The Iron Master

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘That would not — for reasons with which I shall not trouble you — be possible,’ he said, after a slight pause.

  So they are not on speaking terms? thought Dorcas.

  ‘But what do you imagine I can do, sir, which you cannot do better?’ she asked. ‘You and my son are well acquainted. Could you not talk to him?’

  The interview was not going as he had expected.

  ‘I would rather that he did not know the initiative came from me, madam.’

  ‘Sir, if we are to help each other at all you must be more frank with me,’ said Dorcas briskly. ‘Did you hope I should speak of this indiscretion with my son? That is rather too much!’

  He bent his head reflectively. And she knew that he would tell her as little as he could, and she must conjecture the rest for herself.

  ‘I had hoped, perhaps, that you could break the news to Mrs Howarth,’ said Ralph, ‘by putting it to the lady that there were strong rumours, and you feared it might harm the ironmaster.’

  He looked at her again, and Dorcas saw that he meant harm to William, however and whenever he could inflict it. ‘You did not think to approach her first, sir?’

  He hesitated, and then said, ‘Mrs Howarth is a very charming and charitable lady, but my wife thought it best that you should break the news to her.’

  Then Dorcas understood that Zelah was a mystery to them. They had no yardstick by which to measure her.

  ‘It would save a scandal, and my father’s feelings, madam, for he knows nothing. And it will save your son a great deal of trouble!’ He saw that she was not to be threatened, and added graciously, ‘We should be so much obliged to you. We should be delighted to be of service to you in any way possible.’

  ‘Very well, sir, it shall be as you wish,’ said Dorcas, rising.

  He bowed rather more deeply than he had done when he entered, and repeated that he was under an obligation to her.

  ‘Then allow me to release you of it,’ said Dorcas, smiling in a way that would have given any member of her family cause for reflection.

  ‘Anything, madam … ’ Apprehensively.

  ‘I am forming a committee for charitable purposes, to raise funds for a School for Girls of Poor Families in Applegarth. It would assist me greatly if I had an illustrious lady as patron. There would be, of course, no work involved. Nothing but the lending of a name, and one personal appearance when the school is opened. Do you think that Lady Caroline would be so kind as to undertake this, sir?’

  He paused only for a couple of seconds. There was nothing in the request which could offend in any way, but Caroline would probably be furious.

  ‘I am sure my wife will be charmed, madam. I shall ask her to write to you!’

  He bowed again, gave her his formal smile, which vanished when Nellie handed him his shining top-hat. They watched him ride away, immaculate in his riding clothes: cuffed boots as bright as mirrors. His horse, too, was very correct and noble, handsome and high-stepping. They made an exquisite partnership.

  ‘He don’t seem ‘uman, somehow, does he, Mrs Howarth?’ said Nellie, folding her apron round her hands, watching. ‘But a very grand gentleman,’ she added hastily, ‘and his visit’s done you a power of good, ma’am.’

  ‘He called-to tell me that Lady Caroline is to be patron of my school committee, Nellie. Is that not good news?’ said Dorcas smoothly.

  ‘Aye, that’ll fetch the brass rolling in. There’s nowt like a title to make folks come running! I dare say that’s along of Mr William being so famous these days, isn’t it, Mrs Howarth?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dorcas drily. ‘It is entirely because of William.’

  It was difficult to find an aperture in the armour of Zelah’s day. Like her mother she was up and dressed by six o’clock, to give the older girls their lessons before breakfast. She supervised her household, answered letters, listened to requests, made the rounds of the nursery and schoolroom, visited friends and relatives and dependants, and devoted herself to the two youngest children for an hour before supper. The evening was filled by family, visitors, and entertaining.

  However, Dorcas had long been accustomed to domestic challenges, so she picked her hour nicely one wet afternoon, a few days after Ralph Kersall’s visit. Warmly wrapped by Nellie, carefully driven by Tom, she set off for Kingswood Hall and was rewarded by finding Zelah sitting alone and writing her journal.

  ‘I do beg your pardon for interrupting, my love,’ said Dorcas sincerely, ‘for we must all have some solitude. But I promise you I had good reason to call, and I shall be brief.’

  Zelah’s smile had lost its youthful humour but was still warm and sweet. She kissed Dorcas tenderly on both cheeks, and deplored the wet bonnet and cloak.

  ‘Truly, Mrs Dorcas, I am astonished that those two kind dragons of servants allowed thee out in such weather!’

  ‘My servants know when to be kind and when to be dragon,’ Dorcas remarked.

  For she would never let her five-and-seventy years dictate to her, nor allow them to make dictators out of anyone else. Zelah’s smile was spontaneous this time, but she hid it and rang for tea.

  ‘I have always endeavoured not to interfere,’ Dorcas began, warming herself at the vast coal-fire on the hearth, ‘and hope I have succeeded. But one never knows oneself well enough to be sure of that.’

  ‘I count myself blessed in thee and my mother, who are the best and kindest of women,’ said Zelah warmly.

  ‘And we are blessed in you, and so is William,’ Dorcas replied. ‘Indeed, I never knew such a man for having his faults overlooked as William!’

  ‘William is a great man,’ said Zelah loyally, ‘and hath a great man’s little weaknesses.’

  They drank tea, and reflected on their different worlds.

  ‘Dearest child,’ said Dorcas cautiously, ‘I fear I have news to give you which implies some thoughtlessness on William’s part. I do not place more importance upon the matter than that, but his actions could be misconstrued.’

  She resolved to keep her tone light and her voice steady, though these days her emotions were as fragile as her bones, and as likely to break if she were not careful with herself.

  Zelah turned pale and said, ‘Rath he borrowed money of thee?’

  ‘Indeed he has not’ — crisply — ‘and I should not lend it to him if he asked, not however many per cent he promised me! Mr Hurst and I agreed long since that William’s attitude towards money was not our own, though all very well for him. Old ladies on fixed incomes must be cautious. No, my love, it has nothing to do with me. It is a foolish matter which could be taken far too seriously, but should be nipped in the bud.’ Here she laughed a little, to show how unimportant she considered it to be. ‘There are rumours that he has been paying too many compliments to Lady Kersall, and if it came to his lordship’s ears it could harm William. I should discount it, for I have no opinion of gossip, but William is a little too prominent, these days, to risk talk of this kind.’

  Zelah set down her tea and mastered herself to speak.

  ‘I thank thee for thy kindness to me, but I would prefer the truth. It cuts sharp, but it also cuts clean.’

  Then Dorcas saw the rock beneath Zelah’s sweetness.

  ‘You give me no choice,’ said Dorcas, after a moment’s pause, ‘but to say what I had rather not. Men of William’s age, with William’s amount of money and authority, often make fools of themselves over a young woman. And from what I have heard of Lady Kersall,’ she added with some asperity, ‘I should not be inclined to blame William entirely in the matter! Though he has undoubtedly done wrong to you. I do not excuse him on that account, my love.’

  Zelah said sadly, ‘I have sat a hundred times, as I do now, and wished I were a girl again and back at Somer Court. The thought of my home hath given me strength when naught else would have done.’

  Forlorn, too stricken to find further excuse or to offer comfort, Dorcas put her hand upon Zelah’s hand and two tears slipped down her face. She w
as too old to carry suffering as once she had done.

  ‘Once, when Bitty was a baby,’ Zelah continued, ‘I wrote to ask my father if he would send for us. But in the evening William came home and was sorry, and I tore up the letter to my father. And it hath been so many and many a time since.’ She was conscious of Dorcas’s distress, and stopped herself. ‘I would not cause thee sorrow,’ said Zelah gently. ‘My mother and thee were loved faithfully and well, and so knoweth nothing of my helplessness. But though I have said the least, concerning William’s behaviour, I have not felt the least.’

  ‘I am ashamed,’ cried Dorcas, and the tears slipped faster down her cheeks. ‘I am ashamed that he should make you suffer.’

  ‘I love thee, Mrs Dorcas. But I tell thee this. I have done all that I can, and it is to no avail either for him or for me. So we shall leave him.’

  ‘I am very angry with William,’ cried Dorcas, choking upon a sob. ‘He need not come to me for comfort. I shall tell him what I think.’

  ‘Poor William,’ said Zelah, with the very ghost of a smile.

  ‘Please to call Tom from the kitchen,’ said Dorcas weeping bitterly, ‘and have my bonnet and cloak fetched. I am not fit to see the children today. Oh, the children! You will all visit me before you go, will you not?’

  ‘We shall besiege thee,’ said Zelah, almost in her old fashion.

  She had regained herself, could no longer be hurt, diverted or led.

  ‘There is one thing thee can tell me, Mrs Dorcas,’ she said in a different tone. ‘I believe thee knew of Hannah Garside?’

  I cannot support these scenes, thought Dorcas. I shall be abed all tomorrow, after this. And Nellie will be cross on my account.

  But she answered resolutely, wiping away her tears. ‘Who has spoken of Hannah Garside? She was William’s housekeeper at Flawnes Green, but left there years before you were married.’

  ‘Stephen’s wife, at Flawnes Green, was one of Mrs Boulton’s daughters, and she loved Hannah and spoke to me of her as of an old and trusted friend. And, though Hannah Garside left years before our marriage, she had been six years at the forge and left of a sudden and was not heard of after. We women are quick to scent out an attachment. Did thee act as confidante in that affair also, Mrs Dorcas?’

  Dorcas hesitated, then threw up her hands in a gesture of resignation.

  ‘I was her only confidante,’ she said, ‘and I kept her secret as she begged me to — except that I had to tell Ned, of course. Even William knows nothing. I gave her money to help her to leave the valley. She loved him, but she knew that he loved you. That was all about it. I have never heard from her since. That was her express wish.’

  ‘Was she with child by him?’ asked Zelah inexorably.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dorcas.

  Enveloped in her cloak, she said tremulously, ‘I should have liked to know when the child was born. If, indeed, it lived, it would be seventeen by now. And is a part of us after all.’

  But this small and private sorrow was engulfed by remembrance of the greater sorrow to come.

  Weeping afresh, Dorcas said, ‘Oh, God bless and keep you, and do not forget me, Zelah.’

  Helping her to her seat, Tom said grimly, ‘Nellie’s not half going to be vexed about this, Mrs Howarth!’

  And that honest grumble gave her more comfort than any amount of sympathy.

  *

  The sound of William’s arrival home always caused Zelah a degree of apprehension, which she used to conceal beneath her welcome. Today, she sent her daughters out and listened to him with formidable composure.

  ‘You are very quiet,’ said William, looking for faults. ‘It is difficult enough, God knows, to bear with dull faces all day without finding them waiting for me at home!’

  She said, kindly and firmly, ‘Then thee must be delivered of them, William. Tomorrow we shall begin to pack for Somer Court. I am making the arrangements.’

  He thought this statement over, without liking it very much but without feeling its full force.

  ‘I was not told of this,’ he accused her.

  She saw the bully in his dark brows, and four generations of Quakers gathered within her to defeat him.

  ‘I have not been told of anything but what thee chose to tell me for many years, William,’ she said coolly, ‘but I shall be franker than thee. I have loved thee with all that I was and could be. But thou hast cheated me and dishonoured our marriage, and now I am done with thee.’

  He sat appalled at this sudden reversal of roles.

  ‘Done with me?’ he said, in quite a different tone. ‘Done with me, Zelah?’ Then he blustered in his pride and panic. ‘What do you mean by this? If I offended you you should have said so! You know you have only to ask and you can have anything in the world!’

  She smiled faintly, folded her hands and listened to him.

  ‘Have I not worked for you, given you the greater part of myself? Did I not build this house for you? Finer and larger than Somer Court. Is it not enough?’

  Her silence daunted him. He plunged deeper, more fatally, into explanation.

  ‘I admit to one or two flirtations. Well then, some adventure. With light women. Who meant nothing to me. Zelah, I have not dishonoured our marriage, for my feeling for you remained untouched by these — frivolities. Not that I excuse myself. And, after all, I am tired of them. I shall be done with them from now on. We shall be as we were.’ He thought of something else. ‘Thee knoweth, love,’ he said softly in his old fashion, ‘that I must not get thee with child too often, lest thy health suffer.’

  She watched him with compassion, waiting for him to be truthful.

  ‘Thee should have told me thee wanted me, love,’ he pleaded.

  Charlotte would have damned him for a hypocrite, Dorcas exposed the flaws in his argument. Zelah listened, and let him hang himself.

  ‘The ironworks, and all the other enterprises, have good managers,’ he offered. ‘I need not work as hard and as long as I did. I shall spend more time with thee and the children, Zelah.’

  She saw that he could be intimidated into a semblance of consideration, and this more than anything else destroyed her faith in him.

  ‘We speak in the same tongue,’ she said, much as Catherine had once said to him. ‘But no longer mean the same thing, William.’

  ‘Thee should have a change and a rest,’ he cried, putting the best face upon the matter. ‘Thee must stay as long as needful, at Somer Court. And I shall visit thee there, love.’

  She put her hands upon the arms of the chair and began to rise.

  ‘No,’ he cried, horrified into honesty at last. ‘Do not leave me, Zelah. When will you come back?’

  And he caught at her skirt as she passed him, like a child trying to detain her.

  ‘I have not thought of coming back, only of going,’ she said, immovable.

  ‘But if I promise, Zelah, if I swear by all that is holy to me … ’

  ‘What is thy promise or thine oath worth, William?’ she asked ironically. ‘Thee promised to love, honour and cherish me when we were joined together.’

  ‘But have you no hope to give me? No direction?’

  ‘Only in thy public world, William. There are those waiting to injure thee with Lord Kersall, so do not offend him. For that is all that is left to thee now.’

  She was weary of people replenishing themselves through her, asking strength and favours of her. She left the room quietly, gracefully, but with finality. While William sat with his head in his hands and wondered how he should get her back again. For he had never envisaged life without her.

  Zelah had triumphed after all, simply by being herself. She was the spirit of the law, the Word made flesh, the unwritten truth, the final and supreme counsellor of her family. Whereas William’s vision was all fire and sword and must perish upon itself. Whereas, when day was done and voices were silent, he must start up in his sleep, asking why the wheels revolved. To be answered, ‘For profit. For power.’ But she had no need to
puzzle herself as to the meaning or value of her life. What Zelah had accomplished was very simple and very difficult, and required no explanation.

  Bricks Without Straw

  Twenty-five

  November 1811

  Charlotte still held her evening classes and committee meetings in the back parlour a large room overlooking the garden, which had spent most of its existence shrouded in dust-covers, and locked up between one spring-cleaning and the next. It was useful and private in a number of ways, having less obvious exits and entrances, and — as Sally said — saving the hall carpet from being trodden to death. Also, though this reason was felt by Charlotte alone, it separated the personal life of her front parlour from the political traumas of the back.

  Tonight, though she was tired enough, God knew, the Red Rose must be convened for a special meeting. So Jim Ogden, the weaver, arrived early to rearrange the table and chairs. He had been a committee member for the past three years, highly recommended by the Manchester centre, from whence he had come after the weavers’ strike and rebellion of 1808, and earned a bare living as an outworker for Ernest Harbottle at Babylon Mill just outside Millbridge. Self-taught, self-sufficient, a forcible character, an experienced trouble-maker, he was at once a jewel in the Red Rose’s crown and a spur in its side. He had caused more difficulties on the committee than any other person, by representing the hand-loom weavers of the valley and voicing their opinions. In him, worthy and sincere though he was, Charlotte sensed a violence which was latent in this group, and she was finding it difficult to hold the society in check. Moreover, Jim Ogden disliked women, and Charlotte’s position as secretary and as a member of the privileged and educated class. He did not especially like Jack, but at least they shared a common dedication to the Radical cause, and a common background of early childhood.

  This evening, as Polly knocked at the door and asked if Charlotte wanted anything else, he answered for her. Deliberate. Impudent.

  ‘That’s all right, love. Get thee to bed. If we want owt we can get it for us-selves.’