Thank God that James was too young for the army. He hoped James would be present at the ball for he had returned to Middlefield on Boxing Day, to Florence’s annoyance. Oliver lifted the telephone from its cradle and called the operator. It had cost him a pretty penny to have a line brought to Suttonford but now he could speak to his stockbroker and to his partner in the comfort of his study. He could also, secretly, make assignations.
He asked the lady operator to connect him to the number he knew by heart, that of the stage doorkeeper at the London theatre, and left a message for Celia. ‘This is Mr Wainwright. I shall be in London on Thursday. Thursday the third of January. I’ll order dinner, tell my friend. Keep my seat. Yes, second row of the stalls. Thank you. Good day.’
It was almost a code they used. He dared not mention the name of his friend since the Middlefield telephone operators’ chief enjoyment came from eavesdropping on conversations and speculating on the secret lives of the subscribers. He did not enjoy deception. Cheating had never been part of his nature. It made him feel like a thief in the night, having to conduct his love affair in this furtive way. When he had called the barracks and replaced the telephone he was aware of a light tapping at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called and was surprised to see Lizzie put her face timidly around the study door. He had not heard her arrival.
He stood up to greet her. ‘Did you have a good Christmas, Lizzie?’ he asked. She was wearing a costume of lilac cloth in a severe cut, which combination made her appear pale, very pale … as if she had not slept.
Oliver went around the desk and took her hands in his. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Come to the fire and warm yourself.’
‘It’s Mother,’ she began hesitantly, ‘she’s been taken to hospital.’
‘Dolly? In hospital? Whatever …’
‘The doctor says she’ll be all right. He says she needs complete rest … for a month. We’re not to visit.’ She had turned her face away and was wringing her hands.
‘What happened? Was Edward there?’ Oliver asked.
‘No. It happened last night – after Edward had gone back to London.’ Tears were falling now and her voice was light and frightened. ‘She fainted. I called the doctor. He took her away.’
It was a fainting spell, Oliver thought, relieved. ‘She’ll soon be all right, Lizzie. Your mother’s as strong as a horse. Dolly’s never ill. I expect she’s exhausted herself. She makes a tremendous occasion of Christmas, doesn’t she?’
‘She couldn’t speak, Oliver. Her voice has gone.’
‘I’ll go to see her as soon as the New Year celebrations are over,’ Oliver reassured her.
‘They won’t let you in, Oliver. They … they are keeping her locked away,’ she whispered.
Oliver tried to calm her. ‘I shall see her, Lizzie. They will not keep me away. You are not to worry. Walk in the fresh air. Get the roses back into your cheeks.’
She sat in the leather armchair and Oliver saw that her knuckles were white, she was gripping the arms so hard. ‘Can I have a serious talk with you, Oliver? Now?’ she said.
‘Of course. What do you want?’
Her tears stopped. ‘I want to work. Can you help me? I want to find lodgings, maybe a house, in the town.’
‘What?’ She had surprised him. Lizzie – a working woman?
‘Please, Oliver.’
Her eyes were filling with tears again. He would have to be tactful. ‘But, Lizzie – what can you do? You are overwrought with the worry. You know that you mother doesn’t want you to work. And Florence – she hopes to make you a match.’ It had been the wrong approach. She put her hands over her face and began to sob, her shoulders lifting and shuddering. He felt helpless, clumsy, completely out of his depth. Should he send for Florence? No, he must try to help Lizzie. After all, she had approached him: but he had never known what to do when faced with a distressed woman.
He placed a hand on her heaving shoulder and spoke gently. ‘You shall have whatever you want, Lizzie. Come. Dry your tears. We’ll talk sensibly. What is it?’
She raised a tear-stained face. ‘Let me go, Oliver. I need to stand alone. I need to work. I need to do something for myself – by my own efforts. Didn’t you ever feel this way?’
‘I did. I did, Lizzie. I understand,’ he told her. So that was it. The girl had wanted independence all along. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Will you let me learn to be a pattern-maker? I could become apprenticed, couldn’t I?’
He was relieved to see that her face was losing a little of its frightened look. The strain of her mother’s being taken ill had overwhelmed her.
‘And, Oliver …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Find a house for me. Near to the mills. I have money. I have nearly five hundred pounds. That will buy a house, won’t it?’
‘It will buy two houses, Lizzie, if you so wish.’
‘I’ll buy a house and furnish it and work for my living if you help me.’
‘If you’re sure it’s what you want. I’ll do all I can. I’ll speak to young John Partington. They print cloth. He’ll tell you how to go about it.’ He was about to ask her to take time, to think the matter over, but she had jumped from the armchair and taken to her heels.
‘Thank you.’ She flew from the study, as if afraid she’d dissolve into tears again.
Oliver closed the door behind her. It seemed to him that nothing was going the way he’d hoped it would. His children, and he thought of Lizzie as one of his children, were turning their backs on him. He’d wanted a family – wanted them all around him. How had this happened? Edward, of course, was not rejecting his paternal affection – but he was not here. James had walked out. James had coldly walked out on Boxing Day. He’d walked all the miles to Middlefield, evidently preferring his new-found family to being here with himself and Florence.
And now? Now Lizzie was not content here. He sat by the fire, smoking a cigar and sipping his brandy, at a loss to know why his every action seemed to be making his family disaffected.
The ballroom was filled with sparkling light from the chandeliers. The crystal drops seemed to splinter its brilliance, sending tiny points of silver dancing above the heads of Oliver and Florence where they stood at the head of the reception line.
Lizzie had refused their invitation to stand with them and sat watching them from the far side of the room where little gilt chairs had been set between the columns. She knew she ought to be enjoying herself, that the nervousness that plagued her had been an anxiety to Florence since her return from Southport.
Florence looked lovely, gracious and outgoing, in a dress of silver thread on palest grey chiffon, her sweet face alive with the happiness of the occasion; shaking hands and laughing with the guests as they were introduced. Two farmers’ wives, corseted, rouged and overdressed, sitting next to Lizzie were bewailing the fact that dance cards were no longer in fashion.
‘It makes the evening so much less formal. Don’t you agree, Miss Wainwright?’ one of them said.
‘Oh, but my dear,’ her companion cut in before Lizzie could think of a reply, ‘one gains so much excitement from the – the unexpectedness.’
Oliver, his face serious and interested, was being spoken to by one of the scarlet-jacketed officers whom Florence had invited in the hope that perhaps one might take the heart of the girl she referred to as ‘my darling sister, Lizzie’. And Lizzie could not help but be aware of it; she could not help but feel unworthy of Florence’s good intentions.
The women’s voices, high-pitched and eager, were making no sense. The scent of pine from the great tree that stood in the centre of the floor was sickening to her and the dancing music, played by the little orchestra in the gallery, was a cacophony in her ears.
‘Why, anyone could ask simply anyone and nobody would know …’
‘Know what?’
‘How it will all turn out. Don’t you agree, Miss Wainwright?’
James, next to
his grandmother, still had the arrogant habit of looking down his nose at the person he was speaking to but at dinner Lizzie had found him quieter than of old and much improved in manner. Laura, in black, leaning on her stick for support, looked bewildered. Lizzie murmured in agreement with both the ladies who had now launched into discussion on modern etiquette.
For herself, she felt shamed and worthless. She should not be sitting here amongst decent, God-fearing people who would be horrified if they knew her secret. But she could not believe that what she and Edward had done was wrong. She did not feel like Edward’s sister. She had never felt that they were cast in the same mould, or even from the same metal. How could the love they had shared be wrong? Had they never met until now they would have instantly been drawn to one another.
And suppose they had not been brought up together? What then? Suppose they had never known they were brother and sister? Or suppose they were not brother and sister? She must stop these thoughts from tormenting her. She could not even eat. Daily she saw her face in the glass grow more pinched and shadowed.
James had left the line now and was coming towards her across the floor. Perhaps Florence had asked him to dance with her. But Florence would not have asked if she knew, Lizzie imagined; if she knew that her ‘darling sister’ was a fallen woman. Oliver was going to visit her mother the day after tomorrow. They would not be able to prevent Oliver from seeing her. And Mother would tell all. Mother would tell Oliver that her own daughter had turned against her in disgust. Mother would never dream that she, Lizzie, had defied the very laws of nature and was beneath contempt.
She had to get away.
‘You look lovely tonight, Lizzie,’ James said as he stood before her, hand outstretched to help her from her seat. ‘Will you dance with me?’
She heard her own voice, remote yet sounding quite normal, reply, ‘Thank you, James. Are you enjoying yourself?’ She followed him to the dance floor.
‘Yes. But I am going to return to Middlefield before morning.’
‘Does your father know? Doesn’t Oliver insist that you stay?’
‘He can insist until he’s blue in the face, Lizzie, I have long since ceased to care.’ He smiled at her. Perhaps he was teasing. Lizzie could no longer tell. To her surprise she heard herself laughing in response to the look on his face. They had reached the edge of the floor and James was holding her hand. ‘Will you waltz with me or shall I leave you to the army and the local farmers?’
‘We’ll dance,’ she replied. ‘And afterwards, will you take me to meet John Partington? I heard his name announced but I’ve not been introduced.’
He was holding her around the waist now and she found that her feet were following his. It was such a pity that he and Oliver spent so much of their time at loggerheads. The music stopped for a few moments and they waited on the floor for the second waltz, for the dances were always repeated.
‘I’ll take you meet John Partington now, if you wish. But promise to dance with me again,’ James said.
‘Stay with me, James. I want to ask Mr Partington for work,’ she heard herself, as bold as anyone, telling James. The shocked yet interested look on James’s face made her laugh out loud again.
‘Good for you, Lizzie. What on earth makes you want to break free …?’
‘I can’t tell you, James. But I need to find a house and a job of work.’ They were walking towards a corner of the room, where under the columns the Partington family sat, but James was going slowly, saying, ‘There’s a house in Rivergate to let. The owners have gone abroad. They’ve asked my – my landlady, Mrs Smallwood, to find them a tenant. It should suit you well if you are in a hurry.’
‘I’ll take it, James,’ she said in deadly earnest.
‘Come.’ James led her towards the Partington group. ‘I’ll make the introductions. By gum, Lizzie.’
She laughed again; laughed at James’s imitating the local accent. ‘You’re a right one! You are that! I didn’t know you ’ad it in yer,’ he said, a great smile of delight on his face.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There had been a heavy fall of snow overnight and the park was beautiful, deep-mantled in white, before the early sun could melt the heavy layers on the branches of the cypresses and pines. There was no wind and the lake had thawed, navy blue under the early January sky.
Breakfast was being served in the dining room as some of the guests from old year’s night were staying at Suttonford. Florence had woken Oliver at seven so that they could eat together before he went to Middlefield.
‘I’ll have to go to Southport, Florence. I must see Dolly and speak to her doctors. Then I will have to tell Edward about his mother’s illness. It’s his birthday soon and I’m going to give him a party in London. Dolly and Lizzie were to travel to London for it. He doesn’t know yet that his mother’s ill.’ They were seated at the long walnut table, nearest the fire.
‘Very well, darling. Will you go today?’ Florence asked as she fussed over him, filling his plate with scrambled eggs and kidney while he sat back a little way from the table, waiting for her to hand him a napkin.
‘That’s enough, love. Now help yourself.’ Oliver enjoyed her attention. She treated him as she would a young child. She filled his cup from the silver samovar they used in the dining room.
‘Drink your tea, darling.’
‘Will you give my apologies to our guests, Florence? Tell them I had to attend to urgent business.’ He warmed his hands at the fire. Even though the sun streamed into the dining room it was cold in winter in the big rooms.
‘Is James enjoying work? He said very little over the holiday, didn’t he?’ Florence said. ‘Mother thinks he should come home to Suttonford, of course.’
‘Of course. She would,’ Oliver replied. If anything was calculated to turn him against a proposition it was that Laura had suggested it. ‘She’s always treated him as if he were her own little heir apparent. But her own little heir has turned against me,’ he told her gravely.
‘What do you mean, darling?’ Florence was all concern now.
‘One of the mill-owners – young Partington – told me at the ball that James has joined the union,’ he said.
‘Silly boy!’ Relief flashed into Florence face. She evidently did not see any significance in James’s behaviour. He would not try to explain it to her. Two of their guests entered the room and she went to welcome them.
A path wide enough for the trap had been cleared down to the village but Oliver liked to walk, to stretch his legs and breathe deeply of the clean, cold air. Sometimes, like today, he wanted to run, to throw himself into the banked snow at the side of the path and roll and flail about in its freshness.
He waited until he was out of sight of the house before breaking into a run, grabbing handfuls of snow as he went, cold and compressible, perfect for snowballs. He made one and bowled it overarm at the trees. He’d see Albert first then go on to Southport and find out how Dolly was, then tomorrow … Tomorrow he’d be with Celia in London. He’d see Edward on the following day.
‘Mornin’, sir,’ the stationmaster greeted him. ‘Fine mornin’. Half the estate are up and doin’ today.’
The man had too much to say for himself. Oliver bristled and nodded curtly to him before stamping his feet on the unbrushed platform.
‘Miss Wainwright was out on the early train,’ the man continued.
‘Lizzie? Miss Elizabeth Wainwright?’
‘Yes, sir. She caught the seven o’clock.’
What on earth was going on? Did nobody tell him anything these days?
‘She’d a lot of bags with her, any road,’ the stationmaster added.
The train was delayed and a noisy little crowd waited on the platform. When it came even the first-class was full and Oliver had to stand, lurching against other passengers’ knees. His early good humour was beginning to evaporate and by the time he walked up the packed snow of Wallgate, sliding and slithering backwards with every step, it had turned to plain
ill-temper.
Twenty-three Churchgate, Florence’s old house, had been used as the head office of Wainwright and Billington since Laura had vacated it in favour of Balgone, on her aunt’s death. The chief clerk, sitting at his high desk in the front office, greeted him with little enthusiasm. Oliver knew that when the clerk saw him at the office outside his normal thrice-weekly routine it usually meant trouble.
‘Is Mr Billington upstairs?’ Oliver asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll go up. You needn’t ring.’ Oliver ran up the polished staircase to the two big rooms he and Albert occupied.
‘What’s James up to now? Have you heard?’ he asked Albert. ‘The young bugger’s been rousing our workers as well as the ones at his place, I’m told.’ He clasped his hands behind his back and went to the window. The sky, filled with more snow, lowered over the slushy, manure-laden street where cartwheels were slipping into gutters, spraying passing feet on the dirty pavements.
‘Aye. There’s to be a meeting tomorrow night in the mill yard. I’m told James is leading it; agitating for more pay and shorter hours,’ Albert said. ‘Come away from the window, will you? Sit down and talk about it.’
‘I’ll not take it from him, Albert.’ Oliver went to the fireplace and kicked a lump of coal, sending flames and sparks up the chimney. ‘I can’t have my son against me. The young devil won’t see sense. What’s he trying to do?’
‘Get his own back, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Albert said. ‘You’ve pushed him into a corner and he’s got to fight his way out.’
‘How do you keep your lot in order then, Albert? You and Edith seem to have them all doing what you want them to,’ Oliver asked.
‘We spend a bit of time with them. That’s all,’ Albert answered.
‘What do you mean? That I don’t?’
‘You’ve never spent time with James. You handed over him to nannies and tutors when he was little. Then you bundled him off to boarding school,’ Albert said. ‘In fact, Oliver, you’ve spent a damn sight more time with your stepmother’s children … what’s their names? Edward and Lizzie … than you have with James. The lad hardly knows you.’
The Runaway Page 39
