The Mistress of Windfell Manor Read online

  The Mistress of Windfell Manor

  Diane Allen was born in Leeds, but raised at her family’s farm, deep in the Yorkshire Dales. After working as a glass engraver, raising a family and looking after an ill father, she found her true niche in life, joining a large-print publishing firm in 1990, rising to the position of general manager before leaving to become a full-time writer. Diane is also Honorary Vice President of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. Diane and her husband Ronnie live in Long Preston, in the Yorkshire Dales, and have two children and four beautiful grandchildren.

  By Diane Allen

  For the Sake of Her Family

  For a Mother’s Sins

  For a Father’s Pride Like Father, Like Son

  The Mistress of Windfell Manor

  DIANE ALLEN

  The Mistress of

  Windfell Manor

  PAN BOOKS

  First published 2016 by Macmillan

  This paperback edition published 2016 by Pan Books an imprint of Pan Macmillan 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Associated companies throughout the world www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-8731-5

  Copyright © Diane Allen 2016

  The right of Diane Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset by Ellipsis Digital Limited, Glasgow Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

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  Dedicated with all my love to Ronnie.

  Forty-one years married, my love,

  who said it would never last?

  I love you.

  A Weaver’s Lament

  Come all you cotton-weavers, your looms you must pull down.

  You must be employed in factories, in country or in town,

  For our cotton-masters have found out a wonderful new scheme,

  These calico goods now wove by hand they’re going to weave by steam.

  A VERSE FROM A NINETEENTH-CENTURY BROADSHEET BALLAD

  1

  Yorkshire Dales, spring 1860

  Wesley Booth stood with his hands clenched behind his back and looked out of the parlour window of Crummock Farm, admiring the early-morning view over the dew-clad dales towards the hamlet of Eldroth. There wasn’t a better view in all Yorkshire, he proclaimed to himself, as he turned and glared at the young maid as she put too much coal on the newly lit fire.

  ‘Not a finer sight tha’ll find, Mary, than looking out of this window on an early spring morning. God’s own county, that’s what we are in, lass. Mark my words, God’s own county.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Mary looked up at her new master for a brief second, remembering to curtsy just in time, before smoothing her apron.

  ‘Go easy with the coal, lass; anybody would think we were made of money.’ Wesley scowled at the young lass from the village of Austwick as she added another piece of coal, before brushing the hearth.

  ‘Yes, sir; sorry, sir.’ Mary blushed.

  Wesley smiled to himself; it felt good finally to be in control of his family home. By God, he’d waited long enough for this day, and now it was here. He stretched and yawned; it had been a long night, and he had thought his father was never going to die. Eighty-eight was a bloody good age for the old bugger, and he’d been sickly for years, but would not give up control of the three hundred and sixty-five acres of land that belonged to Crummock Farm. The words his father said nearly every day echoed in Wesley’s ears: ‘Three hundred and sixty-five acres – one for every day of the year – and all containing the sweat off my back.’ Sweat off his back, my arse, grinned Wesley; it had been his sweat, that and the sweat of the farm labourers he had employed, and his father had just stood leaning on his stick giving the orders.

  Anyway, the old bugger was dead – cold as the grave, in his bed up above – and Wesley was master and owner now. He breathed in heavily and looked once more out of the window. The view was grand, the sun shone clear, and playful beams filtered through the budding branches of the sycamore tree at the end of the garden. It was going to be a good day, despite a death in the family. It had been expected, and no one should cry over someone who had reached that age. After breakfast he would ride around his inheritance; not that he didn’t know every inch of it already, but now it was his, and that made all the difference. As if on cue, Mrs Cranston entered the parlour.

  ‘Breakfast is out in the dining room, and Miss Lottie is waiting for you. She seems a bit upset, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ Lucy Cranston looked at her new master; she’d known him as both man and boy and realized how much he had waited for this day.

  ‘Upset, my arse. The only thing she’ll be upset about will be losing the odd guinea that the old devil used to give her. Our Lottie is as cunning as a vixen – God help the man she marries.’ Wesley smiled at Lucy Cranston. He could talk plain to her, and she knew it. There were no secrets between him and the cook, who had served him and his family well.

  ‘Well, she does look a little pale. I’ve told her to put some more rouge on. No doubt we will have callers all day, once word is out that Mr Booth has died. And we want her to look her best, especially if that Archie Atkinson comes calling.’

  ‘Now, Mrs Cranston, are you matchmaking with that nephew of yours? Our Lottie will do just the opposite of what you want – you know how strong-willed she is. Besides, I doubt he’ll have enough brass for my lass, for she’s been used to the finer things in life.’ Wesley put his hand on the old cook’s shoulder. ‘I know you mean well.’

  ‘Aye, you’ve spoilt her good and proper. It doesn’t seem five minutes since her mother died, but it must be all of twenty years. Such a pretty thing she was. Lottie is the image of her.’

  ‘Ah! My darling Isabelle, there isn’t a day goes by without me thinking of her. I thought that we would never be parted.’ Wesley’s voice faded, as his memory recalled the day his wife had been knocked to the ground and killed by a runaway horse and buggy, sacrificing her life for that of her baby, as she pushed Charlotte to safety.

  ‘Life’s been hard for you, but you should be proud of your Charlotte, she’s not a bad girl.’ Lucy touched her master’s hand gently in sympathy, as she saw his usually joyful face cloud over.

  ‘Indeed I am, Mrs Cranston, you are quite right. Count your blessings, and I’m sure the right man will come along for our Charlotte – and it won’t be long, if I have my way. But when he does, I will ask him if his intentions towards my daughter are honourable, and if he can support her in the way I think appropriate, just as I was made to quiver like a simpering jelly in front of Isabelle’s father. As you say, it does seem
like only yesterday.’ Wesley lifted his bowed head and smiled at the old cook with a heart of gold. ‘Now, what have we got for breakfast? Some of your scrambled eggs, I hope, and perhaps a rasher of bacon. It’s been a long night and I’m starving.’

  Charlotte Booth sat at her usual place at the immaculately polished dining table. She was building herself up to her father’s entrance; now that he owned the family home, it was her father that she would have to play to, in order to secure her spending money. She glanced at her reflection in the silver-covered serving bowl. If she pulled a lock out of place from her lovingly styled hair, it would give her the advantage of looking more distressed by the death of her grandpapa. She carefully teased a golden tress out and made it fall down strategically in front of her eyes, smiling at her reflection as it showed the desired effect. Then she practised the sob, the one that she had refined in her bedroom, before making her woeful descent down the twisting stairs of the old farmhouse. It had fooled Mrs Cranston, so it would fool her father, too. Lord knows how heartbroken she was over the death; it was quite obvious for the entire world to see. Hearing the sound of footsteps and her father’s voice, she started her play-acting.

  ‘So what have we here then, my lovely daughter? It’s too fair a day for a young lass like you to be crying. Your grandpapa wouldn’t hold with this; he was old and ready to make peace with his maker.’ Wesley kissed his daughter on both cheeks, noting the lack of real tears as he bent down to comfort her.

  ‘I’ll miss him, Father. I was so close to him, you know I was.’ Charlotte added an extra sniffle as her father pulled up his chair to the dining table.

  ‘Close to his wallet perhaps. That’s what you are more bothered about – never mind that the poor old bugger’s not yet buried.’ Wesley lifted the lid on the silver server and helped himself to the warm scrambled eggs, before reaching over for a rasher of bacon from another tray.

  ‘Father, I’m not like that, and you know it. I loved my grandpapa, I really did.’ Charlotte gave a sly glance from behind her handkerchief and knew she wasn’t going to win with the fake adoration of her grandfather.

  ‘Aye, well, he’s gone, lass. There’s just me and thee in this rambling old farmhouse. Thee and me and Mrs Cranston, who seems to think that she has a suitor lined up for you, in that Atkinson lad from Butterfield Gap. I’ve told her he’s not got enough brass to keep you in shoes, never mind anything else.’ Wesley ran his knife through the bacon, lifting it to his mouth while watching his daughter’s face as it suddenly brightened.

  ‘He’s alright, is Archie, he keeps me amused.’ Charlotte played with her napkin.

  ‘I didn’t invest my money in giving you a decent education, and introducing you to some of the leading gentry of this area, for you to be simpering over some farm lad. You’d not last a minute; as soon as your skirts got dirty, you’d be running back home. I might be a farmer myself, but set your stall for someone a bit higher up in society, our Lottie. Besides, your grandpapa has left you a small inheritance. Nothing special, just twenty guineas a year, but it’s better than nowt. And I don’t want to see it going to waste on keeping you out of poverty on a rough fell-land farm. I’ll set up an account for you at my bank. Miserable old Brown will not be happy when I ask him for an account in your own right, but he should be grateful we are putting money into his bank. I could always bank elsewhere in Settle.’

  ‘Good old Grandpapa, I knew he’d have thought of me. All those boring days of reading to him have paid off; the hours I was bored, and the tales I had to endure, were unbelievable. Thank you for going to see Mr Brown, Papa. I can’t believe that women are looked upon as not having any sense with money. He’s such a stuffy old devil.’ Charlotte’s mood changed instantly, as she thought of how she could spend her inheritance.

  ‘By God, lass, you should audition for the stage in Leeds, you’re such a good actress. Now listen: you make nowt of that Atkinson lad. I’ve got my eye on a fella for you and, believe me, you’ll want for nowt.’ Wesley leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. ‘As long as I’ve got Mrs Cranston, I’ll not want for owt, either. But we’ve got to get you wed. You’re not getting any younger, and neither am I, come to think of it.’

  ‘I hope you’re not lining me up with one of your miserable old cronies, Father? I couldn’t bear being married to some dithering man of fifty. The thought of someone like old Eric Sowerby breathing over me, and dribbling at the merest suggestion, makes me feel quite sick. Filthy old man!’ Charlotte sipped her tea and wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought of one of the richest eligible landowners in Yorkshire groping her in their wedding bed.

  ‘Give over, lass – Eric’s longer in the tooth than I am. That doesn’t make him any less able to take on a young filly like you. But no, behave, we need to find you a respectable man: someone younger, with fresh ideas and plenty of brass. And I met just the right man the other night, when I had my meeting with the councillors at Settle. I looked across the table at the fella and I listened to him talking about his newfangled mill, and I thought: He’s the man for my lass. He wasn’t frightened of owt or anybody; he said what he wanted, said what he needed to do and left them old buggers on the council speechless. That lad will go far, mark my words. Not that he isn’t already worth a bob or two, from what I understand.’ Wesley chewed on his bacon and watched his daughter’s face.

  ‘A mill owner! But that means he’s not from around here. And how do you know what he’s like? He could have come from nothing. At least I know where Archie comes from and that he’s like us: a farmer born and bred in these dales. You’d marry me off to someone we know nothing about?’ Charlotte looked horrified at her father’s acceptance of a complete stranger, just because he’d stood his ground with the local councillors.

  ‘Aye, lass, you’ll think different when tha sees him. He’s nowt like your Archie; you’ll be blown to the four winds when he walks in through yon door. On that I’ll eat my hat. You are my lass, and the one thing you have inherited from me is knowing when something’s worth spending time on, especially when it involves money. Anyway, you can make your own mind up, because he’s coming to supper next Friday.’ Wesley leaned back and belched loudly.

  ‘Well, you’ll need better manners than that when he’s here, if you aim to impress,’ Charlotte chastised her father.

  ‘Nowt wrong with belching – it’s the sound of appreciation of good food.’ Wesley grinned at his vexed daughter. She was angry with him now, but things would change once she saw their guest. ‘I’m off on a ride around my new kingdom. I’ll be back for the undertaker. Don’t you get under Mrs Cranston’s feet, and make sure you entertain anybody who comes paying their respects before my return.’

  Charlotte watched as her father stood up from the table and made for the door. ‘Just one thing, Father: you’ve forgotten to tell me our visitor’s name. And how old is he?’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’d say he’s about thirty, and his name is Joseph Dawson. And before you ask, he’s from Accrington. Not a million miles away, lass, so don’t you fret that pretty head of yours.’

  Wesley closed the dining-room door after him, knowing full well that his daughter’s head would be full of questions for his cook. Lucy Cranston knew everything about anybody; where she learned it from, God only knew, but her source of gossip was to be admired. If he wanted to know owt, he had only to ask Lucy. And what he’d heard from her regarding Joseph Dawson was all good. Aye, he was the right man for his lass. Besides, it was time she was wed and out from under his feet. He had his own life – he and Lucy. If he could, he’d wed his cook, but that wouldn’t be seen to be acceptable in polite society, so he aimed to share the house with no intrusions, once Lottie was gone. There was nowt wrong with having your cake and eating it, and how true that was in Lucy’s case. He smirked to himself. She was good in the kitchen and knew how to keep a bed warm on the coldest of nights, and he’d be lost without her. Her and that ample figure, in which he found comfort and pleasure.

&n
bsp; He blushed at his own thoughts as he shouted for his dog, which had been asleep next to the hearth in the warm kitchen. With his father gone and Lottie to be married off, he could at last find solace in Lucy’s arms as and when he wanted. To hell with whatever the servant lass thought; he was the owner of Crummock Farm – he could do what he liked, when he wanted to, and you could be sure that’s just what he was going to do.

  ‘Off to view my land, Lucy. I’ll be back midmorning,’ Wesley shouted through the kitchen door.

  ‘I’ll make sure to keep you warm one of these scones I’m making.’ Mrs Cranston wiped her hands on her apron and smiled at the love of her life as he closed the kitchen door behind him. She turned and noticed the snigger on the face of Mary, the parlour maid, as she wiped the kitchen table. ‘Get a move on and clear the dining room, you. We can expect visitors this morning, and I want it all tidy and in its place.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Mary grinned. It was common gossip down in Austwick that it was more than a warm scone that old Booth got from his cook and housekeeper, since the death of his wife. But why should she worry? That left her free of any advances, unlike her friend who worked at Clapham Hall; she should be thankful that the master didn’t have an eye for a young lass that he could easily take advantage of.

  *

  Charlotte lingered over her cup of tea, running her finger around the rim of the delicate gold-lustre china. Who was this Joseph Dawson that her father seemed convinced was right for her? And, even if he was, how was she going to prove it to him? After all, he might already be married; indeed, he might not even be wanting to look at marriage. And what if she absolutely hated him. Hate him! How could she hate him, if he had money? Money was everything in Charlotte’s life, and she knew it.