Shining Threads (72 page)

But he was dead to her now, just as Drew was dead and she must put him away from her, put away his memory as the memory of all those who, though cherished in the heart, are gently laid to rest.
She loved him still, that she admitted to herself, but that too would die and in the meanwhile she would wear her widow’s weeds, for him as much as for Drew. Somehow she would survive.
Somehow.

She became even thinner, like a stick she was, or a black and graceful wand and so withdrawn when she was not at her mills that it was hard to get a word from her, Emma reported tearfully to the
rest of the sympathetic servants. She did not weep, not even at the double funeral to which everyone, high and low, in the county came. The Squire and his lady – how gratified Laurel would
have been, she had thought – held her hand and begged her to consider their home as hers, and that as soon as her period of mourning was over she was to come and be amongst her friends again.
She was an extremely rich and childless widow, the Squire said later to his wife, and might she not now be considered for their Nicky who seemed disinclined ever to settle for one of the lovely
young things who had been discreetly put in his line of vision. Perhaps an older, more sophisticated woman might appeal to him. He had always been fond of Tessa and she was most presentable, mixing
easily with those of their own class.

She had seen Will that day. Like an emaciated old man, his large frame was gaunt and somehow disjointed inside his loose flesh, his haunted eyes searching her out, his arm trembling in
Annie’s. He had tried to tell her something with those eyes, or ask her something perhaps, but she had nothing for him, then or now.

She had spent her days in her office at the mill. There had been no cotton for a week now beyond some Indian from Surat, a district in the presidency of Bombay. It was badly packed so that it
was dirty, knotty, full of seeds and leaves as well as being short in staple with fibres which broke easily. Carding and spinning machinery had been damaged and at best it was suitable only for
coarse cloth and not the fine quality velveteen woven in the Chapman weaving shed.

‘I can get no decent cotton, Annie,’ she said quietly to the woman who sat across the desk from her. ‘How am I to keep them in work? How are they to live? Less than two
shillings a head from the Relief Committee . . .’

‘An’ what tha gives ’em from tha own pocket, lass.’

‘Little enough, Annie.’

‘Tha’s a generous woman, Tessa. To them, an’ to anyone that come to thi for ’elp, so why not Will Broadbent? ’E’s given thi time ter come ter terms wi’
thy grief. ’E’s stayed away from thi though it’s caused ’im pain. Will tha not see ’im, lass? Talk to ’im?’

Tessa bent her head.

‘I can’t Annie.’

‘Why? In the name o’ God, why?’

‘We have been through this so often and really I do not think I can stand much more. What is there to say to him that you have not passed on? I cannot go on trying to explain how I feel,
what I know I must do, so you must just take my word for it that I know I am right. What sort of woman would I be to . . . to . . . consort with a man who, unknowingly I admit, killed my husband
and sister-in-law? Through me, through me, Annie, and we cannot continue as we were before. It would be . . . indecent. No, he must get on with his life in whatever way he thinks fit and allow me
to do the same.’

Her face was like a pale, translucent mask, a mask carved from pure, white marble, the lovely bone structure prominently displayed in the fineness of her skin. Her dark eyebrows slanted upwards
in stark contrast like blackbird’s wings, and beneath them her eyes were the silver streaked grey of the winter lake which was set in the garden at Greenacres. Only her poppy-red mouth had
colour, startling and full, the mouth of a sensual woman who knows well the meaning of love. Now it was firm, her jaw clenched challengingly, her expression telling Annie that she was no longer
prepared to discuss the man who had once been everything in life to her. She had gambled with the lives of others, not only her own. She had recklessly chanced her reputation, her marriage, her
husband’s reason, the safety of her family with what she knew to be a killing disease in her love for Will Broadbent. She had given no thought to the danger to others in her own arrogant
determination to be with him, to nurse him when she had known that Annie could have done it just as well. And devastation had overtaken her. Now she must pay the price.

‘This is the last time I wish to hear his name mentioned, Annie. I will not change my mind. I will not see him and you must tell him so.’

‘Tha mun tell ’im thaself, lass.’

‘Annie, once and for all . . .’

‘’E’s in t’other room.’ Annie nodded her head towards the closed door of Tessa’s office, her own face as pale and resolute as her friend’s. Then she
stood up abruptly pushing back her chair.

Tessa’s face lost even its pearly whiteness, becoming ashen, almost grey, and her eyes turned to brilliant, enraged diamonds. She narrowed them like a cat which is ready to attack and her
voice was no more than a sibilant hiss.

‘How dare you? How dare you interfere in something which has nothing whatsoever to do with you? Who gave you the right to play God in my affairs, Annie Beale? Who gave you the right to
meddle, to take it upon yourself to change, or attempt to, the direction in which my life must now go? I cannot forgive this, Annie, and I cannot forgive you. You go too far this time.’

‘Tha mun see ’im. ’E needs to ’ear it from . . .’

‘Annie . . . Dear God, Annie, what about
my
needs and those of my family? I thought you were my friend, that I could trust you . . .’

‘Always, lass, always, so trust me in this.’

‘No, no. How did he get in? I gave orders that . . .’

‘I fetched ’im.’

‘You had no right, no right . . .’ For the first time since they told her her husband was dead Tessa’s face lost its white, expressionless mask and became distorted with her
despair. She turned this way and that, lifting her hands to her head and gripping it savagely. She was like an animal caught in a trap which she had avoided for weeks but from which she could now
find no escape. There was pain in her, desperation, fear, and yet a tiny bubble of joy formed which she did her best to quench. This would not do, it simply would not do. She must not see him. She
must not. Annie was watching her compassionately, understanding, she realised it now, what it was that terrified her. She held out her hands to her beseechingly.

‘Annie, please, Annie, ask him to go.’

‘Nay lass, tha mun do that, not I.’

‘I cannot see him. I will not. You are cruel . . .’

The door opened then and he was there. Will. Older than she remembered him, the pain and desolation he had known etched in deep lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. His eyes, so
clear an amber as to be almost transparent, were steady as they rested gravely on her and his mouth was clenched firmly, rigidly, as though he was desperately afraid he might speak the wrong words.
This was his only chance, his expression admitted and he must make no mistake. He swallowed and she saw his Adam’s apple rise convulsively in his throat. Someone, probably himself, had cut
his hair and it was short and shaggy across his strong brow. He was still thin and drawn but his jacket no longer hung from his broad shoulders in awkward folds as it had done the last time she had
seen him at the funeral.

‘Tessa?’ He spoke her name, then cleared his throat and she knew he was as afraid as she was but for a different reason. He was afraid that she would not surrender to him and she was
afraid that she would.

Neither of them saw Annie slip from the room.

Her fear made her harsh.

‘What is it?’

‘May we not speak to one another?’

‘About what?’

‘Surely we have things to . . . to discuss?’

‘What things?’

He moved further into the room, awkward and stiff as she had never seen him before. Will Broadbent, good humoured, positive, easy with himself and the rest of his world, was replaced by a man
who was unsure, doubtful of his own wisdom in coming, afraid to alarm her with his desperate need to know that she still loved him. She must not let him see what was in her or he would not let her
go.

She stepped back from him, knowing that if he touched her she would be incapable of resisting him, but he took it for a sign of rejection and his face hardened.

‘Tessa, you cannot simply mean to . . . to go on as you have done since your husband died? Ignoring the past and what you and I . . .’

‘Naturally,’ she interrupted harshly, ‘and why should I not? There are the mills and my dead sister-in-law’s children who take up a great deal of my time.’ She had
a frail grip on herself now but it almost slipped away as she saw him wince.

‘I know that. Jesus, do you think I don’t know . . .’ He passed a hand over his face. ‘But soon . . . or sometime in the future . . . surely, when . . . when . . . Oh,
sweet Christ, help me, Tessa, don’t let me flounder out here all alone. You know what I’m saying, what I’m asking. I love you so much . . . don’t . . . please don’t
turn away from me . . . let me see your face, your eyes . . .’

She had her back to him now, unable to bear any more. She stared, blinded and tortured at the wood panelling of the wall, reeling with the pain of him, holding herself steady, forcing herself
inch by slow inch away from the dreadful need to turn back to him, to run into his arms, to hold him, soothe him, comfort and calm his agony with a great outpouring of the love she had for him, but
she knew she could not. This man was not for her. Not now. Not ever. She had killed her own husband and her husband’s sister for this man and could she live with him knowing that? Could she
forget it? Could she ever forgive herself? Did she want to?

‘Go home, Will. There is nothing for you here.’ Her voice was flat and devoid of all emotion. ‘I have nothing for you and I can be nothing to you. I have work to do and have no
time for . . . diversions.’

She heard him gasp, then there was silence for a long while. She knew he was still there but she dared not turn to face him. She felt the great sorrowing beat of his heart inside her own breast,
the pain in his head drumming into hers, the tired and weary ache of his body which was not yet returned to its full strength. Everything he suffered, she experienced too, and she prayed, again to
a faceless, nameless god, for the resolution to remain where she was until he had gone. And in her heart a tiny voice, bewildered, angered, persistent, begged to know why she was doing this when
all she had to do was turn about to claim the love he was offering her and which she so badly needed. But her heart could not reason. Her heart was warm and unthinking, longing to ignore the cold
logic of her mind which told her she and Will Broadbent could never be the same to each other again.

‘Diversion, Tessa?’ he whispered at last. ‘We were more than that to each other. Don’t dishonour me or yourself by pretending otherwise. I have loved you truly for the
past nine years and I believe you had come to love me in the same way. I came today, as I have tried to come for the past six weeks to offer you whatever you might need at this time of . . . grief
in your life. I came as a friend as well as the man who loves you You are free now – let us be truthful with one another – and when a decent interval had passed I wanted to ask you to
become my wife. I can give you so much, my lass. We can give one another . . . all that we have . . . all that a man and woman . . .’

He could not go on. The tears ran silently down her face and dripped just as silently on to the black silk of her mourning gown. The absolute quiet moved on and still he stood there but she did
not turn to him.

‘I came to beg you, Tessa,’ he said at last. ‘Annie told me how you felt . . . the guilt . . . but I can see you are not to be moved.’ He sounded surprised as though he
had expected more of her. ‘I was ready to shout and bluster. I was angry, you see, that you had not turned to me. Then I was convinced that I could . . . sweep you off your feet, I believe
the expression is, that our love would overcome all obstacles. But it doesn’t, does it, lass?’

‘No, Will, it doesn’t.’ Her voice was firm and her back which was still turned to him was the same.

‘Well, then, I’ll not bother you again, Tessa Greenwood. I’ve waited long enough, I reckon. More than any man should wait for a woman. I’ll do what you suggest and make a
new life for myself. You see, I want to settle, have sons, a family, and I’ll not get it from you, that’s clear.’

He was gone when she turned round. Only Annie was there ready to catch her as she fell in a storm of weeping into her strong arms.

35

They said in the Penfold Valley that they had never seen a woman mourn the death of her husband as Tessa Greenwood mourned but then the pair of them had been close since
childhood, hadn’t they, along with that other cousin of hers, Drew Greenwood’s twin brother, and was it not to be expected that the loss of the one she married would affect her more
than most? And then her sister-in-law going like that at the same time and them children to be seen to was enough to undermine the strongest constitution.

She’d gone a bit crazy, everyone agreed, going at all times of the day, and night too, most likely, high on the moors of Saddleworth, not always riding as one would expect but sometimes
tramping in her stout boots with a weaver’s shawl thrown about her head as though she had reverted to being the mill girl her own mother had once been. The gleaming stretch of Hollingworth
Lake which was actually a reservoir, called the ‘weavers’ seaport’ because it was a place where the millworkers strolled on their day off, seemed to draw her. None knew why for in
the days her cousins were alive the three of them had favoured Badger’s Edge and Friar’s Mere. Sometimes she was seen on the little paddle-steamer which moved across the shining surface
of the lake. Mr Talbot, who had designed her new mill four years back and whose wife was particularly fond of a sail on the lake, had seen her, he told Mr Bradley, standing like a figurehead in the
bow of the steamer, her shawl slipping about her shoulders, her white face straining upwards to the moorland peaks which surrounded the lake and which contained, though Mr Talbot did not know it
being a newcomer to the district, Badger’s Edge and Friar’s Mere. He had seen her lips move as though she addressed some unseen companion. It was all most spine-chilling really, his
wife had remarked, not at all sure she believed him when he told her that this plainly dressed, working-clad woman was the wealthy Mrs Tessa Greenwood.