It seemed that her mother wanted to reminisce about the old man. Laura sighed quietly and prepared to give her attention to the story she had heard so many times.
‘He was a handsome man, Laura. But so different from the young men my sister and I were used to. He was well educated. Even the poorest children in Scotland receive an education, you know. But he had no social graces and if he had not met Lucy I don’t think he would ever have acquired them.’
Laura tried to retain the look of interest on her face as her mother continued. ‘I think he despised our sort. He had no respect for anyone who didn’t work, though he came to see, finally, that not everyone was blessed with his ability. Lucy will be well provided for but your father will not be able to control his investments so well without Bill’s help, and your father was one of his most implacable opponents until Bill and Lucy were married.’
‘I expect he’ll leave everything to Aunt Lucy and we’ll have nothing until she’s gone,’ Laura said with an air of pessimism. ‘I hope he remembered our allowances.’
She was spared her mother’s rebuke by the butler’s knock. ‘Mr Lloyd, ma’m,’ he announced.
There was a boy, fishing in the lake, far from the area the labourers were allowed to use. He was going to brazen it out. Impudent lad! Florence had walked right round the lake and her feet were cold. She was wearing soft kid boots designed for indoors and the frost and damp had stained them. ‘Hoi! What are you doing here?’ she called imperiously, tossing back her head, and hoping that he’d be afraid of her.
He did not look up. ‘Fishin’.’
‘You’ll not catch anything at this time of the year. Ought you to be working?’
‘Aye.’
He looked her way. Blue eyes, dark curly hair and a bold way with him; a defiant air that Florence would not tolerate. ‘Well. Explain yourself!’
‘Not to you, I won’t.’
Florence put her straight little nose high in the air and turned sharply on her heel; but he was away, running like the wind, his wild laughter ringing out behind him, the sound of it still cutting through the thin air for seconds after the sound of his feet died away.
She tightened the neck of her blue velour cloak, pushed her hands into the muff of black fur and walked smartly back to Suttonford Manor.
A carriage waited by the wide steps leading to the door. Florence watched from behind the great oak as Mr Lloyd, the lawyer, descended the steps, his wide bushy side-chops incongruous under the black top hat that covered his thinning hair. He’d be here to talk about Uncle Bill’s death. Aunt Lucy had urged Florence to be brave and not to grieve as Uncle Bill would not have wanted her to be distressed by his passing,
She loitered outside and then, the cold making her face smart, returned to the drawing room where she could hear, two yards from the door, the voice of her mother who was clearly agitated. ‘Who is this Oliver Wainwright?’ Mama was saying.
Florence saw that her mother still gave the appearance of composure but the high pitch of anxiety was in her voice. ‘This upstart! Has anyone heard of him before today?’
Gran answered, ‘Lucy says he’s a young man Uncle Bill thought well of. I’ll have no more of this ingratitude from you, Laura! Florence is here. Please don’t alarm her.’
‘Do tell me. Mother? Gran?’ Florence could not contain herself.
‘Your Uncle Bill has left everything to a young man he hardly knows. Heaven knows what is to become of us!’ Mama dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief and collapsed on to the sofa.
Lady Oldfield answered Florence while glancing disdainfully at Mama. ‘Your uncle has left only a part of his estate to the young man he admired. The mill and the workshop are to be his, as are the obligations he honoured; your allowance, your mother’s annuity. We don’t know about the rest. The young man may wish to sell, of course, and in that case a large proportion of the money comes straight to you.’
‘He’ll not sell. I know he won’t.’ Mama’s voice had taken on a whining note of self-pity. ‘Uncle Bill said the boy was like himself. Just mark my words! He’ll prosper!’
Carriages lined up at the gate of the icy, damp cemetery behind St Michael and All Angels, waiting to take mourners to Balgone. Oliver stood alone at the graveside. He had been taken aback to see the Oldfield family in full attendance. Even the dissipated son, Godfrey, heir to the estate, had come from his London home. Sir Philip Oldfield had read a lesson and Lucy Grandison, at the front of the church, had been supported by him and Lady Oldfield. It was quite plain that the two old ladies were sisters and that Bill Grandison had been related to the family by marriage.
So Bill’s brother-in-law, the man who had been so firmly set against the young Bill Grandison, had been Sir Philip Oldfield! Oliver knew now why Bill had told him so little about his family life. It would have amused him to picture Oliver’s reaction when he finally found out.
Oliver sensed the Oldfields watching him. Their eyes were constantly turning in his direction, making him feel uncomfortable. They had the advantage of him. They’d known he’d be there and yet none of them had so much as lifted a hand to greet him. If these were the manners of the aristocracy, he could teach them a thing or two.
He moved his numb fingers inside the leather gloves, remembering not to put his hands in the pockets of the black overcoat of Mr Billington’s. He decided not to look at them but turned his attention to the yawning grave. One of the flat stones of the churchyard had been lifted and the black earth lay heaped beside it. The Oldfield family were buried in the little churchyard at Suttonford village.
Oliver tried to picture Bill’s face but could only capture a memory of his chuckle and the quick mind of the man who had come to seem like a father to him. He wondered if Bill were watching him now from some heavenly vantage point. He could imagine him enjoying the scene, waiting to see what his protégé would make of a meeting with the family he had despised. The thought gave Oliver strength.
The coffin was lowered into the grave. Oliver watched Lucy Grandison, upright and dignified, standing unsupported while the priest intoned, ‘Ashes to ashes … Dust to dust.’
He kept behind the other mourners when they left the churchyard until the family were gone and Oliver found that he was in the last carriage to make its way through the crowded market square. Men doffed their caps in respect as the cortege passed. Occasionally one would recognise the young market trader and not believe his eyes.
At Balgone their coats were taken by a servant and he saw with relief that he was correctly dressed, in black trousers and long coat.
Lucy Grandison came forward and took his arm. ‘Come with me, Oliver,’ she said, steering him through the little mob of mourners. The Oldfields didn’t speak to him.
Lucy led him into the morning room to where a girl sat alone at the window. Oliver recognised her before she turned her head; the girl he had last seen on his flight from Suttonford. She extended a delicate hand to him and smiled.
‘Florence, this is Oliver Wainwright, the young man your uncle so admired.’ Lucy turned to Oliver. ‘I would like you to tell my niece all you can of your association with Bill. Florence was very fond of her uncle.’
Close to, she was smaller than he remembered. Dark lashes fringed her wide grey eyes. The radiant blondeness of her hair, caught at the nape of her slender neck with a black velvet bow, struck him as it had done in the moonlight on the night he ran away. She wore a plain dress of grey moiré silk, as dark as charcoal, with a close-fitting bodice that was demurely pin-tucked. Her tiny waist, owing nothing to corsetry, was encircled by the same black velvet she wore in her hair.
‘How do you do, Mr Wainwright.’ Florence held out her hand towards the chair facing hers. ‘Please sit down and tell me how you came to know my uncle so well.’
Her voice was musical and low. It had the cultured tone that marked the landed people he remembered from his childhood at Suttonford. He had heard her speak on the night he’d left the estate and even then the s
ound had stirred him, not as those other voices did, with feelings of contempt, but with a longing to hear more.
‘Your uncle was a friend to me, Miss Mawdesley. In the three years I knew him I grew to love and respect him,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure you will find his loss a great burden.’ He was aware of the heads turned in their direction; aware of the hostility of the Oldfields, but most of all he was acutely conscious of the enchanting girl before him.
Her face broke into a smile. ‘Call me Florence,’ she said. ‘And please let me call you Oliver.’
‘It may not please your family,’ he warned her, ‘but of course you must call me Oliver.’ He grinned at her and added, ‘… Florence.’
Her eyes sparkled as they held his and Oliver was bewitched.
‘Come with me, Oliver. I’ll take you into the hall and drawing room and show you the portraits of Uncle Bill when he was a young man.’ Florence led the way through the groups of mourners, touching an arm here, inclining her head there, tiny and exquisite. Oliver felt clumsy and yet protective next to her and he followed, shaking hands when introduced and saying ‘How do you do,’ to which, he noted, replies were neither given nor expected. He was aware, as Florence appeared not to be, that her family were disinclined to shake his hand.
At last they reached Sir Philip who stood with his back to the fireplace. The close-set grey eyes, the long hooked nose in his thin face, were familiar to Oliver. His condescending look today was joined with an air of mockery, as if he knew the measure of Oliver and found it no threat.
Oliver’s eyes were on the same level as Sir Philip’s. It was the first time they had met on neutral territory and he knew, the moment the old baronet put out his hand, the same sense of being in the presence of an opponent that Bill must have felt years ago.
‘Wainwright, isn’t it?’ Sir Philip said before Florence could begin the introduction.
‘Yes. How d’you do, Oldfield?’ Oliver put his own hand out and watched Sir Philip’s face to see his reaction to the insult. He had enjoyed calling him Oldfield, as if he were a common man. It was not as if he didn’t know better. Oliver knew perfectly well that the man had a right to be given his title. By not doing so he knew it was clear to Sir Philip that he had no respect for his authority.
Sir Philip drew his breath sharply. His eyes hardened momentarily and he withdrew his hand.
Oliver turned away, satisfied. Now Sir Philip would know that he could no longer act as if Oliver were still a servant of the Suttonford estate. He could make what he liked of it.
Florence had gone ahead of him. She had not heard the exchange but was waiting for him to catch up with her, under the portrait in the hall. He followed her to the upstairs drawing room after they had looked at the painting. She climbed the wide stair ahead of him, turning to smile when she reached the top.
Oliver had never seen a room as fine as this. He had seen only the servants’ quarters and the kitchen at Suttonford. The high ceiling and cornice were decorated in fine plasterwork; acanthus leaves, rosettes and vines intertwined, with the pattern repeated on the pale, silky wallpaper.
Opposite the door a wide bay window with shallow sills revealed a spectacular view of the garden, its rose beds and walkways, and beyond, the whole of Middlefield with the hills in the far distance. A fire blazed in a white marble fireplace over which a gilt mirror reflected the long wall where the second portrait hung.
‘This is a lovely room, Oliver. Quite my favourite. I loved coming here to talk to Uncle Bill.’ She took him by the arm to the portrait and together they searched the face for traces of the man they had known.
‘It’s a beautiful house, Florence. I mean to have just such a house when I’m a rich man,’ he told her. They stood together at the window, watching the grooms and drivers who had gathered together behind the stables, stamping their feet to keep warm, their breath clouds of vapour when they spoke. He could feel the silence of the room, was conscious of the beauty of the girl beside him and as he looked at her, knew again the feeling that had overcome him on his run for freedom, more than three years before.
She turned her grey eyes, large and expressive, upon him and he saw, momentarily, the determined girl that dwelt under her fragile exterior.
‘Oliver,’ she said and her little soft hand was over his. ‘Please say you’ll call on us. I don’t want to wait until you’re a rich man to be invited to your house. You shall come to Churchgate; number twenty-three, in two weeks’ time. I insist. I’ll tell Mama you’re expected and you can tell me how you mean to proceed now you have your own mill.’
She led the way back to the mourners who had moved to the dining room where tea and sandwiches were being served at small tables placed around the walls.
Oliver was shown to the table where Mr Lloyd sat. ‘You know the contents of the will, Mr Wainwright. If you wish to leave before it is read I am sure the family will understand and be grateful to you. Please come to my office tomorrow. There are documents to sign and I’ll explain the legal necessities to you.’
A rage – was it in reaction to the Oldfield family’s ignoring his presence? – rose in Oliver. How dared they treat him in this manner? It was as if he didn’t exist. If Florence hadn’t spoken to him he would have been cold-shouldered by all but Lucy Grandison. They had not so much as nodded in his direction, yet they were well aware of him.
Did they think they could pass over the matter of his inheritance? Did they imagine that Bill wouldn’t have wished him to attend? No. They had no regard either for Bill or for himself. Bill, and now he, were mere sources of income and not to be treated as anything more.
They were in for a shock.
He rose to his feet. His voice was hard and indomitable. ‘I’ll not leave.’ They were all listening. Not a knife or teaspoon clattered. It was as if the very walls held their breath. ‘I wish to hear the will-reading,’ he stated in a clear, strong voice. ‘I shall stay.’ He saw the shocked looks on the faces that were now turned in his direction. ‘With the bequest I have inherited obligations. I’ll hear you out.’
He sat down, half-expecting to be asked to go but it appeared that he had trounced them. The family returned to their tea-drinking, to all outward appearances as if nothing had been said. Oliver caught Florence’s eyes over the head of Mr Lloyd. They were shining with admiration.
The mourners dispersed. Only family, the servants who had an interest in the will and a few other beneficiaries had been asked to remain. They assembled around the oval mahogany table. Lamps had been lit, for dusk came early, and the heavy curtains of blue velour pulled across the window.
Florence and her mother sat in the centre of the long side, Godfrey Oldfield, an elderly bachelor, beside them. Sir Philip and Lady Oldfield sat with Lucy Grandison at the foot, or was it the head of the table? Oliver could not be sure. He had been placed two seats down from Mr Lloyd at the other end.
The lawyer opened his case and placed a sheaf of yellowed parchment before him. He glanced around the table, as if to assure himself that everyone was present and began to read:
‘To my dear wife, Lucy, I leave my entire estate with the exception of the bequests as set out in the following pages.
‘To my head gardener, George Peck, the sum of £50. To the under gardener, John Culshaw, the sum of £30.
‘To the housekeeper, Mrs Bostock, the sum of £50. To each of the four parlourmaids, the sum of £30.
Mr Lloyd droned on, reciting the small bequests to his faithful servants. Bill had been generous, remembering all who had served him well. There was not one who received less than £30 and Oliver saw the delight that crossed their faces as their names were mentioned.
‘And to my forewoman, Mrs Rosalind Hadfield, the sum of £50, for good and faithful service …
Oliver was pleased that Bill had remembered Rosie. Fifty pounds would be a sizeable sum to her. He didn’t think she knew about it yet and he looked forward to seeing her surprise when he told her.
‘My niece Laura
Mawdesley and her daughter Florence are to receive an allowance of £2,000 annually from the profits of Hollin Mill, in the form of an allowance of £800 per annum to Florence Mawdesley and £1,200 per annum to Laura Mawdesley, to be administered by my dear friend, Oliver Wainwright. Should Oliver Wainwright wish to dispose of his interest in the said mill then a trust is to be executed, from the sale, for the said allowances to continue.
Oliver saw, first, a look of relief on Laura Mawdesley’s face, which was followed by another look, of displeasure, at the mention of his name. She had not wanted to have any dealings with him, he could tell. She evidently had no further interest in the will for she excused herself and Florence and they left the room.
There followed his own bequest, which Oliver had looked forward to hearing again. So, it was true! Lloyd had not been playing a trick. He was to inherit the weaving shed and the braid workshop. The spinning mill had been leased so the machinery was to be sold and the proceeds were to go into the estate.
Outside, beyond the blue curtain, Oliver heard carriage wheels crunching on the gravel, heard the melodic tones of Florence’s voice speaking softly to her mother as they left Balgone.
‘To my brother and sister-in-law, Sir Philip and Lady Camilla Oldfield,’
Oliver saw Sir Philip’s eyes flick over to the speaker. Not a muscle betrayed any expectations he might have but Oliver had sensed the impatience with which he’d been waiting.
‘I leave 20,000 shares in the railway company, the income from which is to be used to improve, first, the houses of the estate’s employees and afterwards, the school and church of Suttonford village. Should the beneficiaries wish to dispose of these shares, the sum so raised shall be used for this purpose and no other.’
Oliver knew with what delight Bill would have added this last and final bequest. He would not have wanted to snub the Oldfields outright, yet he had not been able to bring himself to benefit them; to think of his money at last being spent to support their way of life.
The Runaway Page 11
