Angel Meadow Read online

  A tap on Nancy’s arm, polite, respectful but determined, turned her to face a large man dressed in a clean white shirt, a neatly knotted tie and dark trousers over which he wore a green canvas apron tied at his back.

  “Madam,” he said in a low voice, “you really should not be here, you know. These gentlemen are here to do business and it is no place for a lady. I must ask you, and your companion,” turning to nod politely at Jennet, “to come with me.”

  “I’m sorry, but we have not completed our business as yet. Perhaps you could tell me the prices.”

  “Madam! I must repeat, I cannot allow . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “This is a warehouse, madam, and these gentlemen are here to buy cotton goods and—”

  “As I am, sir, so if you would just tell me to whom I should address my needs I will—”

  “No, madam, you will not. This is not the way to do business.”

  “Then tell me what is. I am a customer with cash in my pocket who wishes to purchase your goods. Are you telling me that because I am female you will not sell them to me?”

  He had taken them both by the arm by now, mortified, angry, for all about him business had come to a standstill as the gentlemen, all dressed in shades of dark grey and white and wearing silk top hats, smiled and dug one another in the ribs at the spectacle. Their own indignation was gone now, since the two intruders were being dealt with and they were prepared to enjoy the fun.

  “Take your hands off me, you impudent scoundrel,” Jennet was saying, proving she was not the little mouse they had first thought her. “There is absolutely no need for violence. We are doing no harm.”

  “Perhaps not, madam, but this is not the place for you. If you wish to buy cotton goods or a length or two of fustian or jaconet then I suggest you go to one of the drapers in Deansgate or Market Street. This is a wholesale warehouse.”

  “We wish to buy wholesale, you fool, and if you don’t let go of my arm and that of my friend I shall fetch a constable.”

  Nancy’s face had turned a glowing pink and there were not a few gentlemen who conjectured on how pleasant it would be to make her acquaintance, though in different circumstances.

  “How dare you molest us,” she went on hotly. “We are customers. We have come to—”

  “I don’t care why you’ve come, madam. This is no place for . . .”

  They were almost at the door by now, for the man was strong and determined, red-faced with indignation and given a helping hand now and again by a chappie or two who did not mind putting his hand on a pretty lady, who was not a lady, of course, else she would not have been here.

  A quiet voice in the doorway brought the three of them to a halt, for short of shoving the two women through the man who stood there, the warehouseman had no choice but to stop.

  “What’s going on here, Burrows? I could hear the commotion at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mr Josh. They’re just going. What the devil they thought they were up to in the first place I don’t know.”

  Expecting Mr Josh to move aside, the man took a firm grip of Nancy’s arm with one hand and with the other tackled Jennet, but neither Nancy, Jennet or Mr Josh was willing to move, or be moved, and he was forced to let them go, his face a bright scarlet, his eyes almost starting out of his head with vexation. He’d never felt such a fool in his life and left to himself without the intervention of his employer’s son would willingly have dragged these two down the stairs and thrown them into the street.

  The man in the doorway was young, tall, lean, leaner than Nancy remembered, immaculately dressed in the sober suit of the businessman. His face was unsmiling. His eyes were a clear grey, almost colourless, with no expression in them that could be recognised and his well-cut lips had no hint of humour or warmth. It was a quiet face, sombre even, impassive and preoccupied, as though far greater things needed his attention than this. Nevertheless he was attending to it. Nancy was quite taken aback, not that he should have intervened, though she supposed that was natural in this man’s world into which she and Jennet had blundered, but by the dramatic change in him since she had seen him last. He didn’t look ill exactly, for he still had that sun-tinted face that spoke of outdoor pursuits but he seemed to be lifeless, as though that rather engaging . . . well, charm, she supposed she would have called it, had been squeezed out of him, leaving him empty and without substance. They had met three times before and on each occasion he had been young, as he still was; an inclination to be reckless, arrogant certainly, but with an engaging, half-hidden light-heartedness that she had found she responded to, a readiness, or so it had seemed to her, to be friendly if he was allowed. Now he looked as though he had lost a dear member of his family, grave and brooding and ready to scowl should he be displeased.

  Well, it was no good dwelling on the change in him, for it was nothing to do with her. Here was a chance to get past this damned warehouseman, perhaps to overcome the vexing problem of how to obtain the material they needed, and to clear the way for further transactions. If they were not to be allowed to come to this place, or any place where cotton goods were sold, how were they to proceed with their enterprise which was just getting under way? The machines were ordered. In the cottage all the furniture except the settle had been crammed upstairs so that there was barely room to move. The two beds and Kitty’s sleeping box were jammed against the wall, the rest of their stuff – and Jennet’s – piled up about them to the ceiling and they just hoped that it would not come crashing down about their ears as they slept. Downstairs had been left empty, awaiting the arrival of the sewing-machines. As Nancy said, they must work where the warmth was, for with autumn and then winter coming on it would be too cold to work upstairs.

  Nancy elbowed aside the warehouseman and, with her hand on Jennet’s arm, stepped forward haughtily while all about her men gawked and the silence was so tangible it could almost be felt.

  “Mr Hayes: it is Mr Hayes, isn’t it? I wonder if my partner and I might have a word with you. This . . . this fellow,” giving the warehouseman a look of contempt, “seems to think we are up to no good.”

  “And what are you up to, Miss . . .?”

  “Brody. Nancy Brody and this is Jennet Williams,” turning to smile reassuringly at Jennet as though to say she must not be afraid. “We are not ‘up to’ anything, Mr Hayes, for that seems to imply dishonesty. We are here to buy cotton, that’s all, but if you would allow it I would rather discuss it where these gentlemen” – she waved her hand dismissively at the crowd of men at her back – “cannot hear my business.”

  “There is nothing hidden here, Miss Brody. These are all men of integrity who are doing an honest day’s business with this firm.”

  The men in question shuffled their feet and looked at one another in agreement, glad that this impudent hussy was being taken down a peg by Josh Hayes, as she deserved, but they had reckoned without Nancy Brody who, for the past six years, had moulded her own destiny which she was following and nothing, nothing was going to stand in her way. If she had to get down on her knees and beg this unsmiling young man for the cotton she needed, and in front of them all, she would.

  “Mr Hayes, I am here for the same purpose as these gentlemen. I wish to do business with you. Are you so prosperous that you can afford to turn it away? Once your father, and all these gentlemen,” turning a passionate face to the men at her back, “began their own ventures and because they worked hard and risked everything they had they have succeeded. Won’t you allow me the same chance? I am to start . . . I’m going into business for myself in the textile trade but I must have your co-operation if I’m even to get under way. I know there are other warehouses selling what I want but I know the quality of your cotton and so I have chosen to buy it. You know where I started. Oh, yes, sir, you do, for you saw me there a year or two back and I have come some way since then. Will you stop me now?”

  There was absolute silence in the enormous room and even those standi
ng outside it, gathering in the hallway and on the stairs, for word had got about that something unusual was happening on the top floor, made not a sound.

  Josh Hayes remembered her and he remembered the strange sense of recognition he had felt on each of the occasions they had met. She was not a lady, of course, and these men knew it. The first time he had seen her had been in the yard at the mill. She had been a spinner then, clothed in the drab garb of a mill girl. Last year she had been dressed in decent but humble garments when they had almost bumped into each other at the Arts Treasures Exhibition. She had been accompanied by a rough-looking labouring chap and he recalled his sad feeling of . . . well, he could only call it disappointment that such a fine-looking young girl should associate with such a man. The last time they had met among the ruins of Castle Irwell she had been wrapped in a working woman’s shawl. So what had brought about this transformation? She spoke with the careful enunciation of a woman who has taught herself to speak as the upper classes do although there was still a trace of her Manchester heritage in her voice, but to look at her a man who did not know her background could be forgiven for thinking her to be a lady born and bred.

  He was intrigued, though he did not let it show in his face. He had learned in the last few weeks to let nothing show in his face. He knew his family were perplexed and worried about him, for Evie Edward had been no more than a young man’s fancy and had been taken care of before her death so why should he appear to mourn her so? The child, his son, still remained at Riverside House, installed in the nurseries there with a nursemaid, his father allowing it because Josh had told him that if the child was sent away, quite simply he would go with it. It, that was all it was to him, without even a name as yet and he knew that he must pull himself out of this quagmire Evie’s death had flung him into if he was to get on with his life, and make one for the child. The infant was made much of by the servants, he was aware of that, and even his mother had ventured up to the top floor to peep at her grandson, though she had said nothing to him about it. The servants knew, naturally, all that went on in the household, marvelling when, with Mrs Hayes’s permission, the nursemaid began to push the child about the gardens in the old Hayes baby carriage. He had seen it himself. It was the talk of the polite society his family moved in, but it seemed none blamed him, for young men must sow their wild oats and who else to sow them with but one of the lower classes. It was a constant source of amazement to him that though two people were involved, the man and the woman, it was the woman who was condemned as wicked. Evie had not been wicked. She had been an innocent and he had taken advantage of it and he could not forgive himself, but at least he could make it up to her son. As soon as he felt up to it he meant to call on his father’s lawyer to arrange the adoption of the child, when, presumably, he would be christened, given his proper name and be brought up as the son of a gentleman.

  For the first time since Evie’s death he felt a stirring of interest as he looked into the glowing golden eyes, the passionate face of the girl before him. What must it be like to have such enthusiasm, to show such ardour over what was really only a day’s business? The men about them were nudging one another and murmuring, fully expecting, he knew, that he would tell her that this was a place where men, and men only carried on their transactions and that he would be obliged if she would leave his establishment at once; but that something that had stirred in him grew stronger, lifting his heart a little, warming some place that had been cold and distant since Evie’s death. He had not loved Evie, not as a man loves the woman of his heart. He had never loved a woman, except in the physical sense and, his heart being as it was, cold and stern and unforgiving, of himself, he did not expect ever to experience what was called “true love”.

  What it was he did not know, nor, at the moment, did he care but this woman had, three times, four if you counted this meeting, come into his life, challenged him, if you like, and he thought he might like to take up that challenge, see what she made of herself, give her the chance she asked for. Why not? It might not be to the taste of his other customers but they would not go elsewhere, for the cotton though coarse that came off his father’s frames was the best in Manchester, in Lancashire and they would not want to lose it for the sake of a principle. Profit was their god and they would not give it up lightly.

  They faced one another, Josh Hayes and Nancy Brody, while the whole room held its breath. Though Josh was tall so was Nancy and she had not far to look up into his eyes. A message of some sort passed between them, of what sort neither understood, but it was something neither had experienced before and without knowing it, without knowing why, they both sighed.

  “Well, Miss Brody, it seems you are determined on a career in the textile trade and who am I to stand in the way of anyone’s career, man or woman, so, if you will follow me to my office we will discuss what we can do for one another.”

  He turned to the warehouseman who stood with his mouth foolishly open, since he had been fully expecting to escort the two young ladies off the premises.

  “Thank you, Burrows, that will be all, and in future when Miss Brody or Miss Williams call, will you bring them to me.”

  14

  “I think we should go for a picnic. It really would be a sin to waste such a perfect day; besides which, Kitty has never seen real grass or wild flowers—”

  “You’re always taking her to Vauxhall Gardens,” Nancy interrupted absently as she studied the pattern for an infant’s dress that she was about to cut out. “Anyway, I’m too busy. Mrs Underwood wants these dresses by the end of the week and if they’re not ready she’ll go elsewhere. And you promised you’d do the embroidery.”

  “And so I will but not today. It’s too nice. This evening, when Kitty’s in bed, I’ll make a start and I won’t stop until they’re all finished, even if I have to sit up all night.”

  “You might have to. There are two dozen.”

  “But all with a simple satin stitch joined by a chain stitch. White on white. What could be simpler? Even Kitty could do it if we let her and Mary has promised to help me. Oh, come on, Nancy, do let’s go. We’ve all worked so hard without a break and you promised ages ago to show us that ruined castle.”

  “Heavens, Jen, we couldn’t carry Kitty all that way, even between us. She’s getting too big. And there’d be food and such to bring, blankets . . .”

  “We could get a hansom.”

  “What! ” Laughingly Nancy turned to look at her friend, the scissors poised in her hand. “Are you out of your mind? A hansom indeed. You’d think we were made of money. You know every penny counts and even if I wanted to pay the price, which I don’t, you’d never get a hansom to come into Church Court. Remember all that pandemonium when the machines were delivered. You’d have thought we were putting on a show for the benefit of the neighbours. No, why don’t we wait until we move house then we—”

  “When will that be, Nancy?” Jennet interrupted quietly. “We have been in business for almost a year now and we have done well, but still you won’t get out of this place. We need the extra space, you know we do, even though we have a workroom in Shude Hill. If we had another room Annie could move in with us now that she lives alone and save herself the rent on her place, which would be so much more convenient and, frankly, if you don’t do something about getting away from here you’re going to be in trouble with Rosie. Oh, I know she’s a good worker and turns out more than her share but she needs to be got away from . . . well, you know who. It doesn’t bear thinking about that she might . . .”

  “Don’t, Jen, please don’t.” Nancy’s face was a picture of remembered despair and she turned away and put her head in her hands. The room in which they were working was now restored to what it had once been before the machines came, with the furniture brought down and arranged as best they could in the space there was. It was clean and tidy and had a certain degree of snugness, but it was far from what those who lived in splendid isolation in Broughton or Cheetham Hill might call even comforta
ble, though compared to their immediate neighbours it was the very height of luxury. On the floor, now decently covered with a bit of worn carpet, the little girl played with some empty bobbins and a tin box, carefully placing the bobbins in the box, then taking them out again. There was room only for six but she was doing her best to force in a seventh, her tongue sticking out from between her rosy lips, her fine dark eyebrows dipping in a scowl of concentration.

  She was a beautiful child with the best of both her parents in her, not only in looks but in temperament. Her impish charm and her colouring came from Mick O’Rourke. She had eyes the shade of a speedwell and glossy hair as dark as a blackbird’s wing. It was curly, tumbling about her small head, not in the crisp curls of her mother and aunts but like Mick’s, deep and loose and thick. Her skin was cream and peach, like her mother’s, and her features, unlike the somewhat coarse countenance of her Irish forebears, were refined, delicate, her nose still retaining the blob of babyhood, her mouth like a rose petal. Though she was not yet a year old she was quick and vivid and soon those about her knew she would become impatient with the bobbins and look for something more challenging. She was a lively child, strong-willed but friendly enough, sitting on whichever lap was available to her, not feeling the lack of a devoted mother’s care, for she was loved by her Aunty Jennet, her Aunty Annie and her Aunty Mary. But now and again Mick O’Rourke’s fierce temper and her mother’s vigorous competitiveness came out in her, showing itself in a determination to have her own way, as in her increasingly impatient resolve that the seven bobbins could be made to fit in a box big enough only for six.