Shining Threads (21 page)

‘It was like magic, Will,’ she was saying, ‘or like poetry, not that I really know any, but what I imagine it must be to those who do. You know the feeling you get when a song
is sweet? Your skin prickles . . . it was so . . . so pure and clean, untouched white everywhere, and if I had not known the landmarks I should have been lost.’

He felt the familiar anger . . . no, it was fear . . . for her rise in his chest. She was so dear and the risks she took, the risks she was allowed to take, were almost more than he could bear.
Was there no one to watch over her, to care as he did, for her safety? But as he gazed, quite bemused, absurdly so, he knew he could not approach her, not now, not today.

‘And yet there were great patches of blue where the shadows lay. A landscape of pure, sparkling white and blue and the trees were like . . . like filigree, like lace almost, against the
snow and the sky, and there was nothing else. There were patterns in the snow where the wind had moved it as though someone, a child perhaps, had tried to draw a picture . . .’

‘Should you not come inside, lass?’ he interrupted gently.

‘Oh, Will, do you not think you could fashion another pair like these,’ she asked, lifting her feet clumsily, ‘then I could show you? It’s like walking on clouds . . .
yes, that’s it . . .’

‘I’ve never walked on clouds, my lass, and I reckon I never will, nor anyone, so perhaps . . . But come in first and have a cup of tea, then we’ll see. You must be
cold.’

‘No, I’m not, that’s the wonder of it. I’m as warm as toast, feel.’

She put the bare palm of her hand against his cheek and without thought, since he was beyond it, he turned his warm mouth into it, moving his lips softly along the base of her thumb.

Her words froze on her lips. She simply stood there, her hand thrilling to his touch. Something as vivid and as simple as a flicker of lightning seemed to shiver between them. Her eyes were big
and wondering, her lips still parted in startled delight, and when he drew her inside she took her marvellous footwear with her, scattering snow across his carpet. She made no objection when he sat
her in a chair, nor when he knelt at her feet and removed not only the ‘bats’ but her stout black boots as well. She held out her feet to him, obedient as a well-brought-up child, her
eyes on his bent head, waiting, just waiting for the next step in this delightful condition which had sprung up between them.

But when he had removed her boots he stood up abruptly since he found his hands were inclined to linger caressingly about her shapely stockinged foot and ankle. He made himself busy with the
coal-scuttle and fire-tongs, heaping up the already dangerously high fire, arranging her boots to dry. She wanted him to turn and look at her again, to lap her about in that amazing but delicious
sense of expectancy she had felt when he kissed her hand, but he moved away and she felt an illogical wave of disappointment wash over her.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said, in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice, conscious that she was looking at him, conscious of her stillness, her breath held in, for she
was a young girl with no experience of such things and the kiss he had placed in her hand had been a mistake, an impulse a man of his age should have resisted. She was not sure of it, or of him, or
of what was expected of her, so she was waiting for him to take the lead in whatever was to happen, if anything
was
to happen. It was up to him to return them to the casual friendship which
was all that could ever be allowed between Tessa Harrison and Will Broadbent.

He tried to keep up what in other circumstances he would scornfully have deemed ‘small talk’ and when he came back from the scullery, bringing teacups and milk, she was stretched out
with her feet on the fender, her toes wriggling in the warmth. He placed the kettle on the fire, careful not to touch her, keeping a wary distance, his chest filled with the distressing weight he
carried within him.

She took the cup of tea he handed her looking about her curiously at the cosy room, this parlour which was that of a
working
man, just as though it was the most natural thing in the world
to be doing, the most natural place to be on Christmas Day. She was the daughter of a wealthy millowner, he was an overlooker in that same mill, twelve years her senior, a man from only God knew
where, and yet she seemed to be conscious of no disparity in their hugely different circumstances, nor of the impropriety of being here in a bachelor’s home, alone and unchaperoned. He had,
he admitted to himself, not worried unduly over it in the past months when they met on the moors or at Annie’s where the artificiality of social conduct seemed so trivial. He had been
attracted to her. She was a lovely young woman and there would have to be something wrong with him had he not been, but now in the short time it had taken him to open the door and look into her
enchanted, enchanting eyes, all was changed.

‘It was good of you to come,’ he said formally and she turned to look at him, surprised by his tone.

‘Don’t be silly, it’s Christmas Day. I knew you would be alone so when Mother and the rest started a game of whist and Laurel’s children were removed to the nursery I
slipped out of the side door. I knew no one would miss me.’

‘What about your cousins?’ His voice was curt for though their father’s collapse earlier in the year had made Drew and Pearce Greenwood, for a short time at least, more
conscientious in their duties, it had not taken them long to fall back into their old ways. They turned up at the mill long after the factory bell had rung. They were missing, one or the other of
them but more likely both at the same time, just when they were supposed to be busy at some task in the spinning room, the carding shed or the counting house. Long before the appointed hour at
which Mr Greenwood or Mrs Harrison left the mill, they were reported to have been seen riding off on their fine bays, doubtless in search of mischief. On some days they simply didn’t turn up
at all. It did not unduly interfere with Will’s work as an overlooker but Mr Wilson was often put in a most embarrassing position when some business gentleman with whom one or other had an
appointment was left high and dry with only Mr Wilson – which was really quite adequate – when he had expected to be greeted by the son of the owner. It was said in the mill that they
might as well let them do as they pleased since they did it anyway, and if they were no longer to come to the factory at least everyone would know what to expect. Now the foreman and managers with
whom the young sons of the business were relied on to co-operate, were all at sixes and sevens, calling them a damned nuisance and wishing their father would give them leave to spend their days
with the hunt, or whatever it was young squireens did with themselves.

‘Oh, they took themselves off as soon as Christmas dinner was eaten. God knows where they’ve got to since they don’t always tell me these days.’ She sighed, exasperated
by her cousins’ defection but then she turned to smile at him, making his heart turn over, letting him know that right now she didn’t really care. ‘They’ll be back by
tea-time and the opening of presents, which brings me to . . .’ She grinned and getting up to move to where he had hung her coat on the back of a chair, reached into her pocket and drew out a
small package. It was roughly wrapped in some bright paper and tied with a length of scarlet ribbon.

‘Happy Christmas, Will,’ she said cheerfully and handed it to him, putting into his suddenly trembling hands the first gift he had ever received. He stared at it, quite numb, unable
to speak or even to think clearly, unable to look up into her face lest she see what was written in his.

‘You’re supposed to say thank you and then open it, Will,’ she said impishly, sitting down opposite him again, clearly delighted by his reaction.

‘Aah, lass,’ he managed to mumble, the package resting in his big hands which were reluctant to disturb its loveliness.

‘Will, for heaven’s sake open it. I’m sorry it’s so poorly wrapped but I’m not much good with things like that. All fingers and thumbs. I’m just the same with
sewing and painting. That’s why I never do any.’

It was a scarf. Bright red, wide and long and hand-knitted, the pattern of it was complicated and skilfully done. He allowed himself a quick glance at her face, his own bemused, and she
laughed.

‘No, I didn’t do it, Will. Miss Copeland, who used to be my governess, or one of them, I had so many, knitted it for me last Christmas and I’ve never worn it. I hope you
don’t mind but it seemed just right for you. And perfect for this weather.’

He shook his head, beyond words, appalled by his own inclination to weep like a baby, studying the scarf as it glowed richly across his hands, unable to move or even glance at her lest the tears
pricking his eyes should escape.

‘Let’s see how it looks, then.’ When he made no move to put it round his neck she took it from him, standing before his seated figure while she wrapped it about his neck, tying
the fringed ends beneath his chin, unaware of the rock-like stillness of him.

‘There, that looks splendid,’ she said briskly, ‘and now I really do think I should be going. It will be dark by four.’

‘I’ll walk with you . . . an’ wear me new scarf.’ He grinned. ‘I’m only sorry I’ve nothing for you. I didn’t know, you see . . . I’d no idea
. . .’

‘Rubbish. I’ve got heaps of presents at home.’ She reached for her boots and coat and though he would dearly have loved to help her with them he knew quite simply that it was
impossible now. That everything was impossible now. All that had been sweet, and, he realised, precious to him, was clearly out of the question, for the person of Miss Tessa Harrison was beyond his
reach. She appeared to have regained her composure which had fled away with his unexpected kiss, but she was not aware that the last half-hour had separated them as sharply as the sudden closing of
a heavy curtain separates an audience from the players on the stage. He must avoid her; keep out of her way, treat her as the young mistress, daughter of his employer when encounters at the mill,
for instance, were unavoidable. She would be bewildered by it since he knew she had taken their strange companionship for granted, but if it hurt her so much the better for she would keep out of
his way then. But today, this last day as her friend, must be allowed to continue in its magic for a little while longer.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you about the ball, Will.’ She whirled to face him, her eyes eager and excited, and he stepped back from her for surely she would sense the need in him?

‘So you did, lass. Was it a huge success and did all the young gentlemen fall swooning at your feet when they saw you in your splendid frock?’

‘Frock!’ She laughed, still holding her coat before her, waiting as young ladies did, for the gentleman to assist her on with it. ‘What a word to use! It was not just a frock,
Will, but the most enchanting outfit, all gauze and satin ribbons, and everyone simply stared when I entered the ballroom. Well, you will have seen the pictures of Diana the huntress in one of
those books you forever have your nose in . . .’

Yes, he had, and the thought of her in a flimsy garment like that the goddess of Roman mythology wore, made his skin tingle and his breath shorten and he felt the need to smash in the face of
every man who had seen her in it.

‘. . . and I had nearly every dance with Drew and Pearce who simply wanted to fight every gentleman who approached me, even the Squire, I suspect, though they were forced to let him take
me on the floor. Heavens, it was like being in a magical world and when those wicked cousins of mine whispered to me to meet them at the side door . . .’

He felt his jaw clench and knew he really must get her coat and her boots on her and open the door to the world outside. Dear Christ, she was a child, prattling on about a party with no thought
in her head but what fun she had had. No more than a young girl and should be left that way.

And yet she seemed to have gained something since he had last seen her up on Badger’s Edge; an indefinable impression which was probably an illusion, a trick of the firelight and the snow
reflecting through the window, but which seemed to say to him that she was not
quite
the girl he had chatted with amongst the winter bracken of the tops. What was it? What was in her eyes,
the flush of her cheek, the soft turn of her lips as though she smiled at some secret memory?

She was looking at him strangely too, assessing him in some way, her gaze reflective, a glow of something in her eyes which were a pale grey velvet now, the crystal gleam gone all of a
sudden.

‘We went out into the garden, Drew and Pearce and I,’ she continued, her voice almost a whisper so that he had to lean towards her to hear it. Dear God, what was she saying?

‘We walked, the three of us, across the snow when, all of a sudden, everyone was there. They had seen us from the window and came out, dozens of them, throwing snowballs, the gentlemen
pushing one another about in the drifts which grew. It was glorious, quite glorious. There were gentlemen kissing ladies . . .’ She stopped and waited, smiling, then, ‘It was Christmas
Eve after all, Will. It’s allowed, you see, particularly if there is mistletoe.’

Her eyes drifted from his to the small green bough which was just above his head in the doorway.

‘A merry Christmas, Will,’ she said softly, still smiling. She put her coat on the chair and, quite deliberately, moved across the small room towards him. When she was directly in
front of him she lifted her hands, resting them on his shoulders.

‘Well, are you not going to wish me the same, Will Broadbent?’

‘Lass,’ and his eyes narrowed, ‘you don’t know what you’re doing here. I’m no lad to giggle with under the mistletoe.’

‘I’m not giggling, Will. ’

‘What the hell’s that got to do wi’ it?’ he said roughly, since he knew exactly what she meant.

‘Drew and Pearce kissed me, Will. I liked it.’ Her smile deepened.

It was perhaps this, the knowledge that some other man had sampled what he was so busy denying himself, that shattered his control and his voice was beset with peril.