Shining Threads Page 38

  ‘I have come to . . . well, you know how I am placed, Will, with the mill, now that Charlie is dead and my mother gone to Italy?’

  ‘I had heard, yes.’ And he was not particularly concerned.

  ‘I am sure you realise how difficult it is, for the family, I mean.’

  ‘Really! In what way?’

  She leaned towards him, smiling her brilliant smile. If he would just invite her to sit down, perhaps drink a cup of tea with him, it would make matters much easier. She had held him once in the palm of her hand, had him eating out of it, as the saying went, willing to do everything she asked providing she did not leave him. He had loved her, wanted to marry her, and there must be some of that feeling left, surely? He would not, could not turn her away without hearing what she had to say, and how much more relaxed it would be if they were to chat, civilly, if not warmly, over a cup of tea. They had parted cruelly. He had spoken bitter words then and she felt herself curl up inside at what she must say but, really, she could think of no other solution and so she must swallow her pride and hope that he had forgotten, or at least allowed the memory of that day to fade. They had met since at Annie’s and he had called her Tessa then. They had been . . . polite. There had been . . . something. Could they not be . . . perhaps friends?

  But she still felt the need to tread warily, knowing that this man could be dangerous if he chose. She had thought him easily managed, gentle, a peaceful man, a man who would be happy to go through life in a moderate and tranquil way. He was strong, certainly, strong-willed and tough-fibred and would let no man own him, but surely she, as a woman, should be able to reach that core of decency which was the essence of Will Broadbent?

  ‘Though it is some time ago now I have not yet congratulated you on your marriage, Mrs Greenwood. Allow me to do so now,’ he continued smoothly, swinging her cruelly off balance with the sudden turn of conversation, ‘though as I said when we met previously, I must admit to a slight bewilderment at your choice of husband. When first I heard your name mentioned in connection with matrimony it was linked with that of some landed gentleman from Cheshire. You were to be married to him, I was led to believe, or was he too found to be unsuitable?’

  It was as though he had cut the ground from beneath her feet opening up a hole, deep and black, which she did not care to contemplate and into which, if she did not take care, she might tumble. Robby Atherton had not been seen nor heard of since the day he had been told of his true parentage. It seemed that her ‘parfit gentil knight’ had not the heart nor stomach to face her again, either as her brother or her love, and though she had not blamed him, her heart had never quite recovered. He had been forgotten now by the Penfold Valley, as though he had not existed, but not by this man, it appeared.

  He smiled and his face took on a musing expression. ‘Do you know, Mrs Greenwood, if I live to see ninety I will never understand the ways of the gentry, since I suppose that is what you call yourself, particularly the gentlemen. Now, if I were your husband there is one thing you could be absolutely sure of: under no circumstances would I allow my wife to come begging favours of another man. Because that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? You want something from me, don’t you? You would hardly drive all the way from Crossfold to Hepworth otherwise, looking fragile and wan in your mourning gown, doing your best to seem helpless when you have never been helpless in your life. Really, Mrs Greenwood, it doesn’t suit you, this pretence that you are no more than a weak and helpless female. You should try being honest sometime, as I told you once before, I believe. You might find it to your advantage in the long run.’

  ‘Will, please, you have not heard . . .’

  ‘Nay, and I don’t think I want to. It seems the young gentleman whose heart you captured and who was so uniquely suited to your life-style and station in life and whose charms far outshone my own, and for whom you were willing to run to the ends of the earth, barefoot if needs be, no longer found favour in your eyes and that your cousin, the estimable Drew Greenwood, took his place. Really, Mrs Greenwood, one cannot hope to keep up with you. Three men in your bed already and you barely in your twenties . . .’

  ‘Will, please . . .’

  ‘No, really, you are to be admired for your tenacity, Mrs Greenwood. I suppose when you consider it, your cousin would be the better prospect: sole heir to the might and wealth of the Chapman concerns whereas a gentleman whose estate would simply devour any money you brought to him might not be such a catch. As for the simple overlooker in your family’s mill . . . well, need I go on? I only hope your husband has the stamina and backbone to take on not only you, but his inheritance, that is if he is to do so. Or are you, perhaps, to take up your mother’s position?’

  He grinned wickedly, lifting a sardonic and knowing eyebrow.

  She did not wait any longer to be invited to sit down but sank into the nearest chair, the thudding in her chest painful and taking her breath away, echoing in her temples, at the hollow of her throat and the pulses in her wrists. She felt dizzy, weary, as wave after wave of futility and defeat washed over her. She had thought it would not be easy, that she might have to beg and plead a little, make him realise that she had changed – had she really? – that she would make it worth his while perhaps. Would that have worked? But now she could see it was impossible. He hated her, despised her, or not even that. He was indifferent, and that was worst of all. He no longer cared if she survived or not. He was unconcerned with her future or even if she had any, and certainly had no softer emotion lingering in his heart which had once loved her.

  ‘Who’s to look after it all, Mrs Greenwood, whilst your husband chases about the countryside on that thoroughbred hunter of his, or tramps the Squire’s moor shooting pheasant and grouse, or indeed everything that takes wing? It’s been three weeks now and those mills won’t be looking quite so profitable, I dare say, not without Mrs Harrison or Charlie Greenwood at the factory gate before the bell goes.’

  ‘The managers . . .’

  He made a contemptuous movement with his hand and sat down at last, lifting the tails of his splendidly fitting coat. Though his face had none of the masculine beauty of Robby Atherton or Drew Greenwood, nor the etched and lean superiority of Nicky Longworth, it was infinitely more virile with a compelling strength which said that no matter what life cared to fling at him, he would never yield to it. His hair was still short and inclined to roam about his head as though he had cut·it himself, carelessly, with the first pair of scissors which came to hand, but his smoky amber eyes were steady, firm, his skin brown and smooth. His whole appearance spoke of his rise in life. He was a businessman now, a man of consequence with a new, detached villa on the outskirts of Hepworth, she had heard, set in half a dozen acres of landscaped garden. He had a well-bred bay to ride when he cared to, and a carriage and pair for when he did not. He was an exceedingly attractive and successful gentleman and she wondered idly why he had never married.

  ‘You cannot leave it to your managers, you know. If you do you will go under.’ It was said irritably.

  ‘What else am I to do?’ She was more composed now, though her heart was still inclined to miss a beat. Now that they had left behind the delicate issue of Robby Atherton and were addressing themselves, she hoped, to the problem of Chapman Manufacturing, Will appeared to be, if not agreeable, at least prepared to discuss what might be done. If she could just get him to listen she was certain she could persuade him to what she had in mind.

  ‘You are recovered now?’ He spoke sharply and again his change of direction disconcerted her. Just as she was about to breathe more easily, thinking that she might at last get round to what she had come for, he led her somewhere else, giving her no time to get her thoughts into any kind of order. Recovered? What did he mean? Surely he was not talking about the fever she had contracted over two years ago? He had gone away just before, Annie had said, comė up here and started his own venture, far too busy making his own life to bother about hers which had been smashed apart, but the
n had she herself not been far too busy with the loss of Robby Atherton to bother about him? Well, they had both lost something all those years ago but now he had found something to replace it and so had she and she would not spend the rest of her days in the mills which had taken Charlie’s life, and her mother’s too, in a way, though she still lived. She would find something, someone, she was determined on it, to look after what she and Drew had been left.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled for she must keep on his right side. ‘I was ill for a while but I am a tough north-countrywoman and so I recovered.’

  ‘Your . . . friend did not care to stay then, to see you back to health?’ His voice was harsh, scornful.

  ‘My . . . friend?’

  ‘Your lover, if you prefer?’

  ‘Please, Will. Must we continually go back to something which happened a long time ago? It’s over now and I . . . we must all move on, must we not?’

  ‘I dare say, but now I must ask you to state your business for I’ve not got all day to sit and gossip.’

  ‘No, indeed. You are a man of some importance, I am told and . . .’

  ‘Give over, lass. Let’s get to the point. I’m not one of your pedigreed nincompoops who needs to be buttered up before he can be asked to do anything. Speak plain and be done with it.’

  She sighed for at last it had come and, as he said, best be done with it.

  ‘I’ve come to offer you a position, Will.’ There, it was out, thank God. She did not like it but the devil drives where the need must, or some such twaddle, and the devil was certainly driving her when she must grovel to this man who had once grovelled to her, well almost. But it was done now and when they had talked of wages and all the other difficult but necessary things – she would leave that to him, having no idea what they might be – she could get on home and tell Drew that he and she could continue to play as they had done, she realised, all of their lives.

  ‘A position? And what might that be, my lass?’ He had begun to smile now, his eyes narrowing in amusement, his slanting mouth turning up at the corners. His eyebrows lifted and she could feel the sudden tension in the air, coming not from him but from herself. He was vastly pleased about something, his bold expression said, his whole lounging body said, and again she felt awful uncertainty nibble at her. But what the hell? She was not afraid of him, or his damned insolence. She lifted her head imperiously.

  ‘I would like you to be my general manager, Will. In charge of the mills, I mean. Of course there are only the four smaller ones at the moment but once you get the rebuilding of Chapmanstown under way you would be fully occupied, I’m sure. There will be a lot to see to, arranging with builders and whoever else is concerned with such things, and I’m sure you are right about the men in charge at Crossbank and the others. They will be lying in their beds until nine each day, leaving it all to the overlookers and . . . well, you will know what I mean. The sooner they are all under the direction of one man the better.’

  ‘Indeed you are right, Mrs Greenwood. I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘Oh, Will, I’m so glad.’ She smiled in gratification then became business-like again. ‘Now I will leave the question of wages to you since I know you will not cheat me. I have no idea what a manager earns but . . .’

  He began to laugh then. Lifting his head in genuine enjoyment, highly diverted, it seemed, and not at all concerned that he might be offending her. His laughter echoed round and round the room and there was a warm, dancing merriment in his eyes as he turned at last to look at her.

  ‘Tessa, there really is no other woman in the world who would have the damned impudence to come here, after all that’s happened between us, and offer me a job as manager in her mill. Does your mind dwell on nothing but what is best for Tessa Harrison, or did it not occur to you that I have my own mill to run, my own business to attend to? I’ve built this concern up until it’s become one of the most productive in south Lancashire, for its size. Oh, not to be compared with Chapmanstown, I’ll grant you that, but I’m damned proud of it just the same, and of myself. I’ve dragged myself up by my bootstraps, aye, and done a few things I’d tell no one about to get here, and not just get here, but to stay alive when I was a lad, and if you think I’m going to jeopardise it all for the sake of a lass who isn’t worth a hundred of them in my mill then you must be dafter than I thought.’

  ‘But, Will . . .’ She ignored the insult which she found she did not care about just now. ‘You told us it was a co-operative and that means it’s not really yours . . .’

  ‘I own the majority of the shares.’

  ‘I don’t quite know what that means.’

  ‘It means that if I left it on its own while I concern myself with your business, mine would suffer and my shares be made worthless.’

  ‘But you said yourself that Chapmans needed to be under the direction of one man.’

  ‘Aye, and so it does, but I’m not that man.’

  ‘Please, Will, please. I would pay you anything you asked.’

  ‘Anything, Tessa?’

  Again his eyes danced with evident enjoyment. ‘I really cannot think there would be anything at all which might tempt me. Not now. My life has gone on, you see, leaving you where we last met and what you have done and what I have done no longer matters to the other. I am no longer at your beck and call . . .’

  ‘Will, please, think it over . . .’

  ‘I have no wish to think it over, and no need.’ His eyes had turned cold again, cold and disdainful. ‘You really must become used to the fact that you can’t have what you want, whenever you want it, Mrs Greenwood. You mean nowt to me, and neither does that damned business of yours. You and your fine husband can go to the devil for all I care . . .’

  ‘Will, for God’s sake, Will.’ Her voice cracked painfully and she stood up, hauling herself to her feet as though she was clawing her way to the surface of a boiling torrent which was dragging her under. Her eyes had turned a brilliant, quite incredible silvery grey, like crystal, in her despair and her breasts rose, drawing his eyes to them. Her face had flushed to rosy pink and the soft flesh of her mouth was moist and swollen. She put out her hands to him in desperation and he felt himself begin to move towards her, his body answering the appeal of hers. ‘I’m ready to pay you any wage you ask.’ Her voice was husky, just as it once had been in the fierceness of their lovemaking. ‘I’ll give you shares in the mill, which, I believe . . . I have been told, though I really know little about it, will give you a small part of the ownership. Apart from the ones left to Laurel by Charlie it all belongs to Drew and me and he would give anything you name not to have to go in the mill.’

  ‘Would he indeed?’ His own voice sounded strange in his ears. His eyes gleamed, an intense speculative gleam which she was not sure she cared for. The lazy unconcern had gone completely, as had his indifference, and she felt the first feather of alarm touch the nape of her neck.

  ‘He . . . you will have heard of his brother’s death, no doubt?’ Her mouth had dried up and she seemed to have trouble forming the words but he merely continued to watch her, allowing her to stumble along at her own pace. ‘Well . . . they were . . . being twins, you understand, they were very close and Pearce’s death hit him hard.’ Dear Lord, why was she telling him all this unless it was to dissipate the curious tension which had sprung up from somewhere? ‘He was himself wounded and it has left him . . .’

  ‘You really have no need to explain, my dear. Your husband’s . . . afflictions are well known to me. Remember we worked . . . I use the term loosely, you understand . . . together in the Chapman spinning room.’

  ‘So you will help him then?’

  ‘Not him, Tessa, oh, no, not him.’

  ‘Then . . . ?’

  ‘You and I . . . once . . . had a very delightful arrangement, did we not? Do you remember? His voice was like silk and his eyes had become a warm and appreciative brown and she knew immediately, of course, with what coin he was asking her, no demanding her to pay and s
he felt the fury explode in her, not just with him and the effrontery of what he implied but at the sudden excitement which stirred in her at the idea.

  She had never been so humiliated in her life, she told herself, whipping up her own temper until her cheeks were scarlet with her outrage. His eyes were merry now, maliciously so, and he had the greatest difficulty, she could distinctly see it, in preventing himself from grinning broadly at her discomfiture. Her rage struck even more deeply, a scorching blow which had her savagely struggling not to hit him. If she had held a pistol in her hand she would have shot him in his smiling face and been glad to see the flesh shatter, the blood flow. Her heart was banging and crashing inside her – why, for God’s sake, why? – far too big for her chest, and deep, deep within her, where no one could see or even know of its existence, the core of her female self, that which had lain dormant for many, many years, began to unfurl and throb, and she hated him, hated him for it.

  She lifted her head and though her eyes were hot and baleful with her need to hide from him what was in her, she managed to keep her words cool and contemptuous.

  ‘May I ask what you are suggesting, Mr Broadbent?’

  ‘Come on, my lass. Don’t play the innocent with me. I know you better than any man, I would say, and certainly better than that husband of yours. You know exactly what I am saying or do you want me to spell it out to you? Not only do you know, you’re excited at the thought, aren’t you? You’re a woman, Tessa, and though I’ve had my share before and since, there’s been none to match you when it comes to . . . pleasing a man, and to taking pleasure from it yourself. I’m sure you know what I mean. I can see it in your eyes right now. So what d’you say? Shall we strike a bargain? You come to my bed and I’ll see to those mills of yours for you. You and Drew Greenwood can skylark about to your hearts’ content, if you’ve a mind, and I’ll keep your mills running to pay for it, but I’ll want a share of the profit, and a share of Drew Greenwood’s woman to go with it.’