Δεν θα παντρευτώ ποτέ
I shall never marry
Jonathan Harcourt laid his pen down and looked at his words in satisfaction. The hand was untidy and the Greek lettering uneven but the language itself was accurate.
He added the date with a flourish.
twenty-eightth of August 1837
He crossed out the errant ‘t’ with a frown. Nevertheless, it was an acceptable start for the first entry in his new journal—a rare gift from his father to a son about to embark on his journey to boarding school.
‘I shall never marry.’
Jonathan said it out loud, having no fear of anyone hearing him. His parents’ current icy argument was keeping them occupied downstairs, pointedly ignoring each other. He had no idea what Mother had done now to raise Father’s ire. Presumably something insignificant which no rational person would consider worthy of more than a slight admonishment. Of course a husband had the right to chastise his wife, but Christopher Harcourt’s silent disapproval could last for hours and turn the whole house into an Arctic of animosity.
There was the sound of both voices raised in a rapid cacophony that Jonathan tried to ignore. Jonathan ground his fists against his ears to try to block out the sound of sharp voices. It was either that or storm downstairs into the parlour and demand that Father stopped shouting. He knew better than to intervene, but Jonathan promised himself that one day, when he was older than twelve, Christopher Harcourt would pay for the misery he had caused.
There was the sound of the study door slamming, followed shortly afterwards by the sound of the front door slamming. Jonathan sat up. This was unusual. Normally matters were concluded by both parents retiring to their own, separate, bedrooms. He wondered which parent had stormed out into the night and whether they were now walking in the dark around the parkland behind Darbrough Court or along the bridle path into Chester-le-Street itself.
The question was answered shortly afterwards when Anne Harcourt crept into Jonathan’s room, her silhouette in the door frame plunging it into shadows.
‘Are you awake?’
There was no point Jonathan pretending he had managed to sleep through the noise now they knew he was old enough to listen and have his opinions.
‘Yes. Are you all right, Mother?’
He should know better than to ask. Whenever he tried to comfort his mother she immediately leapt to his father’s defence. Not this time, however. She glanced over her shoulder.
‘No, Johnny, I’m not. But I will be soon. We both will be.’ She walked around the darkened room. ‘Are you packed and ready for tomorrow?’
Jonathan was due to leave at first light to begin his new life at St Peter’s School in York. His uniform, books and a few other precious belongings were packed in the wooden trunk that stood, corded and labelled, at the end of his bed. His journal would go into his carrying case along with his purse of money and a couple of apples and slices of bread. The journey would be split into two parts. Jonathan would travel with the family coachman as far as Durham and from there he would take a public stagecoach to York where he would be welcomed by staff from St Peter’s and taken to the school.
‘I’m ready.’
His mother found him in the darkness and drew him into a hug. He was twelve and his father disapproved of shows of affection that he thought should have ended when Jonathan was first breeched. Jonathan couldn’t recall ever seeing his parents touching, much less embracing. It felt almost like a rebellion for Anne to do it now and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. He stiffened and she released him.
‘Be ready for the carriage. Stepney will have everything waiting for you.’
She left and Jonathan settled back, trying to sleep.
Jonathan arrived in Durham, shivering and yawning in the watery, dawn light as planned. Autumn was making its appearance known even though it was only the twenty-ninth day of August. He bid farewell to Mr Stepney, his father’s coachman, and stood at the coaching inn alone, determined not to be daunted by the bustle. Other passengers, horses and coachmen paid no attention to the undersized twelve-year-old until someone tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump.
A man dressed in a shabby cloak was smiling at him.
‘Master Harcourt, heading to York? Come this way, please.’
He didn’t look like an employee of the stagecoach company, but as he had called Jonathan by name, Jonathan obediently followed as the man dragged the heavy trunk around the corner. He expected to find a coach waiting, but instead came face to face with his mother sitting on a trunk similar to Jonathan’s own. She was dressed in a plain blue travelling cloak and bonnet he had never seen before with a black veil covering the upper part of her face.
‘Are you coming to York with me?’
‘No.’ She stood and brushed her cloak down purposefully. ‘And you are not going there either.’
She pointed to the mail coach that stood with a pair of horses ready across the street. ‘We’re taking this instead. Make haste.’
The messenger had begun loading their two trunks on to the roof of the coach and securing them. Mrs Harcourt climbed inside and Jonathan followed. They were not the only passengers. An old man sat with his legs sprawled in the seat opposite but moved them grudgingly in the presence of a lady.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
Mrs Harcourt looked at him. ‘Not now. We’re stopping again soon and then I’ll tell you.’
Jonathan never learned the name of the first town they arrived in. The trunks were transferred to an open wagon and Jonathan found himself sitting on hard boards beside his mother.
His mother said nothing until the whip cracked and the wagon gave a slow lurch into movement. Only then did she seem to relax.
‘Mother, now please explain what is happening,’ Jonathan urged.
‘I have left Darbrough Court. I have left your father and my marriage.’
Jonathan reached for her hand, remembering at the last moment that contact was strictly discouraged by his father. The implications of his mother’s words sunk in and he took her fingers anyway. If what she said was true, his father’s commands no longer mattered. She met his eyes and, for the first time in years, Jonathan saw hope, not defeat, staring back at him. Jonathan’s scalp prickled in fear and anticipation. He was expected at St Peter’s in two days. What would happen when he did not arrive? More to the point, what would happen when his father discovered his mother’s absence? She must have guessed his thoughts.
‘Your father thinks I am visiting a friend from my school days. He won’t expect me back for a week. I very much doubt he will care in any case. This is the start of a new life for both of us, Johnny.’
And what a new life it was. After three further changes of coach and two nights in travelling inns, they arrived in a small town at mid-afternoon. The narrow streets of terraced houses seemed to close in around them as they stopped outside a tall, single-fronted, three-storeyed house in the middle of a row of eight.
Jonathan frowned. This couldn’t be right? Darbrough Court had six grand rooms on the ground floor alone and four bedrooms. It had stood in large grounds with rose gardens and a lake. His mother looked at him apologetically.
‘This is all I can afford with the annuity my parents left me and that is only because the landlord was generous to an old acquaintance. But it’s ours and we’re safe from your father here. As far as everyone here is concerned, I’m a widow and we have had to leave our home, forced out by an unfeeling heir to the estate.’
A man was swaddled in a dark cloak beside the door. He handed Mrs Harcourt the keys and together she and Jonathan dragged their trunks inside. The house was sparsely furnished: a parlour and kitchen on the ground floor, a scullery behind that with a door leading to the yard and a privy shared between all eight houses. On the second floor were two bedrooms and on the third was a single room with long, low windows at front and back.
‘It’s a weaver’s cottage,’ she said as she came to stand beside him. ‘No boarding school and no luxuries, but we’ll be safe and we can be happy. This is Macclesfield. It’s a town of silk.’
A thrill went through Jonathan. The description sounded exotic and romantic, but grey skies huddled over row after row of grey-slate rooftops and the grey mill that loomed on the hills appeared to enclose the town within a wall. It felt like anything but silk.
The first month was bliss. They remained undetected by Mr Harcourt and gradually Jonathan stopped looking over his shoulder, waiting for the hand of his father to descend. Conscious of taking him from the school he had been set to attend, Mrs Harcourt taught Jonathan herself as best she could. They pored over French and Latin together by lamplight. She sang as she worked with Kitty, their one maid. She learned to do laundry and cook meals, much to Jonathan’s astonishment. She even taught Jonathan how to sew, joking that when he eventually married, his wife would find it a welcome surprise. Jonathan said nothing. He’d already decided long ago never to marry and saw no reason to change his mind. Why would he when marriage was such a joyless, unpleasant experience?
‘We have a queen on the throne now, Johnny.’ She laughed. ‘A woman can do anything she sets her mind to.’
‘Then I shall earn and support us,’ Jonathan told her. ‘I’m old enough now.’
He set out the next morning and found work delivering messages around Macclesfield, competing with other lads for the penny errands. The other boys mocked his accent and what they saw as encroachment on their territory from a toffee-nosed boy, but Jonathan was quick on his feet and soon learned his way around the backstreets and alleys of the town. He learned to play down his background and play up his accent and the amusement it generated when he asked for bread or which way to go. A cheeky request with a grin often earned him a tip simply for being a novelty. His life was a far cry from the lessons he should have been having at his school in York, but he relished this freedom.
It was on his third week of walking the streets with parcels and letters when his life changed for ever. He was bearing a message from the haberdasher to Mr Edward Langdon, Esquire, at Langdon’s Mill on the edge of town. The red-brick building seemed to grow even bigger as Jonathan walked closer, following the path along the river. This mill was somehow more welcoming than the ones closer to the centre of town which stood like sentinels or the grey edifice on the hillside. From a distance the rattle of machinery was thunderous. He knocked on the door of the mill offices with a loud thump and kicked his feet against the cobbles while he waited. The door opened and Jonathan was greeted unexpectedly by Mr Langdon himself.
Jonathan stared in surprise, not expecting to see the mill owner. He knew Mr Langdon by sight, having seen him at a distance promenading around the centre of Macclesfield on Sunday afternoons. He was a bachelor in his early forties and Jonathan had heard his name spoken around Macclesfield by women wondering in frustration why he ignored all their daughters. There were rumours of scandal in his past, but wealth, it seemed, wiped out any indiscretion when it came to marriage. Another reason for Jonathan to hold the institution in contempt.
Jonathan held out the note silently.
‘You’ll want paying, I suppose,’ Mr Langdon said.
‘Aye, sir,’ Jonathan agreed. Then, unexpectedly, he found himself adding, ‘No.’
Langdon peered down at him. He had softly drawn-back gingery hair that was beginning to grey at the temples and a pointed chin that gave him the demeanour of a fox. It was a handsomely interesting face, made remarkable by a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles balanced on the end of a straight nose. He peered over the top of them and Jonathan felt the examination of the older man’s blue eyes on him. His confidence deflated a little.
‘I mean, yes, I want paying for this, please, sir. But I want a job.’
The idea came to him in a rush. The imposing mill with three storeys of windows and high iron gates was daunting, but the location by the river had caught Jonathan’s eye. The machines continued to bellow mysteriously from inside and his curiosity prickled. Mr Langdon made silk, Jonathan knew, but he had no idea how or what went on behind the high doors.
‘You appear to already be in possession of a job. You’re a messenger boy,’ Mr Langdon said. He turned to go, dismissing Jonathan.
‘I want a better one.’ Jonathan called. ‘I’m better than the job I have. I want a job here.’
His voice took him by surprise. Where had this boldness come from? It caught Mr Langdon’s attention, however, because he turned back.
‘You look familiar. Have I seen you before?’ Mr Langdon asked.
Jonathan bowed his head. Now was the time to be humble and polite; something he should have done from the start. ‘No. I only moved here from near Durham recently.’
Mr Langdon regarded him with proper interest for the first time, peering closer at Jonathan.
‘Do I rent a house to your mother, boy? On Back Paradise Street?’
Jonathan had never wondered who his landlord was. Mrs Harcourt had only spoken of ‘an acquaintance’.
‘I do live there. My name is Jonathan Harcourt.’
Mr Langdon bit his knuckle. Jonathan tensed, holding his breath while Mr Langdon scrutinised him further.
‘You should have come to me first rather than wasting shoe leather running around the streets with errands. Yes, I can find you work.’
‘Not in the mill, if you please,’ Jonathan said. ‘Not on the machines. Here. In your office. I can read and write. In Latin, too. I’m good with numbers.’ He decided not to mention his Greek, which he still laboriously practised in his journal each Sunday night.
Mr Langdon seemed to find this amusing.
‘You’ll start in the mill, not the offices,’ he said firmly. ‘Two years there. Once I’ve seen what you can offer me, we’ll discuss what I can offer you.’
‘One year,’ Jonathan answered.
Mr Langdon laughed. ‘Eighteen months. And you’ll work in every area, learning what we do here.’
Jonathan agreed readily. He held out a hand to Mr Langdon, who laughed once again and shook it. ‘I predict you have an interesting future ahead of you, young Master Harcourt. Do give my regards to your mother when you go home tonight.’
And that was the start of what would become a long-lasting friendship.
Jonathan worked in the mill for the first ten of his eighteen months, moving from floor to floor, learning how to thread the silks for the Jacquard cards, plan patterns and operate the looms. After that, Mr Langdon promoted him to tallying the orders and the bales of silk and then to ordering the silks themselves. By the time three years had passed, Jonathan was overseeing the spinning floor.
At the end of another year he was working in Mr Langdon’s office as Mr Langdon’s under-clerk, dealing with clients and working on designs for the damask cloths. By the time Jonathan was nineteen he was working as a full clerk, responsible for choosing the apprentices from the workhouse.
In Edward Langdon Jonathan found a friend and companion who nurtured his love of learning and eventually opened his own house and library to the eager boy.
When Mrs Harcourt grew sick and succumbed to a tumour, Jonathan discovered that she had been saving his wages for years, somehow working miracles with what he gave her to provide food and clothing. There were also assorted pieces of jewellery that, once valued, meant the grieving young man was heir to a considerable amount of money.
On the afternoon of Jonathan’s twenty-fourth birthday Edward Langdon invited his protégé into the office for a drink.
‘I have a proposal,’ Jonathan said. ‘I want to invest in the mill. Would you consider selling me some shares?’
‘I’m more than happy for you to invest,’ Edward said, pouring two glasses of whisky from the crystal decanter he kept in his office. ‘But I have another proposal. Join me as a partner.’
‘You want me to be your partner?’ Jonathan asked incredulously,.
‘Junior partner, Jonathan. I’ll still have the major share.’ Edward held the glass to his nose and inhaled with a long, satisfactory sniff. ‘Why not? You’ve worked for me and with me and proven your worth to me tenfold over the past decade.’
Jonathan’s throat tightened. Whatever worth he had been to Edward, the older man had been a mentor, friend, brother and father to Jonathan.
‘Thank you,’ he said, finding his voice choking. ‘I accept.’
‘In that case, let’s drink a toast.’ Edward raised his glass.
‘To Langdon and Harcourt.’
Copyright © 2020 by Claire Lackford