‘Indeed we did, my darling, though I had to fight you every step of the way to let me be part of it. You thought me nothing but a nuisance until I could prove to you both that I could do everything as well as you.’
‘You mean the gate?’ He pushed his plate away, grinning, the splendid trout on it barely touched, leaning forward to gaze admiringly into his wife’s lovely face as he hitched his chair nearer to hers. He had soon given up sitting at the head of the table as Laurel had wished him to do and as was proper for the master of the house, placing his chair next to his wife’s at its foot, declaring he could not shout from one end to the other when he wished to address her.
‘What a devil you were when you took it into your head to best us, which was most of the time. But I really did think, for a moment only, believe me, that that bloody gate would be your undoing.’
‘Drew, please, must you bring such language to my dinner table?’ Laurel raised a fastidious eyebrow.
‘I’m afraid I must, dear sister. If my wife does not object, which I’m sure she doesn’t, do you, my pet? . . . there, you see . . . then I cannot think it concerns you.’
He indicated to Briggs to refill his glass and Laurel sat up straighter, her face even more rigid with disapproval.
‘And if I might just point out, Laurel, whilst we are on the subject, that as mistress of this house, this is my wife’s dinner table.’
‘Drew, be quiet.’
‘No, I will not be quiet, Tessa. I am acquainting Laurel with the fact that she no longer . . .’
‘Drew, how could you?’ Laurel’s eyes filled with tears and in the background where they discreetly hovered Briggs and Dorcas exchanged glances. ‘With Charlie hardly cold in his grave, is it kind to remind me that I must relinquish what has been mine for so long?’
Drew’s eyes narrowed and the slightly cruel humour which he acquired when he was drunk, curled his mouth.
‘Really?’ he drawled, lounging back in his chair, but though he gave the impression of the dashing young man-about-town, cynical, arrogant, carelessly indifferent to anyone’s feelings including his own – for had they not already suffered irreparable damage? – he still clung quite desperately to Tessa’s hand. ‘I cannot recall under what circumstances you undertook to be mistress of Greenacres. My mother, who is the wife of its master, is still alive and now, in her absence and in view of the fact that my father has deeded the property to me, as my wife, Tessa must take my mother’s place.’
‘I will not stay here to be treated so cruelly.’ Laurel rose to her feet, ready to glide from the room as she had done so often since Charlie died and with him the championship which was her due as his wife, and the daughter of this house.
‘Laurel, sit down. Drew did not mean to be cruel and, whatever he might say, you are mistress here. You know you are splendid at it and that I would be hopeless.’ That was true. ‘Besides, I am to be fully occupied with the . . .’
She had not meant to speak of it, really she hadn’t. She had seen the lost expression cloud Drew’s eyes, the uneasy confusion and even worse which came to plague him. It was mixed with bravado which was meant to let her know he could manage very well on his own if she persisted with her lunatic scheme to run the mills, and yet it told her of his awful fear that, if she did, he might lose his way again without her by his side.
‘With what, my sweet?’ His voice was deceptively mild and yet again his glass was held out to Briggs who hurried to refill it. ‘Let us guess. Come on, Laurel, sit down and we will discuss the . . . what is it, darling, that you are to be occupied with? Can it be the charitable works with which married ladies concern themselves, as Laurel herself does, do you not, sister? Or are you to begin making social calls, leaving cards and receiving them, spending your afternoons gossiping about fashion and the perfidy of gentlemen? Are you to accompany your husband as once you did, so pleasantly and with such devotion, or, as I suspect, is it something else entirely?’
Laurel’s tears had vanished, dried up mysteriously at the prospect of not only watching the entertaining diversion of Tessa and Drew quarrelling but of discovering what was to happen to her share of the Chapman fortune. As Charlie’s widow she owned twelve and a half per cent and surely she was entitled to know how soon she could reasonably expect to get her hands on it when the mills were sold, as sold they must certainly be? Drew was incapable of running them as Charlie and her Aunt Jenny had done, not only by reason of the serious instability of his nature which, though always wild and rebellious, had grown to gigantic proportions since Pearce’s death, but by his absolute contempt and antipathy towards anything remotely commercial.
Tessa sighed, wondering why Drew was not able to propel her into the fury which Will Broadbent could awaken in her, nor the hot desire of bodily need, her secret mind slyly added before she could block it. Was the delight of it, the harmony of her marriage, cooled to mere pity and irritation, or were the last few months of frustration to blame for the slight wearing in the fabric of her marriage? The truth of it was she longed, yearned, for someone to whom she could pour out the great wave of her fear and frustration: of her distaste for the days ahead in which somehow she must turn chaos into order, turbulence into the smooth and pleasant life she had once led with Drew. She needed with all her heart to hear someone say, ‘Leave it, Tessa, I will see to it for you. There is no need for you to bother your head about it. It is safe with me. Go and play with your husband who needs you more than the mills need you. He will not be able to function without you to hold his hand and lead him through life, so go, go and leave it all to me.’ She would have liked nothing better than to wink audaciously at Drew, to joke and tease and take him to bed safe in the perfect knowledge that tomorrow they could do as they pleased, as they had always done. Lie on the rug before the bedroom fire and make love until he was satiated with it. Saddle their horses and gallop the moors until they were exhausted with it. Ride over to the Hall and amuse themselves with their friends, watch Drew drink and gamble feverishly until he was ready to come home, to sleep in her arms, safe in her arms, loved and needed, both of them in their shared brittleness. For that was fast what they had become; easily broken, running away from responsibility, spoiled and worthless, impatient with those who had their feet firmly on solid ground – like Will – restless and forever seeking some diversion to relieve them of that mortal affliction, the affliction of boredom.
Or was she firmly to grasp this nettle which scorched her hands, hurt her quite dreadfully, and if she was, if she was to burden herself with it, the question was why?
Will Broadbent’s face danced in the shimmering flame of the candelabra which stood in the centre of the table. He was smiling quizzically, the question in his eyes unreadable. Unreadable! What had been in his eyes and in his mind was as clear as the light from the candles at which she gazed, and she had almost succumbed to it. Dear God, she had almost given in to the lust he had shown so impudently. He had asked her weeks ago to be his mistress and, clearheaded, she had refused. This morning he had tricked her, confused her, got her into his arms before she knew what was happening, his body telling her exactly what it wanted of hers. But he’d not get it. She was Mrs Drew Greenwood who loved her husband, wasn’t she, and Will Broadbent could go to the devil. She despised him and his wild idea of forming . . . what had he said? . . . a company, a board of directors, perhaps taking on a partner who had business and managerial expertise . . . shares, small but shares as an incentive . . . what had he said? . . . with herself as . . . as chairman. She could learn from them and if she learned she would make damn sure they did not cheat her . . .
The chair on which her husband was sitting crashed backwards to the floor and across the table Laurel squeaked in alarm as Drew leaped to his feet.
‘Goddammit, Tessa, what’s come over you, lolling there with your chin in your hand and your mind obviously a million miles away from here? You’ve barely said a word this evening beyond a remark or two about nothing in particular. Do you
know what, Tessa? You have become a bore. Ask yourself when you last made me laugh, or indeed when you yourself smiled at something? You used to be so splendid, always ready for anything, riding with Pearce and me, with Nick and Johnny and the others. They all thought you were the best sport, one of them, and now look at you.’
His voice had become ugly and his eyes were an unnaturally livid blue as he waved his wine-glass towards her, spilling most of the contents on the carpet. At the back of the room Briggs sighed inaudibly for it would not be Master Drew who had the cleaning of it.
‘You look . . . you look . . .’ Her husband searched about in his mind for an insult cutting enough to wound her, as he was wounded by her defection. ‘You look and sound just like a bloody millowner.’
‘Well, that’s what I am, darling. That’s what we both are and if you won’t accept it, then someone must.’ She stood up and smiled, not at all put out, it seemed, by his slashing attack, the invitation in her eyes plain enough for everyone in the room to see and understand. ‘So why don’t we just forget it for tonight? Bring some champagne – see to it, will you, Briggs? – and we’ll have a toast, just you and I in our sitting-room. Come. Have you ever made love to an industrialist, my darling? No, well neither have I,’ they heard her say as she led her suddenly laughing, suddenly dazzled husband across the wide hallway and up the stairs. ‘It shall be a new experience for us both, I’m certain of that.’ And surely, her puzzled heart asked, it would drive the image of Will Broadbent’s smiling face, his warm lips and hands from her mind forever?
26
The young architect, Mr Talbot, accompanied by the builder, Mr Hale, called on her several days later to ask her opinion on one or two alterations to the plans for the new mill. Just small changes, they assured her, but if she was to study them she would see immediately the enormous benefits they would make to the access of raw materials from one department to another, the easy movement of one process to another, the added safety of her operatives and, she would be happy to hear, they would be advantageous to her financially, shaving several hundreds of pounds from the cost.
‘Why were these not thought of months ago when the plans were drawn up?’ she asked sharply.
‘We have had time to . . . to go over them more thoroughly, Mrs Greenwood, in relation to the site which was not cleared when they were first drawn up. And with this latest development we also find we shall be able to begin building at once.’ Mr Hale twisted his tall hat in his hands, his eyes somewhat inclined to look, not at her, but through her.
‘But you said it would be another month at least before you could start the foundations.’
‘Indeed I did, but with some reorganisation it is now possible to dig out the footings at once?’
She was inordinately pleased with herself, taking this latest development as an omen that at last things were about to improve. In fact, almost overnight progress surged forward: the mill was invaded by a positive army of brawny Irish labourers, the footings were dug out, the foundations laid and the walls began to grow with a speed which was nothing short of miraculous; and at home Drew was convinced that it was only a matter of time before she would be his constant companion once more. Indeed, he had been so delighted with her plan to form a ‘company’ of dependable, knowledgeable men to run the mills, he had even promised airily that he might be persuaded to sit on the board with her.
‘Providing I don’t have to go in the spinning or weaving sheds amongst all that infernal machinery, and providing it doesn’t interfere with the hunting season, naturally, I can see no harm in it. Mind you, my darling,’ his old mischievous smile, the merry humour he had been blessed with before Pearce’s death, warmed his handsome face, ‘I cannot promise to understand what they are talking about. Profit and loss was never my strong suit and when it comes to adding one figure to another I am hopeless. I have no head for it, you see, but I’m sure I would recognise it if I was told we had made a profit of a guinea or two. There, that’s a bargain then. I shall accompany you to a . . . what do you call it? . . . a board meeting now and again and you will come with me when there is some excitement at the Hall. My goodness, won’t Mother and Father be delighted with me? Their son in business at last? Now that’s decided, come here and entertain your husband as he deserves. Take off that gown . . . no, no, let me undo the buttons. What a divine creature you are . . .’
And so, in the weeks which slipped from spring and into summer, as the mill walls grew as high as her shoulders, then ever upwards, forming one storey . . . two . . . four . . . six, her life continued pleasantly enough, balanced quite easily, it seemed, now that Drew was prepared to be patient and share a little of her time with the demands of ‘the business’ as he laughingly began to call the forming of Chapman Manufacturing Company Ltd.
It was really quite amazingly simple when you knew the right way to go about it, she found. Her bank manager, Mr Bradley, when approached, declared himself more than willing to suggest several gentlemen of unquestionable reputation who might be prepared to sit on her board, men who knew the cotton trade and the commercial world in general. Naturally, with the inducement of directors’ fees and a chance to purchase some Chapman stock, it could only be in their own best interest to see the five mills prosper. Her lawyer, Mr Dalton, would be delighted to draw up the necessary papers, he said, to ensure that she, her husband and her sister-in-law, and their inheritance, were protected in the most water-tight, legal fashion, the major shareholder in the new company being, naturally, Mr Drew Greenwood himself. In fact, he would be pleased if she would consider himself as the company lawyer to ensure that all the legal aspects of running Chapman Manufacturing Company Ltd were completely safeguarded. She was not to concern herself with the complexity of the insurance which had proved awkward but to leave it all to him.
The new mill was quite splendid, six storeys high, oblong in shape and solid, with thirty windows on each of its two long sides and fifteen at each end. There was a chimney, tall and imposing, with the name CHAPMAN MILL in bricks of a contrasting colour, and the whole building had a most pleasing permanent look. It would be some weeks before the new machinery could be put in but in the meanwhile those operatives who had not found other employment, and even those who had, were alerted to the forthcoming opening of the mill and the reinstatement of their old jobs.
The next day the company’s first board meeting was to be held, but at the bank premises since the brand new board room at the mill would not be ready. Drew had ridden over to the Hall saying ruefully that if he was to be concerned with business tomorrow then he’d better prepare by clearing his head on Longworth Moor with Nicky. She’d smiled to herself reflecting that one would think he was to be involved in the practicalities of running the mill, taking the burden of all that entailed on his own elegant shoulders, instead of spending, as she knew he would, an hour or two yawning at the first and probably the last board meeting he would ever attend.
The meeting was to begin at ten o’clock and as Mr and Mrs Drew Greenwood entered the bank the clock on the tower of the church opposite struck the hour.
‘What on earth does one wear for such an occasion?’ Drew had questioned languidly as she coaxed him from their bed at seven thirty. He had not come home until the early hours of the morning, for the wild riding gentlemen had celebrated the splendour of the day with innumerable bottles of the Squire’s champagne. He had been good humoured then as he sometimes was when he drank, amiable and boyish, but determined, despite his drunkenness, to make love to her. She had submitted to it, unwillingly for the first time since they had become lovers, sensing that it would cause less dissension simply to lie still and allow him his fumbling way. He had fallen into effortless sleep on her shoulder, the deed half done, his naked body heavy on hers, not stirring when she had slid out from beneath him, but the good humour was gone by the morning light.
‘Is it really necessary for me to go with you, Tessa?’ he asked peevishly, his aching head in his hands, his still-naked bod
y appearing curiously defenceless in its shrunken, flaccid state as he crouched on the edge of the bed.
‘I’m afraid it is, darling. You are the largest shareholder.’
‘Christ, what on earth does that mean?’
‘You know what it means, Drew. There will be . . . well, decisions to be made . . .’ she ventured hesitantly, not at all sure herself on the proceedings of a board meeting, so how was she to explain them to Drew?
‘Hell’s teeth, Tessa, I’m in no state to make decisions.’
‘Not decisions exactly. They will . . . plan what is to be done at the mill, the board, I mean, but it is all to be voted on. You and I between us have the major holding . . .’
‘Oh, Jesus, Tessa, don’t go on. Just send Briggs to get me into my things and when I’m dressed I’ll try to drag myself into the carriage. I promised I would come and so I shall but, believe me, this will be the last time. I had no idea such affairs began at dawn. Dear God, why cannot these people conduct their business affairs like gentlemen, at a decent hour of the day? Better yet, could they not have come to the house?’
‘Darling . . .’ Her jaw ached with the necessity to stop the hot words from pouring out of her mouth and all over him. Dear God, she had seen often enough in the past months that if she lost her temper he would lose his, there would be a stormy exchange and he would refuse to come at all. Dammit, if she could arrange it in some way – she must ask Mr Dalton if it was possible – she would find some means so that he need never attend a meeting again. Once a month, Mr Dalton had said, but the chairman of the board, in this case Drew or his agent, must be present. Could she be his agent – what was it called? Her mother had mentioned it in one of her letters . . . proxy, that was it – then she would have no need to trouble Drew with anything beyond putting his signature on whatever papers Mr Bradley and Mr Dalton, the lawyer, presented to her.
Shining Threads Page 42
