The Iron Master

by Jean Stubbs

  Time assisted him. Millbridge was changing, but Thornton House seemed always to stay the same. Gossip can only be nourished by the new. As Charlotte weathered each small social crisis it became of no more interest than last week’s Wyndendale Post. Folk even covered her behaviour with the respectable cloak of family faults.

  ‘It’s in the blood, my dear. Old Miss Wilde put up a tombstone to her dog, Walpole, you know, and often said she loved him better than any person, and she would have her own way! And though Dorcas is very proper these days she used to have a will and temper fit to match her aunt, and threw her bonnet over the windmill to many that farmer in Garth! Mind you, old Mr Howarth was a very gentlemanly fellow, as are his two sons — and no one could do better than William Howarth, now could they? No, it is the female side that is a trifle odd … ’

  So Ambrose picked up knowledge of those subjects which interested him, and neglected those which did not, and gradually lengthened into a handsome young fellow of medium height with a taste for fine clothes. They spoke of his going to Cambridge, as Jack Ackroyd had done, and he did not gainsay them. Cambridge might do very well, and if it did not then he would find somewhere and something else to do. For himself, he rather fancied his chance in London, and whatever Ambrose fancied was likely to come his way. And he became a great hero among the younger pupils at the grammar school in his last year, and broke many budding female hearts along the High Street.

  *

  Cicely had always preferred the company of older people, and when Phoebe died she transferred her attentions to Dorcas. William, ever-generous, had given the young Longes a pony apiece, which they kept at the livery stables in Cornmarket Street. From there, Cicely would ride over to Upperton two or three times a week, and grandmother and granddaughter would spend the day in perfect harmony: inspecting the small gardens at the back and front of Bracelet, compounding simple medicines and toiletries in Dorcas’s still-room, drinking tea and conversing in the parlour. And as the girl grew older Dorcas would confide in her.

  Apparently all was not well in the ironmaster’s household, despite his increasing wealth and power. Every two years or so Zelah produced another daughter in her own image, and though William loved them in his fashion he no longer concealed his desire for the appearance of a son. By the time Ambrose went up to Cambridge in the autumn of 1803 there were four little girls gracing Kingswood Hall: Tabitha, Catherine, Anna and Olivia. William’s absorption with Snape and Belbrook was becoming obsessive, and he entertained almost as lavishly, but not so exclusively, as Lord Kersall. Dorcas thought that Zelah looked too pale and worked too hard, in consequence. Also, she had never come to terms with the Church of England service, and now secluded herself for an hour each day, keeping a solitary Quaker silence in her private sitting-room. Besides that, women tended to spoil William — not that he noticed, of course, but still, it was not good for him … ’

  All this Cicely learned and kept to herself, though she would confirm Charlotte’s opinion or doubts if the matters were raised. There was a slight shadow between mother and daughter, which did not exist between mother and son. It appeared to spring from an inner alienation, as though the girl distrusted Charlotte’s way of life. And, just as Charlotte had preferred Millbridge to her own home at the age of sixteen, so Cicely was more at ease in Bracelet than Thornton House. On fine Sundays Dorcas drove into Millbridge in her new trap, meeting her granddaughter for the morning service at St Mark’s Church, and afterwards ate dinner with them. For Charlotte had long since given up church attendance, and though she would not have described herself as an atheist she seemed one.

  ‘Cicely is so like my mother,’ Dorcas remarked on one such occasion.

  There was a hint of reproach in her tone, and Charlotte, who had hoped to do some work that afternoon, answered somewhat impatiently.

  ‘So you have always said, Mamma.’

  Then she felt sorry, because her mother looked hurt.

  ‘I fear that repetition is one of the penances of old age,’ said Dorcas, endeavouring to speak lightly.

  But Charlotte came over and kissed her, and begged her pardon, so that was all right. And presently, Dorcas began again.

  ‘My mother was a Beecham, you know, and closely related to four bishops, which they say is a mark of true aristocracy! Indeed, she was a great lady in the best sense of the word. But her family never quite forgave her for marrying my father, though he was a gentleman and a good churchman. You did please me so, Charlotte, by naming your children after them!’ She was very bright all of a sudden, remembering. ‘Cicely Beecham and Ambrose Wilde — ah well, that is an old love story … ’

  Cicely sat, stitching and listening, shining head bent. She had heard all these tales countless times but did not tire of them. She liked to think of that gentle but tenacious Cicely Beecham, the ardent but impoverished Ambrose Wilde in his Gloucestershire parish, and their happiness together.

  ‘Of course, their life was not easy,’ said Dorcas in her reverie, ‘for my mother bore seven children and only I survived. And her death was so cruel, and she died young. Well, young enough. How old are you, Charlotte?’

  ‘Close on eight-and-thirty, Mamma,’ her daughter replied drily, for she could not see the point of the conversation.

  ‘Ah, she was scarcely that! Well, I must not run on. Where are my gloves, child?’

  ‘Here, Grandmama, under your reticule.’

  ‘I shall be going now, my dear ones. I have stayed longer than usual on account of the heat, Charlotte. Your father would not have liked me to drive home with the sun so hot! Oh, by the by, Mrs Graham made a point of speaking to us today after the service, and was most civil, was she not, Cicely? She asked us to drink tea with her at the Rectory next Sunday, and I thought how I should like to see the old place again. I have not been there since Phoebe’s father died, above twenty years ago. Arid Phoebe and I were girls together at one time, Cicely, and used to sit by the fireside there and confide in each other as young girls do … ’

  Charlotte’s expression was doubtful.

  ‘Surely, Mrs Graham does not want me to drink tea with her?’

  ‘No, I am sure she does not,’ said Dorcas crisply. ‘She only mentioned you in passing, as a matter of common courtesy. Her invitation was extended to us, but since you are Cicely’s mother it is only right that your permission is asked.’

  ‘My permission is freely granted,’ cried Charlotte, laughing at the quaintness of the request. ‘Why, what a pair of oddities you are!’ And she embraced them fondly. ‘I do not mind if Cicely drinks tea there every day, if it makes her happy — only I should not like to do so myself.’

  ‘Then we shall certainly go,’ said Dorcas, with a curious look on her face. ‘And if a friendship or special interest should develop between Cicely and Mrs Graham you would not mind?’

  ‘I? Why should I?’ said Charlotte, feeling a distance between them. ‘I believe that everyone should do as they think best. I have friends and interests of my own which do not suit everybody,’ she added a little bitterly, ‘it is only right that they should have theirs.’

  Grandmother and grand-daughter looked inscrutable, and said nothing.

  *

  ‘So Mrs Dorcas has been match-making all these months!’ William cried, striding into Thornton House one blustering March morning in 1805. ‘Are you dreadfully angry with her, Lottie?’

  He was so very cheerful that Charlotte had to smile, though she was considerably put out.

  ‘Come, offer me some of that excellent London coffee,’ William coaxed, ‘and you shall tell me everything. I can see you are bursting with things you must not say!’

  Then she laughed ruefully, and prepared to confide in him.

  ‘Oh, it is very well, really, Willie. Only I do wish the young man were not Mrs Graham’s nephew, and she is being very grand and distant with me, and very close with Mamma and Cicely. And I do feel left out, Willie!’

  ‘But you like our Reverend Jarvis Pole nonethe
less, I believe?’

  ‘Oh, like and heartily approve of him. I am not such a fool as to let my aversion to his relative influence my opinion of him. And he is exactly right for Cicely, and his life will suit her perfectly. Mrs Dorcas has been both shrewd and wise — I wondered why she kept rambling on about her mother and father, and now I see all!’

  ‘Ah! You brew better coffee than anyone I know, Lottie. Yes, the reverend young gentleman is a splendid fellow — though not half good enough for Cicely,’ he added loudly, teasingly, as his niece came into the parlour. ‘You grow prettier by the hour, miss. So give your uncle a kiss, for he has an idea that should please you mightily. Only we must ask your Mamma’s permission.’

  ‘Pray do not trouble yourself,’ said Charlotte with desperate humour. ‘The last time I gave Cicely permission she took gross advantage of it! No, no,’ she cried, seeing Cicely’s smile vanish, ‘I think your Jarvis is a lovely man, and Mrs Dorcas has done well by you.’

  ‘She was probably settling an old score,’ said William slyly. ‘Aunt Tib made your match, as I remember, and we did not even have the pleasure of your wedding. Do you know, Cicely, that I had to drop all my business and hurtle down to London in one of the first Royal Mail coaches to meet your father and see that all was well with your mother? So do not let her bully you, for she set us all back on our heels in her day!’

  Cicely kissed his cheek and clung to his arm. The change in her was extraordinary, as Charlotte observed with a pang. For how hopelessly bored and wretched the girl must have been before, to look so radiant now. Her former reticence had gone. She sang about the house, confided small hopes and plans, smiled frequently and was anxious that everyone should share her happiness.

  ‘Now when is this Jarvis Pole fellow intending to spirit you off to Wiltshire?’ William asked. ‘October? That gives us plenty of time. Lottie! Cicely! Zelah and I would like to offer you Kingswood Hall for the wedding reception. We promise we shall keep Mrs Dorcas in a glass case, lest she accidentally queen the occasion, and we shall sit in the butler’s pantry and pretend that the house is yours, if so it please you.’

  Charlotte tried to look grateful, but Cicely was enchanted.

  ‘Then that is settled,’ said William briskly. ‘Let us have your wedding list, so that we know how many to cater for, and name your menu. We shall not disgrace you! Oh, and Zelah thinks we should give you your china and cutlery as a wedding gift, Cicely. For no doubt Charlotte will be giving the linen and so forth. Does that please you? Now I will not intrude further, for there will be comings and goings here all day. And we expect you all to dinner tomorrow. When does Jarvis return to Wiltshire?’

  ‘On Thursday next, for he must preach the Sunday sermon.’

  ‘Then give me another kiss — he shall not have all of them! — and God bless you both. I shall see myself out … ’

  ‘And I am truly glad for Cicely,’ said Charlotte to Jack that evening, ‘and I know it is unreasonable in me to want to do most for her, and to come first with her, as I do with Ambrose but I do grieve, Jack. I do grieve.’

  He was not the awkward man he had been, and could comfort her.

  ‘Well, we are a pair of dangerous revolutionaries,’ he said, mocking her, taking her hands and squeezing them gently, ‘and your family and Cicely are not. The girl is best to be out of the way, and to make a life of her own. I confess to worrying over her future more than once. And this Jarvis Pole is a good fellow, is he? In spite of being related to our righteous Mrs Graham?’

  ‘Oh, there is another barb which I must suffer! Yes, he is an excellent young man with a beautifully plain face and a plain honest manner. But he finds me rather a terrifying obstacle, though he kindly invited me to stay at the vicarage whenever I would! Our Mrs Graham has lost no opportunity to tell him that I have outrageous notions and am not approved by Millbridge’s politest circles. Oh, and William has swept us all off to Kings-wood Hall, and is giving away the bride and giving the reception, and I do not know what else!’

  ‘A Howarth occasion?’ He was sombre, for the family did not like him, but he made an effort. ‘Well, I shall give Cicely a present but do not feel you must invite me. I shall not be there. It is best that I embarrass no one. So what else troubles you?’ As her face did not clear.

  ‘Ambrose has met some fellow-student whose father owns a London newspaper, and apparently he has been very thick with them, and now he wishes to leave Cambridge for London and become a journalist.’

  Jack consulted the knot of his hands. He would have liked Ambrose to become a teacher. Then he relaxed the knot and smiled at her.

  ‘What troublesome creations children are! Aye, let him go, my love. He will only leave you else. Ambrose will find his own way.’

  There were tears in her eyes, and she rose from her chair, turning away from him so that he should not see her crying.

  ‘We are on our own now, my lass,’ said Jack, understanding her. ‘But the children are safe at least.’

  Then she hugged him fiercely, and kissed him, and wept without shame.

  *

  News of Admiral Nelson’s victory and death came through on the eve of Cicely’s wedding, and St Mark’s Church was thronged with thanksgivers as well as guests. Such a euphoria possessed Millbridge as had not been seen for many a day; and William, having toasted the newly married pair, now asked the company to raise their glasses a second time, to the hero of Trafalgar. They drank with pride and sorrow, for England had been at war with France, save that brief respite of 1802-3, for twelve long years. And at last the French seemed to be on the run. It was a doubly happy and tearful event, and, as Mrs Graham remarked afterwards, the Longes conducted themselves pretty well for once.

  Ambrose came up from London, where he had taken lodgings not far from their old home at Lock-yard, and seemed to be as pleased with life as was his sister. Many old neighbours, and all the Howarths, attended the wedding, and Charlotte’s three suitors were to be found mingling with the crowd. But Jack Ackroyd did not come.

  He had watched at his study window that morning while the bride left for church, and saw her return in an open carriage and sweep down the High Street on her way to Kingswood Hall. Now, at four in the afternoon, he mounted guard again, since she would soon be passing with her new husband on their journey to Wiltshire.

  He had known her since she was a little girl sewing her sampler, making a place for him at her side, taking him under her protection. He had endeavoured to understand her, and learned to love her. She had come closer to him than Ambrose, for whom he nourished an easy and amused affection. He supposed, in a way, she had been a daughter to him. And, though the religious ceremony and grand reception were not to his taste, he would have been grateful to look upon her happiness, to have some word with the bridegroom and find out for himself what sort of fellow he was, to wish them both well. But he must suffer the pains of a father without enjoying any of a father’s privileges.

  He could tell, by the sudden excitement in the High Street, that the bridal pair were approaching, and he pressed against the window, afraid to miss that last sight of her as she entered into her new life. Then, miraculously it seemed to him, the ironmaster’s carriage slowed down as it came into view. Cicely had not forgotten, would not forget, anyone dear to her.

  She rose up from her seat and smiled and waved: a slender brown-haired girl with Charlotte’s eyes, in a velvet travelling-dress, a little posy in her hand. And the lanky young man by her side also looked up, with a smile on his pleasantly ugly face, and raised his tall hat in salute.

  Stiffly, Jack brought one hand from behind him, and held it to the pane in acknowledgement. Then the driver whipped up his horses, for they were due to catch the Carlisle coach at Preston and must lose no time. But Cicely and Jarvis Pole looked round and waved and waved, until they were out of sight.

  What had she said to that amicable new husband of hers about Jack Ackroyd? No matter. She had regarded him as important, as worthy of particular note.
And that Pole fellow had lifted his hat. He did not seem a bad fellow.

  The headmaster left his post by the window and sat heavily at his desk, feeling quite lost without her.

  House of Straw

  Twenty-three

  1807-1809

  Cicely Pole’s first child was born a year later and proudly christened Jarvis Tobias, a conjunction of names which amused and touched the Howarths. Toby Longe had never been one of them, but he continued to crop up in their lives. The greater event, for which they had hoped, did not take place. In 1807 Zelah gave birth to her sixth daughter, and was so ill in consequence that Dr Standish advised William to wait two years at least before resuming the marital relation. In itself, this would not have perturbed the ironmaster, for he could always find other ladies to relieve his abstinence, but he was deeply wounded by his lack of dynasty. So the new baby was named Maria, after Zelah’s excommunicated aunt, received lovingly by her mother and ecstatically by her five sisters, and her father sought consolation elsewhere.

  Millbridge’s morals, though no better than anywhere else, were now being furbished to match the new age and its requirements. Excluding affairs of the heart, which are always irregular, respectable Millbridge men had so far made use of women from the poorer classes when their own wives were unable or unwilling to cohabit. For such people could be hushed up and paid off, and no one be any the wiser. But the influx of workers had elevated these women to a professional status, in which they were paid better wages than the mill could offer. And the influx of industrial adventurers had created a market for a better class -of prostitute. Single ladies, all of whom appeared to have private incomes and a delicate upbringing, infiltrated the town at the turn of the century. They attended church assiduously, contributed to charity generously, and did not expect to be received socially. Everyone knew what they were but no one said so. They rented villas in a suburb of Millbridge, so that their clients should not be embarrassed by proximity. Those members of the council whom Jack Ackroyd had accused of shoddy building could not be faulted in this new development. They had helped to push the plans through, made a handsome job of the building, and let them very profitably. Many influential men, including William Howarth, found Flawnes Gardens a satisfactory arrangement, and any old-fashioned moralist on Millbridge Council would have been outnumbered at once had he dared to suggest that they gave the town a bad name.