Shining Threads (33 page)

Tessa wore a day dress of muslin in a tawny shade of amber. The skirt had a dozen flounces, each edged with black velvet ribbon; the pagoda sleeves were frothed beneath the wrists with a mass of
lace; the bodice was tight and plain. Her hair was smoothed back into a glossy chignon, unadorned but for a tawny ribbon of velvet. Emma was delighted with her for it seemed her young mistress was
a lady at last, a lady who cared about fashion and elegance and the need to allow her maid to take as long as was necessary each day to groom her, to change her as many times as was necessary from
one outfit into another.

‘Darling, you look beautiful,’ Robby whispered.

‘And so do you.’ Her breath was sweet on his lips. He was correctly and immaculately dressed, his olive green frock-coat exactly the right length, the lapels wide, the collar high.
His dove-grey trousers were tight to his long, lean legs, clinging to the calf muscle, his boots polished and his frilled and pleated shirt-front ironed to perfection. He smelled of lemon soap, his
face freshly shaved, glowing and brown with health, and his gold-blond hair was smoothly brushed, not a curl of it out of place. His brown eyes worshipped her and she thought she had never been so
exquisitely happy in her whole life.

He grinned engagingly. ‘Do I look good enough for the daughter of the house?’

‘She will simply fall in love with you, just as I did.’

Her answer was still on her smiling lips as he opened the drawing-room door for her, stepping back a little to allow her to enter before him. Her mother stood up, her face serious for this was a
serious business. She had never met this young man and she would not be charmed by any facile and good-natured fool who thought he might get his hands on her daughter’s inheritance, since one
day she would have one. It looked somewhat suspicious to her that this gentleman who had only just come into her daughter’s life was already making his intentions known having swept her off
her feet, it seemed, in a matter of weeks. She would size him up, as she sized up any man who came to do business with her at the mill and draw her own conclusions. That was why she had not wished
to hear any of Tessa’s gloriously coloured notions on what a paragon of virtue he was, what a marvel, indeed a miracle of perfection, and from such a splendid family, or so Tessa would have
it. She would decide what he was when she met him: from long experience she could read a man, his motives, his beliefs and values, his pedigree and breeding as easily as she could read a balance
sheet.

He walked towards her, coming from the past as savagely as the fist of a pugilist swinging up from nowhere, the blow hitting her between the eyes with a force which took her senses, her breath
from her lungs, the strength from her legs. She could feel the movement inside her head as her mind began to go round and round, darkening the space about her, blinding her eyes, reeling and
dipping, flinging her about sickeningly, nauseously, as though she was a child on a swing which goes far too high. She put out a hand to ward him off, both hands as she felt herself fall, and her
last thought as the blackness slipped mercifully over her was that she had burst her heart and would be dead before she hit the ground.

‘Mother . . . Dear God, catch her, Robby, she’s fainting. Mother, what is it? Ring the bell, Robby . . . Dear God, Mother . . . Robby . . . ask Briggs . . . fetch Emma . . . smelling
salts in Laurel’s drawer, she always has them. Mother, oh, darling . . . speak to me . . . tell me what . . .?’

She could hear her daughter’s voice spiralling down the length of the tunnel which led into her head, the words hollow and echoing, and even see her terrified eyes peering through the
darkness. She was sorry she had frightened her. She had never, in the whole of Tessa’s existence been anything but calm, unruffled; not the perfect mother, perhaps, since she spent all her
days at the mill, not always there when Tessa had needed her in her childhood, but never anything other than perfectly controlled. She had left this girl to others to bring up, hoping it would be
all right, not knowing how to do anything else, not being awfully sure she could be anything else. But she had always, always been strong, steady, and had never swooned before in her life. But the
sight of the man her daughter loved had taken away the props, the crutch on which she herself was balanced, and somehow she must find it again, or make another.

He was looking at her, concerned, his eyes bewildered, his face just as she remembered it, his expression telling her that he was willing to be anything she wanted him to be for as long as it
suited her, the young and endearing manner she knew so well. His mouth slanting into a smile of encouragement, his hand on her arm, ready to lift her wherever it pleased her to go, a gentleman at
the disposal of a lady, and she did not know whether to love him or hate him.

Her face was the colour of putty, somewhere between beige and gunmetal, it’s youthful elasticity gone, the flesh drooping, sweating, and she trembled violently. She was on the sofa, her
head propped on a cushion, her skirts bunched uncomfortably beneath her as though she had been picked up quite urgently and bundled on to the nearest resting place. Tessa knelt beside her, chafing
her hands anxiously. The room seemed to be full of people: Briggs hovering distantly as he always did by the door; Emma, her daughter’s maid, wringing her hands, and Dorcas, a sensible lass
and the only one to show calm, holding the smelling salts which a moment before had brought her back to her senses, and
him
, the man her daughter wished to marry – which, of course,
was impossible now.

‘I’m all right,’ she managed to whisper but her eyes could not tear themselves away from him. He stood to one side, a visitor, a stranger, really, who had been involved in a
small family emergency, had helped out but who, knowing his place, had moved away to give the family, her daughter, some space and air to breathe.

‘What happened, Mother?’ Tessa continued to worry her with her hands.

‘I . . . I would like to go to my room, lass.’

‘Of course, Mother. Emma and Dorcas will help you but . . .’ Her gaze turned, radiantly, even now, towards the man she loved . . . Oh, dear God . . . dear, sweet God . . . ‘may
I not introduce . . .’

‘I’ll go now, daughter.’

‘Please, Mother . . .’

‘If you will give me your arm . . . see, Dorcas, lift me up . . .’

‘May I help, madam?’ A true gentleman, he was beside her as she tried to rise, offering her his arm, his support, anything she might need as a lady and which he, as a gentleman, was
willing to give her.

‘No, no . . .’ She broke the spell she herself had made, the link her eyes had forged with his, by turning abruptly away, rudely the rest of the assembly were inclined to think,
particularly her daughter who loved him. He fell back, startled, genuinely puzzled by her apparent distaste for him, then bowed, his impeccable code of conduct keeping his face politely
expressionless.

He had gone, she had been told an hour later as she lay in her darkened room, not undressed for she simply could not face the task. He had sent his good wishes for her speedy recovery, Tessa
said coolly as she sat beside her, and the hope that they might meet again to discuss his and her daughter’s future, when she was feeling better able to manage it. Perhaps the next day, if
she could spare him an hour, since he wished to get the matter settled before he discussed it with
his
family.

‘He loves me, Mother.’ Her daughter’s voice came to her out of the darkness and she thought her heart would break, just as she was about to break this child’s. All these
years and the past dead and buried, she had thought, hopelessly at times, but more easily as the years moved on and now, on an explosion of anguish and joy, of despair and winging ecstasy, it had
come back to destroy them all.

‘I can see that, lass.’

‘Will you meet him tomorrow, then? If you feel better that is. He has to get back . . . the estate . . . his grandfather is not well so he cannot remain here indefinitely. I want to . . .
we both want to make plans and there is his family. If I bring him up to the mill, to your office . . . or perhaps here if you feel up to it?’

‘No, my lass. I’m afraid not.’

She saw the shadow who was her daughter lift herself from the chair in which she had waited, keeping quiet with a great deal of self-control until her mother was herself again. She moved across
the room, graceful and lovely in her tawny gown, her face bewildered, her eyes mutinous, her expression saying she would have this man no matter what her mother said, or did, to try and stop her.
She stood beside the half-drawn curtains, then flung them open with a great clatter and moved back across the room to stare with narrowed eyes into her mother’s. She found them steady and
unflinching, clear and honest as they had always been with no inclination to look away.

‘Why? What’s wrong with him? He comes of a good family and . . .’

‘I know that, Tessa.’ She saw the startled movement of her daughter’s arms, both lifting fractionally, almost a shrug as if to say she wished she could understand what was in
her mother’s mind for, really, this was so foolish when anyone in their right minds could see how perfect she and Robby Atherton were for one another.

‘How do you know?’

‘Would you obey me if I told you that I didn’t want you to see him again?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Could you not trust me to know that he is not the man for you, Tessa?’

‘You know I could not. Do you expect me to give him up without any explanation? To give him up
at all
, with or without any explanation, a reason? There
is
no reason. Mother,
please, Mother, will you not tell me what happened in the drawing-room? I have never seen you faint, or even be ill. Heavens, I don’t think you have had a day off from that mill since the day
I was born. You were yourself when I left the room to greet Robby, even as I returned, but suddenly you keel over like a . . . Why, what was it? It can have nothing to do with Robby since you have
never met before so . . .’

‘Tessa . . .’

‘Mother, I must insist that you see him tomorrow, or if not then, as soon as you feel well enough. We are to be married and there is a lot to do.’

‘You must never see him again.’

Tessa whirled away in exasperation, sensing her mother’s urgency but refusing to accept it, throwing it back at her forcefully since it made no difference. She would marry Robby Atherton,
with or without her mother’s consent or approval. She would not listen a moment longer to this foolishness, this stupidity, this
insanity
, this unbelievable refusal of her mother, not
only to accept her love, but to give an explanation for her opposition. She would leave now. She would go . . . somewhere . . . Robby would find a place for her . . . and as soon as they could they
would be married; not with all the pomp she knew would have been the choice of his family but in a little church somewhere.

Her mother could disown her, disinherit her, what did it matter? She had only one life, one chance, and this with Robby was it. They were so alike, so perfectly in accord, some lovely bond
between them making them the one spirit and flesh the Bible talked about though they had not as yet made love in the full sense of the word. But they would. Tonight. She would go now. Let herself
out of the small side door and ride over to the Station Hotel where Robby was . . .

‘No Tessa, you can’t do it.’ Her mother, it seemed, had read her mind, but it didn’t matter. If they locked her up, which was unlikely, her mother knew she would escape.
A hundred times in the past she had climbed down a conveniently placed tree, swinging from bough to bough to join her cousins in some wildness and she would do it again if she must. Put on her
breeches and boots and . . .

‘I can see I must tell you the truth, girl.’ Her mother’s voice was harsh and grating, just as though with the prospect of telling what was to come her mouth and throat had
dried up and become like the sands of the desert.

‘I wish you would, Mother, then perhaps I can give Robby a decent explanation of why we must marry without you.’

‘No, lass.’ And now she was gentle, her disciplined, composed mother, so gentle Tessa was suddenly very afraid but still she fought on, for what else was she to do? She would have
Robby Atherton.

‘Mother, please understand. I don’t care
what
you say about him. Tell me he is a . . . a murderer, a . . . a . . .’ What was worse than murder? She couldn’t think,
but if Robby had done it, she didn’t care, she would still have him.

‘He is, I’m sure, a perfectly acceptable young man, with no criminal record. He will make some woman a good husband one day but it cannot be you, my darling, not you,
ever.’

‘My darling’. Her mother had called her ‘darling’.

‘Please, Mother . . .’ Her voice was the voice of a frightened child, frightened by some unknown monster which hid in a cupboard and was about to leap out on her.

‘Robby Atherton, as you call him, has another name, Tessa. Once, long ago, until he was three years old he was known as Lucas Greenwood.’

‘Lucas Greenwood . . . what . . . who . . .?’

‘He is my son, Tessa, and your brother.’

She lay in the dark, in the complete and utter dark which was her hatred, her despair, her hopelessness and fear. Her mind seemed to be infested with the words her mother had
spoken, senseless, of course, but making perfect sense when you saw the picture her mother painted. She had refused to believe it, naturally, screaming out that same hatred – of her mother
– the despair and hopelessness, the fear in which she now lay. But then there had also been the enveloping belief that her mother was lying to her, that she was mistaken – for how could
she tell after all this time? – that she was out of her mind. Indeed, she grasped at any explanation which occurred to her to prove her mother was quite mad.

She could hear her mother’s voice now, patient, kind, filled with sorrow and yet there had been a kind of joyousness she had not understood, had been crucified by, and she had said so in
her dementia.