SERIAL The Warmsleys Of Pedlars Down

Jonas had come to a decision, and now he had to face his sister . . .

JONAS’S heart was hammering as he strode away from Fred Leach’s gate. Jonas had heard how hard a master Fred Leach was.

Quarrymen said he had a foul temper, and when Leach cracked the whip you jumped to it or you were out on your ear.

There were accidents at the quarry, too. Some bad ones. A fuse-man had been killed a year or so back.

Folk said it was Leach’s fault, that he cut corners, pushing his men into risking their necks so he could make bigger profits. Yes, Jonas well knew all of that!

He shook his head impatiently. He wouldn’t be scared off by the danger. Accidents were bound to happen in a quarry.

Working for Leach meant Jonas would be his own man at last. And the wages on offer meant far more money than he’d ever held in the palm of his hand.

Jonas slowed his pace and expelled a measured breath.

Rachel would fly off the handle when she found out he’d skipped school. And she’d never understand why taking Leach up on his offer meant so much to him.

Jonas reckoned Pa would see things his way. Pa never paid any mind to the school and book-learning.

Light was fading when Jonas reached Pedlars Down. School was finished for the day and the lads long since gone home.

Passing the schoolhouse, however, Jonas could see the schoolmaster, old Mr Cumstock, pottering about inside, tidying up.

About to keep his head down and walk on, Jonas faltered, puffing out his cheeks.

When he got home, he’d have to own up and face his sister’s sharp tongue and take whatever punishment she dished out.

He’d best start by setting things straight with Cumstock. Exhaling a resigned breath, Jonas trailed back to the schoolhouse and knocked on the door.

Rupert’s barking rang out from the manor house long before Jonas’s boots scraped on the worn stone step and he shoved open the heavy kitchen door.

With the pup gambolling round his legs, Jonas went inside and found Rachel in the kitchen making supper.

“You’re late,” she said, without looking round from stirring an earthenware pot simmering on the hob.

“Aye,” Jonas mumbled, hovering in the centre of the kitchen. “I didn’t go to school today.”

“I know.”

“Oh.” He dragged out a chair and sat at the table.

“You can’t stay there! I need the table. Go to the settle if you want to sit down,” Rachel went on, fetching a trug of carrots and onions from the pantry.

“How do you know?” he returned, taken aback.

“I looked in at the school before dinnertime.” Jonas frowned.

“Old Cumstock said nowt about that!”

“Have you seen Mr Cumstock?” she queried sharply. “When?”

“Just now. I’ve just come from there.”

Rachel didn’t pause from peeling onions and scraping carrots, simply allowing her brother to have his say.

“Are you sure about this, Jonas?” she asked when his words dried up. “You understand you shall have to see it through once you’ve given your word?”

“I know that, Rachel.” He glowered. “I’ve already given my word. I promised Cumstock I’ll be back at school tomorrow morning. I’ll not go back on it.”

“I’m proud of you.” Crossing to the settle, Rachel rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done the right thing, Jonas.”

“Have I?” he demanded bitterly. “Right for who? I turned down Leach’s job right enough. But I wanted that job. Wanted it more than anything in the world!

“I can’t abide schooling. I’m not a bairn,” Jonas said angrily. “I want to do man’s work for man’s pay. Can’t you understand that?”

Rising from the settle, the boy made for the steep, crooked stairs leading up from the back kitchen.

Pausing at the foot, he spun round to face Rachel, his eyes cold as ice.

“I don’t remember our ma at all, but that school was her school! Ma’s school. I couldn’t go over to Fred Leach’s side.

“I’m no turncoat, Rachel. That’s the only reason I didn’t grab that job with both hands. If another opportunity comes my way, I’ll be off like a shot.”

Eleanor stared through the carriage window as the high-stepping grey horses clattered apace through Liverpool’s maze of narrow, teeming streets.

It was her first visit to the town, and it was bigger, busier, noisier, darker and more crowded than anything she could have imagined.

Then the Burford carriage rounded a corner, rattling over cobbles and down on to the waterfront. The cramped, grimy streets and soot-blackened buildings vanished from sight.

More ships than Eleanor could count were crammed like pins in a box along the quaysides. There were also hundreds of people!

Every last one of them seemed to be in a hurry, scurrying purposefully along the dockside.

“We’re here, Eleanor!” Harriet announced. “Now you shall see how we Burfords make our way in the world!”

The carriage had drawn up alongside an impressive building bearing brass plaques engraved with the names of companies within.

Eleanor felt an unexpected surge of pride when she spotted the gleaming Swann Burford Line plate.

The Swann Burford office was along the third-floor landing.

Ledgers, bundles of charter documents, cargo manifests, bills of lading, notes and letters were filed along shelves lining the walls.

Three clerks were seated at a long counter, heads bent to their labours, their pens scratching on coarse paper.

Harriet entered and the chief clerk instantly rose from his desk to greet her.

“Good day, ma’am!” he exclaimed warmly. “You’re well, I hope?”

“Very well, Mr Howells.” Harriet smiled, taking his hand. “And yourself and your family?”

“Hale and hearty!” “Splendid!” Harriet turned, drew Eleanor forward and made the introductions.

“Mr Howells has been with us since my father’s name was engraved upon that panelled door, Eleanor. Without his hard work, Swann Burford wouldn’t be the distinguished shipper it is today.”

Eleanor responded politely, and Joseph Howells ushered them towards a door – which now bore her brother-in-law Malcolm’s name – and showed them into the inner office.

“Mr Malcolm is engaged at the Custom House, ma’am,” Joseph explained. “We expect his return before the hour. Might I arrange some tea?”

“Tea would be lovely.” Harriet nodded.

When Jonas got home he’d have to own up to what he’d done

Unbuttoning her gloves, she crossed the office to her grandson’s cluttered mahogany desk.

Removing her hat and setting it beside her gloves, she sat behind the desk and ran a keen eye across the pages of meticulous copperplate.

“Grandma!” Eleanor cried. “Come and see!”

The girl had opened one of the windows overlooking the quayside, and was reaching out across the stone ledge.

“The ships’ masts are so long they reach right across the road,” Eleanor went on in astonishment. “Look, if I leaned just a bit further, I could touch them.”

“And probably fall out,” Harriet remarked, looking down to the congested dock road far below.

Adjacent to it, ships of all sizes and flying many colours were crammed along the quay, loading and discharging cargo, taking on provisions, crews and emigrants, getting ready to sail.

“The timbers sticking out from the front of ships are jib booms, Eleanor. Masts are tall uprights for supporting sails,” she explained. “The Swann Burford Line has three schooners, each of them Liverpool-built.” Eleanor gazed at Harriet. “How do you know so much about ships?”

“I’m my father’s daughter, Eleanor. I love the sea and ships as much as he did. My fondest

childhood memories are of voyages with him and Mother.

“I’d always be at Papa’s side, asking questions about winds and tides, the stars and sun and navigation.” Harriet laughed, moving from the window towards three family portraits and indicating an oil painting of a white-haired gentleman with magnificent sidewhiskers and the bluest eyes Eleanor had ever seen.

“That’s my papa – Captain Cedric Swann. He founded the Swann Line, as it was in its early days.”

“He looks kind.” Eleanor considered the weatherbeaten features of the seaman standing proudly upon the deck of his ship.

The next picture showed him in this office, with a younger man at his side. “Who’s he?” “Sydney Burford – my husband,” Harriet replied, smiling. “Papa had no sons, so he took Sydney as his partner.

“Sydney hadn’t been to sea, but he was an astute man of business and the Swann Burford Line prospered. This portrait was painted to mark their partnership.”

Harriet moved along to the final painting. Portly and greying at the temples, Burford was portrayed seated at the mahogany desk, a small boy standing solemnly at his side.

“That’s David, our son,” Harriet said, her fingertips touching the frame.

“Sydney was much older than I. Soon after this portrait was painted I was widowed and lost the child I was carrying.

“My father had passed away the previous year and Davy was a little boy, so Swann Burford became my responsibility.

“Joseph and I managed the firm together until David grew up,” Harriet finished. “Later, we had to manage it again. For Peter and Malcolm, you see.”

Eleanor nodded, understanding. Her sister Marjorey had told her that 20 years ago, David Burford and his wife had left their children with Harriet at Withencroft before travelling to Liverpool. They’d been caught there when fever struck the town.

Both perished, and Harriet had raised her two grandsons.

“I always longed for a daughter, and later, a granddaughter.” Harriet’s unexpected words broke into Eleanor’s thoughts.

“I wasn’t blessed with either – until you came to Withencroft, my dear.”

Eleanor raised her eyes to the elderly woman, her face solemn as she slipped her small hand into Harriet’s. “I’ve never had a granny.” “I’d say you and I are a fine match, then,” Harriet murmured, squeezing the little hand within her own.

“Those caraway bracks smell wonderful!” Agnes exclaimed, watching Rachel carefully withdrawing a halfdozen golden-brown fruited loaves from the oven.

The friends had been busy with Christmas baking since first light.

The kitchen was warm and heady with the fragrance of nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, oranges, lemons, mulled elderberry cordial and ginger.

Without, it was bitterly cold with a fierce northwesterly wind.

November rain was driving against the windows of the kitchen and slithering down the tall, narrow chimney, to spit and hiss upon the crackling pine logs heaped and glowing in the huge stone fireplace.

“Is one of the bracks for Mr Cumstock?” Agnes asked.

Rachel nodded, going into the pantry and emerging with pots of preserved cherries and apricots for the Christmas bun.

“I bake two for Ernest. One for eating now, and the other to take with him when he travels to the Midlands next month for Christmas with his daughter.”

“Speaking of Christmas,” the younger woman began awkwardly when Rachel joined her at the table and began sifting flour into an earthenware bowl.

“Mother is getting up our festive party for a concert and you and Edward are invited.

“But I – well . . .” Agnes’s voice trailed off and her face reddened. “I know you haven’t had any word from Hugh, but what I mean to say is –”

“I understand, Agnes,” Rachel interrupted, reaching across the table to place a hand on her friend’s arm.”and thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

She turned to the window. The rain was thicker now.

“Truth to tell, as Christmas approaches, I find myself dwelling more and more upon last year. When Hugh and I . . .

“Oh, Agnes, I feel such a fool being weepy,” she confided shakily, brushing her cheek with the back of her hand. “It isn’t like me. But the very coming of the season stirs too many memories.

“A twelvemonth ago, Christmastide was filled with joy and hope. It was the happiest of times, but this year without him there is only emptiness.”

Rachel and Agnes worked on until dusk, before wrapping up in bonnets, mufflers, capes and boots and, with heads bowed into the sleet and wind, started down into the village.

Rachel took a basket of baking into the parsonage for Reverend Greenhalgh then crossed the green to Meadow Well to the schoolhouse.

It was dark, and the pupils long gone, so the only light showing at the schoolhouse was from Mr Cumstock’s parlour window.

The schoolmaster had a kettle over the fire, and while he made tea, Rachel unpacked the basket.

As well as the bracks, she’d brought a hotpot topped with potato slices, freshly baked bread and a dish of butter churned that morning, together with the first taste of this year’s tangy festive cheese with its layer of sage and onion through the middle.

They drank tea and spoke a little of the school. Rachel was keenly aware of the weariness in Mr Cumstock’s kindly eyes and soon bade him a good night, leaving the elderly man to his supper and fireside.

The wind had dropped. The night was bitter with a clear sky, but barely a sliver of moon to light her way.

“Miss Warmsley!” The pot lad dashed from the yard of Millers Inn, a letter in his hand.

“T’master spotted you and said I was to go after you. You got post, miss!”

Mumbling her thanks, Rachel clutched the letter in both hands.

She scarce received letters. It could only be from Hugh – or worse, news of Hugh or the ship he had sailed upon. Rachel’s heart froze with dread.

It was too dark to make out the writing so she couldn’t see if it was Hugh’s own hand. Turning about, she sped across the green to St Cuthbert’s.

The instant she pushed open the heavy door and stepped within, candlelight spilled upon Hugh’s distinctive handwriting.

Weak at the knees and with tears of relief springing to her eyes, Rachel whispered a prayer of thanks.

She started through the nave and only then realised she was not alone.

Concealed within the shadows beneath the arch, Harriet Burford was kneeling before the Burford memorial window, placing what Rachel assumed were the last blooms of the year from Withencroft’s sheltered flower gardens.

There was the scent of herb, too. Rosemary, for remembrance.

“Apologies for disturbing you, Mrs Burford,” Rachel murmured, pausing where she stood. “I didn’t see you when I entered.”

“You haven’t disturbed me, Rachel,” Harriet replied, rising. “Good evening to you.”

In the quiet of the church, the scent of winter flowers and the pungent fragrance of rosemary filled the air and Rachel was alone with her prayers, her memories and her letter.

Eleanor came to the conclusion Mosley’s in

Bold Street must be the grandest shop in the world.

The haberdashery had a window at each side of the arched doorway, and the moment she and Harriet went inside, Mr Mosley hurried to welcome them.

Eleanor was becoming accustomed to the deference folk paid to her grandmother.

Leaving Harriet and the haberdasher discussing flannel, she wandered further into the shop.

Silks and satins shimmered like jewels in the clear light shed from fluted crystal oil lamps; shelves reached from floor to ceiling, laden with bolts of muslins, damasks, velvets, brocades, cotton, linen and flannels.

Upon long, polished counters were displays of ribbons, lace, pins, needles, hoops, hooks, beads and great dishes of buttons.

Entranced by the contents of one particular dish, Eleanor leaned across the counter, her head bowed to one side so she might get a closer look.

It was just like magic! The fancy cut-glass buttons were glittering up at her, sparkling like tiny rainbows.

“What’s caught your eye?” Harriet’s voice startled her, joining her at the counter. “The buttons! They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

“I’ve never seen buttons like those before.”

“Nor me.” Harriet smiled. “Mr Mosley is bringing some special flannels for us to look at.

“Now we know Marjorey is expecting, we can begin sewing for the baby’s arrival next year.”

“It’s funny to think I’ll be an aunt,” Eleanor remarked. “And Felix will be an uncle!”

“What about me? I shall become a great-grandma!” Harriet laughed.

“Ah, here comes Mr Mosley with the flannels. After we’ve chosen those, we’ll need wools and ribbons.

“We’ll be knitting and crocheting for the baby, as well as sewing.” Eleanor looked doubtful. “I’m better at drawing and painting than sewing and knitting, Grandma.”

“I’ve noticed, dear,” Harriet agreed, patting the girl’s shoulder. “With practice you’ll improve in no time.

“After we’ve made our purchases for Marjorey and the baby,” she continued, “you must choose some pretty dress material to match those sparkly buttons you’ve taken a fancy to.”

After the haberdashery, they made for the waterfront and the offices of the Swann Burford Line.

“Is that our ship?” Eleanor asked, standing next to her grandmother at the window and pointing down to the noisy quayside. “Is that the one Peter’s sailing on?” “Yes, that’s the

Providence.” Harriet was watching her elder grandson and his crew making ready the schooner to sail with the tide. “She’s bound for the Indies.”

Eleanor nodded.

“It’s ever such a long way, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed, and in these dangerous times . . . ” Harriet left the sentence, and her thoughts, unspoken. Looking down at the girl beside her, she smiled.

“This is our last trip into town before Christmas, so we must ensure we don’t forget anything. Why don’t you make a shopping list?”

Clambering into the heavy, carved chair, Eleanor took a sheet of paper bearing the Swann Burford name, dipped a pen into the ink well and glanced round to Harriet.

“I’m ready.”

“Our first call will be Poole Lane,” Harriet began, still with her attention focused upon the quayside.

“Since my father founded Swann Burford, it’s been our custom to give Christmas boxes to every employee here at the office: cigars and chocolates to Mr and Mrs Howell, and to our shipmasters and their wives.

“While I’m at the tobacconist, you can walk down Poole Lane to Kinvig’s and choose chocolates for the ladies,” she went on. “I promised Reverend Greenhalgh I’d collect some books he’s ordered from the stationer’s, so add that to your list, too.”

Eleanor nodded, her pen scratching on the thick paper.

“While in Poole Lane,” Harriet concluded, “we want gifts for the Whiteheads, Mr Cumstock, Reverend Greenhalgh and our other neighbours.”

Eleanor paused in her writing.

“Will we give anything to the Warmsleys?” she asked, wondering if the question would vex her grandmother.

It seemed to Eleanor that Harriet sounded rather sad when she replied.

“Years ago, our families were close and we did share our Christmases . . . But no, I’m afraid not. Those days are long past.” She paused a moment.

“Before we set off on our shopping spree, you’d best have this.”

Harriet reached into her bag to withdraw a velvet drawstring purse that jingled when she placed it into Eleanor’s small hands.

The purse felt heavy, and when Eleanor peeped inside, it was filled with shiny silver shillings.

“I’ve never had money before, Grandma!” She gasped, raising her eyes to Harriet.

“Then it’s high time you did! Having money is a great responsibility, so think carefully about how you wish to use it.”

Harriet’s attention had never strayed far from the proceedings down on the quayside, and now she moved from the window.

“The Providence is about to sail. Come along, we’ll go down and see her off.”

“Do you always watch our ships sail away, Grandma?” Eleanor asked when they’d said their goodbyes to Peter and were standing on the quayside.

“I do. I like to keep in my memory our ships sailing out into the open sea.”

“Peter won’t be home for Christmas, will he?”

“Nor will many a sailor, Eleanor,” Harriet replied. “Seafaring is a lonely life for the men who sail, and for their families.” Eleanor felt her arm slip about her shoulders, and together they stood on the quayside, watching the Providence sail from their sight.

Poole Lane was a narrow, crooked thoroughfare in the oldest part of the town.

Lined with quality shops, it was crowded, with ladies and gentlemen browsing the crescent of bright windows offering all manner of goods.

Eleanor felt rather grand choosing from the array of chocolates, sweets and candies in Kinvig’s, and very grown-up giving instructions for their delivery as she’d observed her grandmother doing.

She emerged from the shop with a bag of barley sugar twists for Felix, who in a few days would be coming home from school for the holidays.

The rest of the shillings in the velvet purse jingled in her pocket. Now she had money, she could buy a special present – but what?

Swept up amongst the crush of shoppers, Eleanor searched window after window along the lane and was at the farthest end before she spotted the very thing.

Pushing open the genteel establishment’s ornately carved door, Eleanor went inside to make her purchase.

Laden with boxes, Eleanor and Harriet quit their rooms at the Rutherford Hotel and, travelling at a sedate pace, reached Pedlars Down early in the afternoon.

“I’ll take these books to Reverend Greenhalgh,” Harriet was saying when the carriage drew alongside the parsonage. “Are you coming with me, Eleanor?”

“Hmm?” Her sharp eyes had spotted a familiar figure and his dog talking to the blacksmith’s lad. Eleanor turned from the window to her grandmother. “I’d rather walk about a bit and stretch my legs, Grandma.”

“Good idea, we’ve been seated far too

long,” Harriet responded, alighting from the carriage. “Don’t wander far. I’m aware how easily you lose track of time.”

No sooner had Harriet entered the parsonage than Eleanor was scurrying across the green towards the forge.

Jonas hadn’t seen her and she was about to give their owl-hoot signal to attract his attention when Rupert’s head went up and, with ears whirling, he raced from Jonas’s side and made a beeline for Eleanor.

Jonas instantly followed suit but veered off, ducking from sight around the corner of Millers Inn.

Moments later, Eleanor joined him there.

“What luck seeing you as soon as we got back!” she exclaimed, raising her face to Jonas. “Grandma and I have been in Liverpool . . .” She broke off, puzzled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jonas shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coarse, homespun winter coat.

“I dunno,” he mumbled, shuffling his boots, and from beneath lowered eyes taking in Eleanor’s smartly tailored coat and skirt, velvet-trimmed bonnet and shiny boots. “You’re all done up. Like a proper lady.”

Eleanor glanced absently at her outfit.

“This is new. It’s for winter travelling. Grandma had it made. We mightn’t see each other before Christmas,” she went on, offering him a parcel. “So this is for you. Merry Christmas!”

Crestfallen, Jonas stared down at the package neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He made no attempt to take it. “What is it?”

“Open it and find out!” She laughed, pushing the parcel into his hands.

Jonas did as he was bidden.

“Gloves,” he whispered. “I never had gloves before.”

“Don’t you like them?” Eleanor murmured.

“Of course I like ’em!” he returned hurriedly, smiling down into her sad face. “They’re a grand present! It’s just . . . I haven’t got a present for you.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Eleanor exclaimed, stooping to wrap her arms about the pup sitting beside them. “I’ve always longed for a dog and you let me share Rupert. He’s the best gift you could give me, Jonas.”

Then she was gone.

Late on Christmas Eve, Harriet led her family and household from Withencroft toward St Cuthbert’s.

The village came into sight with the stained-glass windows of St Cuthbert’s glowing in the distance.

From all directions, friends and neighbours were making their way inside.

Candles were burning within, their light flickering on the sandstone walls and pillars.

The Burfords took their places, and Harriet gently squeezed the hands of Eleanor and Felix, seated at either side of her.

“This is our first Christmas together,” she whispered. “May we share many more.”

“The church looks so beautiful,” Eleanor murmured in wonder. “I’d love to paint it all!”

“Then you must,” Harriet encouraged, admiring the swathes of holly, glossy ivies and mistletoe adorning window ledges, pulpit, end pews and arches.

It was common knowledge that this was Rachel Warmsley’s handiwork.

The intelligent young woman had inherited her mother’s delicate touch for arranging flowers and evergreens.

Harriet’s eyes rested upon Rachel. She was smiling and talking quietly with her father and brothers.

The notes of the first carol were drifting up to the vaulted roof and Harriet rose to her feet with a sigh.

If life had turned out differently, Rachel Warmsley might have been her daughter . . .

To be continued.