Flint and Roses Read online

  And so, as we drove at the head of his funeral procession on that chill January morning, up the steep cobbled streets that would take him to his final rest, the churchyard was surrounded by closed carriages, the church itself most flatteringly overcrowded with substantial, silk-hatted gentlemen and their ladies, come to pay him their parting respects.

  The worsted manufacturer Mr. Hobhouse of Nethercoats was there, with his wife and the eldest of their fourteen children; the banker Mr. Rawnsley, with whom my father’s credit had always been high; the worsted spinner Mr. Oldroyd of Fieldhead, a widower himself, who had already called at our house to offer his private sympathies to my mother; the foreign-born, exceedingly prosperous Mr. George Mandelbaum, whose wife, her emotions nurtured in a warmer climate than ours, actually shed a tear. There were manufacturers and professional men from Leeds and Bradford; the Members of Parliament of both those cities; a scattering of our local gentry, who although they had disapproved of my father’s politics were finding it expedient these days to cultivate the newly rich. And, as a final honour, there was a carriage bearing the coat of arms of Sir Giles Flood, lord of the manor of Cullingford, although that noble and decidedly disreputable gentleman did not come himself.

  ‘What a sad loss!’ they said. ‘Poor fatherless children! Poor Elinor! No one could be surprised to see her follow him by the month end. Good heavens—only think of it—we must all of us come to this. How terrible!’ They lowered his coffin into the hard ground. ‘He was not a young man,’ they said, ‘older than me, at any rate.’ It was done, and I went home with Prudence and Celia to serve glasses of port and sherry to my father’s mourners, who had their own ideas as to what he had been worth and—if they happened to be the parents of sons—couldn’t help wondering how much of it, besides that twenty thousand pounds apiece, he had left to us. He was gone, there was no doubt of it. I had seen him go. But throughout the whole dreary afternoon I failed to rid myself of the sensation of his eyes still upon me, that he would suddenly appear, his cold face pinched with disapproval, and demand to know what these people were doing here, cluttering up his drawing-room, setting down their glasses on his immaculately polished tables, their careless hands and wide skirts a danger to his porcelain; his presence so real that I wondered if my mother, sitting so very still, looking so very frail, was aware of him, too.

  But the Hobhouses and the Oldroyds, the Mandelbaums and the Rawnsleys, the gentlemen from Bradford and Leeds and Halifax, having done their duty, were not disposed to linger; and, approaching my mother one by one to mutter their self-conscious sympathy, were soon heading either for home or the Old Swan in Market Square, to drink hot punch and transact a little business so that the entire day should not be profitless. And soon there remained in my father’s drawing-room only my mother’s family, the Barforths, who had once been poor and now were very rich, my father having no one of his own beside ourselves and the son of his first marriage, whose name I had never once heard on my father’s lips.

  I had been acquainted with wealthy and powerful men all my life—indeed my father had allowed us to be acquainted with no other—but it was generally acknowledged that my mother’s brother, Mr. Joel Barforth of Tarn Edge, of Lawcroft Fold, of Low Cross—the three largest textile mills in the Law Valley—was of a far higher order than any of these. For, rising above the legacy of debt and disgrace his father had bequeathed him, he had been the first man in Cullingford—perhaps the first man in the world—to see the advantages of the new, power-driven machines, and to possess the courage to exploit them.

  Following the slump in trade after our wars with Napoleon, when most manufacturers had been shaking their heads and keeping a tight hold on their purses—muttering that the ‘old ways’were best—Joel Barforth, then a young and reputedly reckless man, had filled his weaving sheds with the new machinery, turning a careless back on the hand-loom weavers who came to complain that he was taking their living away, shrugging a careless shoulder when they threatened his devilish innovations with hammers and his property with fire. He had spent money which the Hobhouses and other well-established residents of the Law Valley had considered criminal folly on a new breed of men called engineers and designers, purchasing their inventive and creative skills to make Barforth cloth not the cheapest, certainly, but the most efficiently produced, the very highest quality available, not merely in Cullingford but in the world. And because he had seen no reason to be modest about his achievements, because he had strolled into the Piece Hall in Cullingford as if he owned that too, and had greeted with no more than the tilt of a sardonic eyebrow the news that his competitors—with their faith in the ‘old ways’—were not all doing well, he had not been popular and many had wished to see him fail.

  But now, with scarcely a hand-loom weaver left in the Valley, Uncle Joel had passed far beyond the possibility of failure, his factory at Tarn Edge alone, I’d heard, capable of producing five thousand miles of excellent worsted cloth every year, his order books permanently full, his authority in the town of Cullingford very nearly complete.

  Yet, as I watched him that day sitting at ease beside his serenely elegant wife, too large a man for my father’s fragile, brocade-covered chairs, I somehow feared his influence less than that of his sister—who was my mother’s sister too—our Aunt Hannah.

  Uncle Joel was too splendid, I thought, too remote to concern himself in any great detail with the comings and goings of his orphan nieces, or, if he did, would do it with style, with the same breadth of vision he extended to all his enterprises. But Aunt Hannah had always been a source of authority in our lives, a woman of immense determination on whose judgment my mother frequently relied—a woman, we were given to understand, who deserved our respect and consideration because her life, unlike my mother’s, had always been hard.

  She had kept house for Uncle Joel during his early struggles, had sacrificed her youth to his convenience, and then, when neither he nor my mother needed her, had married late and somewhat unsuitably, reaping no advantage from her brother’s subsequently acquired millions. Yet her husband, Mr. Ira Agbrigg, who had been a widower with a half-grown son at the time of their marriage, was now the manager of Lawcroft Fold, perhaps the most important of the Barforth factories, a man whose quiet authority was acknowledged in the textile trade, and it was the long-held opinion of Mrs. Hobhouse and Mrs. Rawnsley that, if Aunt Hannah could learn to content herself with a manager’s salary, she would do well enough indeed.

  But it was not in her nature to take second place to a Mrs. Morgan Aycliffe, her own sister, nor to a Mrs. Joel Barforth, her own brother’s wife, both these ladies younger, and in her view considerably less able, than herself, and although she was ready enough to borrow our carriage-horses and to help herself to the surplus products of the Barforth kitchens—unable, she said, to tolerate waste—I had always recognized her as a great power.

  Uncle Joel, no doubt, would wind up my father’s business affairs, or keep them ticking over as he thought fit, but unless my mother, who so far as I knew had never made a decision in her life, chose now to stir herself, it occurred to me that the minutiae of our daily lives—of far greater importance to us than building land and railway shares—would be left to Aunt Hannah.

  Uncle Joel, apparently disinclined for conversation, planted himself on the hearthrug dominating the fire, and, reaching for his cigar-case—although I did not think that even he would dare to smoke here, in my father’s drawing-room—allowed his gaze to rest speculatively on my father’s glass-fronted cabinets and his intricately inlaid, expertly polished tables, each one bearing the treasures of Sèvres and Meissen, Minton and Derby, that my father had cherished far more than his children.

  I saw Aunt Hannah’s husband look down uncomfortably at his feet, his sense of propriety telling him it was time to leave, his sense of reality reminding him he would need his wife’s permission to do so. I saw my Uncle Joel’s wife, kind Aunt Verity, smile with tolerant, tranquil understanding at her husband well aware, I
thought, of his urge to light that forbidden cigar, and of the commercial instincts which were now leading him from force of habit to assess the value of my father’s porcelain.

  And for a while there was no sound but the busy crackling of the fire, the ticking of the ormolu and enamel clock standing, as it had always done, at the very centre of the mantelpiece, a black basalt urn perfectly placed at either side. But Aunt Hannah was not given to prolonged meditation, and, fixing my mother with an irritable eye, announced, ‘Well, then, Elinor—it’s a bad business.’

  ‘Yes, dear. So it is.’

  ‘Indeed. And he’ll be sadly missed, for heaven knows how we’ll find another Member of Parliament to serve us so well. I suppose the by-election must be quite soon?’

  ‘Yes, dear. I suppose it must.’

  ‘And I wonder if you have given any thought to a suitable memorial?’

  ‘Oh—my word! Should I do that, do you think, Hannah?’

  ‘I think it will be expected of you, Elinor. A headstone will hardly suffice, you know, for so distinguished a man. No—no—something altogether out of the ordinary. And it strikes me that if the worthies of this town could be prevailed upon to subscribe towards the building of a concert hall, then there would be every reason in the world to name it after your husband. Now what do you think to that?’

  ‘That would be splendid, Hannah.’

  ‘Well, then—if you agree, of course—a committee could easily be formed for the purpose, and in view of Mr. Aycliffe’s services to the community I can anticipate no difficulty. Really, it would be most appropriate.’

  And as my mother continued to smile, a placid little woman who had no objection to monuments or concert halls or anything else so long as she was not required to stir from her own warm corner, my Uncle Joel, that most awe inspiring of gentlemen, grinned suddenly, as mischievously as a schoolboy, and said, ‘Aye—most appropriate. And if the firm of Morgan Aycliffe should undertake the construction work, then I’d think it more than appropriate. I’d think it shrewd.’

  And with an air of enormous unconcern—master in his own home, master, now, it seemed, in ours—he selected a cigar, lit it and inhaled deeply, bringing home to me by that one simple, almost contemptuous gesture that my father, who had not permitted tobacco in his house, much less his drawing-room, was dead indeed.

  ‘Joel!’ Aunt Hannah said, quite horrified. ‘Good heavens!—what are you thinking of? Not in here.’

  But, standing in the centre of the room, his bulk overshadowing the memory of the narrow, silent man whose ghost he had so easily laid to rest, he did no more than shrug his powerful, expensively covered shoulders.

  ‘If Elinor don’t like it, I reckon she can tell me so.’

  ‘Elinor?’ Aunt Hannah cried out, the hint of nervous tears in her voice causing me to wonder if she had indeed cared for my father as sincerely as she pretended. ‘Elinor has nothing to say to it. This is Morgan Aycliffe’s house, as you very well know, and when did Elinor ever have any sense of what’s right, or any sense at all? It’s not decent, Joel—the poor man is scarcely in his grave. And it’s the porcelain—you know the care he took of his porcelain and how he feared the tobacco would stain it.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ my mother murmured, perfectly serene in the face of this tirade. ‘The porcelain—the famous, beautiful porcelain. There is a word to say, Joel, is there not, about the porcelain?’

  And rousing herself suddenly she smiled at me, and at Prudence, and at Celia, and sent us off to bed.

  We had rooms of our own now, below the nursery-floor, identical toilet tables swathed in white muslin, narrow, white-quilted beds, nothing to distinguish one from the other except that Prudence and Celia maintained their possessions in immaculate order while I alas, did not. And as Celia bade us a sedate good-night, hurrying off to dream, with total fifteen-year-old contentment, of the twenty thousand pounds which would secure her the wedding, the christening, the smart new villa of her heart’s desire, I joined Prudence for a moment at her fireside, neither of us ready to be alone.

  We had not loved our father. He had not required it, and it had occurred to neither of us to do so. Unlike Celia, who had felt secure beneath the wing of his authority, we had been oppressed by it yet now there could be no sense of relief, no real hope of broadening our narrow spirits, our restricted horizons.

  Possibly—without my father to run to—our governess. Miss Mayfield, might prove a trifle less invincible. We might, with some contriving, be at last empowered to pay calls and receive them without her eagle-eyed supervision, to write letters without submitting them for her inspection, to hold conversations out of her hearing. We might, indeed be allowed to choose our own gowns—within reason—to make the momentous decision between lace or ribbons, a bonnet crowned with feathers or with a satin rose. And it was the measure of my father’s defeat that only one of his three daughters could content herself with that. Celia would do well because she wanted only what it was right and proper for her to have. Prudence would find life hard, since she wanted to make up her own, female mind as to its direction. I had no idea what I wanted—except that I had not met it yet, except that it was not to be found in Blenheim Lane.

  ‘What of the porcelain then?’ I enquired carefully. ‘Is it to go to our brother, do you imagine?’ And having lived in fear of those frail treasures all my life—for if someone’s skin had ever dislodged one of them it would certainly have been mine—I added. ‘Well, and I shouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Nor I,’ she answered, continuing to stare into the fire, her face, in its tight concentration, more like my father’s than ever. ‘Indeed, it is only right that he should have something, especially when one considers that if he had not quarrelled with father he might have had it all. But he is a man. One supposes he is able to take care of himself. I should like to worry about him, but I have other things on my mind. I am far too busy wondering whether it will be a Hobhouse or a Rawnsley they will purchase for me with my twenty thousand.’

  ‘Perhaps mother will still give you a London season, as father planned.’ But Prudence, her mouth hard and sarcastic, although she had not wanted to go to the London marriage-market in any case, shook her head. ‘Oh no. Mother will do exactly as she is told. You know how she is, with her “Yes, dear—no, dear” except that now she will be nodding and smiling to Uncle Joel instead of father. And although I am sure Uncle Joel means us no harm and would add to our money rather than cheat us of a single penny—and believe me, there are uncles who would cheat us—well, he won’t take the trouble to send us to London. He knows he has to get us married, and he’ll do it, but he won’t be as careful as father. He’ll accept anyone-who offers, so long as he’s respectable—anyone Aunt Hannah draws to his attention—just to get the job done. And all mother will say is “Yes, dear. How very splendid”. What a poor, silly creature she is, Faith. Was she always like that, do you suppose, or was it father—twenty years of father—that turned her into a porcelain doll? I have a nightmare sometimes that I could be the same.’

  I kissed her lightly, knowing she did not really like to be touched, knowing there was no lasting comfort I could give; and, crossing the landing to my own room—wondering about that porcelain doll, that dainty puppet who had waltzed so blissfully the night her puppet-master died—I became once more an unseen, unwilling witness.

  Below me in the darkened hall Uncle Joel and his wife were taking their leave, and as Aunt Verity stooped to kiss my mother’s cheek and then moved away my uncle paused a moment, cigar in hand, its unaccustomed male fragrance shocking and attracting me, so that I paused too, looked down, and then, afraid of discovery, was obliged to remain.

  ‘There’s a lot of money, Elinor,’ I heard him say. ‘Not bad, eh, for twenty years’ work, however tedious. And you’re still young enough, like I said you’d be. The world’s wide and you can afford to enjoy it now if you’ll bide your time. All I ask of you is to wear your widow’s weeds like a good girl, as long as it’s decent, before
you start spreading your wings.’

  And smiling up at him, neither docile not helpless, but radiating an enchanting, altogether wicked sparkle, she threw both arms around his neck, and standing on excited tiptoe hugged him tight.

  ‘Yes, Joel, a twelvemonth of black veils, isn’t it, for a husband? Then lilac and grey for a year after that. I’ll do it, don’t fret yourself, for I’ve no objection to black. But it strikes me no one could really blame me if I went off to wear it in a sunnier climate. The northern winter, you know, and my tendency to take cold—in fact my doctor may positively insist upon it.’

  ‘Aye, I reckon he might.’

  ‘Italy, I thought, or southern France—for a while, Joel. I’ve earned myself that; surely? Hannah can see to the girls—and Verity—for the whole world knows me as a woman who couldn’t be trusted to arrange a tea-party, much less a wedding.’

  ‘So they do. Just promise me you’ll arrange no weddings of your own—in Italy and France.’

  ‘Oh Joel,’ she said, hugging him again, her face, glimpsed behind his shoulder, vivid and alive. ‘I think you can be sure of that. No weddings for me, darling, not until I’m old at any rate. And I’m not old—oh, no—that I’m not.’

  And standing in the doorway she waved her hand, a free-flowing, graceful movement of her whole body, stretching herself in the crisp, night air—without a shawl, without a chaperone—until his carriage was out of sight.

  Chapter Two

  My mother took to her bed the very next day, suffering, they said at first, from the effects of fatigue and sorrow, which, combined with the biting January wind—the prospect of a raw February, a howling March to follow—could well settle on her lungs. And so it was left to Uncle Joel to inform us that my father had bequeathed his entire collection of porcelain to Prudence, thus causing much distress to Celia, who did not care about the porcelain, but, being the youngest, the smallest, the only one who had really believed in father’s teachings, would clearly have loved to be singled out.