could still visualise the tiny scar he had on his chin, no more than a small indent, and she wondered wildly how he had come by it in his
deprived and loveless childhood; then, even more wildly, why it should concern her.
‘I’d best get you home, Miss Harrison,’ he said abruptly.
They were the exact words needed to release her from the strange enchanted spell his voice had cast about her. She was no weak girl who needed a man’s help to get her from one place to
another. She was Tessa Harrison who could ride gloriously to hounds and keep up with the best horseman in the county. She could leap the highest hedges and the widest streams. She could shoot fifty
birds with fifty shots and had been known, though her family were not aware of it, to dress herself in her cousins’ clothing and frequent a bare-knuckle prize fight and even a bear baiting
with Drew and Pearce and Nicky Longworth. She had not enjoyed either, but she had seen them, had proved herself as strong and resolute as any man and she did not need this chap to escort her
home.
‘I need no help to get me home, Mr Broadbent,’ she said sharply, her eyes flaring in a burst of annoyance which came from nowhere to attack him.
‘As you like, Miss Harrison.’ His voice was just as curt for he had found himself to be quite devastated when the softness, the sweet womanliness of the past few minutes was dashed
away coldly as the affronted Miss Harrison leapt lightly on to the back of the small mare she whistled up.
‘Safe journey, then,’ he could not help adding for it seemed to him it was a long, hard road she was to take.
‘Heavens, Mr Broadbent, I am to go but to Greenacres, after all.’
‘I doubt it, Miss Harrison.’ Turning swiftly away from her, his face curiously stern, he strode off in the direction of Edgeclough.
4
They stood in the office of the spinning-mill manager, their faces set in identical expressions of boredom, young gentlemen impeccably suited in the sober uniform of a
businessman: black frock coat, light grey trousers, plain grey waistcoat and a shirt front which was immaculate. Each wore a pearl tie-pin in his neck cloth, a present from their mother on their
seventeenth birthday, just gone. Their loathing of commerce could not have been more evident and Mr Wilson sighed, for what was the use of it? They wasted his time, which was valuable, and
their own, which was not, but Mr Greenwood had insisted upon it and there was nothing the manager could do. He had worked at Chapman Manufacturing for nearly twenty years, starting as a spinner,
then overlooker, a promotion to foreman, then manager of this mill two years ago, answerable to Mr Charlie Greenwood himself.
For the past few months, ever since they had left school, the twin sons of Mr and Mrs Joss Greenwood, who owned Chapmans, had been coming to the mill each morning at five thirty. Slowly, week by
week, they were moving through the whole process of preparing and spinning yarn, starting in the blow room where the bales of raw cotton were opened, cleaned and blended ready for combing. Here the
impurities and short fibres were removed until the cotton was ready for spinning. There were five more procedures to be gone through – winding, knitting, warping, sizing and drawing in
– before the spun yarn was ready for weaving and the cloth finished. All must be thoroughly learned by Masters Drew and Pearce, and though they presented themselves each day and were seen to
be there in the flesh, so to speak, it could not be said that either of them had the slightest notion of how the simplest process came about, nor the slightest desire to be told.
They had been lounging against the stable-yard wall, just beyond the laundry, when nemesis had fallen. A pretty laundry maid stood between them, all three giggling over some nonsense the boys
were pouring into her willing ear, when Joss Greenwood had come across them. He had arrived at Greenacres unexpectedly, perhaps for a
deprived and loveless childhood; then, even more wildly, why it should concern her.
‘I’d best get you home, Miss Harrison,’ he said abruptly.
They were the exact words needed to release her from the strange enchanted spell his voice had cast about her. She was no weak girl who needed a man’s help to get her from one place to
another. She was Tessa Harrison who could ride gloriously to hounds and keep up with the best horseman in the county. She could leap the highest hedges and the widest streams. She could shoot fifty
birds with fifty shots and had been known, though her family were not aware of it, to dress herself in her cousins’ clothing and frequent a bare-knuckle prize fight and even a bear baiting
with Drew and Pearce and Nicky Longworth. She had not enjoyed either, but she had seen them, had proved herself as strong and resolute as any man and she did not need this chap to escort her
home.
‘I need no help to get me home, Mr Broadbent,’ she said sharply, her eyes flaring in a burst of annoyance which came from nowhere to attack him.
‘As you like, Miss Harrison.’ His voice was just as curt for he had found himself to be quite devastated when the softness, the sweet womanliness of the past few minutes was dashed
away coldly as the affronted Miss Harrison leapt lightly on to the back of the small mare she whistled up.
‘Safe journey, then,’ he could not help adding for it seemed to him it was a long, hard road she was to take.
‘Heavens, Mr Broadbent, I am to go but to Greenacres, after all.’
‘I doubt it, Miss Harrison.’ Turning swiftly away from her, his face curiously stern, he strode off in the direction of Edgeclough.
4
They stood in the office of the spinning-mill manager, their faces set in identical expressions of boredom, young gentlemen impeccably suited in the sober uniform of a
businessman: black frock coat, light grey trousers, plain grey waistcoat and a shirt front which was immaculate. Each wore a pearl tie-pin in his neck cloth, a present from their mother on their
seventeenth birthday, just gone. Their loathing of commerce could not have been more evident and Mr Wilson sighed, for what was the use of it? They wasted his time, which was valuable, and
their own, which was not, but Mr Greenwood had insisted upon it and there was nothing the manager could do. He had worked at Chapman Manufacturing for nearly twenty years, starting as a spinner,
then overlooker, a promotion to foreman, then manager of this mill two years ago, answerable to Mr Charlie Greenwood himself.
For the past few months, ever since they had left school, the twin sons of Mr and Mrs Joss Greenwood, who owned Chapmans, had been coming to the mill each morning at five thirty. Slowly, week by
week, they were moving through the whole process of preparing and spinning yarn, starting in the blow room where the bales of raw cotton were opened, cleaned and blended ready for combing. Here the
impurities and short fibres were removed until the cotton was ready for spinning. There were five more procedures to be gone through – winding, knitting, warping, sizing and drawing in
– before the spun yarn was ready for weaving and the cloth finished. All must be thoroughly learned by Masters Drew and Pearce, and though they presented themselves each day and were seen to
be there in the flesh, so to speak, it could not be said that either of them had the slightest notion of how the simplest process came about, nor the slightest desire to be told.
They had been lounging against the stable-yard wall, just beyond the laundry, when nemesis had fallen. A pretty laundry maid stood between them, all three giggling over some nonsense the boys
were pouring into her willing ear, when Joss Greenwood had come across them. He had arrived at Greenacres unexpectedly, perhaps for a