Part 6 (2/2)

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 h.e.l.l of a job to get this car out of old tightwad Townsend, as he secretly called his brother in law. b.l.o.o.d.y old skin-flint! Rolling in b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.d 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, s.h.i.+ning through the windows had warmed the car, so that Paul felt snug and cosy in his little coc.o.o.n.

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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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, sn.o.bbish 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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!

She had hated the confines of the convent. In her last year she'd been allowed to venture out of the grounds with some of the other final year students. She'd enjoyed walking around Manchester. Sometimes they had afternoon tea at a cafe in Collins Street. She loved that, the hustle and bustle, the noise and often confusion of a big city. There were always rallies being held, especially now that the war wasn't going well.

She had gone out on her own one afternoon and joined some people who were listening to a young man standing on a soap box; he was speaking in a very loud voice in his very p.r.o.nounced Lancas.h.i.+re accent. She blushed at the thought. She was going to meet that young man the next time she went to Manchester.

Jessica Townsend had not had the best of mornings. She pursed her lips in annoyance, flicking through her mail, noting in exasperation that quite a number had been opened. George! She must speak to him again about this bad habit of his. She valued her privacy!

She read another letter, also opened. The day so far had not gone well. Paul had rung at the unearthly hour of seven o'clock this morning that he'd be arriving today. No word of warning so that she could prepare. So typical of him! George had not been at all pleased. She didn't blame him. Paul was inconsiderate at times and even she, his most fervent champion, sometimes felt decidedly cross the way he ran roughshod over people's feelings.

She'd just finished speaking with Paul when Raymond rang, demanding to come home immediately. He hated his cousins he had yelled at her through the phone. His garbled account was cut short by George's sister who had put Jessica's mind at rest by saying, in her usual unruffled way, 'Don't worry about Ray, Jess darling, we'll sort this out, just leave it to us.' So she had, relieved that she could more or less forget Ray for the time being.

Marion was her main worry at the moment. Two small lines on her forehead deepened as she thought of her daughter. She'd been such a darling little girl and so amenable.

At breakfast this morning she'd been anything but that, although she'd appeared on the dot of nine as she said she would, looking demure and pretty in a white muslin dress. It wasn't long, however, before signs of belligerence began to surface and voices were raised. So tasteless, Jessica thought with a shudder. It was all this new way of thinking. She didn't agree with it at all. She's getting more like George every day Jessica thought, although at one time she'd been able manipulate George quite easily: just that small, secretive smile and a slight caress of his hand; that had been enough. Lately, however, he was also showing a stubborn streak, especially where Paul was concerned. Thank goodness they were in agreement about Marion.

It's all becoming just too tiresome, Jessica thought. Nothing seems to go right. She sighed again and got up from her desk, an ornate antique affair, and smoothed down the long, blue linen skirt of her stylish dress. She suddenly remembered that Miss Fenton was bringing the new maid to see her this morning. Something else to have to think about! She walked over to the window, which looked out onto the garden. Normally she took pleasure in how lovely Hyndburn was, but not today; today she was in too much turmoil to enjoy anything.

Leah was exhausted at the end of her first day at Hyndburn: so many different people, so much to look at, so many things to remember. Her mind was in a complete muddle by the time she went to bed. Her duties were to start at seven o'clock and end at six, although she was expected to help with was.h.i.+ng the dishes after each meal.

After the meeting with Mrs. Townsend (it hadn't been as bad as she thought), she and Miss Fenton went down to the kitchen and had a cup of tea with Maud and Alf. Gertie and the gardener, she'd forgotten his name, had also been there. Gertie had been subdued and hardly said a word. Leah had been uneasy. Gertie was still hostile towards her, but why?

The rest of the day she spent helping Maud in the kitchen. Gertie had gone off to polish silver in the dining room so Leah hadn't seen her until almost tea. She had quite enjoyed working in the kitchen with Maud, watching Maud's deft hands roll pastry, mix cakes and cook a huge roast of beef for the Townsend's dinner that night, with mouth watering roast potatoes and vegetables. Maud finished with an apple tart for dessert with thick clotted cream. It smelt heavenly!

'We'll have the steak pudding left over from yesterday,' Maud said to Leah. 'You can peel the potatoes for me for the roast while I do the pie.'

Leah nodded. She could do that, peel a potato at least. Then Mrs. Walters stopped at three, 'to put my feet up for an hour', she said to Leah. 'You just go and get a bit of fresh air, love,' she said as she went into the adjoining room, which was a kind of sitting c.u.m dining room for the staff. Maud sat down with a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.

Leah stood uncertainly for a moment wondering what to do. She opened the back door and looked out. It was a beautiful day. A pity to waste it staying indoors and Mrs. Walters had said she could have a break. She stepped tentatively out onto the path and looked at the vegetable garden again. It was so neat, all the vegetables planted in perfect rows.

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