Captain Justin Bracken surveyed his father' empire as he savored the smooth, aged whiskey, which slipped down his throat and left a pleasant warmness in its wake. A stark contrast to chill he experienced as he stood in the pristine, white manor house built by his father. Charles Bracken insisted the majority of windows faced the mills so he could admire his handiwork and spy on his workforce, in case anyone dared to shirk their duty or steal from him.
Justin cast a desultory eye around the palatial library where he sat; full of leather bound first editions, no one would ever read. Part of the pretence his father insisted upon, believing it made his money more acceptable to the landed gentry. Charles' wealth owed more to the blood and sweat of others, than birthright. Still maybe the similarities to old money were not so different, the chosen few, profited from the toil and poverty of the masses.
How typical of his father to prefer an industrial view rather than the exquisite greenery that surrounded them. The mills cut a swath through the valley. Tall multi- windowed, brick buildings and their interconnecting paths rose from the green hills and woods and ruined the little piece of heaven he so enjoyed as a boy. Justin didn't share his father's passion for commerce but Charles' apoplexy, which stiffened the left side of his well-built body and limited his mobility, made his overseeing the three mills untenable. As the only son and heir Justin resigned his commission in the army, his chosen career of more than fifteen years and returned to the Derbyshire countryside and the family business.
A perfectly proportioned female form drew Justin's silver- eyed gaze as she walked by the mill ponds, the source of power for the two cotton mills. The woman stopped and looked back as if she could feel the weight of his stare. Justin stepped back from the long sash window. She flicked a stray hair from her face and carried on her way. He couldn't discern her facial features but the vibrant mahogany red of her hair triggered a long ago memory of a young girl he secretly played hide and seek with, in the little wood behind the mills. It couldn't be little Lucy surely she would be long married and moved away by now.
He turned away but a shadow in the highest mill window far below, stopped him. He stared at the dusty window. A young woman stared back at him. He closed his eyes, shaking his head to dispel the disturbing image. No one worked on the mill's top floor, which served as a store for the raw cotton. The creaking protest of a door hinge disturbed him, when he looked back the woman was gone. The slam of the heavy oak door against the dark, pitted panelling drew his attention away from the window.
Charles half stumbled into the library dragging his near useless leg. His beady eyes spied his son. "Thought... I'd find you here... hiding Justin. Pour me a... whiskey boy before I expire. This damn leg will be the death of me."
"Good afternoon Father. Has someone upset you?" Justin kept his face expressionless, the doctor insisted his father needed to remain calm or risk another more devastating bout of apoplexy.
Charles Bracken snatched the crystal tumbler Justin offered him. He downed the amber liquid and wordlessly held out his glass for a refill. When Justine complied, Charles slumped awkwardly into the burgundy coloured leather chair adjacent to the blazing log fire. Justin refilled the glass and handed his father the whiskey, before refreshing his own drink. He stood against the stone fireplace and waited for the tirade to begin. His mind filled with images of the pretty woman by the millpond and the strange woman at the mill window.
Charles knocked back the second drink, his face a deep crimson as he voiced his outrage. "That red haired chit is making trouble again."
"Who is making trouble? How?" Justin sipped his own drink and rested his arm against the mantelpiece.
"Wants me to educate the children, for two hours a day, she must think I'm made of money." Droplets of amber liquid flew from Charles' mouth as his anger mounted. "What do they need to read and write for? Strength and obedience is all that's required to work in my mills.
"Someone from the village is taking an interest in your workforce?"Justin couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice but his father was too furious to notice.
"Mrs Lucinda Osborne, the Vicar's daughter, always been trouble that one thought I'd got rid of her when she married three years back but now her husband died. She's back with her father and causing trouble for me."Charles fixed his beady stare on Justin.
Justin didn't comment. His mind strayed to the woman he thought familiar by the mill ponds. Lucinda Thomas as he'd known her all the years ago. Several years his junior Lucinda was a feisty child always wanting her own way but with kind heart. Justin recalled how she'd begged him to release the fox cub from the snare and cared for it until it recovered."I remember her as a lovely girl."
His father banged his empty glass on the rosewood occasional table."She's and interfering baggage, who should keep her nose out of my business, if she knows what's good for her."
Justin scowled at his father's ruddy coloured face and barely suppressed a shudder at the hate he glimpsed in his father's soulless gaze. Maybe Lucinda had changed, grief could do that the even the sunniest personality, what he saw in the army proved that. He nodded in agreement, to avoid raising his father's blood pressure further.
****
Lucy looked up at the white villa, built high above the mill ponds where she walked. She shuddered; the villa so out of place amid the dark mills and the tiny, crowded workers' cottages; an obscene statement of power. Everyone looked like tiny insects from such a vantage point, which no doubt, reflected Charles Bracken's opinion of his workforce. Surprised he agreed to meet her Lucy didn't anticipate a favourable outcome. Charles Bracken's legendry, autocratic rule of the valley cotton mills made them the most profitable in the district but his atrocious treatment of his workforce earned him notoriety, none of the other mill owners envied.
Her spine tingled. Lucy looked over her shoulder but she was quite alone, no-one followed her, yet the sensation someone watched her was persistent. She stared up at big house and saw the outline of man at the window. She narrowed her eyes to identify the voyeur but the distance precluded her vision. As she neared the upper mill the noise of the spinning machines hurt her ears, she hurried past. The windows darkened with the dust hid the women and children choked with the cotton dust, a bi-product of spinning the raw material into the yarn that made Charles Bracken his fortune. At work from dawn until dusk many children never saw the light of day or often adulthood. She swiped away the stray tears which always formed when she thought of the poor children. Tears wouldn't help but maybe her offer to educate the children might, if only she could get their tyrannous master's agreement.
She reached the columned porch of the mill owner's house. Built in the style of a roman villa its opulence grated on her when she considered the squalor in the mills below. She released the heavy lion headed knocker and waited.
"Good morning Madam how may I assist you?" The butler raised an imperious brow as if she shouldn't be knocking on such an illustrious door.
Lucy placed her simple card onto the silver tray, the butler offered her." Mrs Lucinda Osborne to see Mr Charles Bracken, thank-you," the snooty butler's gaze raked over her simple brown muslin dress and seemed to find it wanting but when he met her equally supercilious gaze, his betrayed surprise and he stood back to allow her entry in the grand hallway. He indicated she should wait on one of the three upholstered chairs alongside the panelled wall. Lucinda nodded her head in ascent and made a show of arranging her skirts as she seated herself. After a few minutes the butler returned.
"The master will see you in the drawing room, Mrs Osborne, if you would like to follow me.
Lucy rose and followed the straight backed butler. Her stomach churned. She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts as she walked. She needed to be convincing. Any sign of weakness and her request would fall on deaf ears. Failure wouldn't help the poor children have a chance of a life outside the confines of the mill. She walked up the grand staircase, its walls lined with family portraits, reminiscent of an aristocratic country house. Charles Bracken hailed from a minor aristocracy, a fifth son of a marquis. His vast wealth ensured his welcome at all the best houses, even if society's sticklers decried how he made, rather than inherited his money.
Absorbed in her thoughts and surroundings Lucy almost cannoned into the back of the butler who knocked on the double oak doors. He opened the doors with an exaggerated flourish. Lucy's sense of humour found his actions laughable but her subconscious focused on the insurmountable task ahead.
Jane Hunt ©2015/ Past Shadows