The Loom (11 page)

‘I’ll get back to my cooking then,’ Maud said. ‘Will you be down for your morning tea as usual?’

‘Yes, yes, we’ll both be down at ten thirty, thank you.’

‘Right then, I’ll be on my way.’ Maud gave Leah a quick smile and then turned and hurried back down the corridor.

Leah stood timidly and Miss Fenton closed the door and turned back to Leah. ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear. We’ll have a little talk first, shall we?’

Leah nodded. She didn’t know what to say and Miss Fenton must think she was daft.

They were in a cosy sitting room, also carpeted, although this carpet was not quite as luxurious as the other carpets. The wallpaper was in a bright, flowered design and two cretonne-covered easy chairs were set on either side of a fireplace. A small fire burned in the hearth, for although it was still summer the warmth had not penetrated the thick stone of the Hall.

Miss Fenton went to sit on a straight backed chair at a round table in the centre of the room. She indicated that Leah sit on the other one, thinking how small Leah looked for fourteen.

‘
You know, of course, Leah that you are on trial for a month?’ Leah nodded and this time managed to whisper.

‘
Yes, Miss Fenton.’ She was still in awe of this woman and her upper class accent didn’t help at all. She sounded like a real toff!

‘Yes, well, I’m sure there won’t be any problem there, but you will be working in the kitchen for a week until the new maid starts. Then you’ll come to me and help me with the sewing. From what I’ve heard, Leah you like sewing.’

‘Oh, yes I do, Miss Fenton. I love it.’ Leah’s eyes glowed. Miss Fenton stared. She’d never seen such lovely eyes: such a lovely blue and those long lashes.

Miss Fenton glanced at Leah’s hands. They lay in her lap, one hand clenched tightly over the other. Putting out her hand Miss Fenton gently entangled the fists and lifted both onto the table. First she looked at the palms, then turned them over and studied the back of the hand, the nails in particular. Neither was particularly clean, but she noticed the delicate bone structure and the long slim fingers.

‘
I do insist on one thing, Leah.’ Leah looked concerned, ‘no, no, not to worry, but you must keep your hands and nails meticulously clean when you’re sewing. You’ll be handling fine muslins and so on, often white, so you can see that your hands need to be clean. Come,’ she rose and beckoned Leah to a wash basin and jug on a stand in the corner. ‘Wash your hands now. And clean those nails with that small brush. We can’t have you seeing Mrs. Townsend with dirty hands now, can we?’

Leah blinked. She had to see the mistress? No one had told her this. Now she was more nervous than ever and she dropped the nailbrush and let the small hand towel fall on the floor as well, her hands were shaking so much.

Miss Fenton noticed Leah panic.

‘
Don’t worry so much Leah. Come. Look in this room. I’m sure this will cheer you up.’ She went to a door on the far side. Leah gazed in delight when she entered. Miss Fenton smiled, pleased at Leah’s response. ‘Yes, it’s a brand new Singer and this is our sewing room.’

‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ Leah couldn’t control her pleasure. She’d seen one of those sewing machines in the Co-op and never in her life had she thought she might use one. ‘You’ll learn to use it, too, Leah; now come. We’d better go and see Mrs. Townsend.’ Leah’s delight evaporated slightly, but her initial nervousness had gone.

She couldn’t wait to start sewing on that new machine. It wouldn’t seem like work at all and even that week in the kitchen, well, she could put up with that for that short time. And she’d been thinking she’d rather be in the mill! She must have been mad. Wait till she told Janey and her Mam about the Hall. She liked Miss Fenton, too and if it hadn’t been for that Gertie Wicklow and that meeting on the drive she’d be over the moon.

CHAPTER EIGHT

H
ad anyone had the temerity to ask Paul de Lacey his opinion of his job as manager of a Manchester mill, he would have replied without compunction that it was ‘a sodding bore’. He hated it, although was absent more often than not, relegating the work to Bill Shields, the supervisor.

From the first moment when he’d walked into his small, dreary office his spirit had rebelled. Rebelled at the noise, the daily grind of the weary workers, the gray and depressing walls confining the whole complex (like a prison, he would think).

He even hated Manchester, which he thought just as dreary and grim as the mills. Any opportunity and he was away, so when the chance came to see a client about a large order for a firm in London he headed south in his brand new Rolls.

He’d had a hell of a job to get this car out of old tightwad Townsend, as he secretly called his brother in law. Bloody old skin-flint! Rolling in bloody money, but from all accounts Jessica had to almost go on her knees. He’d pay him back, of course, when he could. Old Townsend would never miss the three hundred quid it had cost for the car. George stuck to his money like the proverbial; it must nark him that he couldn’t take the blasted stuff when he went. He could, but he wouldn’t be able to spend it. But then again, he didn’t like spending it here so it probably wouldn’t bother him.

Paul had been determined to get this car after going to the Rolls Test Track at Derby. The car had been put through rigorous testing techniques, which had appealed to the German side of his nature, although he’d never had to do any testing or organization in his life. But he appreciated what the car could do. Oh, most definitely! He had to have one! Unfortunately he’d been hard up for cash at the time, as per usual. Townsend didn’t pay him half enough! But good old Jess had come up trumps and here he was, in spite of George, purring along in this wonderful machine.

After he’d confirmed the order in London, he set off for the north, reluctantly. Before he went back to the mill he decided to call in and see Jessica. Why they had to live in a God forsaken place like Harwood, he’d never know. Give him London any day and he’d stretched the excuse to stay in his favourite city another week. Jessica would have preferred to live in London, too, especially as they now had the beautiful house in Belgravia, where he’d just spent the last two weeks. But dear old George preferred Harwood, so in Harwood they stayed.

Paul looked around the rolling countryside. He wouldn’t let thoughts of his brother in law spoil the day.

In spite of petrol rationing he’d managed to get enough to take the Rolls up to Lancaster first and visit a cousin of his there. Then he’d taken the long road to Hornby, through Caton and Brookhouse to the Lune Valley, where the Lune River flowed eerily into the hill mists. The car had taken every road like a dream with the Flying Lady perched in all her glory on the bonnet. He’d polished her lovingly before he left.

By the time he reached Middleham, the site of Richard the Third’s castle, the mists had lifted and the sun, shining through the windows had warmed the car, so that Paul felt snug and cosy in his little cocoon.

He drove on to the town of Settle; then into the Ribble Valley, which was dominated by the flat-topped, hump-backed shape of the wild Celtic hill with the strange name of Pen-y-ghent Mountain. Then the landscape became dotted with numerous outcrops of limestone, dazzling white in the sunshine. Although he cursed the location of Hyndburn Hall, he had to admit that the scenery was beautiful as he made his way down the winding valley road which would take him to Upper Mitten and then on to Harwood.

Strange, Paul mused, that he’d never thought about owning a Rolls Royce - until now. He’d seen the Silver Ghost perform in the trials in Austria in 1913, but owning one had never entered his mind. Perhaps it was because when he was with his German relatives he thought of nothing but Germany. What wonderful times he’d had there. Now, of course, it didn’t pay to advertise one’s close relations with Germany, or the fact that both he and Jessica spoke fluent German. It was expedient to keep your mouth shut about anything German. This annoyed him because he’d always been proud of his German ancestry.

Paul drove on towards Harwood, soon leaving picturesque Mitten behind. He stretched and flexed his muscles. He’d be glad to see Hyndburn now and to freshen up after such a long trip. He ran his hand through his fair hair, his tall frame, folded into the Rolls. He had startling light blue eyes and straight, strong features. His narrow, almost aescetic-looking face sported a debonair moustache and his high-bridged nose gave him an arrogant, almost disdainful air. Paul de Lacey was a blue blood in the worst sense of the word, aloof, snobbish and condescending.

He thought of the war for a moment, taking out a packet of cigarettes as he did so and lighting one (with difficulty) as he drove. He didn’t want to fight the bloody Germans. He’d no quarrel with them, so he’d pulled strings and avoided conscription.

Paul gave a sigh of relief when he saw the smoke billowing from the mills of Harwood, belching fumes, polluting the brightness of the morning. Harwood, a dark splotch on the landscape, stood out like a sore thumb, the gray buildings and the black smoke stacks in stark contrast to the surrounding countryside. In no time he was at the gates of Hyndburn and he revved the engine and drove up the drive, the tyres scrunching on the gravel.

*********

The polished wood of the antique four-poster gleamed between the folds of rose pink silk draped on either side of the bed. Beneath the finely pleated matching silk canopy the long fair hair of Marion Townsend lay spread out like a fan on the fine lawn pillow. The pink satin counterpane was pulled up to her chin.

Marion lay in that twilight zone between sleeping and waking, conscious but still cosily drowsy, long lashes curled like two miniature fans on cheeks still flushed with sleep. As she daydreamed, snuggled under the quilt, her mind drifted to a problem, which had been annoying her for some time. The force of this feeling brought her fully awake and her eyes flickered open to stare at the pink silk above. A frown ridged over her blue eyes. Why couldn’t she go to Manchester University? What was wrong with that? Anyone would think she wanted to climb Mount Everest, the way her father had so violently opposed the idea. She knew she might have been able to bring him around eventually but her mother wouldn’t even listen.

‘
You’re going to finishing school, Marion,’ she said firmly. Marion had fumed and cried, but her mother was adamant.

‘
Then you can be launched,’ Jessica had concluded. Like she was a ship, Marion thought in disgust. Launched into London society would be a bore, she was quite sure of that. It was all talk talk talk about what to wear, how to behave and who would accompany her to all the boring does. How could it even compare with university?

Marion was all too aware of her mother’s fear that she would be influenced by radical elements; especially the suffragette movement. Poor Mummy, Marion smiled ruefully in spite of her angry thoughts. She doesn’t know that I’ve already been recruited.

Miss Constance Blakely, her teacher at the convent she attended in Manchester, had no difficulty in winning Marion over to her ideas and her adulation of the Pankhursts. Miss Blakely had been sacked after tying herself to a mill railing. Marion idolized both her and the Pankhursts. Why shouldn’t women get the vote, she thought, yawning, revealing perfect white teeth?

‘Ach, still in bed, mein gott. You vill sleep till it is lunch, ya?’ Bertha, her mother’s maid and who also attended Marion when she was home from school, bustled in with a tea tray. She put it on the bedside table and then went over to the window to draw the pink velvet curtains to let in the streaming sunshine. The sudden light made Marion blink. She stretched her arms lazily.

‘
I meant to get up early today Bertha, but I just couldn’t make the effort. It’s so wonderful to be home.’

‘Stay in bed, stay in bed, you deserve a holiday after working so hard.’ Bertha looked fondly at Marion who she had cared for since she was born. She draped a white lacy shawl fussily around Marion’s shoulders and handed her a cup of tea.

‘
Thank you, Bertha,’ Marion said. She watched Bertha tidy the clothes she’d left lying around the night before. Bertha chattered and clucked around the room, her short stolid frame as familiar to Marion as her mother’s. Dear old Bertha, she thought. She missed her when she was at school and looked forward to seeing her as much as she did her parents.

Bertha opened the French doors, which led to a small balcony overlooking the park-like setting below. The white lace curtains billowed against the light breeze and from her bed Marion could see the misty outlines of the Pennines in the distance.

‘I’ll have breakfast up here, Bertha. Tell Mother I’ll be down about eleven, will you?’

Bertha turned to stare at Marion, perplexed.

‘
Your mother will not like that, Miss Marion. She is expecting you and she vill be very disappointed.’

Marion sighed and placed the cup back on the tray with a clatter.

‘
Oh well, I suppose I’d better do the right thing and go down this morning.’ She had wanted to have another argument well prepared before she saw her mother.

‘Tell Mother I’ll be down at nine then, Bertha.’

Marion got out of bed and walked over to the balcony. How wonderful to be home!