Lacey was apprehensive. She desperately wanted to make a good impression on her first visit to Nathan’s home so she dressed with particular care. It wasn’t a case of choosing what to wear; the green dress, her best and most fashionable one would have to do again. More than likely Nathan would recognise it as the one she’d worn the day of the canal trip, but so be it.
Seated in front of Grandma’s cheval mirror she coiled her hair three times before she was satisfied with the result. Then she topped it with a ruched bandeau she’d fashioned from a piece of the green silk.
‘There,’ she said, releasing her breath gustily, ‘you’ll do, Lacey Barraclough. You’ll not let yourself down.’ Confidence restored she went downstairs to the kitchen to be met with Edith’s abrupt, ‘You’re off then?’
Lacey gave an exasperated glare in return. ‘I was invited.’ she said tersely.
‘I know you were but…’ Realising her doubts were unnerving Lacey, Edith hastily made reparation. ‘You look ever so smart, luv. The Brearleys’ll think their Nathan’s bringing home a lady.’
Lacey’s temper flared. ‘He is. Just because I work in a weaving shed doesn’t mean I’m not one.’ To tell the truth Lacey was more nervous than she cared to admit and her response sharper than intended.
‘Eeh luv, I didn’t mean owt by it.’ Once again Edith found herself making amends. ‘Us Barraclough’s are as good as anybody, and you are a lady. You’ve always kept yourself right an’ there’s nobody wi’ a kinder heart.’ She appraised her daughter and her eyes filled with love and admiration. To show she was forgiven, Lacey hugged her.
Joshua eased up out of his chair by the fire. ‘Are you done chittering? Are you ready for off?’ He too, doubted the wisdom of Lacey accepting the invitation but, with the ground covered in snow, he had offered to take her to the end of the lane in the cart.
Lacey draped a thick cape over her dress. She had made it out of a fent of worsted cloth. It was common practice for the Mill manager to sell off damaged pieces to the workers and Lacey had lined the worsted with flannel to make it more substantial. Dark green on the outside and pale grey on the inside, its fine seaming and frogged fastenings made it a garment befitting any lady.
‘Thank goodness it’s not snowin’,’ Lacey said, stepping outside. Joshua followed, Edith waving goodbye from the doorway. She did not look happy.
At the end of the lane Joshua and Lacey waited for Nathan to meet them, Joshua tutting impatiently as the minutes passed by and Lacey wondering if Nathan had had second thoughts. When eventually, he did arrive, driving a smart pony and trap, Lacey climbed up beside him and they set off for Fenay Hall, both tense and silent for much of the way. ‘I’m later than I intended,’ said Nathan, ‘but I’ll introduce you to my parents the first chance I get.’ He sounded positively lugubrious.
Lacey grimaced. ‘You make it sound as though you’re about to sign my death warrant.’
He might as well have been.
By the time they arrived at Fenay Hall, the drawing room was crowded with people. Perched on the edge of an ornate chair, Lacey admired the large, opulent room. Brocaded drapes adorned the windows and dark wood furniture gleamed against pale green walls. The body of the room was filled with small round tables covered with pristine white damask cloths, and at each table there were four chairs so the guests could sit to enjoy the lavish repast. Mill managers and their spouses sat or stood, many of them looking decidedly ill at ease.
Lacey scanned the dresses of the younger women in the room. Her green dress didn’t look out of place although it was simple in comparison to those worn by the girls clustered about Constance Brearley, Nathan’s mother. Nathan was with them now; summoned by his mother.
Lacey had watched him go, striding nonchalantly across the parquet floor, a feeling of sadness creeping over her. Why hadn’t he taken her with him and introduced her there and then? Feeling bereft she looked around for a familiar face. Catching the eye of Clara Johnson, the Mill manager’s wife, sitting at the next table, she smiled and then said, ‘Hello, Mrs Johnson; it’s very impressive, isn’t it?’
Clara Johnson gave her a sour look. ‘I’d have put you down as having more sense than to come here,’ she replied tartly.
‘Why shouldn’t I be here?’
‘You know why.’ Clara turned her back on Lacey. A few minutes later Nathan returned, but he’d barely spoken two words when a girl with a mop of blonde, frizzy hair and prominent teeth rushed over to them.
‘Nathan, Nathan.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Do come and say hello to Sylvia Oldroyd, she’s simply dying to meet you.’
Muttering excuses, Nathan allowed himself to be dragged away.
Sylvia Oldroyd, mused Lacey. She must be the daughter of Edgar Oldroyd, a mill owner from further down the valley. She gazed over to where Nathan now stood, deep in conversation with the frizzy haired girl; a girl she presumed was Sylvia Oldroyd.
Lacey studied the tall, raven haired girl, noting her fine features and aristocratic bearing. She was smiling charmingly at Nathan, completely at ease in her surroundings. Now there’s the sort of girl Nathan’s mother would choose, thought Lacey, and by the looks of it Nathan himself might be tempted. A spurt of anger flashed through her. She stood up; she was going home.
However, her departure was delayed by one of the smartly uniformed girls hired to serve the repast. ‘Is it just for one, miss?’
Lacey hid her chagrin behind a bright smile and was about to decline when Nathan arrived at her elbow. ‘Oh, jolly good, tea and cakes.’ He pulled out a chair, motioning for Lacey to sit, then sat across from her, apologising yet again for his neglect.
The delightful confectionary did little to lighten Lacey’s spirits. Choking down a morsel of cake, she reflected miserably on the event so far. It wasn’t at all what she had expected.
‘Who’s the frizzy blonde with the teeth?’ Lacey knew she sounded ungracious but she couldn’t help it.
Nathan groaned. ‘That’s cousin Violet. She’s awfully difficult to refuse. She’s so pushy it’s easier to do as she asks, and it would have been churlish of me not to speak with Sylvia.’ He pulled a face, indicating his displeasure at having to do so.
‘You didn’t look as though you weren’t enjoying it,’ Lacey riposted, aware that she sounded jealous, and gauche.
Nathan laid his hand on top of hers. ‘Oh Lacey! It’s what we do on occasions like this. I’m meant to socialise and be pleasant; I’m the son of the house.’
This remark made Lacey feel even more out of place, the ‘what we do’ inferring that she didn’t understand upper class etiquette.
‘Am I forgiven?’ Nathan gave her beseeching look.
Although she was inwardly seething, Lacey merely nodded; this was hardly the time or place to quarrel. They made desultory conversation, Lacey admiring the paintings on the wall nearby and Nathan explaining them. By now several pairs of eyes were watching them acutely: none more so than Jonas Brearley’s. He strolled over to their table.
Nathan stood. ‘Father, allow me to introduce Miss Lacey Barraclough.’
Jonas ignored Lacey’s outstretched hand. ‘We’ve already met,’ he said bluntly. ‘What’s she doing here?’
Nathan flushed. ‘I invited her. We’ve become friends, and Mother gave me permission to invite a guest.’
‘I doubt she meant a lass from our weaving shed. I’ll talk to you later.’ Jonas strutted across the room to join his wife.
During this exchange Lacey had kept her head down. She wouldn’t make a scene. ‘That went well,’ she remarked, her tone laced with sarcasm. She got to her feet. ‘It was a mistake to come. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.’
She hurried out to the hallway, Nathan close behind. ‘Please Lacey, don’t be cross.’
Lacey glared. ‘Cross? I’m not cross, I’m bloody raging.’ A discreet cough from a footman standing in the hall stilled her tongue, lest she shame herself further.
‘Nathan, come with me. I want to introduce you to Sir Humphrey.’ Jonas Brearley grasped his son’s elbow.
Nathan gave Lacey a panicked glance. ‘I’ll be back shortly to drive you home,’ he gabbled before following his father into the drawing room. Lacey asked the butler to fetch her cape. She had no intention of waiting for Nathan even though it was a long walk home. Whilst she waited, she studied her reflection in a large gilt mirror. Two bright pink spots stained her cheeks and her eyes flashed green. Damn them all, she thought, then suddenly aware of another reflection in the mirror she turned to face Constance Brearley.
Constance gave a wintry smile. ‘And who might you be, my dear? I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’
Lacey took a deep breath. ‘I’m Lacey Barraclough, Nathan’s guest.’ And you know damned well who I am, she thought.
A spiteful glimmer lit Constance’s eyes. ‘Nathan who, dear?’
‘Nathan Brearley; your son.’
Constance frowned: ‘My son, Nathan?’ Mustering a withering look and a tone filled with contempt, she said, ‘Why ever would he invite a girl like you as his guest.’
‘A girl like me, Mrs Brearley?’ said Lacey, throwing caution to the wind. ‘You don’t know what I’m like. Nathan, on the other hand, does. We’ve been walking out for months now, and whilst you might consider me unsuitable, Nathan doesn’t. So that’s why I’m here. But you needn’t worry; I’m not staying. I’m particular as to the company I keep.’
The butler, his face a mask, helped Lacey don her cape. Nathan hurried towards her, Lacey almost knocking him off his feet as she swept to the front door, his offer to take her home ignored. Constance, her cheeks blazing, placed a restraining arm on Nathan’s.
Outside, Lacey slowed her pace, half hoping Nathan might follow. He didn’t, and as she plodded onwards in shoes totally unsuited to the snow and ice underfoot, she cursed herself for being so foolish. She should have listened to her Mam: it wasn’t enough to think you were equal to all men, and women for that matter, because upper class snobs such as Constance Brearley would never allow it. Furthermore, she thought, as she squelched through Garsthwaite in sodden shoes, Nathan Brearley might try to deny the class barrier, but he’s too spineless to surmount it. Better to forget all about him.
*
Later that same evening, Constance and Jonas Brearley sat side by side on a couch in Fenay Hall’s drawing room. Nathan, subdued and nervous, sat facing them.
‘Whatever were you thinking, lad?’ Jonas’s tone was thick with consternation.
Nathan squirmed. ‘I wanted you to meet her; for you to realise what a beautiful, intelligent girl she is.’
Constance sneered, her words barbed. ‘She’s a common mill hand, one of your father’s employees: a girl from the gutter. Hardly the sort for you.’
No longer contrite, Nathan retaliated. ‘She’s not from the gutter. Her father’s a respectable farmer. Yes! She works for a living, but it doesn’t make her inferior. She’s far more interesting and intelligent than either Violet Burrows or Sylvia Oldroyd – and prettier too.’
‘And you’re a fool,’ screeched Constance. ‘You have your position to uphold. One day the Mill will be yours. What use will a common slut of a wife be to you then?’
Nathan leapt to his feet. ‘I’ll not stay to listen to you deride her in such a fashion.’ He made to leave but Jonas placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.
‘Your mother has a point, lad. It’s only natural you should be attracted to a pretty face’ – and recalling the incident in the Mill yard, Jonas added – ‘and a lively tongue. But you don’t parade your feelings in public. You keep such pleasures away from prying eyes. That way, there’ll be no stones cast when you choose a respectable woman.’
Constance sniffed. ‘Are we to understand that is what you did?’
Jonas reddened.
Nathan shrugged Jonas’s hand away. ‘I have chosen a respectable woman; the one you insulted. She’s not some passing fancy I’m using to satisfy my needs. I love Lacey, and I’ll not be forced into a miserable marriage simply to uphold your stupid snobbery.’ He barged from the room.
Constance burst into tears, Jonas patting her shoulder distractedly. ‘Don’t take on so. He’s young; he’ll grow out of it. It’s only right for him to sow a few wild oats before he settles down. It’ll not be long before he’s had his fill and realises she’s not for him. He’s smart enough.’
Jonas truly believed this. In his younger days he’d dallied with a number of girls from the sheds. They were fun – and willing – but not the type a mill owner should take for a wife. When his father, Hector, had suggested he marry Constance, a mining heiress, Jonas had appreciated the logic: Constance had breeding and money.
Outside the drawing room, leant against the closed door to gather his senses, Nathan clearly heard Jonas voicing his opinion. He was shocked. His father thought he was bedding Lacey, but he’d never laid a hand on her. He was even more shocked when he heard his mother say, ‘If he persists with this nonsense you will have to disown him.’
Nathan heard Jonas harrumph. Afraid to hear more, he fled.
Up in his bedroom he threw himself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Disinherited? He couldn’t bear that. He took it for granted that, one day, the Mill would be his – and he dreamed of the changes he would make. Inspired by the works of Engels, Shaftsbury and Cadbury, Nathan firmly believed that a workforce provided with safe, healthy working conditions and respect would result in improved production. Now, if he chose Lacey over the Mill, what would he do?
Perhaps his mother was right. If he chose a girl of his own standing the problem would be solved. But I love Lacey, he told himself, thumping his fist into a pillow. Question is: do I have the courage to relinquish my inheritance for her? Failing to reach a conclusion, he fell into an uneasy sleep.
*
A dank mist rolled in from the moor, shrouding the cairn on Cuckoo Hill. The late February afternoon was drawing to a close. Lacey shivered and stamped her numbed feet. She’d waited for almost an hour, but Nathan hadn’t come. Neither had he come on any of the previous Sundays when she had visited the cairn. In fact she hadn’t clapped eyes on him since the disastrous party in late December. He hadn’t appeared at the Mill nor had he sent her a message explaining his absence.
So much for true love, she mused. It had been too good to be true. But what else should she have expected. He’d had her believing he was made of sterner stuff but obviously this was not the case. How could she have been foolish enough to believe him when he told her he cared nothing for status? How many times had they discussed transcending class barriers, that they were outmoded in the modern world?
Hadn’t they agreed that all men, and women, ought to be measured not by their wealth but by their contribution to society? All pie in the sky, Lacey concluded, as she made her way home. But such thoughts didn’t prevent her from yearning to be with him.
Had she been aware of the reason for Nathan’s absence, Lacey might not have felt so miserable. At his parents’ insistence he was in Northumberland, negotiating the purchase of new yarns and visiting friends of his mother. At the same time as Lacey waited for him on Cuckoo Hill, Nathan was despondently trudging across a grouse moor taking part in a shoot organised by his host, Arthur Fearnley, a coal baron. At his side was Imogen, his host’s daughter. Of a similar age to Nathan, he had come to the conclusion she was also part of Constance’s plan to distract him from Lacey. Yet he cared not one jot for killing birds and even less for Imogen. He was determined to make up with Lacey as soon as he returned to Yorkshire.