He got no further. Oliver snatched his arm, turned it quickly behind the other’s back and came forward until his face was level with Albert’s.
‘Don’t talk like that to me, boy. You’ll be sorry,’ he snarled. He had no intention of letting Albert treat him like a servant. Even if he had to give the boss’s son a black eye at the start it would put him right for later. Oliver wondered, fleetingly, if Mr Billington would send him packing but the question answered itself when he thought of Albert, who’d wait to beat him up every time they met if he didn’t beat him now.
‘You think you’re a big man, do you?’ Albert teased as he ducked under Oliver’s arm. Soon the two were wrestling, each trying to pin the other down, rolling together, teeth gritted, each trying to overpower the other.
Oliver felt a thud, felt his teeth snap together as Albert’s fist hit him in the jaw. His tongue was cut and he could taste his own salty blood. He threw himself forward, pitching into Albert with both fists but it appeared that he was not hurting his opponent. Albert was grinning, he was dodging most of the blows and Oliver was aiming wildly. Then he caught him one; a smart left to Albert’s face and the smile was gone. He heard Albert gasp for breath and Oliver followed it with a lunge at the other ear.
Albert sidestepped and Oliver went headlong towards a stone water trough. Albert was on top of him now and Oliver gritted his teeth as he slowly forced him backwards, straining and grunting as the heavier town boy moved inch by painful inch into an upright position where Oliver could hook his leg around him and send him crashing to the ground.
Then Oliver was on top; kneeling on Albert’s chest, trying to hold the position securely enough to aim a blow at Albert’s nose but Albert turned under him and they were rolling again, the stone setts scraping their knuckles and cheeks.
The struggle might have continued had not a dray turned into the yard and an old driver wearing a striped hat shouted out to them, ‘Come here. You two! Give us a hand to unload will yer?’ as he pulled up the horses in front of the trough, ‘and stop yer nonsense before you frighten the damn beasts out of their wits.’
Albert straightened up, breathless. ‘Shall we call it even and shake hands?’ he asked Oliver, who leaned, gasping for breath, against the far wall. The horses were between them, drinking thirstily. To continue the fight would mean either going outside onto the street or waiting until the dray was gone.
‘Do you want to finish it later?’ Oliver said, watching Albert’s face in case this was a new trick.
‘Shake hands. We’ll be friends and not fight again.’ Albert was out of breath too, but smiling.
Oliver hesitated for a second, but there was no sign of double-dealing from Albert, nothing but an open smile on his face. He extended a hand, a hand as grazed and swollen as Albert’s was. They grinned sheepishly at one another.
‘We’d best help the drayman,’ Albert said. ‘He’ll tell Dad if we don’t and we’ll both be for it.’ They lifted the barrels onto the yard for the man then Albert picked up Oliver’s bundle.
‘I’ll show you where the groom’s place is. Come on!’
Behind the loose boxes was a room, not much bigger than a stable, with shoulder-high stone walls. Above them crude wooden panelling separated the horse’s area from the groom’s. The room contained a broken-backed chair, a slopstone and pail, a table, and in the corner, a palliasse to be filled with straw. There was plenty of sacking and even a torn blanket. There was a fireplace and the horses’ heat to warm the place in winter. It would do him nicely.
Chapter Four
Florence could see the turrets of Balgone from the carriage window as they turned into the drive. It was quite her favourite house and though, in the months since she and Mama had come to Middlefield, Aunt Lucy had visited them, this was her first unaccompanied visit as a young woman.
She had wonderful memories of childhood when, during their summer and Christmas holidays at Suttonford, she’d be sent with her old nanny by carriage to Balgone. Nanny always spent the day in the company of Aunt Lucy’s housekeeper and she, Florence and Aunt Lucy used to play together. Aunt Lucy always prepared for her coming. There were treasure hunts with rhyming clues hidden around the house and Aunt Lucy clapping her hands in delight when Florence solved them. There were winter afternoons spent toasting bread on long thin forks before a red fire, handing the pieces to a servant for buttering; and there were stories and kisses and Aunt Lucy holding her, looking into her eyes and saying, ‘Oh, Angel-Child of Moon and Stars and All that in Them Shines,’ and when she’d asked what it meant, Aunt Lucy always replied, ‘It means that you are loved.’
She remembered praying that Aunt Lucy would be granted a baby of her own. She had asked God every night to send a baby to Aunt Lucy and every time she’d gone to Balgone she looked for God’s gift but God had never given the baby to Aunt Lucy. Aunt Lucy said that having Florence to herself for a whole day at a time was almost as good. And today was her first grown-up call.
The carriage wheels crunched on the gravel, the morning sun that slanted between the firs that hid the house from the road glinting on granite and sandstone and lighting crocus and snowdrops on the grassy border.
On the step Aunt Lucy, dressed in green velvet, a picture of charm and sweetness, was waiting to greet her. Florence kissed her aunt and went ahead into the house. She gave her cloak and hat to the maid and took Aunt Lucy’s hand in hers. ‘Do you know, this is the first time I have ever been here alone, Aunt Lucy.’
‘I know. How you are growing up, Angel-Child.’ Aunt Lucy tucked Florence’s hand into the crook of her arm as they entered the drawing room. ‘Do you still like living in Middlefield?’
‘I like it perfectly. Of course, I’m not allowed to walk in the town. But Mama and I pay calls on her friends and we go to Suttonford twice a week.’ Florence sat down on the sofa and patted the folds of her skirt, blue wool with a matching bolero. ‘Do you like my outfit?’ she asked eagerly. It surely wasn’t bad form to look for compliments from one’s aunt. ‘I chose it myself. Mama allows me to order my own clothes now that I’m almost fifteen.’
‘You look lovely, darling. And your education?’
‘Oh. Lessons with Sylvia Machin and the Bell-Cooper girls. Art and French at Sylvia’s; the girls come to me in Churchgate for Latin and music.’ She kept her mirth inside until Aunt Lucy’s maid had left the room, then added with an irresistible urge to make Aunt Lucy laugh, ‘Mama is trying to teach me to be an Oldfield between times.’
Aunt Lucy was laughing. ‘And how, my darling, does an Oldfield behave?’
‘With the utmost dignity,’ she replied, lowering her eyelids droopily and imitating Mama’s slow, drawling speech. ‘I’m sure I’ll never be a credit to poor Mama. I so want to run and sing and laugh … all in the wrong places.’
Uncle Bill’s footsteps sounded on the stairs and Florence turned to watch him come into the room; white-haired and fresh complexioned, lively blue eyes ablaze. ‘How’s my braw lass?’ he said as she went into his arms.
She felt his prickly moustache tickle her cheek. ‘Very weel … thank ye!’ she teased.
‘And ye’re happy to settle in Middlefield, are ye, Florence?’ Uncle Bill asked. ‘I’d have thought there was more excitement to be had in London for a young lassie growing up.’
‘Mama wants to live in Middlefield. Her heart’s always been here.’ Then peals of laughter came from Florence as she told them. ‘I think, too, that Mama and my grandparents are expecting me to marry young. They are going to occupy themselves in finding a suitable … that is, rich … young blade for me to wed when I’m of an age.’
‘And you?’ Aunt Lucy smiled. ‘What do you think of their hopes?’
‘Mama says there are so many dashing young men in Cheshire that I will be quite spoiled by their attentions. When I’m sixteen I’ll be allowed to attend the Suttonford balls. Then I am to fall in love with the richest young man of them all.’ She laughed again at the memory of Mama’s oft
repeated words. ‘And we will all live at Suttonford happily ever after.’
‘Couldn’t you live at Suttonford now? And why must you marry a rich young blade to be happy-ever-after?’ Uncle Bill asked.
‘Grandfather says the Churchgate house is more suitable.’ Florence began to laugh again, then added, ‘Though I think he fears it will be too costly to educate me and entertain prospective suitors at Suttonford.’
Aunt Lucy dabbed her eyes to wipe away tears of laughter but Florence saw at once that her aunt’s expression was not one of jollity.
‘I hope you find a young man who will fulfil all your mama’s plans for you, Florence,’ she said quietly. ‘I couldn’t have married one of the young men Sir Philip thought right for me. I fell in love with Bill at our first meeting and there was never any doubt in my mind that it was right to marry him.’
Florence saw her aunt reach for Uncle Bill’s hand as he said, ‘Well, lassie. If you fall for one of the laddies they’d have you marry it will make them all happy. I hope you find what your aunt and I found.’
‘What is love?’ Florence asked softly. ‘How did you know that you loved one another?’
‘When it happens to you … you’ll know,’ Aunt Lucy answered. ‘There will be no need to ask.’ She stood up and held out her hands. ‘But since you are far too young to think about these things I suggest we go down to the morning room, take tea and chocolate cake and talk about what we will do with our lovely day.’
Every Wednesday Bill Grandison drove from Balgone to his mills and workshop in Middlefield. He stayed overnight at The Pheasant where he spent the evening working on his ledgers before his regular visits to his banker and lawyer on Thursdays. They looked after him well at The Pheasant, serving his supper in the family’s own parlour and keeping the quietest bedroom for him.
It was no longer necessary for him to visit his mills. He was a rich man; there was more than enough money for himself and Lucy. Managers and accountants could do the work for him but he could never bring himself to release his hold on the businesses he had built against such odds. If he wished to he could spend his days driving Lucy on her weekly visits to her sister, Lady Camilla Oldfield, or pass his leisure hours in conversation with Sir Philip instead of with his stockbroker.
He chuckled to himself at the thought. The old baronet had spent forty years opposing him. Only during the last ten, when Sir Philip’s fortunes had begun the decline a wiser man would have anticipated, had the old aristocrat begun to ask the advice and help of the brother-in-law whose company he had so long scorned.
No. Bill wouldn’t join the sycophants at Suttonford, even in his old age. He preferred the company of young people. He liked to see the wheels turning; liked to watch the new young hopefuls trying to make their way in the world. He stood now at his bedroom window at The Pheasant, looking out over the stable yard, waiting for Mrs Billington to call him to supper, watching young Oliver lead the horses out through the gate in The Pheasant’s high wall to the paddock the tavern shared with The Crown.
Since Oliver had come to The Pheasant last summer Bill had used the lad to drive him to his mills. He always chatted to the boy before he climbed into the carriage and again when Oliver helped him carry the heavy books from the mills’ offices up to his room. The young man was polite and had made a name for himself for having the best-turned-out coach and pair in town.
Bill was pleased to see that his horses, as well as The Pheasant’s own, were being turned out to graze overnight. Many a lad would simply have stabled them and avoided the hour’s extra grooming time that the freedom of the paddock would entail.
He watched Oliver put them in the field and unfasten their leather halters. Then, out of the corner of his eye Bill saw her – Irene Wardle, the landlady of The Crown, tiptoeing stealthily alongside the wall that surrounded the paddock, out of Oliver’s sight until she was a mere few yards from where he would soon come through the gate.
She was a handsome widow of thirty, dressed this spring evening in a black skirt and short red jacket. Bill stepped back into the shadows, not wanting to seem inquisitive yet unable to resist waiting to see if his suspicions would be confirmed.
Yes. She reached the gate at the same moment Oliver opened it and threw her hands up in the air as if startled. What an actress she was! The smile that had been hovering at the corners of Bill’s mouth broke through as he watched with fascination while she smiled and fluttered her hands, making Oliver lean towards her to hear what she said.
Oliver wore high riding boots for working in the yard with trousers tucked inside. His blue shirt was open at the neck and rolled back at the sleeves, showing strong tanned forearms and hands, which he now held out to Mrs Wardle, steering her by the elbow away from the gate. The evening sun caught his black hair, lighting his face as he threw his head back to laugh at something she’d said, his hand pointing now to where the horses rolled in delight in the spring grass.
What a good-looking young man he was. He looked much older than the seventeen years Bill knew him to be and Bill wondered how Oliver would conduct himself, faced as he was with a woman hell-bent on seduction. For there was no doubt about her intentions. Irene Wardle was a woman of the world and had been looking for a man since her husband died two years ago.
Oliver was nodding to her now and taking his leave, coming into the yard and fastening the gate behind him. Bill saw Irene turn away and walk swiftly through the alleyway towards the side door of The Crown. He watched Oliver for a few more minutes until Mrs Billington tapped on his door.
‘Your supper’s ready, Mr Grandison,’ she said.
Bill descended the winding staircase to the Billingtons’ parlour, where Mrs Billington had lit a fire for him. The room was crowded with heavy furniture; hard-stuffed armchairs and a circular mahogany table. There were numerous large paintings on the walls and everything, mantelshelf, sideboard and windowsills, was hung with beaded and tasselled fringes.
At an ornate side-table beside the high fireplace Leonard Billington was setting a crystal decanter of Bill’s favourite whisky and a jug of cold water. ‘Would you think badly of me, Leonard,’ Bill asked the big man, ‘if I were to ask your stable lad to join my staff at Balgone?’
Leonard Billington did not reply for a moment. He considered his reply. ‘I’ll be sorry to lose him,’ he said finally. ‘But I suspected from the start that he’ll not be satisfied with ostling. He’s got a lot about him and I’ve nothing better for him here. What have you got for him?’
‘I need someone for the Balgone stables. My old coachman hasn’t done any driving for a year now and I want to retire him.’
‘My Albert will miss him,’ Leonard said. ‘They’ve struck up a good friendship.’
‘Where did you find him?’ Bill asked. ‘A youngster like that wasn’t brought up on the streets.’
‘He arrived one day last August,’ Leonard said. ‘He left his home on Suttonford estate. Wanted to “better himself”, he said. Though I wouldn’t say stable work was a step up in the world from working for Sir Philip Oldfield. Would you?’
‘I would. I would indeed,’ Bill replied. ‘A big advance.’
‘Do you know the Oldfields?’
‘Oh, yes. I know them intimately, you might say.’ Bill laughed heartily. ‘Your young man has decidedly taken a step in the right direction.’
Ma Billington brought his supper to the table. She was a jolly, good-natured little woman who appeared to enjoy the ceaseless round of cooking and serving that being the landlord’s wife entailed.
‘What do you think of Oliver, Mrs Billington?’ Bill asked as she fussed about, making sure the dishes were all within his reach.
Her round face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Eeh, he’s a grand lad. Him and Albert’s got friendly and I’m right glad about it. Albert’s steadied up a lot since Oliver came. He’s often in with Albert. They’ve never had a cross word.’
As he ate his supper Bill wondered about the boy’s reasons for lea
ving the estate. He decided not to mention, at first, that he was related to the Oldfield family. Time enough for him to find out when he worked at Balgone and drove Lucy to Suttonford. It would be interesting to hear what a young man of today found so unpalatable about living under the patronage of his brother-in-law.
After supper he went down to the stable yard and found Oliver cleaning brasses by the light of candles. He tapped on the wooden wall to attract his attention and noted the ready smile that came to the stable boy at his arrival.
‘You seem to be a good lad with horses, Oliver. Have you thought about improving your station in life? Thought about bettering yourself?’ he asked.
Oliver put down his cloth and stood up to speak. ‘Yes. I’ve thought about it, sir.’
‘I need a good man to take charge of my coach and horses; to live in the coach house at Balgone. Someone I can trust.’
It was a good offer, one any young lad would jump at but Bill found that he was not really surprised when Oliver refused it. The boy brushed the top of the chair with a duster and moved it towards him.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Grandison, but I don’t mean to spend me life working with horses,’ he said slowly and Bill heard a genuine note of regret in his voice.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I want to work for meself, sir. I’m saving money to start meself up in business and it wouldn’t be right to take your job if I didn’t mean to stay,’ Oliver answered.
Bill sat down on the broken chair. ‘You want to earn your own living do you? Not be any man’s servant?’ He saw that Oliver was serious but made a last attempt to divert him. ‘I think you could succeed, but you could go a long way in a good master’s house.’
‘Mr Grandison, don’t you see what’s happening? Trains are taking people about. More ways of moving faster are coming all the time. The horse and carriage will be finished before I am. People are coming to the town every day …’ Oliver’s face was alight with enthusiasm and Bill found himself responding to his youth and spirit.
The Runaway Page 4
