it became a social drive.’ Her father shook his head. ‘That is a demonstration of the perfidy of the man. It is much like the mill—offered as an olive branch to the people of this community, only so he can snatch it away as they draw near. He took you, just as he took their jobs, and he dangles you like a bauble, just out of reach, and plays with you at his leisure.’
‘Hardly, Father. We talked for but a few moments. The carriage remained on the high street and I sat in the window of it. I am sure that many in the community could see me and know that nothing untoward was happening.’
The argument seemed to have no effect on him, for he went on with increasing anger. ‘The man is the very devil, Barb. I swear. The devil. He is here to ruin the village and all the people in it with his new ideas and his cheap goods. Nothing can come of cheapening the quality of the work, I am sure. It is the veritable road to hell.’
‘And nothing to do with the matter at hand,’ her mother added firmly from behind him. She looked past him at her daughter. ‘You say that you were seen the whole time? The carriage took no side trips, nor left the sight of the high street?’
‘Not at all, Mama.’
‘You could not have waited until the rain had passed? Or hurried home before it?’
‘I did not want to spare the penny for the boy if I did not have to. The basket was heavy. And Mr Stratford would not take no for an answer.’
Her mother nodded. ‘The offer of transport was fortuitous, even if there was an ulterior motive. What did you speak of?’
‘His business.’ And Mary, of course. They had spoken of her. But it was hardly worth mentioning.
‘Then it had nothing to do with you?’
‘Just as I suspected. It was an effort to turn you against me, and the village against us. The man is the devil,’ her father insisted.
‘Enough!’ her mother snapped, ignoring her husband again and turning back to Barbara. ‘We must deal with the more important matter first. And that should be the honour of our only child, which has not been harmed in the least by the trip, whether it was social or practical.’
‘He invited us to the manor for Christmas,’ Barbara added. ‘He suggested that there might be gentlemen there, and dancing.’ She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it, as though it did not matter one way or the other. She did not particularly wish to meet gentlemen. There was one in particular that she might like to know better, but her father was probably right to call him a persuasive devil who was best avoided.
Still, it had been a long time since she’d danced—with or without demons. Would it really do any harm?
‘Dancing at the manor? Of course you should go, then.’ Her father’s sudden change caught them unawares, as it often did. Though he had been angry only a few moments before, now he was smiling at her. ‘You have not been since last Christmas, and you always enjoy it so. Visiting Anne and Mary will do you a world of good.’
She shot a worried glance over his shoulder to her mother, and then said, ‘Father, Mary is dead. The Clairemonts no longer live at the manor. There has not been a Christmas celebration there in six years.’
‘I know that,’ he said quickly, embarrassed at his lapse. ‘I only meant that you would be better off dancing at the manor than driving on the high street with Lucifer in a silk waistcoat.’ He darkened again, as suddenly as he had brightened. ‘A silk waistcoat made by hands that slaved for pennies so that he might ride high and mighty like a prince.’ His eyes lit at the sound of his own words. ‘I must write this down. It will be the basis of my next speech.’
‘You do that, Father.’ Barbara hurried to the little desk in the corner, setting out paper, uncapping the ink and trimming the nib of the pen. Then she pulled out his chair and took time to settle him there. It seemed to give him comfort, for he sat down and began writing industriously, staring out of the window before him into the sleet-streaked sky as though the next words were written on it and he could pluck them from the air.
‘Come into the kitchen, Barbara. Let us see what you have brought back from the market.’ Her mother turned quickly, but not before Barbara could see the trembling of her lip that was the beginning of tears.
‘A moment, Mama.’ She hurried to the sewing basket, to conceal her mother’s Christmas gift. Then she followed her out of the room.
By the time she had reached her in the kitchen her mother was more composed, though clearly worried.
‘What are we to do, Mama?’ she whispered. ‘He is like this more and more.’
‘There is little for us to do. There is no changing him.’ Her mother gave a brief, bitter laugh. ‘He changes often enough on his own. Like the tides, he goes to extremes at both ends.’
If he continued thus there would be no chance of him returning to employment, and they would end their days living off the dwindling inheritance her mother had received from her own family. Barbara thought of the pennies in her purse again, and gave quiet thanks to Mr Stratford. Even if he was the devil, he had saved her the bother of a wet walk.
Her mother seemed to be thinking of him as well. ‘Tell me about this Christmas invitation you have received. It does seem to be a lone bright spot in the day.’
‘I told him it was improper,’ Barbara said, frowning. ‘For I did not think Father would approve.’
‘Your father is lucky to remember from one minute to the next why he hates the man. We will tell him that you are gone to see Mary. For if there are gentlemen there, as he said …’ Her mother was thinking forward, hoping for a bright future in which a wealthy stranger would appear with an offer and solve all their problems.
‘But I refused,’ Barbara said, dashing her hopes.
‘Oh,’ said her mother, properly disappointed.
‘He offered again—including the family. When I told him that there was no way Father could manage such a gathering, he offered a selection of books as Christmas gifts—to keep him home and quiet over the holiday. He said he would send something written, so that I would know he spoke with sincerity.’
‘A written invitation to the manor?’ Her mother positively glowed with the prospect.
‘I doubt he will remember,’ Barbara said hurriedly. ‘I am sure it was said only in passing, to make conversation. It was just an effort to be social.’
‘A most curious effort, then.’ Her mother was looking closely at her, trying to determine what she might be concealing. ‘He has made no attempts at civility to the rest of the village. And yet he singles you out. A gentleman would know better than to make promises he cannot keep—especially when he is courting another.’
‘One can hardly call him a gentleman, Mother. He is in trade. He admitted to me that he was a weaver’s son.’
‘Really?’ Her mother’s eyebrows arched. ‘You speak like your father, my dear. It is idealistic to set men of business firmly below us and to act as though birth is all. Perhaps realism would be a better path, considering our circumstances. It is possible to be a gentleman and poor as a church mouse, while the weaver’s son dines and dances in a manor. The world is changing. While we might not approve
