Shining Threads Page 20

  ‘Stop it, Tessa. Stop wheedling like some sixpenny strumpet. Don’t demean yourself, or me, or what we feel for one another with these . . . these silly games. Get up and put your clothes on.’

  He turned without looking at her and began to fumble his own way into the trousers she had removed from him two hours since, the shirt which, playing the temptress, she had insisted she would unbutton, slowly, one by one, her mouth on his chest and shoulders, his flat stomach and strong thighs. A witch and a wanton, if he were honest, she had lifted him to a groaning, quivering summit of joy.

  ‘Oh, Will, don’t . . .’

  ‘Put your clothes on, Tessa. We must talk.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk, Will. I want to . . .’

  ‘I’ll be downstairs so be quick about it.’

  Her face was sullen as she entered the parlour, still buttoning up her shirt. Her hair lay in a gloriously dishevelled cloud about her head, dark as the midnight sky. Her breeches were crumpled from the careless disorder in which they had lain for the past two hours and in her hand she carried her riding boots.

  ‘I don’t want tea,’ she said coolly, ‘so don’t bother with the kettle. Besides, I thought on an occasion such as this a lady and gentleman were supposed to sip champagne from a crystal slipper, not drink a mug of tea round a . . .’

  Before she could finish the sentence he had stepped dangerously across the room. The palm of his hand, when it hit her, made the sound of a pistol shot and her head rocketed to one side with the force of it. Her hair lifted and flung itself in a shimmering curtain across her face and when she turned back to him her eyes burned through it, as fierce and baleful as those of a tiger in the night.

  ‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again, my lass,’ he said, his voice warning her to be careful. But this was Tessa Harrison and should he not have known she was a woman, no matter who struck her, who was not to be intimidated by it? She sprang for him, her nails reaching for his eyes, her bare feet flailing at anything they could find for a target.

  ‘You bastard,’ she hissed. ‘I thought you were a man but it seems you are no better than those louts who pick on anything smaller and weaker than themselves. But I should have known. I should have known from the first that you could never be anything but a product of your own upbringing, a bully and a tyrant who would hit a woman . . .’

  ‘Stop it, Tessa, don’t be any more foolish than you already have been.’ He had her easily in his grasp, his arms pinning hers to her side, his body forced against hers so that she could not move. Her face was just beneath his, white with rage except for the flame print of his hand across her cheek, her eyes brilliant, like sparkling, lamp-lit crystals between her narrowed lids.

  ‘Let go of me, let go of me,’ she spat at him and when he did she almost fell. He pushed her unceremoniously backwards until she was forced into the wing chair by the fire, keeping her there easily merely by holding her shoulders with both hands and placing his knee on her lap to prevent those lethal feet from finding their target between his legs.

  ‘Let me up. I wish to go home.’ Her face was set against him, cold and expressionless now, the hot fury turned to ice and she no longer struggled.

  ‘Not until you have heard what I have to say.’

  ‘Nothing you have to say is of the slightest interest to me and I would be obliged if you would take your hands off me at once.’

  ‘My dirty, working man’s hands, you mean?’ He smiled grimly.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You were happy enough to have them on you half an hour since.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘Of course. Then I was what you wanted me to be.’

  ‘And what is wrong with that? You made no complaint then, as I recall. You were more than happy to let me . . .’

  ‘Stop it. Let’s have no more of this. You know what I want to talk about but you’re afraid of it so you divert me with . . . with whore’s tricks . . .’

  ‘So I’m a whore, am I? No wonder you have been so willing to let me into your bed. Not only a whore but one who costs you nothing. You don’t even have to walk down to the nearest inn where I believe such women are to be had. You have one come to you. How convenient . . .’

  ‘You’re doing it again, Tessa. Listen to yourself. You know you’re talking rubbish, I can see it in your eyes. You know what you say is untrue but you’re so afraid of the truth you’re prepared to tarnish what is precious, good, between us so that you don’t have to hear it. Go then, if you must . . .’ He stood away from her abruptly, lifting his hands to show that he would not try to prevent her. ‘Aye go, but if you do, don’t come back.’

  She had stood up as he moved away from her, her bare feet whispering on the carpet as she strode across to where she had dropped her boots, her face stormy, every line of her offended body telling him in what she hoped was no uncertain manner that it would take a lot of coaxing on his part to make her forget this. But his words stopped her and for several moments he watched her haughty back as she struggled with the hope that he was bluffing. She wanted desperately to pull on her boots, to shrug into her jacket, toss on her tall beaver hat and without looking at him again, sweep disdainfully from the house. She wanted to, oh, yes, she wanted to, but he could see the indecision, not in her eyes, since her face was turned from him, but in the slight tremor of her shoulders, the clenching and unclenching of her fists.

  She turned then and he felt his heart move painfully with his love and thankfulness. She did care. Despite her restless changes of mood, the fidgeting with which she treated his attempts to find some bedrock on which to stabilise their relationship, she was not, thank God, reckless enough to walk out on it. She was ready, albeit reluctantly, to hear what he had to say.

  ‘Sit down, lovely girl,’ he murmured softly.

  ‘Tell me what you have to say,’ she said but her eyes had melted, despite herself, at the endearment, and her love shone through them.

  ‘Sit down, please.’

  The delicately woven, fragile stuff which bound them together was stronger now and he grinned ruefully, boyishly, the breath he had been holding sighing out of him as she sat down in the chair she had just left. Her face was still truculent, her mouth mutinous, but she turned her smoky grey eyes on him, watching him warily, waiting for him to speak.

  He picked up her jacket which lay on the table and held it to him, looking down at it without seeing it, stroking the rough tweed with patient hands, strong hands, a working man’s hands, and she found herself watching them, remembering their smooth and erotic passage over her own body. She shivered and looked away.

  ‘What is it, Will?’ she asked, though, of course, she knew.

  ‘We must be married, lass.’

  ‘Must?’ He saw that she was offended again and his own hard-won patience stretched itself uncomfortably. She was like some prickly hedgehog which, at the first hint of threat, thrusts its spines to hurt the hand which meant none. He sighed and bent his head, his strong face soft with his love.

  ‘I love you, Tessa, and you say you love me.’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’ She threw back her head defiantly.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Only sometimes? Why do you think I come here and get into your bed?’

  ‘Aaah . . . !’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Only that a woman does not have to love a man, or indeed the other way round, for them to . . . to please one another in a sexual way. There would be few partnerships if it depended only on love, Tessa.’

  ‘I do love you, Will, and I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean we must move on. We cannot stand still like this. Dear God, for nearly six months now every time I’ve spoken about it you’ve shied away like some nervous colt. You’re young, I know . . .’

  ‘I’m seventeen . . .’

  ‘And I reckon I’m twenty·nine or thirty and I want a wife . . .’

  ‘So I’ll do
, is that it?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Why the hell must you turn everything about the way you do? I believe it’s meant to put me off but this time I’ll not be denied my say. I love you. I want you. I want to wed you, lass. Bloody hell, is that not clear enough? You’ve been my . . . my mistress, there, does that satisfy you since you seem to like to use the right words? . . . for long enough and I’ll wait no longer. And the risk . . .’

  ‘What risk?’ Anything, anything to sidetrack him.

  ‘Don’t be childish, Tessa. You know you take a risk every time you leave that blasted animal of yours tied up in my back yard. D’you think no one notices? It will come out soon enough and then you’ll have no reputation left at all. Not that I care about that. You’d be my wife and there’s not a man in the valley would dare say a word about you, to me or to each other. But there’s other risks, lass. What if you should conceive? I try to be as careful as I can but sometimes you’re a bloody challenge to any man with your wildness and I’m put to . . . well, you’ll take my meaning.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Never mind, then, but it’s bound to happen and I want us to be wed when it does.’

  There was a deep, endless and, to Will, quite dreadful silence. That was what he felt. Dread. She continued to look at him, her expression unreadable, saying nothing, and the misery began in him then, the sheer, bloody, hopeless misery which lapped through the layers of his skin. It not only racked him from within but surrounded him like a black shadow through which he could hardly see her. She did not answer and he knew it was because she didn’t know how.

  He answered for her.

  ‘You can’t bring yourself to do it, can you?’ His voice was harsh and she felt a great longing to go to him then, to put her arms about him and draw his head to her shoulder, to comfort him in the only way she knew how. They were lovers. She had spent the last months in the most delightful occupation of being loved, of being made love to by Will Broadbent and she had gloried in it. She loved him, or at least she thought she did, and she did not want to lose him. She could not bear to consider the prospect of a life without him in it but she was not at all sure she wanted to be married. Not yet. Not to Will. Not to anyone. She was quite old enough for marriage and motherhood but it was not for her, not yet. She had thought about it in the quietness of her own bedroom, away from the hard beauty of Will Broadbent’s body which delighted her so and which she must have, but the prospect of living in this tiny house, in the primitive conditions which, when one was not compelled to it was fun, simply appalled her.

  And yet, could she live without what he gave her, not just with his body but his loving spirit? So was that love? She knew she was treating him as some men treat certain women, as a diversion, a sweet and thrilling pastime which had nothing at all to do with her real life. She was not sure whether it was Will she wanted . . . loved . . . or what he could give her, and she was desperately afraid to set herself the task of finding out. Now he was determined on marriage and she knew she could not go through with it. Perhaps when . . . well, in a year or two . . . or when . . . when . . . When?

  It was no good and she knew Will could see it in her face. He picked up her jacket and held it out for her. She slid her arms into the sleeves, then, as he reached for her boots, stood like a child as he eased each foot in turn into them. He brought her cloak and tucked it about her shoulders, then stepped back from her, unsmiling, his eyes unreadable.

  ‘Goodbye, lass.’

  ‘Will, don’t send me away. I do love you and one day . . . when . . . Dear Lord, I cannot bear to let you go . . .’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘Let me have some time to . . . Oh, surely there must be something, some way . . .’

  ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘But, Will . . .’

  ‘Nay, say nothing more. It’s in your face. Don’t come back unless it’s to tell me we’ll be wed. I love you, Tessa, and I’ll wait for a while. You’re young . . .’

  It began to rain, a soft spring rain as she rode along the track which led from Chapmanstown to Edgeclough, the freshness of it sliding down her cheeks and mixing with her warm and anguished tears.

  The knock on the door startled Annie. She had not been expecting anyone this late in the afternoon since Tessa usually came earlier, and she had been hoping to get the last of her spring cleaning finished before the children came back from Sunday school.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said tartly when she opened the door, then stood back to allow Tessa to enter. ‘Wipe yer feet. I’ve just done that there floor,’ she added and was mildly surprised when Tessa meekly did as she was told. Tessa’s face which was always a clear, creamy white had an overtone of grey in it and her eyes were shadowed. Annie studied her carefully.

  ‘I’ll put kettle on,’ she said moving towards the fire and when she had done so she returned to her scrubbing of the deal table, treating it with the demented fervour which she gave to every job of cleaning she tackled. From the corner of her eye she watched as Tessa picked up first a teacup, then a spoon, putting each back where she found them without seeing them, then flung herself into Annie’s rocking chair, her unfocused gaze on the dancing flames in the grate. She put one foot on the fender. Her head was slumped between her shoulders and she did not speak, even when Annie put a mug of weak tea in her hand.

  ‘What’s up?’ Annie said, sparing of words as always.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then get out o’ me road an’ let me gerron wi’ me spring cleaning.’

  Tessa looked up in surprise, then sighed deeply.

  ‘I’m sorry, Annie, I know you have things to do but I just didn’t know where else to go.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just . . .’

  Annie watched Tessa brood silently on whatever it was that troubled her, though she knew she’d not have far to look to find the reason for it. The whispers were already rustling like the wind through the bracken on the tops, going from machine to machine. Whispers about their newly made-up foreman and – they hardly dared breathe her name – this young woman who was crouched in Annie’s kitchen chair. Annie had given the spinner who had hissed of it into her ear a withering look and told her sharply not to be so daft and to mind her own business, but it’d not stop there. Just let Mr Greenwood or Mrs Harrison hear of it and Will would be out on his ear quicker than you could say ‘picking stick.’

  ‘Best tell me, lass.’

  Tessa sighed again and Annie shifted impatiently, banging her mug of tea down on the newly scrubbed table. Some of the tea slopped over the rim of the mug, staining the fresh surface and Annie stamped into the scullery, tweaking the wrung-out cloth from its nail by the scullery door where she had just hung it up to dry. Muttering darkly she wiped up the tea, returning the table to its immaculate condition, then stood back to admire it.

  Tessa watched her, then began to laugh for, really, was there another like her?

  ‘Oh Annie, you’d make some man’ – probably the one I’ve just left, she thought sadly – ‘a wonderful wife. You’re sensible and . . . and domesticated with no longing to ride over the brow of the next hill just to see what’s on the other side.’ She stretched out her hand to touch Annie’s arm but Annie drew back, uncomfortable with demonstrations of affection, though she would give you her last farthing even if it meant she herself would starve.

  ‘’Ow d’you know what I want?’

  ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. How do any of us know what . . . what others want and if we do, it’s not always possible to give it to them. How can we . . . ?’ Her voice drifted away uncertainly.

  ‘Nay, don’t ask me. Yer talk in riddles sometimes an’ if yer’ve nowt better ter do wi’ yer time but sit about and gossip, I ’ave.’ But Annie’s plain face was soft with compassion.

  ‘Life’s a bloody riddle sometimes, Annie.’

  ‘An’ I’ll ’ave no bad language in my kitchen neither.’

/>   ‘I don’t know why you put up with me, Annie, I really don’t.’

  ‘Nor me neither. Reckon no one but me’ll ’ave yer.’

  ‘You’re right.’ They smiled in perfect understanding at one another.

  ‘It’s Will, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘’E’s ready fer marriage an’ you’re not, is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not good enough for thi, is that what yer sayin’?’

  ‘No, Annie, oh, no. You know I’m not like that.’ But Annie was not so sure. Tessa was ‘gentry’ and spent a large part of her life with gentry. Could she give up the social position she had, which was bound to happen if she married Will? Mrs Will Broadbent would be a considerably less important person than Miss Tessa Harrison.

  ‘Then what’s ter stop yer?’

  ‘Annie, I don’t want to get married. I’m not even eighteen and the thought of living for the rest of my life . . .’

  ‘In a foreman’s cottage, is that it?’

  ‘No . . . well, yes, up to a point though I’m sure if we were married Charlie would promote him to something more suitable to . . .’

  ‘To’th’usband o’t millowner’s daughter. D’yer know, Tessa Harrison, I can’t fathom you. Social position, or so you say, don’t seem ter bother thi’. I’m a spinner, wi’ clogs an’ a shawl an’ yet yer seem ter like me company, so why, when yer love the man, a man what’s the same class as me, will yer not wed ’im . . . ?’

  ‘I do love him, Annie, at least, I think I do . . .’

  ‘Then wed ’im, fer God’s sake.’ Annie sat down and hitched her chair closer to Tessa’s, her sharp little face a bright pink in her earnestness. ‘Can yer not see what a good match it’d be . . . ?’

  ‘A good match!’

  ‘Don’t tek that tone wi’ me, lady. ’E’s as good as any man in’t valley. An’ when yer Mam’s gone, an’ yer Uncle Charlie, who better ter run them mills than a man what’s bin fetched up in cotton?’

  ‘And what about Drew and Pearce? Are they to be disinherited?’ Tessa drew back abruptly, deeply offended by Annie’s contempt for her cousins’ capabilities as millowners. ‘They’ll take over when . . . well, when they’re ready.’