Joss’s laughter in the drawing-room. It was almost dark. They would be having sherry perhaps, Charlie and Laurel, her mother, Aunt Kit and Uncle Joss, her family, before going upstairs to bathe and change for dinner. The mills would have closed at six the night before, the boilers not to be fired up until five tomorrow morning, Monday. She and her cousins had been invited to ride to hounds any day they pleased now that the season had begun and she had heard Drew promise carelessly, thoughtlessly – since when would Uncle Joss allow his sons to hunt on a working day? – that they would all be at the Hall tomorrow. Between then and now she must try . . . try to explain – was there an explanation? – to her mother; make an effort to clarify . . . well, demonstrate to her mother why – was there a logical reason? – she had acted as she had. To say she was sorry. That she hadn’t given it any real thought. That she hadn’t really cared, at the time. To plead with her mother to understand.

  In that moment Tessa Harrison began the difficult process of growing up. For the first time in her young life she felt compassion for someone, an adult, not a sickly kitten or an orphaned puppy or a rabbit caught in a trap, as children do, but a person who, by her action would be wounded. Somehow she must let that person know that she was sorry; not sorry that her hair was cut short, but that the cutting of it should cause her mother distress. And now was as good a time as any to begin. She knew quite positively that this remorse on another person’s behalf would not last, that it was not in her to bend her will to another’s, to put the wishes of someone else before her own, to curb the wilful need to get away from the restrictions her sex, her age and her class put upon her, but right now she was experiencing these emotions and she must do what her often-stormy heart told her before she changed her mind.