The Iron Master (25 page)

Then down the lane came the Howarths and the Scholeses and all their people, wearing white ribboned favours, to be greeted fervently by the small populace they would shortly feed. William was clad in chocolate brown with a gold-and-white striped waistcoat: Caleb in gunmetal grey. Both looked pale and serious, as well they might, for Ned had finally to arouse them with two buckets of cold water, and Dorcas had brewed coffee according to Charlotte’s method to settle their stomachs. At the lych-gate they all paused, and turned expectantly towards the sound of hooves and wheels. The bride’s carriage was just visible, and now half a dozen children stepped forward to strew the ground with primroses, buttercups, bluebells and daisies. One small boy cast down an armful of rushes, and a small girl stood sentinel with a single stalk of wheat saved from the last harvest. Zelah would enter married life on a path of beauty, fertility and plenty, and so continue all her days.

The carriage halted. Out jumped Ambrose and helped down Cicely who was acting as bride-maid. Caleb took Charlotte’s hand, and looked hopeful while she looked away. Ned helped Phoebe down and offered her his handkerchief. And William came last to greet his lady.

Divested of her cloak, Zelah shimmered in the cool sunlight: the vision of a bride rather than the substance. A white and silver ghost, entering uncertainly upon the occasion.

Their courtship had been so long, so fraught with difficulties, and the outcome so sudden, that William and Zelah looked at each other in this moment almost with disbelief. He was handsomer, harder, more powerful than the youth who had first courted her. But she seemed even younger and more vulnerable. Then she set her white shoe tremulously on the carpet of flowers. He took her arm and steadied her. They smiled on one another in mutual triumph.

A singular decorum was observed during the ceremony. Perhaps the grandeur of the occasion subdued rough spirits, or a boisterous age was passing, for though the church was packed with villagers they were quiet and well-behaved. At the altar stood one symbol of the century to come: William, self-made man. By his side the proper helpmeet for such a future: Zelah, daughter of such another man, bringing both money and connections to the union. Yet she was far more than this, as the Howarths had found even upon a fortnight’s acquaintance.

They had allotted her an honourable, even a generous place in their family, and she had already discovered ways of expressing her gratitude without obvious thanks, her affection without utterance. She sensed that she might clasp Ned’s arm as tightly as she would have clasped her father’s, and feel an answering pressure of reassurance. She could rely upon Dorcas, as on her mother, to set her skirt aright before entering the lych-gate. She knew that Cicely would be ready to hold her bridal posy at the correct moment, and be watchful at each stage of the service. Provided she usurped no one, the Howard’s were for her.

So she concentrated on the ceremony and endeavoured to be pleased by it, in spite of a regret that she and William could not formulate and express their own vows; and that afterwards she could carry no document home, signed by a hundred Quaker witnesses, only leave behind her the image of a parish register, and the parson pocketing his fee.

Still, here they were, man and wife: William’s heavy gold ring upon her finger, his name superimposed upon hers, his future setting the pattern of her own. She had seen so little of him in these three years, and discovered less, for
even
that little was pure courtship, that she felt afraid to set forth on life with such a stranger. But the choice had cost her so much that she must go through with it, and find her way to him without guidance. For how could Catherine advise her on a marriage so different from that of her own?

Then one of those insights illuminated her as they passed the grey army of Howarth tombstones. Zelah pressed William’s arm that they might pause in their progress, and stooped and laid her flowers on Betty Ackroyd’s grave. It was the thought and work of a moment: spontaneous, loving, inspired.

Ah, that is the heart of Zelah, Dorcas thought. And resolved to watch over her, since such a heart is easily bruised.

No rice was thrown. With wheat at fifty shillings and barley at seventeen and sixpence, all grain was precious. But some children had shredded wild flowers patiently, and a shower of their petals caught in the bride’s shining dress and gemmed her hair with blossom.

No lad shouted for her garter, since Zelah’s shyness made them shy. The usual uproar of approval had dwindled to a murmur of pleasure. Folk hung back, fearful of offending this slender girl, and William saw that his apprehensions had been in vain. The wedding threatened to become a friendly funeral. So when Tom stepped forward with the big bay stallion, which was there to rescue bride and groom from a mob of well-wishers, William quickened the tempo. With a whoop he leaped into the saddle, caught his wife round the waist, and pulled her up in front of him shrieking and laughing. They were suddenly at one with their audience, and a chorus of shouts and hoots rose to keep them company. This was something like a wedding! And as William drove his heels into Wildfire and clattered off up the lane, the village came close behind him on pony, horse and foot, yelling and firing blunderbusses, ready for the fun.

They had been divided into house guests and barn guests, with stronger tables and beer and heavier fare in the latter place, but as the afternoon progressed and spirits rose and bellies were filled the two parties mingled. So the ironmaster was to be found biting into a slice of suet pudding and treacle, while Charlie Grundy, saddler of Coldcote, hopped a spoonful of ice-cream round the inside of his mouth until it astonished him by melting. And he informed the ironmaster that he earned above twenty shillings a week in his family business. Whereat Caleb Scholes expressed polite surprise, though he earned above ten thousand a year in his enterprise. So they conversed with mutual esteem, and from this short acquaintance came the order of a new saddle for the ironmaster’s horse. After which, Grundy’s Saddlers shop-sign bore the sincerely meant if misleading inscription:
Suppliers
to
Royalty
. Furthermore, having asked permission of his host, Caleb the elder was pleased to bestow sixpence a head upon the poor of Garth, in memory of the occasion, and so to descend in the village annals as a public benefactor.

The old custom of bride-bedding, wanton revelry and public gaping was dying out. It was fashionable among the rich and aristocratic to take a bridal tour, but even lesser folk endeavoured to begin their married lives with a little privacy. As the light waned and festivities began to flag, William and Zelah drove off to Quincey Place for a week’s holiday. And though all twenty of her family had been invited for dinner the following day; and all the Howarths the day after, and, Saturday being market day, Ned called in again and brought a brace of roasting fowls; and Sunday they dined at Kit’s Hill; and Monday Caleb brought news of the ironworks and talked to William all evening; and Tuesday saw Dorcas, on her way to Millbridge; still they had the nights to themselves, and breakfasted in each other’s company, with shy delight.

Love and Power

Fifteen

1795
-
1796
In the small front garden of Quincey Place a sapling shivered in the morning wind. Caleb the ironmaster had planted it with his own hands, the day before the wedding. For his mother was of Dutch extract and had brought this ancient European custom with her. He had done the same for Kate and Mary, would do it for Sarah and Rebecca in their turn. The symbol satisfied something very deep and secret within him: a reverence which had nothing to do with his religion: a belief far older than Christianity. And though the slim silver birch bent and swayed in every current of air, and seemed as though the first gale would uproot it entirely, there was a toughness in its pliability which promised very well.

William spent those first brief days together in courting Zelah afresh, partly out of consideration and partly in awe, for her innocence made him pause even on the threshold of fulfilment. Ned’s advice, though well-meant, had been unnecessary.

‘Now don’t go at it like a bull at a gate! Think on!’

‘I am no novice, father!’

‘I wasn’t saying you was’ — drily — ‘I said, think on. There’s plenty of men want a bucket of water thrown on them
after
the wedding, never mind afore it. And don’t go dragging her down wi’ childer every twelvemonth. Some men wear a wife out as if she was a suit of clothes. Nay, a suit’d last them longer, for they’d take better care of it!’

William swallowed his irritation, and thanked him kindly. Still, he did not know whether he would be confronted by ignorance or duty, and set about explaining his task with some delicacy when they woke on their first morning. But she surprised him by saying that her mother had told her what to expect, and though the act sounded unseemly it became a loving part of life together, for wife as well as husband, and that she should be very patient if it was not to her liking in the beginning.

She looked so solemn and child-like, sitting up in the vast four-poster bed, proffering her bit of knowledge, that William could not forbear smiling outright and finally laughing aloud, even as he begged her pardon. It is an advantage to be brought up in a large and rational family, and Zelah had learned very early in life to subdue excessive sensibility, so after a puzzled moment or two she joined his amusement, which effectively robbed William of his manhood for a time. But they employed the interval to good advantage, and took their first hurdle in high spirits: lying afterwards for a long while in mutual warmth, with the added delight of knowing that a cold spring day lay outside their little world among the bedclothes.

‘And was that unseemly, Zelah? And will you be patient?’ William asked, as she drowsed with her head on his chest.

‘It was most odd,’ she said honestly, ‘but I did not entirely mislike it.’

‘We shall do better by and by,’ said William, with great confidence, and they wound their arms about each other and laughed again.

Yet his conscience dealt him a blow, for he remembered his first bedding with Hannah, when the positions were reversed and she was teacher, he pupil. She had been generous and good to him: a raw, inexperienced youth, full of his own desires, his own importance. When he wanted her she gave herself to him. When he wanted freedom she set him free. And in this final gift, from a woman who had bestowed so much, lay a cold truth from which he would never escape.

So even in his present joy, Hannah’s quiet ghost rose in his heart, looked on him briefly, smiled and vanished. As she had done. Presently he got up and dressed to drive the memory away.

If anyone had asked William what he most lacked he would have said, ‘Time though the need for ready money came hard after it.’ There was never enough of either for his purposes, and he could never wait for anything unless he was forced to do so. Even while the paint was drying on the walls of Quincey Place, William was searching out the site on which his great house would be built. And from what he could gather, among the business minds of Millbridge, the war was not going to end in five minutes, and if a man were not supplying the troops with material for uniforms he should be supplying them with weapons. That was where the big money would be made in the next few years.

His marriage provided him with the means, his father-in-law with the idea, and both together gave him the opportunity to change course.

Standing in their dusty little office, the day before the wedding, old Caleb Scholes had pored over a map of the Wyndendale Valley and delivered his judgement.

‘Thou art not the only new business hereabouts,’ he observed, ‘and this monster’ — tapping the small square which indicated Thornley spinning-mill — ‘is but the first of many. So land will become expensive. Even the scrubbiest and most unpromising patch can house a factory. Therefore, as soon as thou art able, lease or buy what land thee can, even though it be idle for a space.’

William’s eyes lighted on the area between Coldcote and Garth, where folk hung on to life by their finger-ends and would be glad of work.

‘Thee had not thought to follow Abraham Darby at all, in the gun trade, had thee, Caleb Scholes?’ William asked innocently, in good Quaker fashion.

The Warwickshire ironmaster was plainly displeased. ‘Why, that was many years ago, and for but a short while, when Ford and Goldney were managing the company. Abraham the second was in his youth then. Quakers do not take part in war, William Howarth.’

‘Well then, I beg thy pardon,’ said William frankly. ‘It had puzzled me, I confess. Perhaps I should have asked thee outright, which was what I meant to do. Quakers do not make guns?’

‘They do not,’ growled old Caleb.

‘I thank thee. I did but wish to make the point clear in my mind,’ said William reasonably.

He had given them their chance. Zelah’s dowry, though tied up in one or two respects, belonged to her husband and was all of ten thousand pounds. Some he could use, against some he could borrow.

‘Pray,’ William cried, ‘bear me no ill-will. I have ever been open with thee about my own beliefs. I have no wish to offend thee in such matters.’

The cloud dispersed. No more was said. William had reached a conclusion which involved him alone. Within a month of the wedding he had negotiated a private and separate deal for a vast tract of land called The Snape, at the other end of the valley. To ease his conscience he also searched out more land, and leased and bought at his own expense little islands of property between Belbrook and Snape, which could be used when the original foundry expanded.

Dorcas and Ned were pleasantly surprised to see more of their newly wedded son, as he came and went about this business, than they had expected. He was vague about his reason for calling in on them, and after a week or two he disappeared again, as was his wont, and they forgot about it.

On the fourth of June, having a contingent of horse and foot soldiers in the area, not long back from the Continent, Millbridge decided to celebrate King George’s birthday in style and show themselves to be loyal to the Crown. For though the town burghers and their servants were eating regularly, the rest of Wyndendale was not. Discontent among the poor in the valley echoed discontent throughout the country, and the weather was so cruelly disposed towards them that new-born lambs had frozen to death in the fields that spring. Beset from all sides, their protests grew loud, and there had been incidents of an alarming nature: a boatload of flour and cheese held up on the Grand Trunk Canal, a miller robbed, an ugly scene in the Corn Market, food thefts. There was trouble enough abroad without civil unrest, and the spectre of the French Revolution stalked the dreams of all but the hungry. So Lord Kersall threw open the lower grounds of Kersall Park for the day, and the Council subscribed £50 to refresh the troops, and recouped it from renting out space for market stalls which would refresh the spectators.

Since the King’s birthday fell upon a Tuesday, and Dorcas could be expected to come, Charlotte sent a note to Zelah suggesting they made up a family party for the occasion: quite forgetting that a military display on behalf of a monarch might be an inappropriate event. But as Zelah hesitated over the invitation, William declared that he and Caleb would accompany their womenfolk. Caleb’s own hesitation was overcome by a promise to squire Charlotte and her children, and the assurance that he and William would work at the foundry all Saturday to make up for lost time. And so it was arranged.

At twelve noon precisely, the —th Lancashire Foot drew up in Millbridge Market Square and drilled for the benefit of the populace. Any doubts as to the wisdom of war, and its dire results upon the country’s economy, were quickly dispelled by the sight of these splendid and immaculate puppets. The lines of weathered faces, red coats, white breeches and black gaiters stood to attention, shouldered and presented arms, fired salvoes into the air to the accompaniment of charming little screams from the ladies, and came to attention as though they were one soldier. Then, band playing, brass shining, they wheeled in unison and quick-marched off for their dinner of beef and beer. The cavalry were due to perform later that afternoon in the Park, and were said to be even more gallant and fearsome a spectacle.

Many hearts were fluttered by these displays of military strength and beauty, and Charlotte’s children declared the sentiments of the majority.

‘Mamma, how old must I be before I enlist?’ Ambrose asked, yearning for glory and white plumes.

‘Mamma, I should like to marry that tall soldier on the black horse!’ Cicely cried, tugging at her mother’s skirt.

‘You would do the country more good with an honest newspaper, my son,’ said Charlotte, her conscience pricking her as Toby’s offspring joined the enemies of the people. ‘And you would not really like to be a soldier’s wife, my pet. They have no proper home, but follow the army from place to place.’

‘Thee must not kill, Ambrose,’ Zelah added softly, ‘nor consort with those who do, Cicely.’

The children were doubtful of this point of view.

‘What nonsense you are talking, my loves,’ said Dorcas briskly. ‘You have many years of education yet before you. Let us look round the fair. If Mrs Bottomley has a sweetmeat stall here I shall buy you some treacle taffy. She boils it herself; and it is very wholesome.’

‘Caleb,’ said William in a low voice, ‘shall you take care of the ladies? I have that unfinished business with Lord Kersall over Ayside, which I may as well do while I am here. Do not wait supper for me. I may be some little time.’

The Kersalls’ prosperity had begun in the fifteenth century with Sir Ralph Kersall, a country gentleman who rose in the world by choosing the right side at Bosworth Field. Marching a small band of twenty-five Lancashire bowmen down to Staffordshire in 1485 he had bent his knee reverently to Henry Tudor, and cast in his fortunes with that other unknown adventurer. The future king did not forget this loyal knight, and Ralph was made a baron and married to the heiress of a nearby estate at Thornley. Once given a chance, the family never looked back.

Over the next three centuries the Kersalls indulged in bursts of building activity. Their medieval courtyard house now boasted the addition of an Elizabethan hall, a Jacobean staircase, and an early-Georgian facade. Capability Brown had landscaped their park. They had given St Mark’s Church its octagonal font, its lady chapel, and a set of stained-glass windows. They sent their sons to Eton and Oxford, supplying the church and the army with younger members, seeing that one of them kept a seat in Parliament. They married their daughters into good families, offering money to nobler husbands, breeding to richer husbands, and ensuring a strong sound bond of kinship with influential people.

Humphrey Kersall combined the best of all their abilities. He was a man of his time, with a flair for quick decisions. Coal found on his own estates made him even richer. The advent of the Leeds — Liverpool Canal gave him the idea of cutting a branch canal, down which he shipped his coal and limestone. The first spinning-mill in the valley was built on his land at Thornley, and when rioters burned it down he built a second and larger mill, and would follow it with others. He headed committees, held shares in all the important valley enterprises, drew profits as well as rents, and controlled the policy of
The
Wynderdale
Post
. Now close on sixty years of age he indulged in no vices, unless power could be called a vice, which he thought not. He preferred to gamble upon greater issues than a hand of cards. He ate and drank abstemiously, thus avoiding gout and heart disease. He hunted for exercise rather than excitement. He had married sensibly, lived with his wife agreeably, regretted her death suitably.

Until recently, William’s only connection with the Kersalls had been a tenuous one: young Ralph Kersall’s hunter had been foaled by the same dam who foaled Wildfire. And this eldest son of Humphrey Kersall, much the same age as William, once called him out of Flawnes Green forge because the hunter had cast a shoe on the Black Road. The heir’s manners were negligent, but he did comment upon the likeness between their two horses: receiving information of their kinship with some astonishment, and looking twice at the blacksmith before he tipped him handsomely. This meeting had pricked William’s pride, and as he watched Ralph Kersall trot away he said to himself, ‘By God, sir, we shall sit at the same table yet, or my name is not William Howarth!’