‘And thanks to you, David. You like me.’
‘That’s why I married you.’
‘You think it’s commonplace, but it’s not. I’ve never before lived with a man who liked me. My father thought I was ugly and disobedient, and Stephen just wasn’t very interested in me.’
‘It’s hard to imagine.’
‘I don’t want anything to change.’
‘But life changes. And...’
‘And Elsie and her children have nowhere to live after Kenelm leaves for Spain.’
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘I assumed they would come here and live with us.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ve got enough room.’
‘And you wouldn’t mind?’
‘I’d be delighted! I love them all.’
‘Oh, David, thank you,’ she said, and she burst into tears.
*
Amos Barrowfield never ceased to infuriate Hornbeam. Amos had frustrated Hornbeam’s plan to take over old Obadiah Barrowfield’s business, and later he had contrived to get Will Riddick removed from his position in charge of purchasing for the militia. Now Amos was trying to become a member of Parliament. Hornbeam had been waiting to step into Northwood’s shoes for so long that he had come to think of it as his right. He had not expected to have to fight for it.
He had hoped to destroy Amos’s reputation with the story that he was the father of Hal Northwood, but the cunning Spade hadundermined that tactic. Now Hornbeam would have to bring out his big guns.
He set out to visit Wally Watson, a yarn producer. Wally did no weaving, just spun and dyed a product of consistent quality in a manufactory that was the largest yarn mill in town. He ought to be a Tory and vote for Hornbeam, but he was a Methodist, which might incline him to the Whigs and Barrowfield.
Men like Wally formed a substantial part of the electorate. But Hornbeam thought he knew how to deal with them.
As he stepped out of the door his grandson joined him, heading for the grammar school in the square, and they walked down Main Street together. Young Joe Hornbeam was now taller than his grandfather. He was fifteen, but looked grown up. He even had a fairly respectable moustache. His eyes were still blue but no longer innocent: now they were penetrating and challenging. He was serious, unusually so for his age. He studied hard and planned to go to Edinburgh University to do science and engineering.
Hornbeam had worried for years about who would head the enterprise after him. Deborah had the ability, but it was difficult for a woman to lead men. His son Howard was not up to the job. But Joe would be able to do it. He was the only grandchild, and Hornbeam’s crown prince.
It was important to Hornbeam that the business should continue. It was his life’s work. He had secured for himself a plot in the cathedral graveyard – which had cost him the price of a complete new set of oak choir stalls, elaborately carved – but his real memorial would be the largest cloth-making enterprise in the west of England.
‘How is the election campaign, Grandfather?’ Joe said. ‘Getting off to a good start?’
‘I wasn’t expecting any opposition,’ Hornbeam said. ‘There’s usually only one nomination.’
‘I don’t see how a Methodist can be a lawmaker. They have already broken the laws of the Church.’
Young Joe’s only shortcoming was a tendency to take a strict moral line. He was not soft-hearted – far from it – but he would occasionally insist on doing what he thought was the right thing, even when circumstances suggested a compromise. At school he had refused a prize because another boy had helped him write the winning essay. He argued against peace talks because Bonaparte was a tyrant. He admired the military because the officers gave the orders and the men had to obey. Hornbeam felt sure these attitudes would soften with maturity.
Now he said: ‘We have to deal with men as they are, not as they ought to be.’
Joe looked reluctant to accept that, but before he could think of a reply they arrived at the square and parted company.
Hornbeam crossed the bridge, walked past his own mills, and made his way to Watson’s yarn mill. Like most masters, Watson spent much of his time in the factory, watching the machines and the hands who operated them, and that was where Hornbeam found him; but he had a separate office, walled off from the noise, and now he took Hornbeam there.
Wally was young. If people were going to be dissenters, they usually converted when young, Hornbeam had noticed. ‘I trust that red-dyed yarn I made you from silk and merino wool is performing well, Mr Hornbeam?’
Merino wool was soft, and the silk made it stronger and gave it a slight sheen. It was popular for women’s dresses. ‘Fine, thank you,’ said Hornbeam. ‘I’ll probably order more soon.’
