Red Sky at Night, Lovers' Delight Read online

  “Before you married Father?”

  “Yes.” She was struggling with the rusty key. It turned at last and she pushed open the door. “It’s just the same—only dirty!”

  “It was lived in then?”

  “Oh, yes. Old Lady Hawth—and what a tartar she was.” She lifted her muslin skirts clear of the dust and moved forward into the room.

  “We’ll get filthy, Mamma,” protested Kate.

  “Who cares?” said her mother. “There’s no one to see.”

  Chapter Four

  The Dower House was ready three exhausting days later, but Mrs. Warrender postponed the actual move until Harriet should be quite better. “I fancy I had best be at the hall to explain Mrs. Simmonds’ presence to Lord Hawth,” she told Kate, over a late luncheon in the morning room the servants had contrived to make habitable for them.

  “I should rather think you had,” agreed Kate. “Poor Mrs. Simmonds is in a perfect quake every time she thinks of his return.”

  “And so am I,” said Mrs. Warrender. “But I do think he will find himself more comfortable, don’t you?”

  “I doubt he will believe he has come to the right house,” Kate laughed. “It even smells different.”

  “So I should hope. Yes, Parsons?”

  “Ma’am.” Kate thought he looked anxious. “There’s the overseer here, Mr. Bott from the Tidemills. He badly wanted a word with Lord Hawth. When I said he was from home, he asked to speak to you. There’s trouble there, he says.”

  “Trouble?” Mrs. Warrender, who had coped with every possible domestic vicissitude in the last few days, looked daunted at this external one. “I don’t know…”

  “You’d best show him in,” Kate told Parsons.

  “But what shall we say to him?” Left alone, Mrs. Warrender turned distractedly to her daughter.

  “We will let him do the talking,” said Kate. “But if there is trouble down at the mills, someone must do something. I know Lord Hawth owns them now, but after all, grandfather built them. Besides, Lord Hawth’s not here.”

  “But what can we do?” wailed her mother.

  “We’ll see. Good afternoon, Mr. Bott.” Kate smiled kindly at the anxious looking overseer, whom she had known from childhood visits to watch the great mill-wheels turning down in the tidal estuary.

  “Mrs. Warrender. Miss Kate.” He clutched his cloth cap in nervous hands. “It’s good of you to see me. I’m sure I don’t know what to do for the best.”

  “What is it, Mr. Bott?” asked Mrs. Warrender.

  “Trouble, ma’am. Bad trouble if there’s not something done quick. But who’s to do it? His lordship’s away, they tell me.”

  “In London,” said Kate. “We could send there.”

  “No time, miss. They’re out on the street already. Stopped the mill at noon, they did, and said they was having a meeting. Nothing I could say would get them back to work. Them as hung back got hard words, and worse. There’s been a stranger in the village, Ned Ludd, he’s called. He’s been talking to the men, stirring them up. I blame him, miss. But what’s the use of blaming?” He turned to Mrs. Warrender. “They sent me to speak to Lord Hawth, ma’am. Since he ain’t home, I reckon I’d best give you the message.”

  “Sent you?” asked Kate, with raised brows.

  “Just that, miss. I never thought I’d see the day. They had a hell of a long word I was to give his lordship. An ulti-something I was to say. Excuse the language, miss.”

  “Ultimatum?” suggested Kate.

  “That’s it. Either or, they said. Either he takes back what he said last week about sacking them if business don’t look up, or they burns down the mill and that’s an end to business.”

  “Burn it down? But it’s their living!”

  “That’s what I told them, Miss Kate. Told them and told them. They won’t listen. They’ve gone mad on the stranger. Well, treating them at the inn, talking of their wrongs. Bread so high, wages so low. The rich gets richer, he says, and the poor poorer. Justice, he talks of, and the rights of man. Jobs for all, and bread or blood. Fine speeches, he makes, miss, long words. But what use is long words, I said, if there’s no food in the pot.”

  “And they—”

  “Wouldn’t listen. Nohow. Sent me with the message, like I said. They’re all out in the streets. Waiting. And drinking, miss. He’s got money, the stranger, and using it. I surely do wish Lord Hawth was home.”

  “I’d best come and talk to them,” said Kate. “Explain.”

  “They’ll never listen. Not to a lady. Not even you.”

  “Not even a Warrender? Then have you got a better idea?”

  “Well.” He cast an anxious glance at Mrs. Warrender, who had let out a squeak of horror at the idea of Kate’s going down to the Tidemills. “I did wonder … if I might make so bold …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the family, miss. You’re right. They do reckon a lot to the Warrenders. If one of them was to come forward, listen to them, talk to them, give them some hope … It might keep them quiet till his lordship got back.”

  “You mean Mr. Warren up at the house?”

  “The Yankee? Lord, no, miss. They wouldn’t listen to a foreigner like him if he had the gift of tongues. No.” His clumsy shoes shuffled on the Turkey carpet. “When I heard Lord Hawth wasn’t home, I did make so bold as to wonder if you might chance to know where that cousin of yours was, miss.”

  “Cousin?”

  “Well—” An anguished glance now for Mrs. Warrender. “There’s a rumour going round that young Mr. Kit Warrender was in these parts the other night. The men reckon a good deal to him. They might listen to him. After all, he is family, ain’t he? In a manner of speaking.” Another apologetic glance for Mrs. Warrender, who was sitting very quietly gazing at folded hands in her lap.

  “Yes, I do see,” said Kate. “How long can you hold them, Mr. Bott?”

  “I don’t know, miss, and that’s God’s truth. But if I told them—said Mr. Kit was coming …”

  “Right.” Kate rose to her feet. “Tell them Mr. Kit will be with them this evening, and that we’ll send for Lord Hawth home from London. Because, whatever Mr. Kit says, it’s what Lord Hawth does is really important, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but they seem to think Lord Hawth might listen to Mr. Kit.”

  “Good gracious me, do they so?” said Kate. And after the man had gone, “No, don’t swoon, mamma, there’s not time. Do you write a note to Lord Hawth while I set about finding ‘my Cousin Kit.’ I wish I knew what I’d done to get him such a reputation.”

  “Kate, you can’t!”

  “I think I must. Just imagine what will become of those poor souls at Tidemills village if they burn down the mill that makes their bread and pays their wages. Oh, dearest mamma, how grateful I am to you for making me keep Boney!”

  “But how are you going to manage?”

  “I wish I knew. One thing’s certain. I must have help.” She chewed a thumbnail thoughtfully as she grappled with the problem. “I can hardly ride away from the hall on Boney in young Kit’s clothes. But if I go through the tunnel, who will bring the horse round for me?”

  “James,” said Mrs. Warrender, then looked as if she would bite her tongue off.

  “James?”

  “He’s the under groom.” Mrs. Warrender looked guilty. “He’s betrothed to Betty Parsons. He’s—grateful to me just now. For bringing her here.”

  “I dare swear he is. Darling mamma!” A quick kiss. “What a miracle you are. Trust you to know all about everything. Who else is engaged to whom in the household?” And then, laughing; “No, don’t tell me, there’s not time. But be a love, send for Betty, tell her I am lending Boney to my Cousin Kit, and ask her to send James secretly to take the horse round to the priory ruins. Will he do it?”

  “Oh, he’ll do it,” said Mrs. Warrender. “But Kate, I don’t like it. Any part of it.”

  Nor did Kate much, but she put a brave face on it for her mother’
s sake. Luckily, a small unused room opened off the study and she was able to change into her brother’s clothes there, rather than risk being seen by one of the servants as she walked through the house in them. “You’ll have to stay in here while I’m out, mamma,” she said, opening the panel. “Say you’re busy planning the new decorations.” She picked up her candlestick, put a spare candle in her greatcoat pocket, blew her mother a kiss and stepped into the tunnel before Mrs. Warrender could voice another protest.

  She missed the children. Busy keeping their spirits up last time, it had been easy to forget about bats and rats, spiders and snakes. On one’s own it was something else again, and she was glad of the need to hurry. She must be well away from the tunnel entrance before James arrived with Boney. Her mother had told him to wait outside the ruined chapel of the priory, which was some way from the tunnel, but she could not risk the chance of his wandering about to explore.

  In fact, she had a short, anxious wait before she heard him come riding up the lane from the sea gate to the park—plenty of time to wonder whether something had prevented him from coming. When he came into view, she saw that he was riding one of Lord Hawth’s horses and leading Boney. He touched his faded livery cap. “Mr. Warrender? Mrs. Warrender said I was to come with you, sir.”

  “Oh?” She thought about it for a moment. “Well, why not?” Clever of her mother. The Hawth livery would add weight to whatever she said. Just so long as she got a chance to say anything. “We’d better hurry.” She used the moss-grown chapel step as a mounting block, settled easily in the saddle and led the way down the lane towards the marsh and the Tidemills.

  When they left the woods along the park wall and came out on the open slope of the down, she drew rein for a moment to look towards the brick-and flint-built village below on the grey-green marsh. At first sight it seemed just as usual, lying there quiet in afternoon sun. At least no sign of flames, thank God, but, screwing her eyes against the sun’s rays, she thought the little street looked too empty. Where was everyone? She was afraid they must be in the open space beside the mill, where in happier times the annual hiring fair was held.

  “Quick!” She dug her heels into Boney’s sides and led the way downhill at a pace that drew a silent prayer from James, guiltily riding one of his master’s horses without permission.

  When they rode into the village half an anxious hour later, it was to find it indeed unnaturally quiet and deserted. No children played in the street, and front doors that usually stood open to let sun and air into the tiny terrace houses were tightly closed. Only here and there an anxious female face peered out of an upstairs window. And now, from the far end of the street where the mill stood to one side straddling its tidal creek, she could hear the ominous hum of many voices. Some kind of meeting must be going on. Even the Ship Inn and the village shop stood empty and closed when they passed them. Every man in the place must be down by the mill.

  No, not everyone. As they neared the turn in the road, where a huge warehouse blocked the view to the sea, Mr. Bott came anxiously round the corner. “Mr. Warrender!” His face lit up. “At last! They are holding a meeting. I persuaded them to wait to let you speak. It’s—” if he had looked anxious up at the hall, he looked plain frightened now—“it’s all so highly organised. They’ve closed the inn and the shop, told the women to stay indoors with the children. Mr. Warrender, do you think we should send your man to the barracks?”

  “No use,” said Kate. “We’d need a magistrate and the riot act read. Besides, they sound quiet enough now.”

  “Now. Yes. The man from London is speaking. Ned Ludd. They’ll listen to him!”

  “Well, let us hope they will listen to me. You had best take me to meet this sinister stranger from London. James, you hold the horses. If there should be trouble, ride to the barracks for help. If there is actual violence, the soldiers will doubtless come, but I devoutly hope it won’t come to that.”

  “So do I!” Mr. Bott turned to lead the way round the corner into the mill yard. It was dusk, but not yet dark, and Kate was relieved to see that there were no torches yet.

  The yard was full of silent men, standing pressed close together, listening to a speaker who was addressing them from a platform built up outside the entrance to the mill itself. It was the kind of stand used for hustings at an election, but the recently built village of Tidemills sent no member to Parliament. This scaffolding must, have been brought and erected on purpose for the present meeting. Kate shivered. Mr. Bott had been right when he spoke about organisation. This was no spontaneously combusting riot. Well, at least it meant she had a chance of getting a hearing. But what in the world was she going to say?

  “A way—” Mr. Bott had begun to push his way through the crowd. “A way there for Mr. Warrender.”

  As the crowd opened its ranks reluctantly, Kate took a deep breath of air and courage, and followed him. The crowd smelled. Sweat, and fatigue, and gin. It was unpleasant to feel it closing ranks again behind her. Unpleasant? Terrifying. The rigid set of Mr. Bott’s back told her that he was frightened, too, but having started, he pushed his way firmly forwards through the crowd, which, in fact, did its best to open a path for them. There were murmurs of “Mr. Warrender,” and even, “Let’s hear Mr. Warrender!”

  And all the time the man on the platform went on talking. Shorter than most of the crowd, and busy trying to make a way without causing the kind of scene that might be disastrous, Kate still contrived to catch a phrase here and there. “Brothers—” he called them brothers throughout—“are you men, or beasts?” It was not a local accent. “Will you let your women starve, while his lordship up the hill there buys and sells you as if you were cattle?” Kate lost a few sentences, then picked up the thread again as the speaker came to the heart of the matter. “Threatens to close the mill,” he said. “Throw you all out of work. So: close it for him. Show the bouger what you think of him. Yes?” Kate could see him now in the half light as he leaned down from the wooden platform to listen to Mr. Bott. Dressed in a labourer’s frieze jacket and breeches, he nevertheless wore them with something of an air, and the handkerchief tied round his neck was surprisingly white. “Mr. Warrender?” he said now. “With a message from his lordship? We will most certainly hear Mr. Warrender.”

  And that was both a surprise and a relief, thought Kate, letting Mr. Bott help her up on to the platform. It was surprising, too, to have her hand warmly shaken by the stranger, and then to have him give her a friendly shove towards the front of the platform. “Mr. Warrender,” he told the listening crowd. “With a message from his lordship. We will hear Mr. Warrender.”

  It was an instruction, not a request. The crowd fell silent and Kate took a deep breath. What in the name of goodness was she going to say that would not make more trouble for everyone? “Brothers!” She made her voice as deep as she could manage, and got a very welcome cheer. It gave her both time and courage. “I do not exactly have a message from Lord Hawth,” she went on, and got a groan. “But I promise you I will take a message from you to him. And make sure he listens to it. My family built this mill, and the village, to give bread and work to you all.”

  “Yes!” came a voice from the crowd. “And then what did you do with it!”

  “Lost it at cards!” Another voice.

  “To fat Guelph’s friend!”

  “Who’ll see us damned before he raises our wages.”

  “Told us so, to our face.”

  Kate raised a hand for silence and, amazingly, got it. “True about us Warrenders, I’m afraid. We’ve not been much use to you. Why not give the new owner a chance? At least he’s come here to live. Taken the trouble to come down to the mill.”

  “And promise us a sacking.” Another voice from the crowd.

  “Only if times get worse. And I’ve heard nothing about closing the mill.” This was dangerous ground. “It’s only because he doesn’t understand,” she hurried on, her clear voice sounding above some growls of “Times will get worse,” a
nd “Promised us a sacking.” “I met Lord Hawth the other night. Talked to him a little. He’s a man of sense. Put it to him right, he’ll see it your way.” How she hoped he would.

  “And who’s to put it to him?” She was beginning to recognise this voice, from the back of the crowd.

  “He’s been sent for. Should be here tomorrow or the next day. Send your leaders to speak to him, to explain …”

  She was stopped by a great derisive cry from the crowd and realised her mistake. “Get them hanged … deported for life … breach of the Combination Acts … what kind of fools do you think us?”

  This time her raised hand did not get her silence, but the previous speaker came to her rescue, pushing his way to the front of the platform and raising both his arms in a commanding gesture. “Let Mr. Warrender have his say,” he shouted over the dwindling babble of voices. “He’s young yet, he don’t understand the risks we run. How should he? But he took the trouble to come to us, so we’ll hear him like reasonable people, won’t we, brothers?” And then, as if the idea had just struck him: “Besides, who better for our messenger? He’s a Warrender, ain’t he? Kin to the man who built the mills. Knows Lord Hawth. Maybe his lordship will listen to him when he’d have one of us shown the door, or worse.”

  A roar of approval greeted this suggestion, and Kate listened with helpless horror as the meeting began a chaotic discussion of the message that should be sent If there was one thing she did not wish, it was another encounter with Lord Hawth in her male disguise. But, listening, she began to realise that she was going to have to make the best of it. One suggestion, however, she did manage to veto. When several voices suggested that Mr. Bott accompany her, she negatived it firmly. “I must talk to Lord Hawth by myself, if at all,” she said. “He’s proud! It will be hard for him to go back on what he has said. If I am to persuade him, I must do it my own way.”

  The crowd divided on this, many of them wanting Hawth frightened rather than persuaded into compliance, and there were some vigorous suggestions about what should be done to make him see reason. “Burn his barns!” “Attack his carriage!” “Show the bouger!”