The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  Now if she’d been ten years younger when Oliver Wainwright came into her life she would have had to fight against the feelings his nearness brought to her. When Oliver came to the mill it was as if the lamps had suddenly been turned up bright. She could never ignore his presence when he stood beside her.

  She left the little room and returned to the weaving shed. Soon, if she were not careful, the weavers would ask themselves why their forewoman put on her best skirt every Wednesday, why she appeared on edge as the time for Mr Grandison and Oliver’s visit drew near. Weavers were never misled by words. They used other senses since their ears were redundant against the racket of the looms. Hollin Mill’s weavers never misinterpreted any look or gesture, however concealed.

  The familiar sensation of heightened awareness made her hands shake a little as she checked the cloth from one of the looms. Soon they’d be here and she would feel his eyes upon her across the weaving shed, making her aware of her every movement, disconcerting her, until her concentration went and she’d look up, to find his blue eyes holding hers, asking silent questions.

  Her face broke into a smile at his arrival. He looked much older now than he had when he’d first come, as a young lad. He was twenty. Tall, loose-limbed and handsome, he had to duck his head to get through the low doorway. She waved her hand to attract his attention, then left the looms and followed Mr Grandison and Oliver into the little office. The boss looked pale today.

  ‘Are you feeling well, Mr Grandison?’ she asked. The old man normally had a good colour.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Rosie,’ he said. ‘I’m getting old, you know. I always feel a bit weary towards the end of winter.’

  Oliver had looked sharply at Mr Grandison when she’d spoken but he seemed reassured by the reply and turned his attention to her again. Those blue eyes, intently watching her face, the way his black hair curled, low on his neck, and his strong mouth and chin, sent the familiar trickling feeling down her spine.

  Rosie drew herself straight. ‘Be sure he gets a good hot toddy, Oliver, when you go for your dinner,’ she said brightly as she tried to ignore the banging in her chest. She hoped they wouldn’t see in her eyes her whirling confusion.

  She had collected the record cards for Mr Grandison and handed them to Oliver. As if deliberately his hand strayed against hers as he took them from her. ‘See you next week, then,’ she managed to say before she left the little room and returned to the looms and the comforting, deadening noise of their clatter.

  The frost had been harder overnight. The next morning was raw with a dull wind that crept around the corners of the yard. It had taken Bill Grandison’s groom much longer than usual to harness the horses. The leather was stiff and unbending. The carriage was cold and Oliver stood with Bill in the windy yard until it was hitched.

  Bill always left for the braid workshop and his lawyer’s office at seven-thirty and it was now nearly eight o’clock. The old man’s steps were slower than usual.

  Had Oliver been older or wiser he might have seen that his friend was ill; he leaned so heavily on his arm as Oliver helped him to the carriage. The driver climbed up, took the reins and set off at a brisk trot up the steep street.

  Oliver crossed the yard to the shed where the lad was piling bundles on to the cart, ready for market. He helped the boy for half an hour, working fast, feeling warmth come into his limbs as they worked. They’d set off soon. He pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket; they’d better make haste.

  There was a lot of noise in Rivergate, as carriages and carts trundled by; the sawdust that had been thrown over the frosty cobbles didn’t quite deaden the sound of wood and iron but there was no mistaking the agitated hooves and the shouts of the groom as Bill Grandison’s carriage rocked back into the yard.

  ‘Come quick! I think the old man’s dead!’ Bill’s driver shouted.

  Oliver raced across the yard. He tugged at the door. Bill Grandison lay across the leather seat, his arms stiffly outstretched, and the pallor, the pinched nose, all should have told Oliver that help was too late. Oliver clambered into the cold carriage and lifted Bill gently, pulling him into a half-upright position so that the old man’s head lay on his shoulder. He put his arms around Bill and held him close, trying to give him warmth. ‘You’re not dead, are you, Bill?’ he whispered, rubbing his own glowing cheek against the cold, sunken face. ‘You’ll be all right in a minute, won’t you?’

  Then Oliver lowered Bill easily, so that the old man lay with his head in his lap, stroking Bill’s face and the curly white hair, as if a coaxing touch would make the dear old eyes open. ‘Speak to me,’ he pleaded. ‘Say you’re not dead.’

  Leonard Billington was at the open door of the carriage. ‘We’d better get him inside, Oliver,’ he said gently. ‘Let go of him, lad. There’s nothing you can do.’

  It was as if something inside Oliver collapsed inwards, as if all the love, all the companionship that he had ever known had been crushed under the weight of this loss. He had never considered for a second that one day Bill would die. He’d never imagined his own life without Bill encouraging him, taking pride in his achievements, guiding him.

  Oliver wept. He wept as he had not done for years. He wept for Bill Grandison and his Lucy; he wept for his father, his mother, young Tommy and lastly for himself. They tried to comfort him, bringing him hot toddy when they’d carried the body to the parlour where it would lie until the undertaker could be sent for and still the harsh, painful cries came, tearing at his throat, making his shoulders ache, causing his eyes to blur.

  Finally, when at last he had to take leave of Bill, had to let them carry the wrapped body of the man he’d loved to the black, covered hearse that had been brought to the yard, Oliver’s tears dried. He asked Bill’s groom to take him to Balgone. He would tell the old man’s widow himself.

  They drove up the noisy Rivergate, through the crowded market and descended the gentle slope of busy Churchgate. Snow had begun to fall, muffling the sound of the iron-hooped wheels. Oliver rested against the brown leather upholstery as they climbed, away from the town, along the wide carriageway that led to Bill Grandison’s home. His mind was numb, his eyes red and swollen and he hoped that the right words would come to him when the time came to tell her.

  A high stone wall, two carved stone lions at the entrance, a sharp turn and the horse’s hooves were making the first prints in the snow-covered drive. Oliver made the driver keep the carriage waiting as he pulled the rope that hung beside the heavy door, barely noticing the splendid high sash windows, the four turrets at each corner of the roof and the grandeur of the house and gardens of Balgone.

  A maid in black, wearing a white lace apron and cap, opened the door and hesitated, seeing her master’s empty carriage, as if unsure of what to do. ‘I must see Mrs Grandison. Please take me to her at once.’ Oliver stepped into the wide, tiled entrance hall, dark and rich with mahogany panelling and a warm Turkey carpet.

  ‘Who shall I say is here?’ the maid asked uncertainly.

  ‘Oliver Wainwright. A friend of Mr Grandison’s.’

  The maid left for what seemed like an hour. When she reappeared she held open a door on his right and announced, ‘Oliver Wainwright, ma’m.’

  Oliver entered the morning room. A white-haired old lady, tiny and erect, stood before a tall oak fireplace where a newly lit fire danced in the grate. ‘Mrs Grandison?’ The woman nodded but did not hold out her hand. ‘I’m Oliver Wainwright. A terrible thing has happened. Terrible. Your husband, ma’m – Mr Grandison. He’s dead, ma’m! Dead! He died this morning in his carriage.’

  Lucy Grandison leaned on her stick for support. ‘Where is he? My husband.’

  ‘They’ve taken him to the undertaker’s.’

  ‘Take my arm. Take me to him.’

  Oliver felt her frail weight on his arm as he helped her into the carriage. His eyes were bright with tears as he faced her over the narrow space that separated them on the journey back to town.

 
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ Oliver found himself saying, over and over again. Then, as if he knew that he must try to be a friend to the woman Bill loved, he squared his shoulders and said, ‘If I can be any help, any comfort to you, Mrs Grandison, I’d count it a privilege to be asked.’

  Together they entered the undertaker’s premises and Lucy Grandison kept Oliver beside her as she sat for an hour with her husband, holding his waxen hand, tears coursing unchecked down the finely drawn cheeks. Then, with great courage and dignity, the old lady left, first thanking Oliver.

  ‘My husband was very fond of you. I would like to see you again. I hope you will attend the funeral. I will have you informed of when it is to be.’

  Later, Oliver sat at the fireside in Mrs Billington’s parlour, his head in his hands, cold and weary.

  ‘I’ve brought you a bowl of broth, Oliver.’ Ma Billington spoke gently, as if he were the one who had died. She tucked a napkin around his knees and set the dish on a little round table in front of him, like a gift. ‘There’s a man waiting to see you, love. I said he must wait till you’ve eaten.’

  ‘Ta.’ Oliver gave her a weak smile. ‘I’ll be all right when I’ve had this. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a lawyer. He mebbe wants Mr Grandison’s books. I think they’re up in his room.’

  ‘I’ll fetch them down and see him in here then,’ Oliver said.

  After he had eaten Oliver asked the man to come in. He was a tall, unhappy-looking man with bushy side-chops and a way of looking into the distance seconds after holding the eye of the person he was speaking to. It gave him a shifty air and Oliver did not like him.

  ‘Oliver Wainwright?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Lloyd.’ The man held out a cold, limp hand. ‘I’m Mr Grandison’s legal representative.’ The man seated himself at the table and pushed back the thick cloth that Mrs Billington kept in place. He took from his leather document case a large brown envelope on which the seal had been broken and from this he extracted with his thin, blue fingers a folded piece of yellow parchment.

  ‘My client … should I say – my late client, William Hugh Grandison … has bequeathed something to you. He added the bequest quite recently and since it is of an unusually generous nature I have enquired of Mrs Grandison if she wished to contest it.’ The lawyer spoke in a monotone. ‘She says it will stand. She asked me to inform you, before the official will-reading, of its content.’

  He looked at Oliver briefly, then cast his eyes back to the paper and intoned in a voice as expressionless as his countenance, ‘And to my dear friend, Oliver Wainwright, I leave the braid workshop and one hundred looms at Hollin Mill with the proviso that the sum hereinafter stated shall be paid to my niece and her daughter for life from the annual profit from the said mill and workshop. Should my dear friend wish to realise monies from the sale of the aforementioned mill then my niece and her daughter shall receive one-half of the proceeds of the sale, which is to be sold by my lawyer, Mr Cedric Lloyd, to the highest bidder.’

  Oliver was stunned. He held on to the edge of the table and stared at Mr Lloyd.

  ‘You have until after the funeral to give me your decision.’ Mr Lloyd stood up. ‘I cannot allow you to read the rest of the will. The family has not been informed of its contents. The will-reading will be held after the funeral at Mr Grandison’s home.’ He nodded formally to Oliver.

  Oliver found his voice. ‘Is it true? Did Mr Grandison really leave the business to me? What about his wife?’

  ‘There is no need to concern yourself about Mrs Grandison’s finances, Mr Wainwright. The mill and the workshop were not the only source of income for my client – my late client. Mrs Grandison agreed to the bequest when my client added it to his will.’ He lifted his overcoat from the back of the chair and Oliver held it out for him. ‘The funeral has been set for Monday, twelve o’clock at St Michael’s church. Come to my office on Tuesday morning and I will give you the other details; the allowances and a statement of accounts. You will have to take up the running of the business immediately if you wish to continue with it. The formalities can be gone through at a later date.’

  What a day it had been. What a terrible, awesome day. Albert was not yet home from the market and so much had happened. Oliver felt humbled by Bill Grandison’s bequest. He was also bewildered and grateful. Though he could grasp the extent of his new-found wealth, for he had helped Bill with his books since the old man’s eyes had begun to fail, he had never for a moment imagined that Bill wanted to go on helping him after his death.

  Oliver vowed to himself that the inheritance that was going to change his life would never mean more to him than the man who had given it. He sat alone in the warm little parlour and tried to imagine what life held for him as the owner of a mill.

  He would save his money to buy more looms. But he couldn’t save for ever could he? Then he would look for a wife, buy a fine house and bring up his family in a proper manner as Bill would have wished him to do.

  ‘You’ll be a rich man soon,’ Albert said as they counted the day’s takings in the parlour after supper.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘I can’t take any share in your mill or workshop. The old boy meant you to have them,’ Albert told him firmly.

  ‘Will you work for me then?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Yes. We’ll come to some arrangement. One that suits us both.’

  Albert tightened the cord on the last bag of copper. ‘You’ll not want to go to The Crown tonight? Those girls from Paradise Street might be there?’

  ‘No. You go if you want to. I’m not much good at this alehouse courtin’.’ Oliver packed the money bags into the leather portmanteau. He smiled at Albert. ‘It’s not that I don’t want a girl. I’ve tried all your tricks; done all you told me to get them in the mood, but afterwards I feel disgusted with meself somehow. I’m on the lookout for a nice girl and I doubt if I’ll find her in The Crown.’

  ‘You’re only twenty. What do you want to go looking for a courtship for?’ Albert looked at him in dismay.

  ‘Aye, well.’ Oliver looked thoughtful. ‘I’m mebbe old before my time. But I’ll find meseIf a good ’un soon.’

  Chapter Nine

  Laura Mawdesley stared out across the park from the high drawing-room windows of Suttonford. In front of her the close-cut grass swept down to the lake where bare-branched trees waited in the sparkling frost of February sunshine for the earth to warm to life again. Laura loved her childhood home, even with the hand of winter on the land.

  Her fair hair, upswept from her face, showed no sign of grey for her forty years and she still had the figure of a young girl. Erect and formal in manner, she gave the impression of a matron of supreme confidence, a haughty woman who expected deference from all who met her.

  She and Florence spent most weekends at Suttonford. Her parents adored their granddaughter although, Laura knew, they found her dependence on them a financial burden. Such things were never spoken of openly. Oblique references were made to Uncle Bill’s great wealth, which, since he had no heirs, would come to them eventually and revive the family fortunes.

  And now it had happened. He was dead. Uncle Bill had been a vulgar, money-conscious character but he had always been kind to her and especially so to Florence. She hoped that he had made provision for them. He had given Laura an allowance for years. Perhaps he had not told Lucy about this money and she could never ask Aunt Lucy about it.

  She’d hoped too that she had put away her black mourning clothes for a long time when the news came; not that she would need to wear them for longer than a month. It was not expected. Her mother would wear black longer, out of respect for him. As for herself, a month of the hated black wouldn’t hurt. Florence, of course, could wear dark grey. Florence was not yet eighteen and had already spent a year of her young life in mourning for her father.

  Florence was fidgeting in the high-backed chair, her blonde hair caught on the buttons holding the plum-coloured ve
lvet and she turned her head this way and that, trying to free it, making the chair squeak and annoying Laura. ‘Florence! Do amuse yourself dear. It’s a lovely day. Take a walk around the park while your grandmother and I talk,’ she said with irritation. Florence was becoming rather touchy, Laura thought, as she watched her daughter flounce from the room in a pet.

  Laura left the window and seated herself in the chair Florence had vacated, facing her mother who sat nearer to the blazing fire. ‘I think I’ll return to live with you and father once Florence is married,’ she said. ‘I hope we’ll find a husband for her before she’s twenty. I’ll not live in town any longer than I have to.’ She paused and looked hard at her mother. ‘I hope we shall receive our allowance from Uncle Bill’s estate,’ she said.

  Lady Oldfield, her white hair drawn back into a tight knot, looked severe.

  Laura knew that her mother would be offended by the remark and was not surprised to hear her say, a shade stiffly, ‘There was never an official arrangement. Nothing binding. Uncle Bill simply liked to help.’ Her mother reached over and rang a bell beside the carved chimney piece. ‘It really is too bad of you, Laura, to talk in this manner, even to me. Please say no more about it. I’m sure the arrangement will continue.’

  A maid came in from the side room to receive her orders and Laura’s face resumed its neutral expression. ‘Ask Mrs Leach to prepare muffins and tea,’ Lady Oldfield said. ‘And tell Jackson to send Mr Lloyd up as soon as he arrives.’

  Laura would not have her fears dismissed in this way even if Mother did find her outspokenness unseemly. ‘Mother, will you ask Mr Lloyd about our allowances?’ she persisted.

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. At a time like this!’ She waved her hand to stop Laura from rising from the chair. ‘Sit down!’ she commanded. ‘Uncle Bill said he’d take care of you and Florence after dear Geoffrey died. He will not have neglected to provide for you.’