A Strange Likeness (22 page)

‘I can see a successful career for you as a diplomat,' Alan told him gravely. ‘Such an ability to please everyone should ensure that you rapidly become an ambassador.'

He shared the joke with Eleanor when, mounted on Abdul, he rode alongside the landau in which she sat beside Jane.

‘It is nonsensical, is it not,' Eleanor remarked, ‘that we should have to go such lengths to be alone together? Particularly now that I have discovered that it is an open secret that Lord Knaresborough and Mrs Lorimer have what is known as an “understanding”, and that her husband is quite happy to turn a blind eye to it because he has one with another man's wife. Her daughter, Polly, on the other hand, is kept in what the Turks call purdah, and is barely allowed to speak to a young man. Mrs Lorimer thinks me horribly forward because I chat with you and Stacy.'

Jane nodded her head in agreement. Eleanor said eagerly, ‘I have read that in America women are allowed to become doctors. Do you think that could ever happen here?'

‘Would either of you like to be a doctor?' Alan asked them.

Jane shook her head, but Eleanor said thoughtfully, ‘I am not sure whether or not I should wish to be a doctor,
but I would like to think that if I wanted to I might be allowed to try.'

Alan thought that Eleanor was becoming more like her unknown father every day—and less like Ned and Beverley.

‘Would you object to me becoming a doctor?' she asked him suddenly.

‘I might not,' he said, ‘but many men would.'

‘Because they think it would be indelicate, I suppose,' Jane said.

Later, when she and Alan were walking in the little wilderness of shrubs and plants at the back of the Manor, Eleanor raised the matter again.

‘It does seem odd to me,' she told him, ‘that while it is not considered indelicate for women to work alongside the men down the pits in the Yorkshire coalfieds, it should be considered wrong for them to be doctors—or lawyers, for that matter—for that very reason.'

‘Ah, but the world is not a reasonable place,' was Alan's answer. ‘For example, as you rightly pointed out, married women may take lovers, if they so wish, so long as their husbands do not object, but the behaviour of young girls is regulated so that they must not be alone with young men lest the young men do this to them.'

He turned towards Eleanor, put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the lips.

They were quite alone in the warm and balmy afternoon among the scents of the flowers and plants. In the distance they could hear Jane and Stacy. Hidden from them by the trees, Mrs Hatton and Mrs Chalmers sat half-dozing in the sun. Ned had cried off from such a ladylike expedition, preferring to be roistering somewhere else with Robert Harshaw.

Eleanor, not to be outdone, kissed him back. ‘I may
not be allowed to become a doctor,' she murmured, ‘but I can do this—so long as no one is about.'

‘Much more fun for me,' agreed Alan. ‘It wouldn't heal a broken arm, though!' He kissed her again.

There was a rustic bench in a little bower. They sank on it together.

‘I shouldn't be doing this,' murmured Alan, giving her a third kiss.

‘No, you shouldn't,' agreed Eleanor, blushing. She did not add, But I like it, for common sense was telling her not to allow him overmuch licence—who knew where such pleasant self-indulgence might end? It was not so much that she distrusted Alan, but rather that she distrusted herself. Her mind was telling her one thing and her body was telling her another.

For the first time she was beginning to understand how girls could allow themselves to be betrayed—to put it politely. It was not, she was slowly grasping, entirely the man's fault. Every time Alan started to make gentle love to her she found herself responding with greater enthusiasm—and consequently each time their lovemaking grew a little less gentle.

Perhaps, after all, there was some sense in the etiquette which forbade unmarried men and women to be alone together!

Alan must have thought so, too, for he suddenly drew away from her. He was rapidly becoming roused. The warmth of the day, the beauty of their surroundings, the beauty who had been briefly in his arms, were eroding the self-control on which he prided himself.

‘We must be good,' he said.

The Eleanor she had once been might have said or done something to weaken his resolve, but the new woman who had learned responsibility moved sadly away
from him so that they were no longer touching—since it was touching him which was doing the damage.

If he truly loved her, he would offer marriage, she thought, but so far, although Alan had shown her how much he felt for her, he had never said anything which could be construed as an offer. On the other hand she was now sure that she was the real reason why he had come to Yorkshire. Oh, how difficult life and love were for a poor girl, since in them the final initiative was always left to the man.

Alan had some inkling of what Eleanor was thinking but he also knew that it was imperative that he speak to Sir Hart before he offered for Eleanor—and that Sir Hart knew that too. If his delay was hard on Eleanor, it was also hard on himself: the strange likeness stood in their way and needed to be explained.

After their brief interlude together they continued to enjoy themselves, but for both of them the bright day had darkened a little. They privately comforted themselves with the thought that the unknown future might prove their friend.

Alas, the immediate future brought more delay. They arrived back at Temple Hatton to find a messenger from Bradford waiting for Alan.

‘Maister Wilkinson bids me tell you that you mun come at once to Bradford or he cannot answer for the consequences. The hands are threatening to strike if their wages are not raised.'

‘I will do as he asks,' Alan told the man, who was staring warily around at the magnificence which was Temple Hatton, ‘but when I leave for London what will Wilkinson do then? Wait for me? He must learn to manage the mill himself. Go to the stables, find my man,
Gurney, and tell him that I need my horse and my kit packed for a short stay in Bradford.'

Before he left Temple Hatton he walked with Eleanor in the long gallery upstairs.

‘I'm sorry to have to leave you again so soon,' he said. They were standing before the great painting of Venus. ‘It's my own fault, of course. I would get involved in the affairs of the district. You will forgive me, I hope—and Ned, too. Present my apologies to him when he comes down for lunch.'

‘I think that he's reconciled to the fact that you have other duties which claim you,' said Eleanor gently.

Alan made a wry face. ‘Nevertheless, I think that when he invited me here he thought that my visit was going to be one long bout of fun.'

‘Then he didn't know you very well,' she said, her voice brisk.

‘But you don't resent that?'

‘Not at all. I only wish that Ned were more like you. You will be careful, though. Robert Harshaw was saying last night that the mood among the workmen in the Riding is ugly and that violence has been threatened.'

‘I promise to be careful,' he said, knowing that he was not quite telling the truth.

They kissed goodbye beneath the great portrait of Sir Beauchamp and he left, but not before Sir Hart had sent for him.

The old man, looking white and ill, said, ‘I had hoped to speak to you before now on most urgent matters, but I have been unwell and you must do your duty. I shall send for you when you return, that I promise.'

On the way out he ignored Beverley, who bellowed questions at him. ‘Where are you off to now, hey? I hope that you do not come back!'

Charles said sadly, ‘I wish that I could come with you, Alan.' He feared that Beverley, released again, would torment him cruelly once Alan, his protector, had gone.

‘Not today, Charles. It would not be suitable, I fear. I shall try not to be gone too long.'

The fuss made on the sweep outside when he set out amused him. Sir Hart watched him go from the big window in his bedroom, and could not help thinking that the arrival of this one young man had caused more excitement at Temple Hatton than it had known for many a long year.

Eleanor also watched Alan leave with a heavy heart. If she were to marry him their life would consist of many such partings while he followed his star, and she would have to learn to accept it. She shivered, remembering Sir Hart's warning—that Alan's duty might prevent him from marrying her. For she knew that with him duty would always come first.

Ned came towards her and echoed her thoughts. ‘So, he has gone. His duty again, I suppose. But it is really his pleasure, you know.'

This was perceptive for Ned.

‘I thought that you liked him,' Eleanor said gently, disturbed by his tone.

‘Oh, I did, I did, but he is not the man I thought he was. He will be a good companion, I thought, and that is true—but he frightens me.'

‘He saved you from ruin, Ned. I would have thought that he had earned your gratitude for that, even if he has lost your friendship.'

‘He has not lost my friendship,' said Ned restlessly. ‘I hardly know how I feel about him. Respect, perhaps, a little. I used to think his having my face was a joke, but
now I don't. It has begun to trouble me. Partly because he is so much Sir Hart's favourite.'

Eleanor began to protest, but he said wearily, ‘You must know that is true. I suppose it may be because Alan is like the grandson he always wanted. Someone who is serious—and worried about his duty.'

He almost spat the last words out.

Eleanor looked at him. Ned might know what he ought to be doing, but he would not do it. He was too stiff-necked to try to please others.

‘Do you intend to marry him, Eleanor?'

‘If he asks me. I know that I love him—but he has said nothing yet. Sir Hart warned me that he might not. Why?'

‘I don't know. I almost wish that you would marry him, and then…no. He's like my dam'd conscience, Eleanor—and he's so hard. Do I want him around? To remind me of what I am not?'

He flung himself down on the sofa, stretching his booted legs before him. ‘I want to enjoy myself with jolly good fellows like Robert Harshaw, and Alan will always want more than that from me. And you, Eleanor, do you really want to be Golden Boy's tireless wife?'

‘Golden Boy?' repeated Eleanor, bewildered.

Ned laughed. ‘That's what Gurney calls him from what he's done in London, let alone here. The other servants have taken it up. Fits him, don't it? What a joke, eh? Sir Beauchamp back on earth as a businessman.'

His change of mood was rapid. ‘Oh, Eleanor, if you want him, have him. He'll lead you a merry dance—though not with other women. But you're energetic, too, I suppose, and can join him in his duty.'

Well, that was the coda to his tune, thought Eleanor, as Ned rose and walked away, whistling a melancholy
song. If Alan asks me, I shall certainly say yes, but, oh, he hasn't, and now I am fearful that he never will.

 

On the way to Bradford Alan thought about his last conversation with Sir Hart and Eleanor. They had both understood that he had to do his duty.

He shook his head ruefully. Duty! The word seemed to follow him about. He rode into Bradford to find the trouble there was worse than the recent small outbreak at Thorpe's in Brinkley. Outhwaite's was bigger and the men were angrier. They ran a little Chartist newspaper which urged them to action. It was edited by one of the union leaders named Brough.

Alan was an outsider and was resented for that. It was thought that he had cheated Outhwaite out of the mill, and although Outhwaite had been hard, it was said that the new owner was harder. He had stood up to Ralf, even though he had been beaten, and had been ruthless with the hands at Brinkley when they had tried to strike.

But they were hard, too, and more was at stake at Outhwaite's, for the men had a bargaining counter which the Brinkley hands had not possessed. Outhwaite's, whilst not remarkably so, was reasonably prosperous and was returning a small profit. That profit, though, would disappear if wages were raised, and Alan himself had more capital at stake here, unlike at Thorpe's, which he had gained for a song.

Men carrying home-made banners and shouting slogans stood in the mean street outside the mill. When they saw him they called after him, ‘No foreign maisters wanted here!'

Those from outside the district were surprised by his size and strength and the hard indifference with which he pushed through them.

Wilkinson was waiting for him in his office on the first floor. It was a small dark room with unclean windows; one overlooked the shop floor, the other on to the men assembled in the yard outside. With him was a stocky, muscular man with a strong pushed-in face and coarse black hair, typical of the district, resembling many Alan had seen about the moors, less elegant versions of Stacy.

‘Bob Sutcliffe,' said Wilkinson briefly. ‘He threatens me with a strike and mischief if we do not raise our wages.'

‘Does he so?' said Alan. ‘Has he a voice? Can he speak for himself?'

‘Aye, I can that, Maister Dilhorne. I use it to tell you that if you do not heed us I shall call all out. Men, women and children, too. We have had enough of starvation wages here before you came, and you are no better than those you tricked out of the mill.'

‘I pay you a fair wage according to the practice of this part of the world.'

‘But the practice is wrong.'

‘So you say, sir.'

‘I do say so. There were Luddites in this part of the world once. Armed.'

‘Do you threaten me, then?'

‘But you have threatened us. We cannot live decently on what you pay us. You merely lose a little of your profits if you give way to us.'

Alan changed tack a little. Useless to argue economics with a determined man. Instead he came out with, ‘Our profits—when we have any, and we have little enough now—pay your wages. Do you think it wise that we should be at stand-off? Should not master and men work together as partners?'