A Strange Likeness (19 page)

The expedition to Brinkley consisted of all the young people: Alan, Eleanor, Jane, Stacy, Charles and Mr Dudley. They went off in two carriages with hampers of picnic food, wine, china, plate and silver cutlery.

‘We must eat in the open,' Alan told them, ‘for there is nowhere in the mill or shops fit for ladies to eat. And you must all wear your oldest clothes.'

They accordingly put on their drabs—Eleanor's word—and walked around the village. They inspected the workshops swaying through the noisy, dusty rooms where dull-eyed girls looked enviously at them—their drabs being princely here.

Eleanor and Jane were both subdued afterwards, never having seen the world of industrial work before, merely driving, riding or walking through the village with little idea of what went on behind walls and windows.

After they left the workshops Eleanor questioned Alan about the girls, some barely more than children. Jane clung to Stacy's arm and said quietly, ‘I am glad that I am not a mill girl.'

Consequently their picnic in a field outside Brinkley was a quiet one, since their ample food and drink, as Stacy said, seemed to mock the haggard faces which they had seen. Only Charles, who had taken paper and pencil with him to draw the machinery, was untouched, for he was too young to see what troubled his elders.

‘We are so fortunate and we do not know it,' said Eleanor to Alan, who was driving her on the way home.

‘Yes,' agreed Alan, who had taken them to Brinkley for that very purpose, since none of them ever thought of the lost lives which sustained them in their idleness.

‘You would not have liked it,' said Eleanor to Ned at dinner, ‘but it would have done you good to go there.'

‘Now, why is that?' drawled Ned.

‘All those wretched people working such long hours for a mere pittance—especially the poor girls,' Eleanor told him. ‘Compared with our lives it is quite dreadful.'

Ned raised his brows. ‘Why compare them to us? They are nothing to do with us. They need not work if they do not like the mills nor the pay.'

‘They work because they need the money,' exclaimed Eleanor, exasperated.

‘Oh,' said Ned, ‘I see. Then why do they not go where the pay is better?'

He offered this imaginary insight to the table with a triumphant smile.

‘Because the pay is not better at any other mill,' said Alan.

‘And you should know, old fellow, because you employ them. If it makes you unhappy—and damme you look sour about it—why don't you pay them more?'

Alan spoke in the voice of one instructing a child. ‘Because if my competitors pay their girls low wages—which they do—and I pay mine high ones, their prices will be lower than mine and I shall not be able to compete with them in the open market.

‘The consequence would be that I should not be able to sell my goods. My factories and workshops would close and the girls would lose even the pittance they earn now. If you can instruct me on a way out of this impasse, Ned, then I shall be happy to adopt it, but, until then, matters must remain as they are.'

‘Don't ask me, old fellow,' returned Ned happily, quite unrebuked by this explanation, ‘I know nothing of it. Can't help you, I'm afraid.'

Eleanor looked shocked at this idle reply. Sir Hart sighed again on hearing Ned's frivolity. To Alan he said, ‘I see that you have thought deeply about this painful matter.'

‘Oh, my father and I have discussed it frequently. “Think on,” he used to say, when I came up with noble but useless ideas of reform.'

‘Ah, an old Yorkshire phrase,' said Sir Hart quickly. ‘I thought that your father came from London?'

‘So he did, but he had friends from Yorkshire,' Alan explained. He regretted having spoken without considering his words, and his explanation, while not untruthful, was not the whole truth and had been designed to deceive.

‘Are you saying that you have no choice?' Eleanor asked him.

‘None, and, begging your pardon, we all live on the backs of the mill girls, so if they lose, we lose, too.'

‘Well, I'm dam'd if I do,' exclaimed Ned. ‘I don't know any, don't employ any, and they don't do it for me.'

Sir Hart closed his eyes.

Jane's mother said admiringly, ‘You are so clever, Mr Dilhorne, you are positively frightening. We poor women can only admire and wonder!'

Alan tried not to catch Eleanor's eye.

Charles, who had been eating his dinner quietly, said, ‘Shall you manage Outhwaite's and the Brinkley mill, Alan?'

‘No,' he said. ‘They cannot afford me. When I have straightened matters out I shall put in managers, or overseers, who will report to me.'

‘I am sick of mills,' said Ned pettishly. ‘Had I wanted to know about them I would have gone with you today. A boring outing you had of it, I must say.'

‘I found it interesting,' said Jane Chalmers gently. ‘It was so different from anything I know—and I believe Stacy thought so, too.'

‘Stacy would enjoy himself reading the Lord's Prayer,' replied Ned rudely, ‘so that is no matter. Let us talk of something interesting—like the York Races.'

Alan thought that there were times when Ned was little more than a nicer version of Beastly Beverley.

Sir Hart looked weary unto death. He tried not to remember that Ned was his heir, and that the care and future of the House, the land, the servants and the tenants would fall on him soon, and he so ill-qualified for any responsibility.

J
ane, Stacy and Eleanor found Alan waiting for them in the entrance hall when they met to take their usual pre-breakfast walk. He was not wearing the clothes in which he sparred with Ralf.

‘I thought that I might join you,' he said. ‘If you will have me.'

‘Always welcome,' remarked Stacy. ‘You're not working out with Ralf today, then?'

‘He's off on an errand for Sir Hart. I thought that Eleanor might like the use of my arm.'

Jane and Stacy smiled at the speed with which Eleanor attached herself to Alan—matched only by Jane's with Stacy. They set off towards Brant's Wood, named after a Hatton heir who had died young, Stacy told them.

‘I had a letter this morning from Caroline Loring,' Eleanor said to Alan. They were walking a little behind Stacy and Jane. ‘She tells me that she is now happily married to Anthony Beauchamp—so that's one worry solved—and that Victor is still working at Dilhorne's—to everyone's surprise.'

‘Good,' replied Alan absently. He had recently received a report from George telling him the same thing
and that their deal with Rothschild's had gone through. His more immediate concern was to try to manoeuvre matters so that he and Eleanor might spend a few moments alone.

His chance came when Jane had to stop on the edge of the wood to remove a stone from her shoe. Stacy gallantly went down on one knee to help her, saying over his shoulder to Alan, ‘No need for you two to hang about. We'll catch you up later when this major operation is over.'

‘Do you think,' said Alan mischievously to Eleanor once they were well into the wood, ‘that Stacy is as pleased for an excuse to be alone with Jane as I am to be with you?'

‘Oh, I expect so,' she said, laughing up at him. ‘Fortunately there is no one about to say to me, “Now, Eleanor, it is neither proper nor safe for you to be alone with Mr Dilhorne without a chaperon.” Is that true, Alan? Am I not safe with you?'

‘Do you want a polite answer, or a truthful one?' he asked her, equally mischievously.

‘Oh, a truthful one, of course. One is always supposed to tell the truth.'

‘Then the answer is that I am not sure. Of course, I intend to behave like a perfect gentleman now that I am alone with you, but although the spirit may be willing, the flesh is weak.'

They had stopped walking and the eyes he turned on Eleanor were flashing a message at her which was unmistakable. She remembered what had happened the last time when they were alone together in the railway tunnel and she shivered with delight.

‘What does your weak flesh wish you to do, Alan?'

She could not help herself; the wanton words had flown
out of her as though she were once again the wild Eleanor of old and not the decorous creature she had become. She was aware that she was tempting him, but the desire to challenge him was so strong in her that she was unable to resist it.

‘This,' he said, and bent his head and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. He knew that they would not have long alone together, that Stacy would give them only a short respite from shared frustration.

Her arms crept round his neck, but he resisted the temptation to do more than caress her gently. She gave a little cry when his kiss deepened and he felt her whole body vibrate in response to his lovemaking, gentle though it was.

Stacy could be heard speaking to Jane, ‘I wonder how far they have got?' he was saying, undoubtedly to warn them of his approach. ‘They're probably almost through the wood by now.'

Alan gave a short laugh, seized Eleanor's hand and ran her gently along the path until they could see broad daylight again. Some minutes later Stacy and Jane joined them. Jane was slightly flushed and Stacy looked happy. They also had obviously used their short time together to great advantage.

Breakfast called them when they had walked a little way beyond the wood, laughing and talking together.

Ned stopped Alan in the Entrance Hall.

‘Robert and I intend to make a day of it. There is to be a prize-fight in the fields outside Bingley this afternoon. A bruiser from London is meeting a lad from Brinkley. And after that we shall join a group of the fellows for some fun. You will come, won't you?'

Alan debated with himself. He had neglected Ned lately, through no fault of his own, but the idea of a day
spent in drinking and ending in more drinking and possibly riot in the evening did not appeal.

Besides, he had promised to see his new workers at Thorpe's that day, and it would be too bad to send word that he could not come if they found out that he had neglected them to visit a prize-fight.

‘I'm sorry, Ned. I'm already engaged to visit Brinkley. Had I known earlier I could have called it off. As it is…' And he shrugged.

‘That is too bad! Why can you not come? You could go there another day.'

‘I have given my word. You must not tempt me to break it, Ned.'

‘Your word! Break it! You sound like Stacy these days—or a parson. Even Eleanor has become dull. Well, I see that there is no moving you. It will be a great day, and you will be sorry that you have missed it.'

I doubt that, thought Alan, watching Ned stamp off in a temper. Eleanor, who had been listening to them, put her small hand on Alan's strong arm. ‘Oh, dear—I see that Ned is upset again.'

‘Yes, and there is no help for it. I have my duty.'

‘And Ned has none,' said Eleanor sadly, so sadly that Alan said impulsively, ‘I promise not to be too late back, and then we may go riding together this afternoon—if that would please you.'

‘Oh, Alan, of course it would. I shall be waiting for you, but do not hurry back if your business should overrun.'

She was changing, Eleanor knew, slowly but surely. Such a consideration would not have occurred to her once. But, like a kitten's, her eyes were slowly opening to a world far removed from the easy one in which she had lived since birth.

If Alan should offer for me, she thought, and I am half certain that he will, shall I be brave enough to go to live with him on the other side of the world—if that is what he wishes?

She answered her own question with a fierce, Indeed, I will. I cannot face the notion of a life without him. Like Ruth in the Bible I shall say, ‘Whither thou goest, I will go…thy people shall be my people… ‘But if he wishes to stay in England, I shall accept that, too. If he does not offer I must be brave, however much I might suffer.

She took these thoughts with her into the dining room, where Alan and Stacy began to help her and Jane to choose their breakfast dishes. It was pleasant, Alan thought, to sit in the beautiful room, talking idly, the servants endlessly providing for them, replacing food which had grown cold in the silver dishes on the sideboard. Their every whim was catered for without thought. Such a life explained Ned, Victor and Beverly. Charles was obviously strong-minded, but could even he fail to be affected? Would he, too, fall into idleness and frivolity—become like Ned?

He made his mind up. If he married Eleanor he would do his best to rescue Charles—if he could. For the moment he laughed and talked with Eleanor, and later she walked with him to the stables before he took horse for Brinkley.

 

Bereft, Eleanor walked slowly back into the House to find Sir Hart had come down to breakfast. Seated there alone he looked very old and tired, and it struck her that one day, quite soon, she would lose him—and that was another new thought. She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Why, Granddaughter, you honour me,' he said kindly.

‘You deserve it, sir.'

‘Sit with me for a moment, Eleanor. You care for Ned's Australian friend, do you not?'

‘Yes,' she said simply, where once she might have been effusive.

‘Enough to marry him—and leave all this?'

He might have been reading her mind this question was so
àpropos
.

‘Yes, I think so, but most of all I don't want to lose you.'

‘You will lose me quite soon, I think. My time cannot be long now; I am well past the common age of man.'

She threw her arms around him. ‘Do not say so, Grandfather.'

‘I must, my dear. I fear that I can do nothing for Ned and Beverley, but I would like to see you settled before I die. Once I would have wanted you to marry Stacy. I know now that I was wrong. This stern young man from Australia, Eleanor, is he what you want?'

Eleanor was puzzled. ‘Stern, Grandfather?'

‘Yes, it is the right word for him, Eleanor. Do not mistake him, I beg of you. He is charm on the surface, steel below. I know him, Eleanor. I have met him before, long ago. Except that he is kind and the other was not.'

She had no idea of whom he spoke. She simply put her young hand on his old one and told him, ‘Yes, I love him, Grandfather. Perhaps because he is so different from everyone I know—and in spite of his having Ned's face, not because.' Eleanor felt that she had to say this.

Sir Hart's face twisted in pain. ‘Yes, indeed, he is not at all like Ned—and I believe that he has not spoken to you yet?'

‘No, Grandfather, but he will—I think.'

‘Eleanor, I must warn you. Nothing is sure in this life.
It may be that his duty might prevent him from doing so.'

She was puzzled again. ‘His duty? Do you mean that his world and mine might not fit? I do hope not.'

It was not what Sir Hart meant, but he allowed her to think so. He must speak to the boy before he offered for Eleanor—and tell him the truth. Matters could not go on as they were. The young man was devious, but so was he. Sir Hart saw his guest's evasions and was certain that he knew more of his father's origins than he cared to give away.

Besides, there was the unknown father to be considered… Sir Hart tried not to think of him.

He put his hand on Eleanor's head. ‘My only wish is for you to be happy, Eleanor. Remember that. You are a good girl and you are growing up rapidly.'

To himself he added, You are not silly, like your mother and Ned, and for that I must thank your true father, whom you are beginning to resemble in character.

As if to confirm this unspoken judgement, Eleanor's mother came in, exclaiming, ‘Oh, they have all gone, I see. Only fancy, Ned's guest is neglecting him again. Ned wanted him to go to the prize-fight at Brinkley and he refused. Some nonsense about work. I am not sure that he is quite the gentleman.'

‘Fortunately for him, probably not,' said Sir Hart, noting Eleanor's indignant face. He rose. ‘I shall leave you both; I am very tired. Eleanor, pray remember what I said to you.'

‘What did he say?' asked her mother eagerly when Sir Hart had gone.

‘Why, nothing,' answered Eleanor, unconsciously imitating Alan when he was being devious. ‘Only that he grows old.'

‘Oh, that!' said her mother, disappointed. ‘I was wondering what splendid marriage he had in mind for you now that Stacy has not come up to scratch.'

Eleanor made no answer when she called Alan ‘Ned's barbarian', as though he had arrived dressed in skins and carrying a battle-axe. The picture this conjured up set Eleanor laughing.

Unfortunately, that remark symbolised her mother's ignorance over what was going on around her, she thought sadly. Mother is quite blind to all the signals which Alan and I are giving off! She is also completely unaware that Sir Hart might favour Alan—for that surely was what he had been hinting in their
tête-à-tête
.

Next it was Ned who came in to reproach her when he found her smiling.

‘At least someone is happy,' he said sourly. ‘Alan has gone already, I collect.'

‘Yes, he was eager to start work.'

‘Work! He must be light in the attic. Well, I'm off. Do not expect me before night. Tell Sir Hart that—if you wish.'

He had never seemed more frivolous, she thought, watching him ride off. The dreadful thing was that the real point of the excursion was drink, not the fight. Sir Hart was still rationing him and Ned had complained bitterly of it in private. Well, he and Robert could drink themselves stupid for all she cared—except that it was hard on Sir Hart—and, like Sir Hart, she feared for the future of the House and the estate.

 

Midway through the afternoon Alan returned. He had spent the journey back dreaming of a ride with Eleanor where they might, after a little time, walk across the moor and he could favour her with a few more gentle kisses.

Unfortunately when he entered the House she came towards him, still in her afternoon dress, her face lacking all its usual joy at the sight of him.

‘Oh, Alan, I am so sorry to disappoint you, but we have a grand visitor. Sir Hart wants you to meet him as soon as possible, so I fear that we must lose our ride—but I am sure that you will understand that his wishes come first.'

Before he could answer the hovering butler bowed. ‘Ahem, Miss Eleanor. Sir Hartley was most urgent that Mr Alan should change as soon as he returned and take tea with him in the Gallery.'

In clean clothes, fresh from Gurney's ministrations, Alan made his way with Eleanor to the Picture Gallery. Tea had been laid on a long table where solander boxes containing water-colour paintings usually lay.

Sir Hart was sitting in his high-backed seventeenth-century chair. A tall man was standing before Sir Beauchamp's portrait, holding a glass of brandy.

He was dark, saturnine, with curling black hair touched with silver. He was wearing rough country clothing with gaiters—almost like a gamekeeper. Despite this he was formidable: authority radiated from him.

He turned to Alan when he entered, and before Sir Hart could introduce him put out the large hand which was not holding the brandy glass and said, ‘I am William FitzUrse, called Knaresborough, and you, Sir Hart tells me, are Alan Dilhorne, from Sydney, New South Wales.'

‘Indeed, m'lord,' said Alan, taking the hand which crushed his and looking into the black eyes which were on a level with his own. So this was the cousin of the Queen, known as the Belted Earl, descended from Charles II and a god in these parts.