by Diane Allen
Joseph opened one of the doors leading out of the hall and revealed a large, spacious room, with windows overlooking the driveway and an Adams fireplace taking pride of place on the centre wall. Elegant cornicing ran all round the ceiling, surrounding yet another chandelier hanging in the centre.
‘This is one of the smaller rooms, but every one of them has these beautiful decorated ceilings. And you get a good view from every room in the house, apart from the kitchen, but even that isn’t bad. The Redmaynes made sure their kitchen was up-to-date in its fixtures. I thought perhaps a warm flock wallpaper in here? What do you think?’ Joseph stood next to a bedazzled Charlotte.
‘Flock – what’s flock?’ Charlotte turned and looked at her host, waiting for an answer.
‘It’s wallpaper with a velvety pattern on it, rather like your gloves, Charlotte.’ Joseph reached out and touched the softness of one of her gloved arms. His hand lingered on her arm as they looked into one another’s eyes.
‘That would be different. I’ve never seen that before.’ Charlotte looked into Joseph’s eyes and found herself lost for words.
He smiled and placed his hand back down by his side. ‘It’s in all the best homes; it seems to be the latest trend. I’ve also asked Gillow’s of Lancaster to show me their latest catalogue of furniture. They are a good company, and local.’
Charlotte gathered her thoughts; her heart had missed a beat when Joseph placed his hand on her arm. ‘Have you some furniture from your old home, over in Accrington? Would it not fit in anywhere?’
‘I’ve left the past behind, Charlotte. It would only remind me of life back there, if I brought it with me.’ Joseph’s face clouded over.
‘I’m sorry I’ve reminded you of bad times, with the death of your wife. I do apologize.’ She bowed her head; Joseph was obviously still in love with his wife.
‘The only thing coming from Accrington is my housekeeper, Mrs Dodgson. She has known me all my life, and looks after me like my own mother. I couldn’t have done any of this without her. My wife’s gone, and I never discuss her death if I can help it.’ He walked over to the window and leaned against the sill, looking down the drive. ‘Sorry, Charlotte.’ He turned and put a smile back on his face. ‘They were trying times – I hope you understand.’
‘Of course I do. I apologize if I upset you.’ She was more upset at thinking she had blotted her copybook when it came to Joseph.
‘No, forgive me, I’m too sensitive. Come, take my arm and view the rest of the house and then we will have some tea. You can meet Mrs Dodgson. She’s an old dragon really, but her bark is worse than her bite and I’d be lost without her. She’s just who I need to run a house like this, when I’m busy at both mills, and I can trust her.’
‘I’m sure she’s delightful. We’d be lost without Mrs Cranston; she knows our needs and runs the house like clockwork. Father would be heartbroken if anything happened to her.’ Charlotte patted Joseph’s hand gently.
‘Servants, aye, more like family – it just shouldn’t happen. They should know their place and we should remember to keep them in it.’ Joseph squeezed Charlotte’s gloved hand and raised it to kiss it.
Charlotte blushed and let her hand linger in his for a brief second. ‘Now, let us look at the rest of the house. I’m getting ready for that tea, and meeting your Mrs Dodgson. She must be quite a character, if she earns your respect.’ Joseph was not letting the grass grow under his feet. Had she read the signs incorrectly or was he totally smitten with her?
‘So, Miss Booth, your father owns Crummock, at Austwick. Is it a large farm?’ Mrs Dodgson poured out the tea in the grand parlour. The room was sparsely furnished, but had a fire blazing in the hearth.
Charlotte looked at the prying housekeeper. She was surprised that Mrs Dodgson didn’t know her place and was so presumptuous, with someone who was obviously above her station. ‘Yes, it is quite large, one of the biggest in the district.’
‘Is it sheep or dairy?’
‘It’s sheep; my father breeds sheep. That’s why he was hoping that Joseph – I mean, Mr Dawson – was going to open a woollen mill, not a cotton mill. As it stands, we will still have to supply the Jacksons at Long Preston with our wool.’ Charlotte felt as if she was being interrogated by the scrawny, tall, dark-haired woman, who had a menacing air about her.
‘That will be all, Mrs Dodgson, thank you.’ Joseph scowled at his servant and shooed her away with his hand.
Mrs Dodgson curtsied sharply, keeping her face plain and without expression. Her chatelaine belt rattled as she walked away, and she stopped briefly at the doorway, before making her way across the hallway.
Joseph leaned over and offered Charlotte a selection of tempting confectionery, which Charlotte found hard to choose from. ‘I do apologize. She can be nosy when she wants to be.’
‘It’s alright; she didn’t ask anything that local folk don’t know. I was just a bit surprised.’ Charlotte bit into a slice of sponge cake, taking care to use the delicate bone-china plate that had also been handed to her.
‘As I say, she is nearly family. Talking about family, have you recovered from losing your grandfather? I did feel for your loss at his funeral. Your father will have inherited Crummock, I presume, along with other assets?’
‘Yes, my father owns Crummock now and has been left quite comfortable. Perhaps not as wealthy as yourself, but he has enough to be happy with. And of course my grandpapa left me a small allowance. I always did love Grandpapa.’ Charlotte bowed her head and stirred her tea, wondering what this actually had to do with Joseph, but she supposed he had to know that her family were not penniless.
‘And who was the young man who rushed to your aid at the funeral?’ Joseph smiled and bit into his slice of sponge while waiting for Charlotte’s reply.
‘Oh! That was Archie – Archie Atkinson. He farms over at Eldroth, at Butterfield Gap. We pretend to wave to each other first thing in the morning, because I can just see his bedroom window across the dale from high out of my window.’ Charlotte laughed.
‘Do you love him? He seemed concerned for your well-being,’ said Joseph.
‘Oh God, no – not in that sense. I’ve just grown up with Archie, and he’s Mrs Cranston’s nephew. My father says Archie couldn’t keep me in shoes. So no, he’s only a friend, and always will be, I hope.’ Charlotte was ashamed to admit that she would have made the Devil her bedfellow, if it led to being asked back to Windfell and the company of Joseph Dawson.
‘Ah, I see. I thought perhaps he was your beau. I didn’t want to come between star-crossed lovers.’ Joseph smiled at the blushing girl. He’d dug deep into her personal life, but he had to be sure of her commitments.
‘Come between us – why would you be doing that, Mr Dawson?’ Charlotte looked teasingly at Joseph. She knew why he’d asked, and she knew where it was leading.
‘Well, I thought afternoon tea together could be a regular thing, Charlotte, if you are in agreement. I think we keep quite good company together.’ He looked across at the blonde beauty and thought that he had chosen well, especially as she had an allowance.
‘That would be more than agreeable, Joseph. I’d look forward to our teas together.’ She could have run around the great parlour, letting out hoots of delight, but instead she remained calm and genteel.
‘Would Friday afternoon suit you? Perhaps we should meet at Mrs Armistead’s on Duke Street in Settle? I’m given to believe she runs a good tea room. Besides, it saves you being cross-examined by Mrs Dodgson, who gets a bit protective of me.’
‘That would be delightful. I’ll look forward to that very much.’ Charlotte couldn’t wait for Friday to come, and going to Mrs Armistead’s was an added bonus. High-tea was such a treat, and Mrs Armistead had the most beautiful fancies; she’d seen them in the window as she walked by.
‘Right, Friday it is. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get Mrs Dodgson to tell my man that you are nearly ready to return home.’ Joseph smiled at his excited gue
st and walked out of the room.
Charlotte sat back in her chair and looked around the huge parlour. One day this might belong to her; she might be the lady of the manor. Damn it, there was no might about it – she would be the lady of the manor.
4
Joseph Dawson sat back in his chair in his newly refurbished office at Ferndale Mill. He’d not wasted money on making his office plush and comfortable; that was to spend on his home and not his place of work. He looked out at the newly reinstalled Arkwright water frames and muttered a silent prayer. They’d cost him a small fortune, along with the now-working water wheel that was going to power the water frames that spun the cotton. The raw cotton was waiting for collection by carters on the docks at Liverpool, and should be stacked up in the warehouse by the end of the week.
Thank God he’d kept his connections in New Orleans. His suppliers there had been only too happy to sell to him, no questions asked, as long as his money was good. He’d have to try and get out there again, spend a few weeks on the Natchez plantation; watch the black slaves working in the fields, while he sat sipping port on the porch with the hard-talking Richard Todd, who would boast of how good his working ‘Negroes’ were, compared to those on other plantations. He’d enjoy that. Folk respected you out there, if you were white and had brass. It was a pity he couldn’t treat the folk in his mill like Negroes. But his overseers would see there were no shirkers, that he knew; he hadn’t chosen the men who were going to be his ‘eyes’ for their kindness. Another week and he’d not be able to hear himself think, as the mill filled up with workers, old and young; as long as they could work, he wasn’t bothered.
He listened to the conversation in the next room, where the local doctor was examining a batch of eleven-year-olds for employment in the mill.
‘Name!’ The doctor bellowed out.
‘William Walton,’ a voice replied.
‘I said “your name”, boy,’ the doctor bellowed again. ‘William Walton.’
‘Get out of my sight, boy, you’ve failed. Next!’
Joseph breathed in deeply as he heard the next interviewee.
‘Name, boy?’
‘James Mitchell, sir.’
‘Put out your tongue. Age?’
‘Eleven years and two months, sir.’
‘Can you write your name, lad?’
‘I can, sir.’
‘Report for work at five-thirty on Monday morning at the main gate. Don’t be late.’
Joseph smirked, appreciating that for the lad to know his place in society was more important than whether he could write; as long as he knew when to show respect to his elders and betters, he might just survive in his mill. If he had his way, he’d have had children younger than nine working for him. At least they could work next to their parents while they were at the looms and shuttles, instead of the parents wondering what their offspring were up to at home. The Factory Act of 1833 had a lot to answer for, in his view; at least the younger children had been making a bit of money for their parents, or helped out the parish if they came from the workhouse, before the Act was brought in, no matter how meagre their pay.
Joseph stood up from his desk and looked out of his office window across the yard at the millpond. A few hundred yards further along he had families moving into the empty mill cottages that would house his workers. Families from Lancashire, Skipton and an occasional Dales family, fed up of eking out a living on a small piece of land that had probably been in their family for centuries. Now they were going to be slaves to the mill bell – fed by him, housed by him and even told by him how long to pray. The fools! Their lives were his to do with as he pleased, and no one was going to stop him. On their backs he hoped to have a lifestyle beyond belief and, if his plans were to succeed with the smitten Miss Booth as his soon-to-be wife, he would also be a landowner in a while. Life couldn’t be much better.
He turned sharply as he heard a timid knock on his office door.
‘Yes, who is it?’
The door opened slowly. Before him stood a slim-figured, dark-haired young woman with cheeks as bright as her cherry-red lips. She stood there hesitantly, realizing that she was in the wrong room.
‘Sorry, sir. I think I’ve got the wrong office.’ She turned and started to close the door.
‘Are you after employment here?’ Joseph took in the dark good looks of a local beauty.
‘I am, sir. I was told to go upstairs to the offices, but I think I’m in the wrong one.’
‘What’s your name, girl?’ Joseph watched as she wrapped her shawl around herself tightly, showing her figure off to its full extent.
‘Betsy Foster, sir.’
‘Have you worked in a cotton mill before, Miss Foster?’
‘Yes, sir. I work at Belmont Mill in Skipton, on the carding machine, aligning the cotton fibres.’
‘And what brings you here, Miss Foster?’
‘I’ve seen that there are cottages available to rent, and I have a younger dependent brother. We lost our parents to the cholera two years ago, and I’ve vowed ever since to move out further into the countryside. I don’t like our Johnny running wild on the streets.’
Joseph walked to his desk and scribbled a hasty note. ‘Give this to the man in the next office. It informs him to give you the last empty cottage on the row of mill cottages, and to put you on the carding machine, come Monday morning.’ He passed it to her and noticed her hand tremble as she accepted.
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir, I won’t let you down. God bless you for your kindness.’ Betsy could not believe her luck as she closed the door behind her. Everything she had ever wanted since her parents’ death had suddenly become hers.
Joseph smiled; he couldn’t believe he had a true beauty at his beck and call, and one who now owed everything to her employer. He had thought life couldn’t get any better. Well, now it was definitely complete!
Charlotte sat on the rugged limestone outcrop of rock that covered Moughton Scars, a high fellside that rose out of Crummockdale. It was her favourite place on the entire farm. She could gaze for miles in all directions, and sit and listen to the skylarks that sang their familiar song above her head.
Life had been a whirlwind lately. She’d had two months of flowers, fine dining and being treated like a lady by Joseph Dawson. She sighed deeply and breathed in, smelling the late spring air and feeling the warm sunshine on her face. She did love him, truly she did, but things were moving so fast – too fast for her. She did want to be mistress of Windfell, to be married to Joseph, to have his children and be a woman of substance, but how she would miss days like today. A day when she had wandered out of the farmhouse in her ordinary everyday clothes, not bothered about how her hair looked or whether she had rouge on her cheeks. If she was to marry Joseph, everything would change. On the other hand, look at what she was gaining. Any other farm lass would not be able to believe her luck. So why was she losing her fascination with all aspects of Windfell and its occupants?
She stood up on the edge of the scar and shouted to the world, ‘What do I do: do I say “yes”?’ An echo bounced around the scar, almost mocking the desperation in her situation, as it answered the last word repeatedly. ‘Hmm, so that’s your reply,’ she muttered to herself and continued with her thoughts: I know I’m being daft; I’ll give Joseph permission to speak to my father and set a date, if he’s happy to give us his blessing. Dear Father, I will miss him so much, but it’s not like he’s a million miles away – just over the next dale. Besides, he can make his house his real home, once I’m out of the way. I believe he and Mrs Cranston think I was born yesterday! Charlotte grinned, thinking about the love between her father and Lucy, the cook. They must think she was deaf of a night. Someone should tell them that the slightest sound carried around the old farmhouse.
Slowly now she clambered along the limestone clints and grikes, making her way back to the green-grassed pathway that had been used for centuries by travellers between Crummockdale and Horton-in-Ribblesdale.
The newly sprung bracken edged the path back down into the valley, and the small stream that evolved out of the limestone bedrock sparkled and meandered in front of her. Despite never knowing her mother, she had been privileged enough to have a perfect childhood, growing up in such a glorious place. It was this that she was going to miss, along with not having any responsibilities, except occasionally chastising her father over his bookkeeping, which she knew he hated.
Her walk hadn’t helped her decide at all. In fact, if anything it had confused her even more; she didn’t want to turn her back on her beloved home, no matter how big and grand Windfell was. She made her way along the fellside, following the limestone wall, and eventually came to the gate that led into the farmyard. She was just in the process of tying the rope that secured it when she heard the voice of Lucy Cranston, who was laughing and talking on the steps of the farmhouse kitchen to someone just inside the doorway. Charlotte made her way across the yard and to the kitchen.
‘Miss Charlotte, I’m so glad you are back from your walk. Look who we have visiting – it’s our Archie, and this is his fiancée, Rosie. They’ve walked up from Austwick to tell me their news. They’ve just been arranging for their banns to be read by the vicar. It’s such a surprise, I didn’t even know he was courting.’ Lucy Cranston gave the pretty brunette girl by Archie’s side a huge hug and then wiped a tear away from her full cheeks.
‘Fiancée! Archie, that was quick work. I didn’t realize, and now you are getting married? You’ve kept that quiet!’ Charlotte looked at the lad she had once had feelings for, and at his bride-to-be. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy, but at the same time an air of superiority washed over her as she looked at the young, quivering farm lass who stood by his side. Who was she, to stand arm-in-arm with a lad she hardly knew?
Archie blushed. ‘Aye, well, it’s a bit quick, I know – but we have to, you know?’ Archie tilted his head towards Rosie and looked down at his feet, embarrassed. His girlfriend jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow while smiling at Charlotte.
