“Yes, ma’am,” said Henrietta, so dutifully that Adam laughed as he watched his aunt half-propel her out of the room and into the hall where their steps went clattering up the stairs towards Aunt Charlotte's quarters, presumably with the intention of finding something to wear whilst the washtub was being prepared.
He saw very little of her throughout the next few days, and when he inquired cautiously of his aunt what had become of her, Charlotte answered that she was recuperating from the exertions of her journey, and that this was hardly to be wondered at after the way she had been treated, first by her father, then by an even bigger fool masquerading as a White Knight. Somehow she managed to imply that he had hauled the girl from bed and dragged her across two counties in order to be ravished and that in some way his father was an abettor.
On the fourth day he saw them returning from a shopping expedition to Keswick. A still subdued Henrietta then appeared at table wearing a sprigged muslin gown, a lace cap, and little black slippers, and on the day after that she tried (but failed) to hold a whispered conversation with him whilst Aunt Charlotte's back was turned. She seemed so chastened as to be a different person from the little devil who had talked him into bringing her here, and he wondered whether her subjection was due to fear of being returned home, a resolution to keep the promise made to him that she would abide by his aunt's decision, or domination by his aunt's forthright personality.
Perhaps it was a combination of all three. When they met during meals, he confined himself to general conversation. Even had he wanted private conversation with her, however, this would have been difficult, for Aunt Charlotte was clearly compensating for four days and four nights unchaperoned association with him and kept the girl close to her whenever Adam was about the house. Partly because of this, and partly because he had privately decided to make an effort to get to know his father rather better, Adam spent most of his time riding or walking along the margins of the lake in the Colonel's company. He found the effort rewarding.
They had never been close. During his childhood, and throughout the early part of his boyhood, the Colonel had been serving in distant parts of the Crown dominions, and they had met infrequently on furlough. After that Adam had been away at school, and later, when he entered the Company's service as a cadet, they were separated by hundreds of miles, even when his father was home-based. He had thought of him, in the years after he had sailed for India, as a withdrawn, rather disappointed man, whose youth had been sacrificed to the long, dragging war in the Peninsula followed by the now almost legendary Waterloo campaign, where two fingers of his right hand had been severed by a French cuirassier. After that, he supposed, his father's life had been blighted by the death of the little French girl whom he married in the first year of the peace. He soon discovered, however, that the old man had mellowed over the last few years and was no more than politely interested in the professional side of Adam's life, declaring that his own martial experience was now as dated as Agincourt. Since retirement he had developed a variety of unlikely interests, chief among them landscape gardening and painting watercolours, and sometimes he would set his easel at Friar's Crag, or under the falls at Lodore, trying to capture the shifting shadows on the fells, or changing sky patterns over the broad expanse of the lake. He said, when Adam caught him at work one morning, “If I had my time over again, boy, I’d learn to paint properly and count the world well lost. I’ve derived more satisfaction out of this than anything else I’ve ever done, except maybe to raise prize vegetables, or plant those borders in the garden. I’m no damned good, mind you. Any fool could tell you that but I don’t have to sell ’em. Just look at those shadows creeping across the underside of Falcon Crag, and that sun throwing diamonds about in the spray where that water comes over that drop. Marvellous, all of it! Something else painting did for me. Taught me to make use of my left hand, and that was something the regiment never did. Went through the last twenty years of my service holding a sabre like a damned crochet-hook in what Johnny left of this one,” and he held up his maimed hand, now crippled with arthritis as well as minus an index and middle finger.
The old man's allusion to diamonds gave Adam's conscience a twinge, and he toyed with the notion of explaining how he came by the necklace but decided against it. He now thought himself a fool to have confided in the girl, and he was by no means sure whether the old man would accept his theory that the necklace qualified as prize-money. He did not want his entire future imperilled by a prize-court that might order its restoration now that the Mutiny was over. Instead he said, “Do you ever look back on your life as wasted, sir? The way I’ve come to look on mine so far?” and the Colonel said gruffly that he was damned if he did, for his years in the Peninsula had been shared with innumerable jolly companions and that it had “been a pleasure to beat the dust out of Johnny Frenchman's hairy knapsacks all the way from Lisbon to Toulouse.” From his next remark, however, Adam gathered that they might not be so far apart after all, for he went on to say, “That war of mine was cleanly fought. I never hated the French. They were damned good soldiers most of the time and could cover the ground faster than we could and on shorter rations. Apart from that we were better led, which is more than one can say of you fellows in the Crimea. The Duke had brains and I don’t need to tell you that's rare in high command.” He laid down his brush and arched his eyebrows in a way that warned Adam he was about to ask a direct question. “Just what kind of business are you hankering after? Anything to do with horses?”
“It might well be; draught horses.”
“Draught horses? Is there a living in that?”
“I think there is, the way I hope to go about it.”
“But you don’t care to discuss it with me?”
“Not yet. Later on I’ll be glad to.”
The old man accepted this gracefully but went on, “Then how about that wench you brought here? Is she involved in your plans, boy?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Adam, smiling, “and if Aunt Charlotte says otherwise she's twisting her facts to fit feminine theory.”
The old man, he thought, looked nonplussed, but all he said was, “She is like your mother. Or like her when I first set eyes on her, serving vin blanc and mincepies to men who had ridden a thousand miles on salt beef and small beer.” Then, as if Adam had challenged him, “Mind, I never regretted marrying her. I was damned proud of her everywhere I went, here and overseas. She kept her looks and her figure, and that's more than you can say of most women who reach thirty. Pity she didn’t live to see you in uniform. I’ll tell you something. She always hoped to fill a dozen British uniforms, don’t ask me why. Her people welcomed us as liberators from poor old Boney. Come to that, I would have liked a big, jolly family myself, but now it’ll be up to you, unless the Swanns have fired their final shot. Can’t imagine it, somehow. We’ve always been in a fight somewhere. I’d give that a thought, boy,” and suddenly embarrassed by having said more than he intended he picked up his brush and set to work furiously on his half-finished watercolour.
Adam walked home unable to decide whether his father's remarks had been designed to urge him to return to the army or to supply a lonely old man with grandchildren. He was still pondering this when he saw a cab in the stableyard and a man in a coaching cape, obviously a hackney driver, adjusting his nag's nosebag. The man gave him a salute, but before he could inquire what he was doing there Aunt Charlotte called softly from the kitchen window and he noted at once that something had stripped her of her birthright, the assumption of authority in whatever company she happened to find herself. She looked, he thought, very put out and her voice faltered as she said, “That man is here! That dreadful father of hers! He's taking her away, Adam. He has a paper, a legal paper…” and then, to his considerable astonishment, she burst into tears.
He went through the kitchen into the hall, expecting to find them in the drawing room, but the room was empty. Then he heard a despairing cry from the stairhead, “Adam!” followed by the growl
of Rawlinson, as though he was threatening a dog.
Glancing up he saw Rawlinson descending the stairs and the man's arrogance struck him as singular for he trod the stairs as if he was a landlord evicting a tenant. Henrietta appeared behind him, one hand on the bannister, the other holding her ridiculous basket-trunk. He called up, sharply, “Go back to your room, Henrietta!” but Sam said, with a grim smile, “Ah’m giving bloody orders today young feller-me-lad. Get in t’cab, lass, and let's have no more o’ this damned nonsense or I’ll peel the hide off you the minute we get home. I’ll not be long wi’ His Lordship.” He came down into the hall, facing Adam with his feet planted apart and a not unfriendly grin on his florid face. Henrietta made no move to obey either order but stood her ground at the head of the stairs.
Adam said, at length, “I suppose I owe you some kind of explanation, Rawlinson. We’ll talk in here,” and without waiting for assent turned on his heel, led the way into his father's study, and stood aside holding the door open.
He might have been mistaken but it seemed to him that some of the truculence ebbed from Sam who nevertheless darted a glance left and right, as though suspecting an ambush. He came in, however, saying as Adam shut the door, “Ah’m not playing blind man's buff, lad. Ah’ve taken legal advice.”
“No doubt,” Adam said, “but so have I, Mr. Rawlinson. Take a seat and stop trying to frighten me, as you seem to frighten everybody else.”
His tone must have disconcerted the millowner for he at once reverted to bluster. “Now listen here, don’t gammon me into believing you’ve got a leg to stand on in this how-de-do! Nobody gave you the right to entice my lass up here and hide her away, as if she were t’parson's daughter in t’family way! I could have the police on you and that housekeeper of yours, and anyone else who's had a hand in t’business, but that's not my way, or not yet any road! Bring it into court and I’d spoil the girl's prospects, so we’ll take it on trust that she's still the maid she swears she is and send in the bill if she isn’t! Meantime she's coming wi’ me and if you say no to that I’ll have the uniformed branch up here and press charges.”
“What charges?”
Rawlinson slowly relaxed, eyeing his man as he had eyed a thousand mill-hands and commercial prospects and seeing nothing specifically formidable in his opponent.
“I don’t have to tell you what charges,” he said. “You’re not the boy I reckoned to find back o’ this silly business. You’re old enough to know the law takes a serious view of tempting a girl of her age away from home. Aye, and there's more to it than that. The lass was engaged to be married. Did she let that slip, when she was riding behind you all the way from Lea Green?”
“She told me you were trying to force her into an objectionable marriage. I understand that was why she ran away.”
“Well, that's neither here nor there!” said Sam, calmly. “The point is, do I take her along as she is, and say nowt if it turns out she's telling the truth, and there's been no more than a kiss and I daresay a fumble under a haystack? Or do I drive out of here and come back within the hour wi’ two constables and a warrant? Suit yoursen, lad, but I’ll tell you straight, Ah’m not falling over meself to make public issue of it. No man would in t’circumstances, with a marriageable daughter on his hands. But I will, by God, if you force me to it!”
Adam said, mildly, “Fetch the police if you care to, Rawlinson. You lay your charge and I’ll lay mine. I saw you storm into the Square the night of the riot. I saw all manner of things on that occasion, your mill set alight for one, and you ride down and kill a child for another. I don’t suppose that's generally known, not even in Seddon Moss. There was far too much commotion when it happened and the boy might have come by fatal injuries in a dozen ways. But you and I know he didn’t. He tried to get out of your path, but you swerved and beat him over the head with that cudgel you were carrying. You were wearing a low-crowned beaver and riding a skewbald hack. I could identify you and I could identify the horse, so let's stop trying to browbeat one another. If your daughter wants to stop here she's very welcome. For my part I think you would be wise to let her.”
The man had nerve. He was obliged to admit that. By the time Adam had finished there was no truculence in his expression and the heavy jaw had certainly sagged an inch or so, but there was no fear there either, just a clouded look, as though his sharp wits were already assessing new factors in what had seemed a straightforward situation. He sat quite still, knees apart and hands resting on his thighs, a man who had long since learned how to adjust to an unexpected realignment of circumstances.
He said, finally, “Your word against mine, Swann. And mine counts for something down there. Ask anyone. Ask the police who helped me round up those fire-raisers that night.”
“I don’t doubt that. But a manslaughter charge would be heard at an Assize Court, away in Manchester or Liverpool, and there, I daresay, we should start abreast, Rawlinson. Then again, there might have been other witnesses, and I might have their names and addresses. It was my first look at Seddon Moss, and any judge and jury would be obliged to admit I have no axe to grind. I didn’t even run against your daughter until the next day. If there are other witnesses, local witnesses, maybe some of them would be prepared to elaborate once they saw you in the dock. Put it this way, I’ll wager you a pound to a penny there are a hundred spinners in Seddon Moss ready to swear your life away, with or without a bribe.”
Sam said, almost genially, ‘That horse won’t run,” and Adam had the impression that his tactics had increased his stature in Rawlinson's eyes. “Nay,” he went on, “that's a nonstarter and I’ll tell thee why. Happen you could make things awkward for me, but a conviction on manslaughter, on your say-so or anyone else's is nowt but bluff. Think on it, lad. A man sees his mill going up in smoke, and ten score fools doing a clog dance round t’bloody fire engine. So he oversets whatever stands in his way, acting i’ name o’ law and order, mind. A man tries to grab my bridle and gets his skull broken for his pains. That's nowt to do wi’ manslaughter. It's just dam’ bad luck on t’grabber's part.”
“It wasn’t a man though, and he made no grab at your bridle. It was a child, and he was running for his life when I saw him.”
“Who's to swear to that, apart from you? Happen others did see it but if they spoke up they’d never work again in the cotton belt.”
“Where does that leave us, Rawlinson?”
“I’ll tell thee,” Sam said, sitting back in his chair, “you wi’ means to make it tiresome for me to build a new mill, and sign on operatives to run it. Now I’m a man o’ sense, so if you’re that much struck on my lass you can keep her and be damned to you both!” He looked about him with interest. “You’ve got a snug place up here, wi’ a nice view an’ all. Folk don’t settle in places like this unless they’ve got money put by.”
His cynicism might have outraged some men, but he was addressing one who had spent years in countries where it was not in the least unusual for fathers to put a cash price on their daughters.
Adam said, “How about this young man who was bidding for her before I came along? Grimthorpe or Gawthorpe or some such name?”
“Times have changed,” Sam said, cheerfully. “Mill warn’t fully insured and that means I shall have to dip into capital to get started again. I’ll call no bluff about Goldthorpe's boy. He's gone cold on t’lass and I can’t say I blame him.”
“Then why all this hullabaloo to get her back?”
Sam shrugged and scratched his nose, and Adam found it difficult to withhold a certain grudging admiration for the man. He was so sharp, and so completely unprincipled. It was like doing business in a Calcutta bazaar.
“She's a goodlooking lass,” he said, “pretty enough to make you whisk her from under my nose, so why should you be the only one interested? There's plenty of men as well britched as you who would look twice and then again at Henrietta. As for me, I’ll be in debt to the bank, I daresay, before I’m warmest man in Seddon Moss again. But no
t for long. You can be damned sure o’ that, lad.”
“Good God, man,” exclaimed Adam, “we’re not in the Levant. Are you suggesting I should buy your daughter, even if I wanted to?”
“Did I mention money?”
“You implied it.”
“Eh, you’re taking a rare lot for granted,” said Sam, patiently. “I’m not a man to take money for my flesh and blood, but I wouldn’t throw it away, either, not on a girl who runs contrary to me the way she's set on doing. Maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe it's just a girl's foolishness, and she’ll grow out of it as soon as a lad wi’ more to him than yon Makepeace throws his hat in the ring. I can’t be sure as to that, but there's one thing I am sure about. She either gets in that cab and comes of her own free will, or kisses goodbye to me and my pile, living or dead. As for you an’ me, lad, I’ll make a fair offer—no charges amounting to running off wi’ a minor, so long as you don’t show in my part of the world while the Magistrates’ Court is sortin’ out that riot. Ordinarily, mind you, I’d want that in writing, but I’ve done business wi’ your kind before. A handshake would satisfy me.” He paused, hesitated, and then, taking the bit between his teeth, went on with rather less assurance. “I’ll add something to that and then shut t’book on it. Tim Garvin, that lad who I say as grabbed my bridle, and you says as didn’t, were wearin’ his dad's jacket an’ corduroys. It were bosky an’ my eyesight's not what it was. So what's it to be? A stand-up fight, or do I write that lass off as spoiled stock and go about takin’ another wife and startin’ all over again? It's been in my mind for long enough now. A man in my position is a damn sight safer wi’ lads than a lass who’ll never learn which side her bread's buttered. And that, I reckon, is about the middle and both ends of it.”
God is an Englishman Page 13
