Flint and Roses (20 page)

Everything in Celia's square, immaculate house was just as it should be, her red plush curtains exactly matching her red plush armchairs, her tasselled footstools, her pain-stakingly embroidered sofa-cushions, the fringed valance hanging from her mantelshelf. Her walls were most fashionably covered with a dark, heavy paper, her floors by a busily patterned carpet of serviceable browns and reds and golds. Her silver teapot was an exact, if smaller, replica of my mother's, the ormolu and enamel clock directly at the centre of her mantelpiece chosen quite clearly with my father in mind, the ornamental plates and jugs and china figurines on the shelves above the fireplace most meticulously arranged, everything, from her profusely carved mahogany sideboard to the leaves of her potted plants, exhibiting a most luxurious polish. But even so, in the midst of the well-ordered, well-sheltered comfort her nature craved, she had her share of complaints.

‘Yes—as I told you in my letter, I was obliged to get rid of that kitchenmaid. Aunt Hannah may not have liked it, since she recommended her to me, but her table-top was a disgrace, and her boots—treading dirt into my house—and leaving her pans to soak overnight to save herself the trouble of scouring them. I have seen five girls already and am not entirely satisfied with one. Well, Jonas leaves it all to me, since he has not a moment to call his own. He is always at that dreadful office, slaving away—clearing up Mr. Corey-Manning's mistakes. My word, you are very smart, Faith, but you will not wear a light-coloured gown like that more than twice in Cullingford, before the dirt will begin to show. I confess I have lost my taste for fashion since I was married. If I may be tidy and presentable it is all I ask—and all one should ask, I think, since a married woman has so many other matters on her mind, and should not, in any case, make herself conspicuous. You may give my regards to Caroline when you see her tonight, for she never comes near me these days—and I could not, at the moment, risk myself outdoors.'

We drove next to Lawcroft Fold, to pay our respects to our Lady Mayoress, finding her far too occupied by personal affairs and civic affairs—the two being apparently quite interchangeable—to have more than a brief moment for our travellers'tales.

Yes, she believed Paris to be a most interesting city; but were we aware of the scandalous refusal of the Cullingford Waterworks Company to co-operate with her husband? Yes, she had heard that the climate and architecture of Italy was very fine, a land of immense achievement in art and music, but we must surely have heard from Celia how very well Jonas was doing, how, in these days of expanding trade, of contracts and disputes and newfangled regulations, even such substantial businessmen as Oldroyd and Hobhouse, Mandelbaum and Barforth, were showing themselves grateful for his advice.

Mr. Corey-Manning, we must certainly remember, had given much of his time to the defending of felons—being a man of a dramatic disposition, more suited, she felt, to the odd calling of an actor than the dignified practice of the law—but Jonas, finding nothing to amuse or challenge him in such petty crimes as were to be found in Cullingford, had chosen, very shrewdly, to concentrate on civil matters, which would bring him to the attention of those who could pay.

‘The dear boy,' my mother said vaguely.

‘Yes, Elinor, and you will be settling yourself down at last, now that you are to be a grandmamma?'

‘Oh, as to that—'

But, happily perhaps, my mother's declaration of intent was interrupted by the arrival of Mayor Agbrigg himself, no less haggard and hollow-chested for his civic dignity, bringing another gentleman with him who, very clearly, did not find favour with my aunt. And as always in a mixed, unexpected gathering, there were shades of greeting.

‘I'm right pleased to see you.' Mayor Agbrigg said to my mother; wishing her well when he remembered to think of her at all, which was probably not often.

‘Well—and you're looking grand, miss,' to me, his stock attention to any young lady to whom attention was due.

But: ‘Now then, lass, how are you today?' to Prudence, really wanting to know, his craggy face warming, something in him suggesting his readiness to take action should she be less than ‘very well indeed.'

‘And how are you?' she enquired with equally genuine concern. ‘You seemed so tired on Wednesday evening at the Institute.'

‘Aye—but it was only from listening to old Dr. Blackstone droning on. If your Aunt Hannah hadn't kept on nudging me I'd have fair disgraced myself and nodded off.'

‘Ah well.' Aunt Hannah said, clearly displeased. ‘We can't all be so fluent as Dr. Ashburn—' And with the air of a woman acting very much against her will, at the dictates merely of Christian conscience and common politeness, she waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her husband's companion and said coolly, ‘Elinor—this is Dr. Ashburn. Dr. Ashburn—my sister Mrs. Aycliffe, and her other daughter, Miss Faith Aycliffe. Prudence you already know.' And it was very apparent that, if she had her way, he would be acquainted with none of us.

I found myself looking at a man of medium height, medium colouring, brown hair, brown eyes—although I could not afterwards remember their exact shade—no sinister revolutionary as his Chartist sympathies might have led me to believe, but slightly, quite finely built, a face that was almost delicate, a great air of quietness about him, a man—certainly a gentleman—who observed life, perhaps, more readily than he participated in it.

‘I am delighted to meet you at last,' he told me, his accent quite neutral, giving no indication of his place of birth, his voice rather low, so that one had to listen in order to hear him, but not hesitant, perfectly in keeping with that first impression of inner quietness.

‘Dr. Ashburn is becoming very famous among us.' Aunt Hannah cut in, her voice, following immediately after his, sounding very shrill. ‘He has set himself to teach us the error of our ways. He believes we neglect our workpeople and that your husband, Elinor, provided them with shocking even dangerously constructed houses. He makes us all feel quite ashamed.'

‘Now then, now then,' Mayor Agbrigg said easily, obviously well accustomed to this.

‘And so we should.' Prudence muttered.

‘Should we?' my mother asked lightly, ‘Well, I have never examined my husband's houses very minutely, but I do not think I would care to live in one of them. Do you live in an Aycliffe a cottage-dwelling, Dr. Ashburn?'

‘No,' he told her, smiling, completely untroubled by my aunt's hostility. ‘I am in Millergate, madam.'

‘Oh good'—so near to us. You must call—in fact, you must dine, since I believe you call already. Would next Tuesday evening suit you?'

And as he replied that it would suit him very well I glanced at Prudence, finding her surprisingly calm, far calmer than I would have been in the presence of Nicholas.

‘You will have come today to patch up our rioters, doctor.' Aunt Hannah said, her sarcasm deepening, her eyes sliding to my mother; who rose, predictably, to her bait.

‘Rioters. Hannah? Whatever can you mean?'

‘Only that you have chosen an unfortunate time for calling, Elinor, since our local Chartists are coming today—have already arrived, if I am not mistaken—to present their petition to our workers in the mill yard. Yes, you can see them from the window—they have overturned a barrel to serve as a table and are collecting signatures, or are trying to, since I doubt if there are many who can write their names. Well, they went to Nethercoats a month ago and, when Bradley Hobhouse discharged all those who signed, there was a scuffle and a few broken heads. So my husband has taken the precaution of inviting his doctor, I presume.'

‘I hope I may not be needed, Mrs. Agbrigg.'

‘I daresay. But if you are, it will not be the first time. It may interest you to know—you and my niece, Miss Prudence Aycliffe, who interests herself in these matters—that my brother's wife—your Aunt Verity, Prudence—saw her father murdered down there, in this same mill yard. When she was no more than sixteen, and the night after was at her brother's side when he was done to death—horribly done to death—by felons who called themselves Luddites in those days. Chartists today. I do not forget it—even if others do.'

‘Hannah—my dear Hannah,' my mother murmured, her hand going out in a gesture of comfort and affection to her sister, my invincible, immovable Aunt Hannah, who seemed most amazingly close to tears. But the weight of memory between them was clearly burdensome to Mr. Agbrigg who his face for a moment more drawn than I had ever seen it, blinked hard, needing, I thought to clear his vision, to shut something away.

‘There'll be no bloodshed today,' he said gruffly. ‘I'll go down and see to it.'

‘I'll come with you,' his wife said.

‘There's no need.'

‘I did not say there was need. I said I will come with you, as far as the bottom gate. And Dr. Ashburn will remain here. The presence of a doctor is an announcement that we expect violence, and so may invite it. He can be sent for.'

She picked up her shawl, wrapped it firmly around her shoulders, and went out of the room, leaving us without a word, her face set and stony, and we gathered instinctively at the window where, positioned as we were so high on the terraced hillside, we could see right over the factory wall to the yard, which appeared, I thought, very much as usual. There were the carts I was accustomed to see in that place, piled high with wool-sacks on entering, with bales of dress-goods on leaving, shire-horses standing massive and patient between the shafts, the usual comings and goings of equally patient women, heads bowed, submissive, slow-moving as herd animals transferring from one place of labour to the other. Nothing in any way disturbing except a knot of men in a far corner, indistinguishable, by their stooping shoulders, their narrow backs, from Mr. Agbrigg himself, indistinguishable from the villainous, riotous Chartists who were every bit as hollow-cheeked and meagrely put-together as they.

I saw Aunt Hannah come to a halt at her garden gate, the final vantage point, shielding her eyes from the uncertain winter sun as her husband walked on; through the herd of weaving-women, who without raising their eyes made way for him, until, reaching the barrel, he lifted his narrow shoulders in a shrug that said ‘All right then, get on with it;' and remained standing there, only his good suit and the glint of his gold watch-chain setting him apart.

‘Poor Hannah,' my mother said. ‘She would have had a better view had she remained here at the window, but she's making a pilgrimage. She was to have married Aunt Verity's brother, Edwin Barforth, who was murdered down there so long ago. How sad, for I can barely remember him—only that he would have inherited the mill, had he lived, and would have made Hannah so very rich; Mr Agbrigg was here too, that day, when Edwin died—it comes back to me now—and then afterwards the mill was left to Verity, who married my brother Joel, and made him rich instead of Hannah. I see that she has not forgotten it, for she has gone down to the gate so that we cannot see her tears, you may be sure—which cannot be altogether comfortable for her husband. My goodness, how strangely things turn out—how terrifying it all is—for, if that young Luddite had not stabbed Edwin Barforth to death, then I do believe, girls, that none of you—and I include your cousins Blaize and Nicholas and Caroline—would ever have been born. With Edwin alive, old Mr. Barforth would have had no need of Joel to run the mill and would not have obliged Verity to marry him. She would have married—good heavens, yes!—she would have married your half-brother, Crispin Aycliffe, except that he would not have been your brother since your father, in those circumstances, would never have married me. One young bride in Blenheim Lane was more than enough for him. He would not have burdened himself with two. I might have found a clergyman to take me, or a schoolmaster, and lived-out my days in genteel poverty, borrowing Hannah's carriage and begging her cast-off bonnets instead of giving her mine. And Verity—well—she would have had her grand dowry, just the same, and her moment of romance, but I cannot think your, brother Crispin would have made a comfortable husband. And all this because of one starving lad down there in the mill yard with a carving knife. I wish you would stop me from running on so, Prudence, or I shall give myself nightmares.'

My mother returned to her chair, somewhat tearful herself, leaving me at the window with Prudence and Dr. Ashburn, both their faces intent, concentrating hard on that upturned barrel where the Chartist Petition was laid out, on the men who were standing around it, some of them making the earnest gestures of persuasion, others listening, walking a step or two away and shuffling back again, glancing sidelong at Mayor Agbrigg, who, with that eternally patient ebb and flow of working-women around him—whose signatures were of no interest to anyone—made no attempt to intervene.

‘I don't understand.' I said. ‘I feel that I should, but I don't know—'

‘Hush.' Prudence muttered. ‘Be still. It's important.'

But Dr. Ashburn, who had perhaps witnessed these scenes often enough to be fairly certain of the outcome, turned to me swiftly and with great courtesy. ‘They hope to present their Charter—they call it the People's Charter—to Parliament in the spring, and, since one of its demands is that the right to vote should be extended to every man in the country, they feel that as many working-men as possible—being the class not yet empowered to vote at all—should sign the petition which is to accompany it.'

‘Yes. I see that. But why come to the mill, disrupting working hours? They could sign it later, couldn't they, somewhere else, with no fear of Mr. Agbrigg taking their names—or whatever it is they are afraid of?'

‘My word!' Prudence snapped, as sarcastic as Aunt Hannah, ‘That was spoken like a true Barforth, sister.' If our cousin Nicholas were here today I imagine he would turn everyone of them off for the crime of time-wasting as Mr. Hobhouse did. Fortunately. I suspect Mr. Agbrigg arranged for Nicholas to be busy elsewhere this afternoon, which, while it may lessen our entertainment, will at least prevent violence.'