Authors: Jean Stubbs
The Iron Master (44 page)
‘He has a point,’ said Jeremy Birtwhistle surprisingly, for he was the mildest of men. ‘The Red Rose seems to be dragging its feet in the matter of action. We are not helping the weavers except in hand-to-mouth charity.’
‘We can’t help the weavers,’ said Hal Middleton. ‘Like Mr Ackroyd says, the weavers is finished.’
‘Aye, but how do you tell a dying brother that you’re going to leave him to die, while you save your own skin?’ asked Matt Redfern.
‘If we decided on Luddite-style action,’ said Edwin Fletcher, ‘is there any chance of our getting away with it?’
‘Only upon one count,’ said Jack. ‘If the movement grows into a national one, and fetches all the radical organisations with it. Then we should be too powerful to touch.’
‘Aye, it only took one mob at the Bastille to start off the French Revolution,’ Hal Middleton observed.
‘Mob is a word I do not care for,’ said Dr Wilkins, who usually listened most of the time, and then brought up the point which had been worrying everybody. ‘Mr Ogden was also talking about arming and drilling, and I like that even less. The thought of a crowd of untrained and angry men waving free muskets about is an anxious prospect. We stand as much chance of being shot by our own people as by the troops!’
‘Yes, those who can use a gun mostly have one,’ Alfred Horsefield remarked. ‘We should be careful of handing out weapons.’
‘I agree,’ said Jack. ‘A show of force always invites force, and too many innocent people get hurt. What do you think, Madam Secretary?’
‘I abhor the notion of mob violence, and Mr Ogden takes too narrow a view. He thinks only of the weavers, whereas we work for all. I believe we should consult with other organisations, and make sure we are in control of our own people. It is not true, as Mr Ogden seemed to suggest, that the general opinion leans towards forcible action. The Manchester centre is divided in its councils, and so are others.’
‘Aye, and Glasgow is determined to fight test cases in the courts,’ said Jack. ‘They pursue a peaceful — though no less onerous — course, and will not follow General Ludd. As he is called.’
‘Does General Ludd exist?’ asked Edwin Fletcher curiously.
‘As Jack Straw does, I dare say,’ Charlotte answered, smiling. ‘He serves his purpose, whether man or legend.’
‘And what if the weavers are vociferous enough to start a national movement?’ Jack asked them. ‘We must accept that they have strongholds throughout the country, and in Scotland and northern Ireland. Luddism could touch them all alight. Then, whether we like their methods or no, should we hang back still?’
Some looked reluctant, others dismayed. Then Charlotte, judging her committee from past experience, gave an answer which served for all of them.
‘If we see that Luddism lays a foundation for a Radical society and political reform, we should declare ourselves for that society. But we must hold to peaceful principles, so far as we are able. Else shall we have the guillotine erected in the Strand, and thus exchange one tyranny for another.’
With this they agreed to watch, wait and hold themselves in readiness.
Charlotte and Jack lay in each other’s arms, but neither made love nor slept.
He said quietly, ‘I am too old and fearful, Lottie, to relish what is ahead of us. Five-and-fifty has not the stomach for a flight that five-and-twenty boasts. I have acquired a taste for peace and privacy. I should like nothing better, my lass, than to set up house with you at the grammar school, and later to retire together. We should do well enough, I think,’ clasping her fingers and giving them a loving shake. ‘We could read our books, and talk and write on politics. Some of my old pupils would come to visit us. And the Howarths might not mind so much. It is late in the day for all of us, Lottie. I cannot think that any would grudge us a modest happiness.’
‘I wish we could tell the truth of ourselves,’ she said with regret. ‘I remember when Willie was a little boy and my father whipped him, not for stealing one of Betty’s pies but for lying about it. And my mother said that the virtue she most admired was courage. But my father said no, it was truth. Above all else he held truthfulness to be the greatest virtue, and said it was strange that they did not include it in the seven virtues of mankind.’
‘Truthfulness requires courage, Lottie. And, in our case, so does continual deception. There is another paradox for you!’
‘But I am sick of paradox,’ she said wearily.
‘Aye, I know that, too. Well, when this last skirmish is over, we shall think of ourselves for a change, Lottie. Jim Ogden is not to your taste, I know, but he is the new kind of man that the Radical movement is producing. And he has a point about the society being conducted by intellectual rather than working people. Perhaps the Jim Ogdens will go one step further, do better than we can. We shall retire together, Lottie, anyway. What say you, my lass? I think sometimes what a firebrand I was, and know now that I am old-fashioned. We belong to the radical past, Lottie. Does that occur to you?’
He felt her smile against his cheek in the dark and tightened his embrace in answer.
‘Shall I tell you what I have been thinking, in the past weeks?’ she asked. ‘I have been remembering how my parents raved over Toby’s ideas and politics, and what a turbulent spirit he was in that quiet world of thirty years since. But when I look back now — poor Toby! Such a gentlemanly fellow, with his coffee-house speeches and his neat wig and laundered ruffles! How Jim Ogden would despise him! He belongs now, like us, to yesterday. And yet … ’
‘He died for his beliefs,’ Jack finished. ‘Who can do more?’
‘You are very gracious, Jack.’
‘I must have learned it of you.’
They heard the long clock in the hall chime five. Charlotte sat up and fumbled for the tinder-box to light her candle. She shivered in the icy air, and Jack reached for her shawl. Then began, stiffly, to get out of bed.
‘I must go before Polly and Sally wake up,’ he said, pulling on his stockings. ‘I have a touch of rheumatism — well, more than a touch! — in this leg.’
He was apologetic, for it does not become a lover to limp like an old man from his mistress’s side.
‘Oh, Lottie,’ he said, smiling, sighing, ‘my ambitions have shrunk to a sound night’s sleep, an honest day’s work, and peace of mind!’
‘You shall have all three when the revolution is over! Jack, why do you not try the new remedy of cod liver oil? Old Dr Standish is a great believer in it, and you know how he suffers from rheumatism!’ She was sitting up, wrapping her shawl about her. ‘But I warn you, it stinks worse than any pig!’
‘I will hold my nose while I take a dose. It can hurt no worse than my joints!’
‘I shall not see you tomorrow, Jack. Shall you come on Sunday?’
‘Aye, and pray that we have Sunday to ourselves for once, love. I should not care to make conversation with the ironmaster again — though he was very civil!’
‘Well, you will not, for he has gone down to Somer Court this weekend, to woo his wife back!’ Charlotte said, smiling. Then, bringing up the subject which had silently troubled her all night, ‘You know that William extended his business a year or so ago, to produce small-arms and ammunition, as well as cannon? They would not break into Snape, would they, to avail themselves of weapons?’
He pulled on his coat, and shook his head at her question.
‘I have observed of you, more than once, that you think like a man in council and talk like a woman in private! My dear love, you know as well as I do that they will avail themselves of any weapons they can find or steal, if they are let loose. The fact that the ironmaster is your brother means nothing except to you. And doubtless he will defend his property stoutly! But I agree with Matt Redfern that artillery in untrained hands is a deadly danger, and I shall advise against our people being armed — oh, may the devil take my leg!’
‘He has probably had a hand in your rheumatism already,’ said Charlotte impishly. ‘Do not tempt him further!’
‘Well then,’ he answered, slowly smiling, ‘I will not. Shall you light me downstairs now? By God, this is raw weather, and speaks badly for the rest of the winter months! Put on your woollen gown, or you will catch cold. And watch that third stair. It cracks like a pistol-shot when you tread upon it! It is a good thing that your servants sleep at the top of the house.’
‘Oh, I cannot think they do not know of us by this time,’ Charlotte whispered, as she opened the door. ‘Had they suspected nothing, we should have been discovered in
flagrante
delicto
long since!’
‘I will say this for William,’ Ironmaster Scholes remarked, ‘that neither thy lack of welcome, nor thy rejections, nor the onset of winter cloth deter him!’
He was standing at Catherine’s parlour window as the post chaise spun briskly up the drive, and turned to smile upon his daughter, full of quiet humour.
‘Oh, hath poor William arrived?’ said Catherine, and hastened to put away her sewing. ‘Ring the bell for me, wilt thou, Caleb, and Mary shall heat the soup. Poor fellow, he will be perished in this weather.’
She knew better than to ask Zelah to attend to his needs, and hurried out that William might find one warm welcome at least.
‘Well, my child,’ said Caleb, observing the obstinate white column of his daughter’s neck, ‘hath thy husband travelled all this way for nothing yet again?’
‘I do not wish to see him, father,’ she replied composedly, biting off a thread, though she had lost her customary pallor and made two mistakes already in her stitching. ‘And thee and my mother used not to trouble me over him!’
But sixteen months is a long siege, and though Caleb the ironmaster had refused to meet William on his first visit, and Catherine had been coolly correct with her son-in-law, they had come to admire his persistence. He had braved everything: no invitations, cold receptions, the briefest of letters in reply to his long pleas, a steely disregard for his suffering, and a resolute refusal to come back to him. He had promised her everything: no further philandering, more time for his family, a greater sharing of his life and himself with Zelah. He had offered her everything: even to selling up the ironworks at Snape, and leaving Kingswood Hall if she wished it, and the buying of whatever place she preferred instead. Still Zelah turned her face away from all his proposals, and stayed at Somer Court with her six daughters.
‘He will not give in,’ said Caleb thoughtfully. ‘He hath made up his mind to thee, though it kill him!’
The girls were running down the stairs to greet their father. Zelah heard Catherine laughing at something he had said, heard his voice rise rich and cheerful despite the freezing journey, heard squeals of rejoicing as his customary gifts were opened, and the sound of much muffled kissing from Sophie and Molly.
‘And though I would not advise thee to trade thy peace of mind for worldly promises,’ Caleb continued, one ear cocked in the direction of the hall, ‘he is not as we are, and in promising thee what he thinks is best — he means best. Heed not his words, daughter, but listen closely to the meaning beneath them.’
The voices were growing fainter. A crowd of footsteps strode and skipped into silence. Zelah lifted her head, despite herself, wondering that he had not come to see her first as he had always done before. The ironmaster smiled, and hid the smile.
‘Dust thee remember a conversation we had together, some seventeen years since, daughter? We weighed William in the scales, then, against thy religion and thine upbringing. Thee found him worthy of that sacrifice, and confounded me with mine own beliefs. He hath not changed, Zelah, except in the manner of successful men. Thee knew what he was, and made a life beside him. Thine only error was to believe him to be stronger than thee, and in no need of guidance. Now thou last guided him, but will not walk with him. To what purpose, daughter?’
Then Zelah realised that Catherine had led William away so that Caleb might plead her husband’s case. Anger, gladness and sorrow warred within her.
‘Dost thee not want us to stay here with thee?’ she asked directly.
But Caleb was too old and wise to be drawn in this way.
‘Dost thee not want to live thine own life instead of ours?’ he countered, smiling. ‘Thou art too like thy mother to enjoy servitude, however loving and easy that yoke may be. And thou hast more to do with thy life than stitching regrets into a fire-screen!’
Zelah felt she was betrayed. Her lips quivered. She would not look at her father.
‘Thou hast made thy point, daughter,’ said Caleb kindly, ‘and though it cloth not behove us peaceful folk to speak in terms of war — still, war it hath been, and betwixt husband and wife. Now art thou victor, but victors should be merciful, not strip their erstwhile foe of dignity. William is a proud man, and a brave one. But he hath bent his pride before thee, and asked thy pardon, not once but many times. And thou hast not helped him, Zelah. Therefore I counsel thee, out of my love, to search thy heart as he hath done. For a new life could be found for thee both. Do not use thy victory to destroy thyself and him. He will listen to thee, for he cloth more than love thee — he needs thee, and now he knows it.’
She remained silent, hands clasped loosely in her lap. Her bottom lip was stubborn.
‘But thy home is here for thee and thy children, however long thee stay, my daughter,’ said Caleb most lovingly.
He rested his hand for a moment, in caress, on her dark-gold crown of hair. Then left her to herself. She wept a little, but wiped her eyes fairly soon, and looked in the glass to see if the tears had stained her cheeks. The house seemed very quiet. She had thought they would send William to her, but the minutes passed, and she grew impatient to reject him. At last she ventured forth. Silence in the hall, Caleb alone in the library,
Catherine upstairs with the children, a maid finishing the dusting in the great parlour. Zelah consulted her small watch, which told her it was time for Livvy to practise upon the harpsichord. She made her way there, and found William sitting secretly, as he had sat all those years since, in one corner of the room.
He had not changed his linen, and the shadow upon his jaw and cheeks spoke of long, fast travelling with no time to shave. He was tired but unconquered, bringing to bear on her that humble, hopeful gaze which had become his habit. Catherine had furnished him with a jug of mulled claret to keep out the cold, and he sipped his glass now and again, and rested his head against the back of the armchair.
‘Livvy should be here to practise her music by now,’ Zelah said, to account for her presence.
His black eyes were softened with weariness and wine. The last sixteen months had turned his hair quite grey. His frame was thickening as his father’s had done, not with fat but with heavy muscle. She saw the yeoman in his face, in his strong body. Only the broadcloth suit proclaimed the gentleman.
‘Dust thou remember how thee played to me, Zelah, upon thy gold and scarlet harpsichord?’ said William, and his words were a little slurred because he needed sleep, but would go on. ‘Thee wore a scarlet shawl embroidered with gold birds, and a white gown.’
‘Dost thou remember what I played thee, William?’ she answered ironically, giving nothing.
‘An air by Handel.’
‘True,’ she said, surprised.
‘But I cannot remember which air,’ he admitted, which made her smile involuntarily.
He noticed the smile with hope, and it vanished immediately. But the man who will not admit defeat can never be defeated.
‘I have thought what else I could do for thee, Zelah,’ he continued hardily. ‘I can have gas-light put into Kingwood Hall. We shall be the first house in the valley to have it.’
Her heart smote her, for he was still searching to please her through things that most pleased him.
‘No gas-light,’ said William, reading her countenance. His own was crestfallen.
She wandered over to the harpsichord and fingered the keys.
‘Mrs Dorcas’s school fund goes very well,’ he offered.
‘Oh, how is Mrs Dorcas?’ she asked warmly, sadly. ‘Growing old, I fear. I do indeed fear it,’ said William honestly. ‘For when she is dead I must face the foe alone. Until then she holds out her frail, defending arms.’
He spoke the truth through the wine. Zelah ceased to finger the keys, and listened intently. A tired man talking. Not finished, but running down.
‘I was my mother’s first living infant,’ William said, in a reverie. ‘The first fruit of that strange union to survive. They say a very young child has no memory, but I remember in the deepest part of me how it was then. Oh, they have told me stories of that time, and so would prove that I remembered those, but I know better. I was my mother’s triumph, her seal upon a misliked marriage, her entry into a new life, her acceptance in my father’s house. Betty said that Mrs Dorcas carried me everywhere in her arms, and spoke to me as though I could understand. We were one person for a little while. For a little while I was her world, and she was mine. Mrs Dorcas! That world is with me still. At certain seasons of the year, at certain times on the clock, it comes back to me as deep and sweet as ever it was then. Shafts of sunlight on a carpet, a fragrance blown in from the summer garden, the movement of a curtain in the breeze, a chime, an evening light upon the walls.’
He wiped his lips to steady them, and drank more wine.
‘How my father loved her,’ he continued, ‘and how she must feel the lack of him. What a partnership that was! And I had thought it my right and my inheritance to have the same. As though it were nothing to be fought for, and to win day after day, in pain and in humility as well as in joy and contentment I had thought’ — and here he smiled at himself — ‘I could improve upon that match! For Mrs Dorcas was not the beloved daughter of a rich, established family like your own, Zelah. And my father, though a good and handsome fellow, was neither scholarly nor powerful. I thought to take what they had given me, and add your beauty and your family, and my ambition and skill and energy, and so achieve a human miracle of perfection. The perfect match.’
His hand lifted in salute to his parents, and dropped. He poured another measure of wine, but sat a long time over it, not drinking.
‘How I am humbled and proved wrong,’ he said quietly. ‘With what mean bricks, with what lack of straw, did they build slowly and with difficulty their house of love. How dearly bought that heart’s desire, and how ungrudged the payment. And I, who had thought to show them, in trumpets and splendour and fine gold, what love should be — I lie through the night alone, and travel in the cold, because I know nothing, and am nothing, and have achieved … nothing.’
He was looking inward upon his dark self and did not see the tenderness on Zelah’s face.
‘I had such visions,’ said William, and his head fell back, his eyes closed. ‘Such visions. I had thought that power would nourish love, but power is love’s antithesis.’
She began quietly to play the Handelian air which had pleased him all those years ago, glancing at him now and again. The music wove a single gold thread through his night, and another and another, until the warp was set Then came the weft, line by line by line, penetrating his thought until he heard and raised his head. She played on, not looking at him now, seemingly unconscious of his presence, of his hesitant and disbelieving joy. And when he was sure, and she turned to smile on him, he came clumsily over and knelt at her side and put his arms about her waist, and hid his head and wept at his homecoming.
*
All the Howarths and their kindred gathered together in Kingswood Hall on the last day of the year 1811. Even Cicely, nursing her third child, made the long journey from Wiltshire to spend three weeks with Charlotte and celebrate this particular occasion. And Ambrose travelled up from London by the Royal Mail, in return — as he said to his uncle — for a similar journey made on his behalf in the year of his birth, 1785.
‘And a deuced long, hard journey it still is!’ cried Ambrose, warming his hands before the fire in the great hall, and surveying the assembly.
‘Long and hard?’ cried Dorcas, who had only just arrived from Bracelet, and was being installed in the place of honour at the fireside. ‘Why, what do any of you know about travelling these days? You young folk are all spoiled with speed and springs! You should have tried a four-day jolting in the old stage-coaches, Ambrose. Come, give me a kiss, you are looking quite handsome!’
‘Aye, well, we are not made of the same stern stuff as yourself, my dear Grandmama,’ he said charmingly, and raised his
glass
to her continued good health.
Dorcas was going slightly deaf, and so spoke more loudly and clearly these days, that she might hear what she was saying. Consequently, even her asides were audible. She beckoned Charlotte to her.
‘You have done very well with Ambrose,’ she said, to the amusement of the company. ‘I had thought he was too like his father at one time, but he has improved out of all recognition. And how old is Tibby now?’ As that slender maiden approached with a tray of Bohea tea for Dorcas’s refreshment. ‘Close on sixteen? Well, girls should not be married too young, but William and Zelah must be looking about them. I did Charlotte’s duty for her with Cicely,’ forgetting that her daughter stood by. ‘Where is Cicely?’ Ignoring the fact that her grand-daughter sat opposite, nursing her infant. ‘I wrote to her not long since. They have called their first daughter after me. Dorcas Pole. That is a pretty name. I have her letter somewhere. Tibby, look in my reticule, dearest child, and find Cicely’s letter. I know that Toby would like to see it!’ Turning to Ambrose, she said, ‘You will be interested in Cicely’s letter, will you not, Toby? And now I wish all the children to come up and tell me their names, for they are so many that I sometimes forget, nowadays.’
‘Tibby dear,’ said Zelah, ‘wilt thee look to all our girls for me? I must enquire how the supper progresses. And, Alice dear, wilt thee introduce thy brood? And, Charlotte dear, thee had best introduce Cicely all over again, for Mrs Dorcas gets confused at times. But how thou wilt explain Cicely’s children I know not! William, thy brother’s tankard is empty, and Caleb would like more wine. Well, cannot thee help thyself, Caleb, after all these years? Here are thy grandchildren, Mrs Dorcas!’ Speaking clearly that Dorcas might hear her.
