The Mistress of Windfell Manor Page 17

  Bert Bannister watched Charlotte’s face as she gasped at the young boy, who sat down for a second, thankful that he’d managed to escape being crushed. She cared more than her husband. You only had to look at her face to know that. But care did not make profit and keep folk fed. It was the way of the world, and she’d have to accept it. He gestured, suggesting that perhaps she would like to walk out of the huge, noisy room and make her way out to the weavers. His voice wasn’t audible over the noise of the spinning machines.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll see the weavers today, Mr Bannister. I’ve seen enough and I’ll have to get back to my household. My maid will be wondering where I am.’ Charlotte felt faint as she gave her apologies to Bert.

  ‘You don’t look too well, Mrs Dawson, if you don’t mind me saying. I’ll get one of the carters to take you back home. Better we get you back safely.’ Bert held out his arm for Charlotte to take as they walked steadily down the mill stairs.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bannister; and thank you for your guidance. May I ask for this visit to be kept between ourselves? My husband doesn’t agree with me poking my nose into his business.’ Charlotte continued to feel faint and was thankful when Bert gave her a hand up next to the carter whom he’d beckoned to come to her aid.

  ‘It’s been my pleasure, ma’am. And if you need to know anything about the mill, let me know. But for now, you take care of yourself and that baby. That’s the main thing.’ Bert summoned the driver to walk on, and watched as the cart carrying Charlotte left the cobbled yard. Poor cow; she hadn’t any idea how ruthless and uncaring her husband was to all his workers. God help them if his heir was to be anything like him; and God let the baby she was carrying be a girl, for another copy of Joseph Dawson would be hell!

  Betsy lay next to Joseph and ran her hand through the dark hair on his bare chest. She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek, then laid her head back down next to his.

  ‘So, she thinks you are at Long Preston today?’ she asked as she ran her finger through his dark hair again.

  ‘She does. Not that it’s any of your business.’ Joseph gazed up at the cracks running along the ceiling of the two-bedroom cottage of Betsy and her younger brother. He’d lain there a lot lately, finding love and solace in the arms of his obedient mill lass. A lass who didn’t ask questions and who did what he wanted, provided he paid for it.

  ‘Does she love you, like I do?’ Betsy purred into Joseph’s ear and kissed it gently.

  ‘Again it’s nowt to do with you, woman. What I do at home, and what my wife says to me, is none of your business. Be content with your lot and I’ll not do wrong by you.’ Joseph reached for his pocket watch, from the waistcoat strewn on the floor, and looked at the time. ‘Besides, your brat of a brother will be making his way home. I’ll make myself scarce.’ He sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled on his trousers, buttoning his waistcoat up before fastening his pocket watch back in place.

  ‘You could stay a little longer. Johnny always dawdles on fine days like these, and it wouldn’t cost you much more.’ She ran her hand up her bare leg and smiled at him. Joseph was just about a daily visitor nowadays, and she was making more money lying on her back of an evening than labouring at his mill, where she worked her fingers to the bone through the daytime.

  ‘Get up, you whore, I’m paying you. If my bloody wife wasn’t so fat and full of child, I wouldn’t be coming, so don’t you forget that.’ Joseph buttoned his jacket up and threw a florin on the bed. ‘That’s more than you’d make in a fortnight, so keep your mouth shut.’ He checked himself in the foxed full-length mirror attached to the wall in the badly lit bedroom and tapped his hat on his head. ‘Tomorrow night I’ll come, same time as usual. And change those bloody sheets – they stink. If you’re going to run a brothel, run a clean one.’ He looked at Betsy languishing on her brass bed and shrugged his shoulders. She’d turned into a common whore, just wanting his money and telling him what she thought he wanted to hear. All women were the same: just after his money, not really loving him at all. He’d learned that at his mother’s knee, as she said the same thing to her clients in the dirty back streets of Accrington: ‘Tell the punters what they want to hear, my love; take their money and then move on to the next.’ Both he and his elder sister had had to survive as best they could whilst their mother went about her trade, with men coming and going at all times of the day and night. It was then that he vowed he would never have children, and would never love a woman. They were all liars, including his sister.

  ‘Looking forward to it, my darling.’ Betsy leaned back in her bed and watched Joseph leave her for the day. Tomorrow morning he would be her boss and master, as she made a living at the mill; but come tomorrow night, he’d be her lover. Maybe one day he might even be her husband. His wife was weak, and everyone had it in mind that she’d nearly died after her accident. Whatever the outcome, Joseph no longer hit Betsy, and his passion for her was deepening while his wife’s grip on him was weakening – else why would he spend a full day with her alone? A day away from the mill was a welcome break, when she was lying in her lover’s arms. So what if she was going to tell tales to one and all at the mill, on her return to work tomorrow? She’d tell them how ill she had felt, and they’d fall for her lies. After all, the great and mighty Joseph Dawson would not say any different, so who were they to question it?

  ‘Aye, that Betsy next door is riding for a fall, the stupid lass.’ Gertie Potts lifted her teacup to her lips and beckoned her friend from across the way to come and witness through her lace curtains Joseph Dawson leaving her next-door neighbour’s house. ‘She’s the talk of the mill, my Harold says. And she was such a nice lass when she first came – she and her brother Johnny. It’s the lil’ lad I feel sorry for. It’s bad enough that he’s lost his parents, without his sister being the talk of the mill. Still, you can’t tell her, otherwise it will all end in tears.’

  Gertie and her friend watched as Joseph closed the gate and walked down the path that skirted the millpond. They shook their heads at the latest scandal to beset the little row of mill cottages.

  ‘Aye, it will all end in tears, mark my words.’ Gertie sat down again, to carry on with other gossip that was demanding their attention.

  16

  Joseph placed the newspaper down and cursed.

  ‘Is there any need for that on a Sunday?’ Charlotte asked quietly, watching as her husband lifted his paper to read more of the news that was obviously irritating him.

  ‘There’s every bloody need, with the Americas being in turmoil. The North is now officially at war with the South, and that’s bad news for us. Richard Todd did warn me. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m just glad that we managed to secure a shipment before these so-called blockades start.’

  ‘Why would they want to blockade the sale of cotton to England? That doesn’t make sense.’ Charlotte looked across at Joseph and waited for his answer. She watched as he dropped the newspaper onto his knee.

  ‘The South – or the Confederates, as they are now known – is dependent on cotton sales to finance its army, and the North is trying to stop the export of cotton. All the seaports along the southern Atlantic coast below Washington are blockaded. Cotton generates huge sums of money for the southern states and helps provide revenue for their government, arms and military. The Confederates are also fighting to keep slavery. Without the slaves, the cotton would never be picked. Damn that Abraham Lincoln and his Yankees! I hope he rots in hell – he and his high-class morals. Negroes don’t know any different; they need masters.’ Joseph hit his newspaper and swore again.

  ‘Joseph! They are human beings like us, they shouldn’t be treated like animals. Thank heavens we abolished slavery – it isn’t right that one man owns another.’

  ‘What do you know; you’re only a woman. You won’t be saying that when we are bankrupt and on the streets, and have no money to pay the wages at the mill, let alone feed ourselves. Besides, don’t you realize that I own those who work at the mi
ll: they rely on me for their pay, their houses and even how they meet their maker. Without the pay they receive they would be begging in the streets. Don’t be too anti-slavery, my dear. By the time this war is over, people will be wishing they were slaves. At least they would have been fed, instead of starving.’ Joseph could see nothing but gloom for the future; these were going to be worrying times at Ferndale. Things were tight as it was, without raw cotton supplies being hard to come by.

  ‘We will agree to differ over slaves. But surely some cotton will be able to reach our shores? And, as you say, Ferndale has an ample supply at the moment.’ Charlotte stopped knitting her baby shawl and looked at the worry on her husband’s face.

  ‘It depends. I think I will cut the hours and pay at the mill. At least that will help costs, in the short term.’ For once Joseph was glad he had a wife to talk to. Since his sister Dora had found a man for herself in Settle, she was no longer his confidante. Whoever the man was, he was stupid. She’d bleed him dry and leave him broken-hearted, for Dora was even harder-hearted than he was.

  ‘But the war is not your workers’ doing, yet it is they who are going to suffer the most. Do you really have to cut their hours and pay?’ Charlotte remembered the workers she had seen in the mill. None of them looked healthy and well fed. In fact, some of them had looked like paupers, they were so thin.

  ‘It will be them or us, Charlotte. We will have to make some sacrifices as well. Now is not the best time to start a family. Plus, can you understand now why giving the tenancy of Crummock to Atkinson was so foolhardy. We will need every penny, before this conflict in America ends.’ Joseph sighed.

  ‘Crummock can supply us with much of the food that we need. We were nearly self-sufficient when I lived there. Surely that man – this Mr Wilson – could supply butter, milk and mutton to us, and I’m sure he should already be raising a pig for bacon, to get them through the winter months.’ Charlotte cast her mind back to a kitchen that was full of plenty and where nobody went hungry.

  ‘I don’t know if Roger Wilson is that concerned about looking after our needs at this moment in time. I think he will be getting to grips with the running of Crummock, and keeping that Arthur in check.’ Joseph quickly quelled any thought of Roger Wilson keeping them in farm produce, knowing all too well that the tenant at Crummock was no farmer.

  ‘Well, he should be – he’s beholden to us. And as for keeping Arthur in check, he’ll be no problem, for he knows his duties well.’ Charlotte was indignant at Joseph’s reply to her suggestion. ‘All the more reason to have had Archie as tenant, because he’d have made sure we were supplied with what we needed.’ Charlotte bit her lip, hoping that she hadn’t said too much.

  ‘It would never have worked with your precious Archie at Crummock. Besides, I cannot stand the way he looks at you,’ growled Joseph.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Joseph. He’s happily married, with another baby on the way.’ Charlotte blushed.

  ‘Aye, but that was a mistake – probably a bigger one than the baby that’s growing in your belly.’

  ‘I think, on that note, I’m going to retire to my bedroom for a lie-down. I thought for once, Joseph, we were having a reasonable conversation between husband and wife. But then once again you have to spoil it.’ Charlotte stood up and placed her knitting in the sewing box next to her chair. She wasn’t going to let Joseph win by seeing the tears that were brimming in her eyes. This baby was everything to her and it would never go hungry, regardless of whether or not Joseph’s cotton mill survived. She would make sure of that come hell or high water.

  It was 6 a.m. on a cool, late spring morning as Joseph looked at the workers gathering at the mill gates and braced himself. Fewer hours worked meant less profit. However, it also meant more security for those who did work, rather than the mill running out of cotton during the first few months of the civil war. A war that could last for years. It would take ages for the cotton plantations to get back to normal.

  ‘Right, Bert, I’m ready. They are not going to like what I’m going to say.’ Joseph looked at his watch. From now on the mill gates would open at eight. Two hours less work a day might just save them all round. They could either like it or lump it. They all knew where the door was, although Joseph was sure nobody would walk. There was nowhere else to go, in this backwater of the Dales.

  ‘As you like, Mr Dawson, but don’t expect any thanks this morning.’ Bert stood, opening the office door for his worried boss, and spat out a mouthful of chewing tobacco. Bad times had come to the mill and it was worrying for every last one of them, including the mighty Joseph Dawson.

  ‘So the rat is leaving the sinking ship?’ Joseph stood in the doorway of his sister’s room and watched her pack her carpet bag full of belongings.

  ‘I’ve had an offer of marriage from Ezera, if that’s what you mean.’ Dora didn’t even turn round to confront her brother. ‘You didn’t think I’d stay here – being sneered at and whispered about, by that wife of yours and your snivelling servants – forever? I’ve got a life as well. Besides, there will soon be a brat to look after, and I can’t abide babies.’ She stopped throwing her clothes into her bag and finally turned to face her brother.

  ‘Tell the truth, Dora. You are going because you are frightened the money is going to run out soon, and you always have looked after number one,’ Joseph snarled.

  ‘Well, don’t you look out for number one, too? And yes, I am going because the money’s running out, and Ezera can offer me the lifestyle I deserve. I’ll be the wife of a rich jeweller. I’ll even have my own maid. What more could I ask for?’

  ‘You could ask for your brother’s blessing, as I won’t be attending the wedding.’ Joseph grabbed his sister’s arm and squeezed it tight.

  ‘And would I get it? Perhaps for all your scheming, thieving ways, I’m going to come off the better. That must stick in your throat.’ Dora stared into her brother’s dark eyes and just hoped she hadn’t pushed him too far.

  He shoved his sister back against the wall, pinning her to it, breathing heavily in her face. ‘With a comment like that, you mention once to anybody that you are my sister and they’ll find you dead in one of the back alleyways of Settle. You and I are finished. This is the parting of the ways, dear sister, and God help Ezera Bloomenber, because he’s going to need His help.’

  ‘Not half as much as you are, Joseph – you are a lost soul. Nobody loves you, nobody wants you, they just want your money. And what’s funny: there isn’t any. You’ve nearly spent it all. What then, my precious brother? Because the blonde, empty-headed thing you thought you married is not that daft.’ Dora squeezed out of her brother’s grip and picked up her carpet bag.

  ‘Out, get out! I never want to see you again. Get out of my house!’ Joseph yelled at his sister as she picked up her skirts and ran along the landing of the servants’ quarters. ‘Don’t you ever show your face at Windfell again – your services are no longer required.’ He sighed as Dora made her way down the back stairs. He walked across to her bedroom window and watched as she walked quickly past the stables, without giving a second glance back at the place they had planned to make their fortunes with. She was the one person who knew who he was and where he had come from. She had better keep that mouth of hers closed, or else it would be the worse for her.

  ‘Well, I’ve never heard such a racket. Fancy shouting at a member of the staff to leave, in such a manner. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad she’s gone.’ Mrs Batty rose from putting her latest concoction into the oven and looked at the seated staff around the kitchen table. ‘She didn’t even get a letter of reference. She’ll not get into service without one of them.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll need one, Mrs Batty. From what I can gather, she’s to marry the jeweller in Settle. His shop girl told me that, when I called in for a new hatpin for Mrs Dawson this morning,’ said Lily. ‘She’s only known him two months and he’s smitten with her – he thinks she’s an angel, according to Dolly.’
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  ‘I hope you put her right: that she’s a vicious old dragon, with a foul mouth. As you say, we are better off without her.’ Yates stood up and smiled. ‘I think this may deserve a drop of sherry, to celebrate her departure tonight after supper.’

  ‘Aye, that would be good.’ Mazy grinned.

  ‘I don’t think your mother would approve, Mazy, you are a bit too young.’ Yates looked disapprovingly at the grinning scullery maid.

  ‘Go on, Edward, let the lass have a drink with us. She’s fourteen now. Besides, it might be the first and last time she gets to taste sherry, if the rumours are right. We might all be gone from Windfell. How can you run a cotton mill without cotton? I know Bert Bannister says the warehouse down at Ferndale is full, but it’ll not last forever. Why these Americans have to fight amongst themselves, I don’t know.’ Mrs Batty put her hands in her apron and slumped in her usual chair next to the fire. ‘I thought I’d found the place to see my days out. And then there’s Mrs Dawson carrying a baby. She must have the worries of the world on her shoulders, what with him carrying on the way he does, and her father dying. You’d think she’d get sad with it all, but she’s always the same when you talk to her.’

  ‘I don’t think she knows about the hussy at Langcliffe Locks, so I’d be careful what you say. It might not be right anyway – you know how gossip spreads. Tell folk half a tale and they add the rest,’ said Lily.

  ‘Oh, believe me, I’m right. You haven’t seen him come home in the early hours of the morning, like I have. “Doing his business books”, my arse – apologies, ladies. It’s funny business he’s up to. He’s a disgrace, he’s no gentleman. I knew that when I saw him hit Mrs Dawson in the dining room, the night she fell down the stairs.’ Yates couldn’t hold his tongue.