Shining Threads Read online

  But there was something different about her today.

  She was beautiful: not in the way a child, or even a young girl, was beautiful, but as a woman. Alive, vibrant with her own joy of getting here against almost overwhelming odds, the tenacious hold she had on life which gave her the strength and courage carelessly to thrust aside whatever obstacle might be thrown in her path. There was not another female in Crossfold, in Lancashire, he believed, like her. Not one of them would have tackled the walk from Greenacres to Chapmanstown, a distance of more than three miles, on foot over ground which, though it was not exactly high moorland, was rough and hazardous with deep hollows and sharply rising inclines, and in three feet of freshly drifted snow.

  ‘Look,’ she beseeched him before he could speak, lifting her feet, first one then the other, on which she had strapped what looked like a pair of round, flat, mesh sieves, something the gardener would use to riddle his soil free of large objects. They had a handle protruding from somewhere at the back, made of wood, clumsy and comical, but she was clearly beside herself with her own ingenuity.

  ‘What the devil are they?’ The delight, the wondering emotion, intact and perfectly shaped and which had become quite clear to him at that moment was mercifully hidden from her by the obligation to admire what she obviously considered her due.

  ‘They’re bats of some sort. I found them in the cupboard where Drew and Pearce keep their cricket things, fishing tackle, walking sticks, stuff like that. I think they play tennis with them. You know tennis, don’t you? The Squire has a covered court . . . Anyway, when I was deliberating on how I might get here I saw these and remembered a picture in a geographical magazine, in Canada or North America I believe it was, and the man in it had these on his feet so I thought what a splendid idea to strap them to my boots. Briggs found me some leather straps . . . the mesh is ever so strong and when I stepped on to the snow – well, you could see the servants all expected me to vanish from sight or at least sink up to my waist but I walked on top of it. Can you imagine? Lord, it was wonderful. I’ve never been out before, not on the moors, I mean, when it was like this, and if you could have seen it! Oh, Will, I wish you could have seen it . . .’ Dear God, so did he, so did he . . . Her voice became hushed and her eyes were like crystal, a clear-cut grey with a darker grey rim and around the iris the most incredible white, as white as the snow over which she had just tramped to come to him.

  He felt the pain spear him in his fierce masculine need to sweep her off those ridiculous things she had on her feet and into his arms. Into his heart, for that was surely where she would be from this moment. He could feel his arms begin to lift and his body sway towards hers. Though she was tall her head would fit neatly beneath his chin and her long body curve itself snugly against his. He could feel it there already and his rose to meet it, his maleness instantly knowing the rightness of it and demanding to be recognised. Dear, sweet Lord, but she was beautiful and no matter what they said of her in the valley, her heart was good, her nature warm for who else had taken the trouble to remember Will Broadbent on Christmas Day?

  ‘It was like magic, Will,’ she was saying, ‘or like poetry, not that I really know any, but what I imagine it must be to those who do. You know the feeling you get when a song is sweet? Your skin prickles . . . it was so . . . so pure and clean, untouched white everywhere, and if I had not known the landmarks I should have been lost.’

  He felt the familiar anger . . . no, it was fear . . . for her rise in his chest. She was so dear and the risks she took, the risks she was allowed to take, were almost more than he could bear. Was there no one to watch over her, to care as he did, for her safety? But as he gazed, quite bemused, absurdly so, he knew he could not approach her, not now, not today.

  ‘And yet there were great patches of blue where the shadows lay. A landscape of pure, sparkling white and blue and the trees were like . . . like filigree, like lace almost, against the snow and the sky, and there was nothing else. There were patterns in the snow where the wind had moved it as though someone, a child perhaps, had tried to draw a picture . . .’

  ‘Should you not come inside, lass?’ he interrupted gently.

  ‘Oh, Will, do you not think you could fashion another pair like these,’ she asked, lifting her feet clumsily, ‘then I could show you? It’s like walking on clouds . . . yes, that’s it . . .’

  ‘I’ve never walked on clouds, my lass, and I reckon I never will, nor anyone, so perhaps . . . But come in first and have a cup of tea, then we’ll see. You must be cold.’

  ‘No, I’m not, that’s the wonder of it. I’m as warm as toast, feel.’

  She put the bare palm of her hand against his cheek and without thought, since he was beyond it, he turned his warm mouth into it, moving his lips softly along the base of her thumb.

  Her words froze on her lips. She simply stood there, her hand thrilling to his touch. Something as vivid and as simple as a flicker of lightning seemed to shiver between them. Her eyes were big and wondering, her lips still parted in startled delight, and when he drew her inside she took her marvellous footwear with her, scattering snow across his carpet. She made no objection when he sat her in a chair, nor when he knelt at her feet and removed not only the ‘bats’ but her stout black boots as well. She held out her feet to him, obedient as a well-brought-up child, her eyes on his bent head, waiting, just waiting for the next step in this delightful condition which had sprung up between them.

  But when he had removed her boots he stood up abruptly since he found his hands were inclined to linger caressingly about her shapely stockinged foot and ankle. He made himself busy with the coal-scuttle and fire-tongs, heaping up the already dangerously high fire, arranging her boots to dry. She wanted him to turn and look at her again, to lap her about in that amazing but delicious sense of expectancy she had felt when he kissed her hand, but he moved away and she felt an illogical wave of disappointment wash over her.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said, in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice, conscious that she was looking at him, conscious of her stillness, her breath held in, for she was a young girl with no experience of such things and the kiss he had placed in her hand had been a mistake, an impulse a man of his age should have resisted. She was not sure of it, or of him, or of what was expected of her, so she was waiting for him to take the lead in whatever was to happen, if anything was to happen. It was up to him to return them to the casual friendship which was all that could ever be allowed between Tessa Harrison and Will Broadbent.

  He tried to keep up what in other circumstances he would scornfully have deemed ‘small talk’ and when he came back from the scullery, bringing teacups and milk, she was stretched out with her feet on the fender, her toes wriggling in the warmth. He placed the kettle on the fire, careful not to touch her, keeping a wary distance, his chest filled with the distressing weight he carried within him.

  She took the cup of tea he handed her looking about her curiously at the cosy room, this parlour which was that of a working man, just as though it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing, the most natural place to be on Christmas Day. She was the daughter of a wealthy millowner, he was an overlooker in that same mill, twelve years her senior, a man from only God knew where, and yet she seemed to be conscious of no disparity in their hugely different circumstances, nor of the impropriety of being here in a bachelor’s home, alone and unchaperoned. He had, he admitted to himself, not worried unduly over it in the past months when they met on the moors or at Annie’s where the artificiality of social conduct seemed so trivial. He had been attracted to her. She was a lovely young woman and there would have to be something wrong with him had he not been, but now in the short time it had taken him to open the door and look into her enchanted, enchanting eyes, all was changed.

  ‘It was good of you to come,’ he said formally and she turned to look at him, surprised by his tone.

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s Christmas Day. I knew you would be alone so wh
en Mother and the rest started a game of whist and Laurel’s children were removed to the nursery I slipped out of the side door. I knew no one would miss me.’

  ‘What about your cousins?’ His voice was curt for though their father’s collapse earlier in the year had made Drew and Pearce Greenwood, for a short time at least, more conscientious in their duties, it had not taken them long to fall back into their old ways. They turned up at the mill long after the factory bell had rung. They were missing, one or the other of them but more likely both at the same time, just when they were supposed to be busy at some task in the spinning room, the carding shed or the counting house. Long before the appointed hour at which Mr Greenwood or Mrs Harrison left the mill, they were reported to have been seen riding off on their fine bays, doubtless in search of mischief. On some days they simply didn’t turn up at all. It did not unduly interfere with Will’s work as an overlooker but Mr Wilson was often put in a most embarrassing position when some business gentleman with whom one or other had an appointment was left high and dry with only Mr Wilson – which was really quite adequate – when he had expected to be greeted by the son of the owner. It was said in the mill that they might as well let them do as they pleased since they did it anyway, and if they were no longer to come to the factory at least everyone would know what to expect. Now the foreman and managers with whom the young sons of the business were relied on to co-operate, were all at sixes and sevens, calling them a damned nuisance and wishing their father would give them leave to spend their days with the hunt, or whatever it was young squireens did with themselves.

  ‘Oh, they took themselves off as soon as Christmas dinner was eaten. God knows where they’ve got to since they don’t always tell me these days.’ She sighed, exasperated by her cousins’ defection but then she turned to smile at him, making his heart turn over, letting him know that right now she didn’t really care. ‘They’ll be back by tea-time and the opening of presents, which brings me to . . .’ She grinned and getting up to move to where he had hung her coat on the back of a chair, reached into her pocket and drew out a small package. It was roughly wrapped in some bright paper and tied with a length of scarlet ribbon.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Will,’ she said cheerfully and handed it to him, putting into his suddenly trembling hands the first gift he had ever received. He stared at it, quite numb, unable to speak or even to think clearly, unable to look up into her face lest she see what was written in his.

  ‘You’re supposed to say thank you and then open it, Will,’ she said impishly, sitting down opposite him again, clearly delighted by his reaction.

  ‘Aah, lass,’ he managed to mumble, the package resting in his big hands which were reluctant to disturb its loveliness.

  ‘Will, for heaven’s sake open it. I’m sorry it’s so poorly wrapped but I’m not much good with things like that. All fingers and thumbs. I’m just the same with sewing and painting. That’s why I never do any.’

  It was a scarf. Bright red, wide and long and hand-knitted, the pattern of it was complicated and skilfully done. He allowed himself a quick glance at her face, his own bemused, and she laughed.

  ‘No, I didn’t do it, Will. Miss Copeland, who used to be my governess, or one of them, I had so many, knitted it for me last Christmas and I’ve never worn it. I hope you don’t mind but it seemed just right for you. And perfect for this weather.’

  He shook his head, beyond words, appalled by his own inclination to weep like a baby, studying the scarf as it glowed richly across his hands, unable to move or even glance at her lest the tears pricking his eyes should escape.

  ‘Let’s see how it looks, then.’ When he made no move to put it round his neck she took it from him, standing before his seated figure while she wrapped it about his neck, tying the fringed ends beneath his chin, unaware of the rock-like stillness of him.

  ‘There, that looks splendid,’ she said briskly, ‘and now I really do think I should be going. It will be dark by four.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you . . . an’ wear me new scarf.’ He grinned. ‘I’m only sorry I’ve nothing for you. I didn’t know, you see . . . I’d no idea . . .’

  ‘Rubbish. I’ve got heaps of presents at home.’ She reached for her boots and coat and though he would dearly have loved to help her with them he knew quite simply that it was impossible now. That everything was impossible now. All that had been sweet, and, he realised, precious to him, was clearly out of the question, for the person of Miss Tessa Harrison was beyond his reach. She appeared to have regained her composure which had fled away with his unexpected kiss, but she was not aware that the last half-hour had separated them as sharply as the sudden closing of a heavy curtain separates an audience from the players on the stage. He must avoid her; keep out of her way, treat her as the young mistress, daughter of his employer when encounters at the mill, for instance, were unavoidable. She would be bewildered by it since he knew she had taken their strange companionship for granted, but if it hurt her so much the better for she would keep out of his way then. But today, this last day as her friend, must be allowed to continue in its magic for a little while longer.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you about the ball, Will.’ She whirled to face him, her eyes eager and excited, and he stepped back from her for surely she would sense the need in him?

  ‘So you did, lass. Was it a huge success and did all the young gentlemen fall swooning at your feet when they saw you in your splendid frock?’

  ‘Frock!’ She laughed, still holding her coat before her, waiting as young ladies did, for the gentleman to assist her on with it. ‘What a word to use! It was not just a frock, Will, but the most enchanting outfit, all gauze and satin ribbons, and everyone simply stared when I entered the ballroom. Well, you will have seen the pictures of Diana the huntress in one of those books you forever have your nose in . . .’

  Yes, he had, and the thought of her in a flimsy garment like that the goddess of Roman mythology wore, made his skin tingle and his breath shorten and he felt the need to smash in the face of every man who had seen her in it.

  ‘. . . and I had nearly every dance with Drew and Pearce who simply wanted to fight every gentleman who approached me, even the Squire, I suspect, though they were forced to let him take me on the floor. Heavens, it was like being in a magical world and when those wicked cousins of mine whispered to me to meet them at the side door . . .’

  He felt his jaw clench and knew he really must get her coat and her boots on her and open the door to the world outside. Dear Christ, she was a child, prattling on about a party with no thought in her head but what fun she had had. No more than a young girl and should be left that way.

  And yet she seemed to have gained something since he had last seen her up on Badger’s Edge; an indefinable impression which was probably an illusion, a trick of the firelight and the snow reflecting through the window, but which seemed to say to him that she was not quite the girl he had chatted with amongst the winter bracken of the tops. What was it? What was in her eyes, the flush of her cheek, the soft turn of her lips as though she smiled at some secret memory?

  She was looking at him strangely too, assessing him in some way, her gaze reflective, a glow of something in her eyes which were a pale grey velvet now, the crystal gleam gone all of a sudden.

  ‘We went out into the garden, Drew and Pearce and I,’ she continued, her voice almost a whisper so that he had to lean towards her to hear it. Dear God, what was she saying?

  ‘We walked, the three of us, across the snow when, all of a sudden, everyone was there. They had seen us from the window and came out, dozens of them, throwing snowballs, the gentlemen pushing one another about in the drifts which grew. It was glorious, quite glorious. There were gentlemen kissing ladies . . .’ She stopped and waited, smiling, then, ‘It was Christmas Eve after all, Will. It’s allowed, you see, particularly if there is mistletoe.’

  Her eyes drifted from his to the small green bough which was just above his head in the doorway.
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