The Iron Master (39 page)

He had known her since she was a little girl sewing her sampler, making a place for him at her side, taking him under her protection. He had endeavoured to understand her, and learned to love her. She had come closer to him than Ambrose, for whom he nourished an easy and amused affection. He supposed, in a way, she had been a daughter to him. And, though the religious ceremony and grand reception were not to his taste, he would have been grateful to look upon her happiness, to have some word with the bridegroom and find out for himself what sort of fellow he was, to wish them both well. But he must suffer the pains of a father without enjoying any of a father’s privileges.

He could tell, by the sudden excitement in the High Street, that the bridal pair were approaching, and he pressed against the window, afraid to miss that last sight of her as she entered into her new life. Then, miraculously it seemed to him, the ironmaster’s carriage slowed down as it came into view. Cicely had not forgotten, would not forget, anyone dear to her.

She rose up from her seat and smiled and waved: a slender brown-haired girl with Charlotte’s eyes, in a velvet travelling-dress, a little posy in her hand. And the lanky young man by her side also looked up, with a smile on his pleasantly ugly face, and raised his tall hat in salute.

Stiffly, Jack brought one hand from behind him, and held it to the pane in acknowledgement. Then the driver whipped up his horses, for they were due to catch the Carlisle coach at Preston and must lose no time. But Cicely and Jarvis Pole looked round and waved and waved, until they were out of sight.

What had she said to that amicable new husband of hers about Jack Ackroyd? No matter. She had regarded him as important, as worthy of particular note. And that Pole fellow had lifted his hat. He did not seem a bad fellow.

The headmaster left his post by the window and sat heavily at his desk, feeling quite lost without her.

House of Straw

Twenty-three

1807
-
1809

Cicely Pole’s first child was born a year later and proudly christened Jarvis Tobias, a conjunction of names which amused and touched the Howarths. Toby Longe had never been one of them, but he continued to crop up in their lives. The greater event, for which they had hoped, did not take place. In 1807 Zelah gave birth to her sixth daughter, and was so ill in consequence that Dr Standish advised William to wait two years at least before resuming the marital relation. In itself, this would not have perturbed the ironmaster, for he could always find other ladies to relieve his abstinence, but he was deeply wounded by his lack of dynasty. So the new baby was named Maria, after Zelah’s excommunicated aunt, received lovingly by her mother and ecstatically by her five sisters, and her father sought consolation elsewhere.

Millbridge’s morals, though no better than anywhere else, were now being furbished to match the new age and its requirements. Excluding affairs of the heart, which are always irregular, respectable Millbridge men had so far made use of women from the poorer classes when their own wives were unable or unwilling to cohabit. For such people could be hushed up and paid off, and no one be any the wiser. But the influx of workers had elevated these women to a professional status, in which they were paid better wages than the mill could offer. And the influx of industrial adventurers had created a market for a better class -of prostitute. Single ladies, all of whom appeared to have private incomes and a delicate upbringing, infiltrated the town at the turn of the century. They attended church assiduously, contributed to charity generously, and did not expect to be received socially. Everyone knew what they were but no one said so. They rented villas in a suburb of Millbridge, so that their clients should not be embarrassed by proximity. Those members of the council whom Jack Ackroyd had accused of shoddy building could not be faulted in this new development. They had helped to push the plans through, made a handsome job of the building, and let them very profitably. Many influential men, including William Howarth, found Flawnes Gardens a satisfactory arrangement, and any old-fashioned moralist on Millbridge Council would have been outnumbered at once had he dared to suggest that they gave the town a bad name.

At the moment, however, Millbridge was agog with quite another matter. Lord Kersall had recently astonished his people, his family, and probably himself, by marrying for a second time and very late in the day. It was not, as the town remarked over its teacups, that the noble gentleman needed an heir. He had a plethora of them: sons, grandsons, brothers, nephews, cousins. Nor that he required a resident hostess. His eldest daughter, the Honourable Miss Kersall, had filled that post to everyone’s satisfaction since her mother’s death fifteen years ago. And surely a man in his sixties was past lusting? The majority of Kersalls silently held the same opinion, but put up a gallant front, declaring themselves to be delighted with his lordship’s happiness. Millbridge Council collected money for a silver lowing-cup, in spite of Jack Ackroyd’s tirade against wasting public funds; and the Kersall estate gave itself a celebratory banquet to which important local people were invited. William, being one of them, returned home flushed with wine and gossip to report on the festivities to Zelah.

‘I should have thought him too old and cold a fish to be captured by such a hussy,’ said William, laughing. ‘But I dare say even the wisest man must make a fool of himself once in a lifetime. She was undoubtedly after his wealth, and the security of her position as his wife. It is a May and December match if ever I saw one.’

‘Is she so much younger than he?’ Zelah asked, out of duty.

She was resting on her day-couch, feeling indisposed for talk of any kind, but too conscious of failing William in a great matter to risk failing him in a small one.

‘Some forty years at a guess! A little too old to be the freshest catch of the season, but far too young and prime for our Humphrey! Aye, a high-headed, high-minded, high-born lady, with a pair of bold black eyes and a bold black manner. He is besotted with her, though she looks at every man but her lawful wedded husband. I do wonder … ’ But these thoughts were not for Zelah, and he went on another tack. ‘Well, she will lead him a pretty dance before he is done. I would reckon her to be extravagant as well as wilful. She was wearing the late Lady Kersall’s emeralds to great effect. You should have seen poor Miss Kersall’s face — for she has had to give up both her mother’s jewels and her position in the house for this bird of paradise!’

Still, he did not seem to condemn these faults in the new Lady Kersall. He straddled his hearth with a satisfied air, and jingled the silver in his pockets. His wife did not answer, and he did not notice her silence.

‘Yes, old Humphrey is done for now. It is only a matter of time. She will fetch him to his grave one way or the other. So Master Ralph is beginning to creep into his own by means of the back door. Ambitious puppy!’

‘Puppy?’ cried Zelah, faintly amused. ‘Why, he is of an age with thee, William!’

‘He is a puppy in experience. His father first spoiled him, and then denied him access to the family business because he was spoiled. Fortunately for him he married Lady Caroline, and she made half a man of him — you would approve of her, Zelah! — and his two sons have sobered him down … ’ but this thought must not be pursued. ‘At any rate, our Ralph turns out to be a true Kersall under the mask: cunning, tenacious, and anxious for power. So he is courting me, as being closest in business with his father, and I encourage him. Because, when Humphrey’s dead I shall have to deal with Ralph. And it is better to treat with one you have formed a little! Besides’ — lifting himself on his heels, jingling his change — ‘he will be an opening for us, socially. We can expect an invitation to Park House when you are stronger, Zelah. Though the one from Kersall Park will take a little more coaxing.’

She had withdrawn into a world less complex and more kind.

‘But you are tired,’ said William, noting her quietness at last, ‘and I have business at Snape. I shall leave you to rest, my love.’

‘Business at Snape at nine o’clock of a Saturday night, William?’ she cried, roused by this news at least. ‘Why, even my father, that was the busiest of men, made time for his family at the end of the week!’

‘Your father, excellent man, had the good fortune to do his main business in one place,’ said William, in that bullying, good-natured way which always silenced opposition. ‘Mine, alas, is more varied and scattered all over England. When an agent journeys to see me from Bristol or Cornwall or London, I can hardly ask him to cool his heels until Monday morning.’

‘But cannot this agent consult with thee here, and stay here?’

‘Zelah,’ said William indicating that he was at the end of his patience, ‘Dr Standish has ordered you complete rest and quiet. And that is exactly why I am doing all business away from home!’

This could not be answered except by thanking him for his consideration, which she did.

In the race for wealth and honour among commoners, Millbridge would have been puzzled which way to bet, for William Howarth and Ernest Harbottle seemed to be running neck and neck. Power? Ernest was called King Cotton, and William the Iron King. Property? Kingswood Hall was in better taste, but no more opulent than Millside Towers; and each man had investments in places they would not have cared to live in. Business sense? Ernest was considered to be tougher, but William was cleverer he stayed on the right side of the moral fence. Public spirit? Both were Aldermen and would be Mayor some fine day. Social graces? Ah, there lay a difference. William was more widely travelled nowadays, meeting great personages in London and elsewhere. He often said (as a joke, mind you!) that when peace cut his profits in half he should make up the loss by trading with France. Whereas poor old Ernest could not make himself understood outside his native county, let alone endeavour to ingratiate himself abroad. And William’s wife was a lovely lady. On the other hand, Margery Harbottle, though rougher than her diamonds would warrant, was far more friendly and ordinary than Zelah Howarth. As for William’s own graces, well, handsome was as handsome did! Tales were being whispered, knowing glances exchanged. Perhaps, in the end, folk might prefer homely Ernest who never gave his wife cause for complaint — and frequently said so.

‘Still, Howarth would be my choice as a Member of Parliament, if ever the Kersalls let go of the borough,’ said one councillor. ‘And that time may come sooner than we think.’

‘What? You would choose him rather than a Clayton or a Brigge?’

‘Oh, country gentry with no hard cash are out of the running these days, my good fellow. Neither noble nor rich! It takes a wealthy man to get to Westminster. And nowadays we want a man of the people to represent us. Yes, Howarth is the horse for my money.’

‘He’s a pretty runner, I grant you. But if you speak of such men then Harbottle might stay the course better … ’

*

From the terrace of Kersall Park, upon a clear day, thirteen mill chimneys could be counted, marching down the valley. Each lifted a wind-borne grey banner. Each was surrounded by a brood of cramped houses, whose domestic stacks smoked away in unison. A sense of order, a sense of space, had vanished in the sunburst of prosperity. But fortunate indeed is the entrepreneur with style and good manners who benefits from it. The ironmaster of Snape looked down on his part of this realm with supreme satisfaction.

Lord Kersall being unavoidably detained in London for a few days, William Howarth had called upon a matter of business. And stayed, merely out of courtesy, to talk with Lady Bersall a little longer. They were a fine-looking couple, and no doubt aware of the fact. Both handsome, dark and ruthless, knowing exactly what they wanted and how to get it. Clarissa Kersall’s hair was as glossy as a raven’s wing. Her eyes were black and brilliant. She moved well, showing off her fine plumage, her creamy flesh. Her gown was deceptively simple, pale and diaphanous, so that for one delicious moment a man could believe he was seeing more than the swell of breasts above the high waistline. The dress stopped short of a pair of narrow silken ankles. Her colour was rich, her mouth red and full. A dozen little gestures indicated that the ironmaster was to her taste, and that though her palate might be keen it was also discriminating. He felt exceedingly flattered.

Two matters faintly troubled him. The noble Humphrey had decided notions about his personal property, and there was the possibility of scandal in this closed community. But, these considerations set aside, he was as anxious as she to sate their appetites. Many times since Humphrey Kersall brought home the bride who was young enough to be his grand-daughter had these two lusty predators eyed each other across the social barriers. For his lordship’s powers no longer resided in his loins, and the lady’s birth and upbringing had never guarded her from hungers of the flesh.

‘The wind is cold. Let us go in,’ said Clarissa Kersall.

The ironmaster consulted his ancient silver watch.

‘I fear I should be getting back, your ladyship.’

‘Shall you not stay for luncheon? Oh, do stay. Millbridge is so dull after London. You are the only person I can talk to here. Of course you will stay! I shall fetch my companion to sit with us and then you will not be dull. I know you are half in love with her already. She is so entertaining!’

She spoke almost as rapidly as she thought, running from one sentence to another, from one topic to another, as though time itself were at her heels. She would throw a question into the air, answer it to her own satisfaction, lie openly and outrageously, smiling the while. She did not conduct or share a conversation so much as comment in passing.

‘What time will luncheon be?’ William asked, sensing the invitation within her invitation.

‘Oh, when I tell them. Shall I tell them to serve it in half an hour? And we need not ask Beatrice to join us until then. In half an hour, shall we say? Can you bear my company so long?’

‘I am charmed to bear your ladyship’s company for any length of time, and in any way it might please you,’ he replied, smiling.

She laughed, throwing back her head, exposing her strong white throat, showing her strong white teeth. Then she became Lady Bersall again for the benefit of the butler, to whom she gave orders with haughty correctness, while William turned the pages of an album.

What sons you might bear a man! he thought, looking covertly at Lady Bersall’s full breasts and rounded limbs. But she did not belong to him.

‘Well, sir?’ she asked, smiling. ‘How shall we entertain ourselves for this half-hour?’

And she let fall her stole, her yellow Spanish stole that was striped like a tiger, and ran her hands down her sides in anticipation. He had never experienced so cool and honest an advance before, and in such unlikely surroundings. His ladies were all flattered, lower in station than himself, and succumbed with sighs in hired rooms. For a moment, confronted by those purposeful black eyes, his confidence wavered. Surely she did not intend them to embrace here? In the sitting-room, where at any moment they might be disturbed?

Apparently she did. With a composure that he suspected was the result of practice, she began to disrobe herself. She seemed even more at ease without her clothes, and hummed softly to herself as she undid her satin garters. Then she straightened up and looked deliberately at his astounded face.