CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Audrey Reimann
Title Page
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Copyright
About the Book
Oliver Wainwright is still a boy when he first sets eyes on the fair, delicate Florence – the aristocratic granddaughter of Sir Philip Oldfield. And, determined never to be a servant or follow in his father’s footsteps as a quarry worker on the Oldfield estate, he runs away to Middlefield, that very day.
Slowly but surely, he sets about becoming a man of property and a cotton industry king. He works single-mindedly to achieve his ambition – until he meets Rosie, a married mill hand who distracts him with her dark, warm beauty. Has Oliver finally found what he really wanted all along?
Set against a background of the Lancashire/Cheshire cotton industry, The Runaway is a magnificent saga of a young man’s rise to power, his passion and poverty, feuds and triumphs and the two very different women who shape his life.
About the Author
Audrey Reimann was brought up in Macclesfield where she was educated at the Macclesfield Grammar School for Girls. She and her husband now live in East Lothian.
Audrey has three children and is the proud grandmother of ten, and has been variously a bank clerk, a nurse, a teacher, and a foster mother to twenty-five. But, above all, Audrey is a storyteller. Recently, on Anne Robinson’s BBC Two programme ‘My Life in Books’, comedian Sarah Millican named Audrey’s novel Flora’s War as one of her favourite books, saying: ‘This is a book that will make you laugh and make you cry.’
Also by Audrey Reimann
Flora’s War
PART ONE
A Fortunate Young Man
1875
Chapter One
It was the hottest day of a hot summer in 1875 and the ornamental lake in front of Suttonford House, one of the finest country houses in Cheshire, was as smooth as a sheet of glass in the midday August heat.
Sixteen-year-old Oliver Wainwright crawled through the hedge from the top field where the reapers worked and ran silently down the grassy slope to the water’s edge at the far side of the lake.
He took cover behind a laurel bush near the reeds and lay looking down at the torn trousers and shapeless singlet, grey with age and careless washing, which barely covered his broad body. He was tall, over six feet, with black curly hair, startling blue eyes and a body grown strong and lithe from three years’ work on the Suttonford estate.
His heart was no longer hammering with excitement and he began to roll up the ragged brown trousers while his eyes scanned the lake. There was a mallard, a little way out from the others, sliding over the smooth water, its metallic green feathers shining in the sun. Oliver felt in his pocket for the home-made catapult of hazel wood, slipped his feet quietly into the shallow water and narrowed his eyes in concentration.
He pulled silently on the leather sling, straining the rubber thongs to their tightest, letting the lead ball go whistling through the still air to crack into the skull of the unwary drake. The bird toppled sideways; so quick was its death that the reflex flutter of wings hardly disturbed the ducks that rooted in the shallow water at the lake’s edge.
The soft, grey mud oozed between Oliver’s bare toes as he waded out towards the mallard where it floated in deeper water. He would not be seen from the house. They would all be too busy preparing for this afternoon’s garden party to worry about a duck.
‘There he is!’
‘Wainwright!’
Oliver turned sharply and saw Wilf Leach and one of the labourers running, crashing down the slope from the high wheat field. He could see the rage on Wilf’s ugly face as the big man grunted, swore and stumbled, red-faced towards him.
‘Get ’im! Hold ’im till I get there,’ Wilf roared at the younger man. ‘I’ll teach ’im! He’s been asking for a thrashing for weeks.’
Oliver dived smoothly into the green water, pushed his kill down the front of his singlet and struck out for the centre of the lake. Wilf Leach wouldn’t come into the water after him, not after all the beer he’d drunk. Wilf must have seen him sneak away from the other field workers.
He pulled away from the lakeside swiftly until he was out of range of the sticks he heard dropping into the water behind him. Then he turned to look.
The two men were at the water’s edge, shaking their fists and shouting. He couldn’t hear them for the water in his ears but he knew that they’d hear him, all right. He put a hand up to his mouth to make his voice carry back to them.
‘It’ll take more than you, Wilf Leach, to thrash me! You may be going to marry Dolly, but I’ll not obey you. You drunken animal!’
His heart was thumping, with anger more than effort, and he swam faster, towards the little island, which was off centre of the long, oval stretch of water. The island was twenty yards from the wide sweep of lawn, which ran down to the lake from Suttonford House. There was a wooden duck-house on the island, where the birds nested, and low trees for their roosting. He’d stay there until Will went back to the field.
Oliver swam until he could feel the muddy lake bed under his hands. He kept low in the water, crawled ashore and lay face down in the long grass. There was nobody to be seen on the lawn, though nearer the house he saw servants setting out painted iron tables and chairs under the elms and cypresses that flanked the three-storey limestone mansion of the Oldfield family. An open-sided marquee had been put up on the close-cut grass but it, the musicians’ stands and the folding metal seats were unoccupied.
Dolly, his stepmother, would be busy in the kitchen at the big house until four o’clock so she’d not hear about his theft of the duck until Wilf came to their house tonight. Oliver rolled on to his back and closed his eyes against the hot sun.
He’d run away tonight. His mind had been made up for weeks. Dolly had set her cap for Wilf Leach, the crude, coarse farm manager Oliver hated. She didn’t need him any longer. His only regret was for leaving Tommy, the eleven-year-old half-brother he loved. He’d speak to Tommy later and tell him not to be afraid. Dolly would protect her own son from Wilf’s drunken rages.
Oliver had never called her ‘Mother’ though she was the only mother he’d ever known. His father had found Dolly in the nearby town of Middlefield at the end of a day’s frantic search for a wet nurse and foster mother for Oliver, whose own mother had died in childbirth.
Dolly had been fourteen then and her own bastard child still-born. Oliver learned to call her Dolly, as his father did, and it was too late to learn another name when his father married her, the year before Tommy was born.
In front of the house, ladies in bustled dresses, holding silk parasols to protect their complexions from the sun, were parading the wide sweep of lawn. Top-hatted men strolled with them or gathered in groups, drinking fruit cup. Oliver could clearly see one man lacing his with brandy from a flask. Their voices were raised to a certain pitch of refined excitement as they greeted Sir Philip and Lady Camilla Oldfield.
Oliver remembered Dolly telling them that Sir Philip’s daughter, Laura Mawdesley, and her daughter, Florence, would be there. Florence’s father had been killed a year ago, Dolly said, and they were coming back from London. Sir Philip was giving them a house in Middlefield. Dolly knew all about them.
Oliver accused her of kowtowing to them all the time. ‘We’re as good as them,’ he told her. ‘You don’t have to talk about ’em as if they’re bloody gods.’ Oliver wouldn’t kowtow to them. No, he’d never do that. His dad had never kowtowed, only been respectful. Well he’d not even be respectful, Oliver vowed. All the same, he wondered which one was Sir Philip’s granddaughter, Florence.
There were four young girls at the water’s edge, all unaware that they were being watched. One of them, the one he thought was the prettiest, turned round and, for a full minute, looked directly towards him. Oliver thought she had seen him but she turned away, her gold hair swinging lazily across slight shoulders that were alabaster white against her dress of pale yellow silk. He had never seen a girl as pretty as she was and he could have lain there all afternoon, watching her.
But he had to get away, unseen. Now that she’d looked away he’d crawl round to the other side of the island, drop into the water and swim for the far bank. Then he’d pull himself out of the water further down, under the overhanging trees at the water’s edge, where the lake ended and the water funnelled over a weir, once again the river Hollin that fed the lake.
Florence had seen him. A dark-haired boy looked right into her eyes from where he lay on the island. He must be one of her grandfather’s workers, hiding from his overseer.
She turned her head slowly so that he’d think she hadn’t seen him. There was something arresting in the youthful arrogance of his strong features. She pretended to look into the distance so she’d not have to acknowledge his presence, but she saw him slide, long and sinewy into the water, and pull strongly across the lake with powerful arms. It made her feel like a conspirator, letting him go unchallenged.
She was troubled and a little ashamed of the thrill she’d felt at seeing, for the very first time, a young boy – no, he was assuredly a man – wearing so little. For in truth she had only once seen the unclothed body of another living soul and that had been a babe-in-arms.
She had seen statues, of course, in Paris and Rome; they had been informative. Once, when she’d disobeyed Mama and ventured into the servants’ quarters in their London house she’d chanced on a group of housemaids admiring a naked baby that a disgraced servant girl who had come to beg for food had brought to the back kitchen door. Florence had insisted that the house staff fill the girl’s bag with good food and she’d held the wriggling baby and tried to wrap him in his holey old shawl until the girl took him away.
She recovered her composure. ‘Shall we go back to the marquee?’ she asked her companions. ‘Our mamas will be looking for us.’
Her voice, low-pitched yet clear, had not a trace of the north-country tones that touched the edges of the other girls’ speech and it drew their attention at once.
‘Do you think you will enjoy living in Cheshire?’ The dark-haired girl whose name, Florence remembered, was Sylvia, spoke first as they crossed the lawn towards the gathering. ‘Middlefield may seem small and dull after London society.’
‘I saw very little of London society,’ Florence told her. ‘I’m only just out of the schoolroom. I shall enjoy living in Middlefield.’
Her natural gaiety and her eagerness to be liked by the girls who were to be her daily company made her reply with a little less than the truth. ‘Indeed, I’m glad to leave the capital – and Mama’s tiresome old friends.’
The Bell-Cooper girls giggled at this and Florence added hastily, ‘What I mean is that they simply took no pleasure in anything.’
They had reached the tables where Mama, with a slight frown on her face, stood with Grandfather Oldfield and Uncle Bill. Mama’s hand lifted: the signal that Florence was to go to her.
‘There’s Mama.’ Florence raised her own hand almost imperceptibly in reply. ‘I must join her. Shall we meet later?’ She touched her new friends’ hands in a delicate gesture of goodwill, which she hoped was neither too mannered nor too haughty. ‘Let us sit together after tea.’
One of her faults, she well knew, was a tendency to ‘climb the high horse’ as her old nanny used to say. The other fault, she suspected, was a fierce determination to have her own way. On the good side she knew herself to be sensitive in the extreme to the feelings of others and aware at all times of the need to treat everyone with the utmost good manners. She simply couldn’t bear to see anyone reduced to embarrassment or tears and often went to her room to weep when Mama turned cold contempt upon a servant, or a social inferior.
It was difficult, learning to be a lady when her impulses were to laugh out loud when amused or, as had happened only a few minutes ago, to stare rudely at a ragged, half-naked young man.
‘Well, Florence? How do you like your new friends?’ Uncle Bill’s eyes twinkled, blue and lively under his bushy white eyebrows. ‘Ye’ll no be lonely. Eh, lassie?’
Florence laughed out loud. ‘I’ll no be lonely. Och aye,’ she teased, trying to imitate Uncle Bill’s deep Scottish accent.
She saw Grandfather flinch. Was it her laughter and mimicry that displeased him? Or was it Uncle Bill’s presence? Sir Philip had never forgiven Uncle Bill for having no background. Mama had explained; Uncle Bill was rich, yes. But his money was made in the cotton mills of Middlefield. His money was from trade. Most of all, Florence knew, Uncle Bill had never been forgiven for running away with Grandmother’s sister Lucy and marrying her when she was just sixteen.
Aunt Lucy and Grandmother were coming towards them now. Florence saw Uncle Bill’s face break into a huge smile at their approach; saw Aunt Lucy’s eyes flash with merriment in response and knew that, white-haired and old though they were, the old couple had never lost the love that had drawn them together so long ago.
Uncle Bill took hold of Aunt Lucy’s hands. ‘You look beautiful, Lucy,’ he declared. ‘It’s a bonny gown.’
Mama’s eyebrows lifted in disapproval. Public displays of feeling were never tolerated. But Aunt Lucy did look beautiful in a dress of fine lavender tussore. Mama herself, since they were out of mourning, wore only grey.
Grandmother – Lady Camilla Oldfield, small, birdlike and terrifying in her severity, wore indigo silk with a lace collar and a high, lace-trimmed hat of the same stuff. She appeared to be carved from stone, so set was her expression. ‘How did you like the Bell-Cooper twins, Florence? And Sylvia Machin?’ she was asking. ‘Your mama says that you are to share lessons with them.’
‘I like them very much,’ Florence answered sweetly. ‘It will be a great pleasure not to have a governess,’ she added mischievously to see if Grandmother would delight, as Aunt Lucy had, in the facetious remark.
Grandmother remained severe. Grandfather, who had been approached by a footman, came to Grandmother’s side and patted her shoulder. ‘I have to attend to something, Camilla,’ Florence heard him say. ‘Servant trouble. No. Not you. I’ll attend to it myself.’
Grandmother gave a brief nod. ‘Come, Florence. Laura. We’ll join the Davenports for tea.’ She led the way with Florence and Mama following her across the crowded grass.
So Aunt Lucy and Uncle Bill were not expected to sit with them. Florence felt colour rush
to her cheeks at the high-handed manner in which the snub to her darlings had been dealt and then relief when she heard, behind her, Aunt Lucy’s tinkling laugh and Uncle Bill’s hearty chuckle as the old couple turned their attention to the other guests.
Would she ever get used to the ways of Mama and the grandparents – to the assessing of people for their social standing before a friendly overture was made or returned? It had been easy in London. There, all she had to remember was never to go into the servants’ quarters and to be welcoming, charming and polite to Mama’s friends.
Here, in Cheshire, Grandfather dealt with the servants himself, yet held himself aloof from Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucy. She hoped that she would not do or say the wrong things this evening at the dinner. There was to be musical entertainment afterwards and Florence herself was to play her pianoforte piece. ‘I shall simply observe the way things are done here,’ Florence decided. ‘I shall do things my own way as soon as I am able. Today is for enjoyment.’
Hollinbank, a settlement of squat, lime-washed cottages, was a mile from the big house. Oliver followed the river path on its meandering course until the Wainwrights’ cottage came into view with Tommy, sitting on the step, waiting for him.
‘Tommy!’ Oliver saw the lad’s face, so like his own, break into the mischievous grin that transformed his features from an expression of brooding to one of infectious gaiety.
‘Where’ve yer been? I’ve been waiting for hours.’ Tommy ran up to him and pulled the mallard from Oliver’s hand. ‘Have yer killed it today?’
‘Aye. You don’t think I found it dead, do you?’ Oliver gave Tommy a playful clout across the head. ‘I got it this afternoon, instead of working.’
‘Ooh. Oliver. Wilf’ll be mad. Does he know?’
‘Aye.’ Oliver laughed at his brother’s worried face. ‘Put the duck in’t scullery. We’ll walk down to the stones. I’ve summat to tell you.’
They walked, out of sight of the cottages, to the place where the riverbed was stony. They climbed a stile between stiff hawthorn bushes and slid down the grassy bank to where the river ran deeper, over green velvet stones that were leaden and polished from the passing of feet where they stood proud of the water. They plunged their bare feet into its cool depths and crossed to the other side where they sat watching the bright water.
The Runaway Page 1
